Essay by Tribune Publisher Jordan Hedberg When I was working as a broker-in-training at a Charles Schwab call center, I would often stare out the window near my cubical. On clear days, I could see a massive snow-capped mountain in the distance. Staring at that mountain, I remembered that as a boy, I looked at the same peak but from the opposite horizon. As call after call was piped into my ear by a computer, I dreamed more and more of my childhood ranch located on the other side of that same snow-capped mountain. The thought of returning to the ranch gave me comfort during my self-imposed servitude. Seven years later I am cradling a frozen calf in my cabin living room as the newborn…
