Dirt Republic

I’m dreaming about home, my cat, and my bed. My down mummy bag is snug around me and everything is warm except my face, which is exposed to the crisp, cold air. I’m toasty, my face is frosty, I can smell coffee, and it’s getting brighter by the minute, which means it’s time to get moving. Soon it will be warm everywhere and we have a big day ahead.

There are seventy miles of loose, steep, mountain dirt to cross, with no prospective water sources, and we have to make it to the next town to restock our food. It’ll be the first town in one hundred forty miles and two days. After that, it’s another one hundred forty miles until the next one. How long will that stretch take us? Two days? Three? I don’t want to think about it, so I burrow down, but my husband Tom tugs at the tent door and holds out a cup of coffee