Max Wooster, a failure as a writer, is sent to a mesa by his publisher, who says that being all alone for a month will turn Wooster into a successful writer. But will it…

It was snowing on the mesa. Well, why shouldn’t it? December, almost Christmas, and here I am having been deposited here three days ago on top of this forsaken mesa that my publisher told me sports a cave that’s older than time itself. Well, it does. But why am I squatting on my aching haunches trying to hide behind a scanty bush while watching an old buck deer with a whole set of missing left horns? And he knows I’m near. Do I really smell that bad? Believe it or not, the deer actually nodded his head in agreement.