Backstory: Crossroads of a Skier

It’s late morning in October 1993, and I’m sitting in my VW Jetta, a coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other. I don’t smoke. Don’t drink much coffee, either. But this moment, this place, begs for both. I’m somewhere north of Great Falls, Montana. Maybe Cut Bank, maybe Shelby, maybe Conrad. It doesn’t matter. There is a gas station and a diner and that’s all, and that’s all I need.