Al Schroeter and I are bumping down the Echo Trail out of Ely in his battered pickup, catching the day's first gold as we top the hills, falling into gray shadow on the swampy bottoms. My hands gingerly cradle a scalding tin cup of coffee. I've sworn off caffeine, but I'm sipping this thick stuff because I'm cold, and because I've already stepped so far out of the comfortable shell of opinion and habit known as "me" that all rules are off. I'm wearing a blaze-orange acrylic stocking cap. I'm going hunting. Al chants bird lore as he coaxes the lumbering Ford around the road's sinking curves: up and down, into the light and out. My kick-started brain spins. I feel lost. Good, I decide. I think... More >>>