 In Black Canyon, where the Colorado River forms the boundary between Nevada and Arizona, in the very heart of the great desert of the Southwest, the United States Department of the Interior, through its Bureau of Reclamation, was directed to proceed with the construction of this mightiest of dam. Work equals force, time's distance, measured in jewels, proven through perspiration, and worn on my forehead like a crown. Force, time's distance. Force, applied harder and smarter, never stopping, never giving up, time's distance, even when seemingly a speck on the long road to nowhere. Pioneers push past mountains. A reservoir filling behind the dam was named Lake Mead in memory of Dr. Elwood Mead, whose life were culminated in the building of Boulder Dam, with a shoreline of 550 miles, opening upon Vista's unglimpse prime land. Equals work, because there is always more to be done, but when fueled by purpose, and seen against the backdrop of a century and a half of giant leaps, it feels less like labor, or like an opportunity to be a part of something bigger, like 2,000 megawatts rushing through the Hoover Dam, the world's largest power plant, or the sound of thousands of voices singing, ever grateful, ever true, or maybe those two things are one and the same. And so Boulder Dam stands today, a modern colossal, shouldering the rock-ribbed walls of Black Kent, and bending the will of either to ungovernable stream the Colorado River.