I passed a rusted sign that welcomed visitors to the county.

The mountains rose up around me, dark green with ponderosa pine and capped with gray stone.

My chest tightened as I recognized the familiar peaks.

This was my home, but it did not feel welcoming anymore.

It felt like a battlefield.

I drove through the small town of Ojo Caliente, passing the familiar diner and the shuttered hardware store.

Nobody was on the streets.

I continued past the town limits, climbing higher into the canyon.

The road transitioned to dirt, a plume of dust rising behind the SUV.

I knew the turnoff to the cabin was coming up on the right.

It was marked by an old wooden post that my father had carved his initials into.

I slowed down, my eyes scanning the brush.

There it was.

The wood was weathered and grey, but the “C.C.” was still visible.

I turned the wheel and bounced onto the narrow, overgrown trail.

Branches scraped against the sides of the rental car.

The trees closed in around me, blocking out the bright morning sun.