I was wandering along a muddy-icy track in Alberta near Lake Minnewanka.  A cougar was not far away.  When suddenly a terrific churning -schlepping noise came from the forest, like some God of practical realities grinding up all folk-tales in a furious mixer. When the noise arrived close, this gigantic wilderness vehicle was the culprit, driven by a man as angry as his machine sounded.  Angry with me?  Angry with his vehicle?  The world?  Or had the sound of his chained tyres punishing the mud, ka-ka-crunching the iced puddles sent his mood into half-madness? 

Those tracks in the Rockies seem to go on forever through the immense landscape. So I see him now, still driving, just as angry, trapped in this mood because he cannot, will not, is not allowed, to get out of the monstrous vehicle.  So he is like the world itself, stuck on its trajectory, in a mood no one spirit can influence enough, angry, churning, with nowhere to go but the inevitable ahead.