We head north towards the White Mountains through the early spring rain beneath the gray pregnant sky. Thick fog – as if driving through clouds.
The most used in a transmission.
Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde cassette plays on the stereo. Shannon sits beside me. All the things we’ve shared in our past begin to slip further and further away from us.
We drive through these patches of fog into moments of clarity that reveal bright green buds and signs of awakening earth.
Good for climbing. The perfect blend of power and speed.
Mount Chocura cannot be seen on a day like this. But I know that we will rest easily in these northern hills. We will collect our energy and gather our minds before our final surge west to lands we’ve never seen before.
America - the outer limits of her boundaries.
Sixty-five miles-per-hour and we have no place we have to be.
In and out
of fog –