Who named Odessa-Texas, Odessa, I want to know? But take that right onto Hwy 302. It's flat and it's going to get flatter and higher. Past Redbluff start the hand painted signs: twenty acres, nothing down. Old RVs squat pasted with red dirt dust. This is a two lane road. The truck bucks and the air seats rock back and forth. Land is dry, keeping dry, locking itself up hard as glass. Gaudalope mountains wedge up like a hatchet face and the steepest part, the blade shines as if iced against the sun. The road twists and scuttles sending the jake brakes into a roar and then the truck climbs back up shifting, shifting, the rythm of the double clutch. The pull-outs are farther west. Almost out of the mountains. There are three. Bed down for the night. Turn the truck off and the stars press down. In the morning, there's a stile over the barbed fence. The black and white dog takes off after a mule deer. They race around prickly pear cactus. The deer is playing the old dog who barrels after. Then, the deer takes off and is gone. The dog comes back with a hitch in the hind leg. We bend down and make the most of him. We search each of his pads saying we're looking for prickers. The dog is very proud. Later we'll fuel up in El Paso at the half-ass Petro. Across the street is the Mexican restaurant where they don't speak English. We both get Chicken Adobo. Later we'll walk down to the bakery. You'll drink sweet coffee and I'll drink bitter.