I pass the day reviewing maps, checking out routes that look interesting. I review my packing list to be sure I have what we need in case Guy forgets anything. The USMC has drilled into my head that it is better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it. In my mind, the real measure of my preparation will be how much of the stuff I never use during the trip. Everything is packed, weatherproofed, and strategically placed for access, typical behavior for a computer analyst. The old Red Bird sits patiently packed and fed like a favorite mule eager to be on the road again. The roast, slow cooking in the crock pot, smells so good I'm not sure it will make it until Guy gets here. As the day passes easily the call comes. I figure I'll catch Guy at hway 7 or hway 50 on the Trace, having made the run many times. It turns out to be hway 7. I knew he would have no trouble figuring out it was me - how many radar red STs will you see on the Trace, loaded down like somebody's moving? We meet, greet and head for the holler back up the Trace. As we motor along, we watch for deer carefully along the sides.

Suddenly Guy says -

"What are those things, buzzards?"

"'Nope, just some wild turkeys that can take your windshield out if they fly into you" I tell him.

The procession of the birds meanders across the Trace slower than a funeral procession on a hot day, but we finally get under way again.