I drove up Highway 18 to a place simply called Central. From there, I traveled through the Dixie National forest, winding through a road replete with natural beauty. I was sort of awe-struck by the snow on the mountains, because it’s such a rarity where I’m from. Even though the peaks were distant, they almost had a 3D movie, reach-out-and-touch-me effect. After a while, I came upon Pine Valley, which is a town so picturesque it appears to be perpetually caught in a snow globe. As you enter, there’s a white chapel (one of the oldest still in use) with a towering steeple, a few log cabin houses and evergreens, all of which is framed by the blue, snowy mountains above. Pine Valley is nearly everyone’s vision of a retiree’s final retreat, but I couldn’t help noticing that it was almost entirely empty. I saw three other people there: an old man on an ATV, and another younger man taking pictures with his wife. It dawned on me that Pine Valley is, in fact, a retreat of sorts, but it’s mostly full of summer houses or weekend getaways, not permanent living quarters. It’s a retreat for the rich during warm weather, but otherwise it sits cold and lonely and majestic at the base of the mountain.