By Mark Kneeskern
A giant hand is pushing sideways against our truck, rocking her back and forth like a toy boat. We tack south on 385, then bear west on 96 through Chivington and Eads, Heath and Sugar City, gaining hard-fought ground, inch-by-inch.
Recently, I wrote an epic song in homage to the wind and its nebulous ways, attempting to salve some emotional wounds that had been inflicted upon the small desert community of Terlingua during a long, chilly, brutal winter in Far West Texas. Now, as my partner Shannon and I navigate our way toward Salida after visiting my family in Minnesota, the wind is making a genuine attempt to blast us off the road.
