As a young writer you automatically want to ignore what’s in your backyard because you feel if it’s from here, it ain’t good. It just can’t be that damn good.
“Mountain air in our lungs, a hearty sausage-and-home-fries, fire cooked meal inside us both. A last wipe of oil along our bolt action Berettas — the two big bores we’ve entrusted for our try at the trophy racks.”