Foster Huntington

Winter road trips require a bit different strategy.  Attractions are vacant or closed for the season.  Cops are more understanding and less weary of travelers. The weather is often shit and the days are short.  Instead of finding spots to cool down, you look for places to warm up. "Sit anywhere you like," greets you.  Crawling into a sleeping bag a few hours after sunset means you fall asleep before 8 and wake up before twilight.   In December and early January, I logged five thousand miles driving around the West Coast running from the doldrums of seasonal spin out.  With friends riding shotgun, we talked about the left's cognitive dissonance, the widening gap between urban and rural life and the magic of Lee Scratch Perry.  On my solo trips, I listened to audiobooks, called old friends during periods of solid cell service and played albums from years past.   The joy of a winter road trip is nurtured by the idea that in a few months, the same trip could be more fun.  For the fellow car nerds out there, in order of appearance, I drove my 1994 R32 GTR recently spit shined by @tommyfyeah , my 2001 Ford F350 with a @fourwheelcampers , with a recently rebuilt front end courtesy of a snow covered dirt road on Hart Mountain and the fine folks at @fitgarage , and my bad dad mobile, a 2000 Volvo v70R.