Hillsboro is not a big knothole in the tree.

It was big in the nineteen hundreds as a mining town where one of the largest silver nuggets ever found was stolen from Mother Nature’s treasure chest. For the last fifty years the place has been a getaway for easterners who brought the big city with them and built hippie hideaways in old mining shacks. 

At night, coyotes howl, stars fill night skies, the town shuts down for the evening. 

If you sit close to the fire you can keep warm.

The entire west is what it always was – resources locked up for the benefit of the U.S. Government, a place to keep secrets hidden, a place to hide when big cities start to collapse.

Shoe and I warm by the fire as cold presses in and we plan tomorrow’s work detail.

We always plan for an apocalyptic tomorrow, whether it arrives, or not.

John’s wife, Susan, just thinks we’re crazy,but, if you read between the lines, nothing is sane, these days. 

 

 

 

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