They call it The Wall because it’s the steepest part of the drive up to Jamestown.
We had felt bigger than the mountains that day, and stronger, so he proceeded to scale it quickly and as stubborn as the snow. But while he began to tell never-ending stories of Russian goldmines and of cabins burning in the woods, I scrambled to keep my 7/11 coffee from spilling across my lap and watched, nervous, as the smoke from our cigarettes danced wildly across the car.
I turned the music up and thought about going home.
The descent was nothing other than eventual.