It was crazy windy on a cold Saturday night outside Rome Station, deep in the southeast Oregon outback. We’d been on the road from Washington’s San Juan Islands for several days and had only pulled into the boat launch on the Owyhee River an hour earlier. After unloading boats and pitching tents in a scramble, we’d driven back to the roadhouse for dinner. The only service of any kind for 50 miles in any direction, it was packed with hunters, ranchers and truckers, all watching the Boise State football game on the team’s iconic blue field.

One busy guy ran the entire show—cook, waiter, dishwasher, bartender and cashier. It took ages to get food on the table, but we felt more sympathy than pique. We’d have been in our tents or sleeping in our rigs otherwise; besides, we had the game and the beer. When the power went out, we lost the game and there was a general fuss, but the dude hustled out back to fire up a generator and returned with a couple of Coleman lanterns. We ate by headlamp and the Broncos prevailed to a riot of hoots and hollers. It was local color and always a lark to get in a small fix together with strangers, but in my bivvy that night I was nagged by the thought that the night’s events could prove prophetic. We might not have been as prepared for contingencies in the week ahead as the fellow at the cafe…

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