Don't mind if I do, Front-Ranger, and thank yew for the invite!
I like to just open the story to any random place and start reading. Here is where I opened it last nite:
"In May of 1983 they spent a few cold days at a series of little icebound, no-name lakes, then worked across into the Hail Strew River drainage. Going up, the day was fine, but the trail deep-drifted and slopping wet at the margins. They left it to wind through a slashy cut, leading the horses through brittle branch wood., Jack lifting his head in the heated noon to take the air scented with resinous lodgepole, the dry needle duff and hot rock, bitter juniper crushed beneath the horses' hooves."
Once again, just like the prologue, we see laid out before us, a microcosm of their story, retold in metaphor. May of 1983--isn't that exactly 20 years from the date they met? No-name lakes--their namers just stopped at Ennis??

The hailstorm that mixed up the sheep and made life all confused. The trail of their life, or of their relationship, that was squishy around the edges, always, and disappeared completely sometimes in deep drifts. Through all the difficulty, Jack kept a calm center, centered through his breathing, living in the moment, while Ennis:
"Ennis, weather-eyed, looked west for the heated cumulus that might come up on such a day, but the boneless blue was so deep, said Jack, that he might drown looking up."
Ennis is always anticipating trouble but Jack exists in the present while, Christ-like, predicting his own demise.