Awaiting Phoebe's return from her pre-Winter spa treatment, I took Schvoogie (so-named cuz Michelle thinks he looks like a house-slipper) out for a jaunt. He's not really of overlanding material.
I once pulled off his lower lip when traversing a teensie arroyo. Fortunately, we found two young dudes who, with impressive skill and speed, reattached it...and asked a mere $20.00. This was das hinterlands of Utah. I gave $50. I 'splained to them "Ya'll should charge twenty-five fur der hammer und ein hundred fur knowin' how tuh use hit.")
He's perennially shod with snow-tires; ready at a moments notice to take over for Snoball, the 2015 FIT, whenever inclement weather strikes and cat-sitting duty calls.
When not awaiting snows, the tires work quite well for off-roading; it's his low-slung, low-rider (lots of hyphens in this post, eh?) lineage that impedes him from realizing his potential.
But we're exploring...and finding some decent enough roads to take us away from the rolling-roar that is Interstate 25.
The fog creates photo-ops on the mountains and provides visual respite to the usual: a flat, contrast-lacking brown.
It's from that transpiration I've mentioned.
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