I called the owner of the bed and breakfast from the nearest city and mentioned that I was having trouble sourcing a satellite phone. They had one I could borrow, but that didn’t transpire when I arrived. The B&B pretty much was the town, except for a gas station which doubled up as a Chinese takeout. You paid for your gas at the same counter you ordered food at. The amount of people who stood around waiting gave the impression that there were either vast suburbs hidden away off the main road, or that there were few alternative dining options in the area.

From the B&B it was another four-hour drive to the next town. The night before setting off, the owner’s friend sat me down and put a radio in my hands. “Here’s a walkie-talkie, just make sure you’re on the right channel.” From the worried look on my face he explained further: “Oh, just…see this dial here?” He took the radio and pointed to a notched round gray dial on the top edge, “it will be sign-posted by the road, you can’t miss it, you’ll be fine. Press this button here on the side to talk. You’ll probably just hear the chatter of the truckers on the road. They talk among themselves all the time.”
“What do I do if I get a flat?”
The B&B owner chimed in, “Just radio one of the truckers. They’ll pass the message on back down to us. They all know me here. Just say you’re staying here.”
I continued querying the protocol, “Do I need to say over?”
He gave me a slightly impatient look “No you don’t need to say over.”
“Oh! And watch out for mushroom pickers!” the B&B owner said. “They drive like maniacs speeding, they’ll run you off the road! They come up here once a year around this time and they make the whole year’s worth of money in just a month.”
I looked at them blankly.
“You’ll be fine, it’s easy,” the friend said with a mixture of reassurance and annoyance, placing the radio back in my hands. I nodded while thinking I would immediately forget what I was meant to do.

The next morning, I rose at 6 a.m. and left quietly, passing the gas station/takeout and heading north on the highway. There were a handful of trucks and SUVs on the road. I continued about 20 miles until the highway became unpaved. The sonic contrast of the rumbling in the cabin compared to the smooth tarmac was startling, but a vehicle overtaking me at high speed and shooting stones into my windscreen in the process put my mind to rest that my truck would be ok handling it.

I looked for a gap in the thick wilderness on my left and turned off the highway, as per the instructions. This road went from the wide berth of the moderately used highway to a single-lane dirt road that was in danger of being swallowed by the sheer amount of dense foliage on either side. A dinged sheet steel sign announced itself prominently, bearing just a lone “1” in black on white. Next to it another sign: “NEW MOBILE RADIO CHANNELS BEING IMPLEMENTED ON THIS RESOURCE ROAD. RR-4.” The rusted edges had bled into the white painted surface, giving it an orange-brown border, proving that they had been there for some time.

I pressed the button on the radio and spoke in that weak voice when first waking, or practicing a speech when no one is around to hear it.
“Silver pickup, heading up…uh…mile 1”

And so the protocol began to seem clear: the road was so narrow, you needed to radio to the logging trucks to alert them of your presence. A truck with a full load of trees on its back wouldn’t be able to stop in time if you were coming the other way. Each mile marker by the side of the road bore a sequential number and you broadcast your position as you passed each sign, “heading up mile 2, mile 3, 4,” and so on.

The sat-nav showed my position somewhere off to the side of the road. Not on it, but following alongside somewhere in the dense woodland. The device was useless by this stage and I considered unplugging it and putting it in the glove compartment, but just having it on gave me a sense of comfort. I looked to the thick dark trees to my left and imagined my silver truck plowing through the thicket like a ghost-image travelling unhindered.

Knowing it was a long drive I queued up one of the longest albums I had in my iTunes. All six discs (though a “disc” is now a redundant unit) worth of The Basement Tapes reissue that came out relatively recently. Well, recently compared to when it was released in 1975, and even more so having been recorded in 1967. The story of this album: after Dylan recorded and released it in an abridged version, the original reel-to-reel tapes were discovered, having been forgotten in a closet for three decades. The tapes were given the modern-day treatment and the resulting fidelity was good, like wiping greasy spectacles with a fresh cloth. It was home-recorded music, intended to stay in a basement but somehow wound up in a closet. The newly released tracks were not intact, since some tapes suffered water damage and degradation over the years. Dropouts and gaps in music and words. Some sections were omitted as they were just distorted noise. Moments of music lost forever.

I continued using the radio at each mile, broadcasting my position, unsure it was even working, for two hours before I had any kind of response. The sound was scrambled and abrupt and I didn’t catch what was said. But 15 minutes later I saw a long truck full of trees pulled over. As I passed I waved and they said something to me on the radio which I once again couldn’t decipher. “Have a good one” I said.

By now the mile markers were getting harder to spot; some had been embraced by the surrounding wilderness, swallowed by the forest. Others were just missing.

I continued for another two hours until I reached the town, the road gradually winding further and further down to where the buildings were. After driving through a forest for four hours, the first buildings emerged out of nowhere. A sense of relief washed over me. The procession of detached row houses flanking my either side, welcoming me. Carrying down the gently curved road, I slowed at a stop-sign half-covered in moss. I rolled down my window, the silence telling me I was the only person here. It was then that I noticed a fox sat at the side of the road studying me calmly. I imagined it was wondering where I had come from. It didn’t look like any fox I had seen before. Its fur the color of rust on black. It was small, and although it was calm, it struck me that there was something slightly odd about it. It wasn’t afraid to hold my gaze endlessly, both of us staring at each other. It was clear there wasn’t anything this fox needed from me and I drove on. A moment later, I saw a car approaching. We slowed and I waved. “I’ve been expecting you” they said.