The First Hundred

My most reliable fishing buddy turned 100 this week. 100-thousand, that is. Miles.

My Ridgeline has gotten me to the stream before dawn and back to the house on schedule more times than I can count over the past three years. Well, maybe not so much back to the house on schedule, but those perpetually problematic punctuality issues are mine, not the truck’s.

It’s kept me warm on frozen trout mornings and cool on mid-summer bass afternoons - kept me entertained with XM or with the simple soothing drone of tires on pavement - endured an existence outside of a garage and suffered the pings and dings that a roof of oak branches will inflict. It's been refuge from rain and overnight quarters. It’s an outdoorsman with more than it's share of tight path brush scratches, but also soft leather seats and heavenly electronic butt warmers - cushy, but with thick rubber mats for my muddy boots.

My truck’s spent as much time on dirt as it has on asphalt – climbed Appalachian switchbacks and coastal dunes - carried trash and mulch and furniture and firewood - yaks and canoes and a fly rod or two.

Most importantly, it’s carried those that I love safely and comfortably. For this alone, I am in its debt.

And all it’s asked is a tank of gas, an occasional oil change, a set of tires, some brake pads, and a nod or two on this here blog.  I’ve happily obliged.

So here's a tip of the cap to my good buddy for our first 100K together. Happy Milesday, my traveling friend, and let's get on with the next hundred.

Let’s go fishin’.