Field and Stream
THE TRUCK THAT OWES ME NOTHING
I’d seen a lot of things for the first time from that truck. I remember driving alongside pronghorn in Idaho and clocking them on the speedometer. Weeks later, I’d haul one from a sagebrush flat to the tailgate and drive back to camp. Every opportunity that truck had to let me down, it didn’t. No matter where I was—in the woods, in the desert, waking up in a Walmart parking lot—my truck was always there and ready to go.