In the middle of nowhere,
hill after hill,
on some windy back road,
unmarked by yellow lines,
as close to the Little River as possible,
was a narrow, one lane bridge that went clickety-clack as the tires rolled over each plank of wood,
where the elusive gray fox crossed the road in front of us.
Why could it not be a black bear? I thought to myself. But I was satisfied with the gray fox.
What contractor ever dreamed of putting a road out here anyway?
And then, the following morning, I saw the most elusive of all wild animals — the Black Bear. It was 11am and I saw three black bears headed up the historic nature trail. I feel like a National Geographic photographer.