Been thinking a lot about high summer lately.
One of those summer treasures I tend to miss this time of year is the lure of the open road. I’m not talking about crowded interstates with bumper to bumper traffic or highways choked with gut-wrenching chain eateries and truck stops lit so brightly you can see ’em from the space shuttle.
I’m talking about the empty road in wide-open country, like this two-lane heading north from Rock Springs into those high rolling plains of Wyoming that hide deceptively productive fisheries tucked in among the nooks and crannies.
I’m talking roads that beckon you to clear your fuel-injectors and your head, shaking off the dust of the city and making you ponder how big the world really is, what’s over the next rise and whether or not that thunderstorm on the horizon will muddy your creek tonight.
I’m talking roads that run under skies so big you’d think you were in Montana.
I’m talking roads that lead right into those mountains on the horizon and on to tomorrow’s water.
When you truly need some open road time, nothing else will do.
Resistance is futile.
