The road turned toward North West. Small stones continued to leap to his windshield, but she kept her eyes on the road. More precisely, on roadsides. The street returned the smell of fir trees and the dust, and it was by far better than any scent of the city – at least, she much preferred. At that moment, after yet another hairpin, she remembered the story of John Colter, and that his obsession for Yellowstone: the end found him all right, and there was went straight in the middle of what other people then began to call the Hell of Colter. Everything could have been easier then? She tried to imagine it, and that age winds her back in the face like a fire that cannot entirely be turned off. Even, she could feel the hands of those people, who pulled into the whirlpools of all the rivers in which they seriously risked their lives. Perhaps he wanted to be was she, all hell inevitable, but perhaps I was her only healthy selfishness: she loved those things, those stories, and he would never want to give up their echo.
She could clearly hear that the pickup was actually dragging by that road. It dawned on her the story of that family got lost somewhere in Idaho, on their way to California. At first, things were going pretty easy, but suddenly all went ruined, and all the things went ruined, just like you fill too much a shelving unit. She thought a lot to that story, how they could easily miss the turn into the main road. They have been said it was due to the branches which quite totally covered the signal. The wind was changing, and it was dragging on the windshield pine needles and such old, bad stories.
Yes, it was definitely because of the wind, she said, that some stories came out, and she would not be surprised if she had started thinking about one of her favorite arguments now, that Donner Party, still tormenting her with its residues. For her, certain stories could never end, not even if she had been deputy to solve that case. He tried to soften the grip on the steering wheel, but he could not. That street was tough, and the wind out was even higher, so that by the December sun, we could not see it anymore. It would be missed a long time before reaching the point where it was last seen. The name of the subject was still a confidential information. She did not even try to imagine it: in his head was simply someone whose face (especially the nose) had been erased by the wind that wasn’t diminishing and that could overwhelm everything. And that was exactly right.
[All Rights to Kyt Walken, 2017]