Mike Sager by Mike Sager

Somewhere east of Lost River, along a narrow ribbon of slippery asphalt that dipped and climbed and meandered like a goat trail through the George Washington National Forest, I pulled my rented TrailBlazer to a stop before a line of mailboxes—a pitted, muddy road called Sager Hollow.

The rain was falling harder now, a thick mist against a white-gray sky, visible above the bare trees and high ridges. The engine idled, burning low-test, $2.59 a gallon. It was Easter Sunday. I was in West Virginia. I'd been driving for hours through the Appalachian Mountains, through the fog and the rain, eyes glued to the center line for navigation, big rigs pushing up on my tail. My nerves were frayed; I needed to take a piss. I needed to finish this job and get back home.

I lowered the window, peered down the road into the gloomy afternoon, not quite sure what to do next. The air was heavy with the smells of earth and mold, woodsmoke and wet livestock. I felt a pang of self-doubt. Maybe this whole thing was foolhardy. Maybe I hadn't done enough prep. Maybe I should have called first. It was, after all, ... // 97% Remaining