Unknown forest roads stretching around wooded bends and over hills. Reading four maps at once, studying the faintest lines, guessing at the passability of the next turn. Stopping in the middle of untraveled roads to take photos of solitary stands of red pine in a recent clear cut, or of an ancient outcropping the size of a ship, to identify the song of the white-throated sparrow or a broad wing hawk off in the trees.
Never drive down any road too far. Always looking for the next turn that will take us where we need to get. Skin flushed from wind in the window and sun that breaks through endless puffy clouds. Feet and hands grimy with the gravel dust.
This old lonely land
Of green woods broken with blue
Why not just love it?
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