Hills have turned grey and the sky ominous as we turn toward home. For a while we see nothing to distinguish today from a million years ago — just rocks and scrub to the horizon.
“I wonder if they’re driving like this because some are drunk,” I mention when we return to modernity behind a train of very slow moving vehicles, the same we saw circled around coolers on the dirt shore of the Owyhee Reservoir.
We endure some unhappy honks as we pick them off one-by-one on straight stretches so the twenty miles of remaining gravel to the highway doesn’t have to take an hour. Brenna lays down in the back seat and falls asleep for much of the remaining night drive home.