The cast iron goes everywhere I go. It's been in the back of the truck for six years. It's cooked over campfires, wood stoves, gas burners, and once, memorably, on a flat rock in the middle of a river while I waited out a thunderstorm.

Cooking over an open fire is the most honest form of the craft. You can't hide behind equipment. You can't dial in a precise temperature. You have to read the fire — the color of the coals, the height of the flame, the way the heat moves — and adjust constantly. It's the same skill set as cooking in a professional kitchen, just stripped of everything that makes it comfortable.

This image is from a night cook on the open range east of Billings. The fire had been going for an hour. The coals were perfect — white on the outside, orange underneath. I had a dry-aged ribeye that had been sitting in the truck since morning, seasoned with nothing but coarse salt and black pepper.

The steak took eight minutes. It was the best thing I ate that year.