It was a four-hour drive from the magazine's office in Portland, Maine to the activists' office in downtown Burlington, Vermont. I got the ad sales job on Friday, invited to a meeting on Sunday, quit on Monday, and got the interview and photos assignment via voicemail on Tuesday. The magazine publisher gave me $70 for gas. I'd never been to Vermont. It's crossed off now. It was cold and dreary with the leaves not quite as bright in the diffused sunlight. I had a lot on my mind from my research the night before. The story sounded exciting to me. It was supposed to be a good news story. It really is.

A little past Montpelier, I saw the covered wagon on my left but I kept driving. My mind screamed at me to stop, still I kept driving. I had an interview to get to and I still had a bit to go. My mind rationed more clearly the further I drove, "When's the last time you saw a covered wagon on the side of the road?" So with no other cars around, I pulled over to the side and made a quick U-turn. My butt was tired from the long drive, and I was going to be thirty minutes early anyway. My time in the military taught me, "If you're not early, you're late." Hurry up and wait is a thing, so I had some spare time to stop and shoot the wagon. I wasn't the first one to shoot the wagon, either.

After a quick walk-around, I was back on my way to interview the leaders of a human rights organization named Migrant Justice. I'm not the first one to interview them. Google them.

To be continued...