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This thin little ridge near the California/Nevada border probably does have a name, likely recorded on some BLM topo map. But I think of it as nameless because I love it for it's absolute ordinariness. There are countless others nearly identical across the vastness of the West.
I don't believe in hierarchies of beauty. I have a conviction that any patch of ground on this earth is as resonant and potentially meaningful as the next, if I am willing to be attentive to it. I believe this nondescript swell of sage and juniper is as deserving of my attention as, say, the Grand Canyon.