As dusk fell over I-90 on a late-spring day in 2006, my college roommate and I drove east from Bozeman, on our way to Billings for the night. The road was open beneath the big sky, a few trucks speeding in each direction. As we passed them, their radio frequencies would momentarily interrupt the signal from my iPod to the radio, and our song would cut out and a word or two of truck lingo might creep in.
Ancient Dance For the Best Fishing Spot
4 hours ago