The middle of spring. The sun was setting. The sky was rusty orange. I heard a strange noise. It got closer and closer. The forest was so quiet it was hard to tell how far away it was. But I could recognize the huge engine of a beat up truck. And there you were. Riding on the back of a diesel-powered steed.
We’d drive up to the mountain in the wintertime and I’d sit on the warm hood until you got the fire started. And then of course it would rain and we’d hide in the cab and our wet bodies would heat up and fog the windows.
Photo: Grant Harder
