Pedal To The Metal

A quarter inch of frost covers the truck.Temps are in the single digits. The cold penetrates my head causing my ears to sting and my brain to hurt. Shuttling gear from the garage, I hustle to finish loading. Kennels, cooler, shovel, chains, are all in the bed. A shotgun, 6 weight, and a boot dryer bookend my hunting pack and clothes duffel in the back seat.

Heading east on I-90 the cruise is set at 80 as we barrel through country that is measured by the hundreds of miles. We take one right turn, and once pointed south, only the horizon obstructs our progress. Scanning FM stations I choose the clearest channel, listening until the fuzz outweighs the corus. Somewhere south of the Montana/Wyoming line the tuner lands on Van Halen. The trip kicks into high gear.

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