I travel it often.
During this time of the week and at this hour of the morning, the traffic is light. There are seldom any distractions.
I ride north on the old Route 195 and pass intersecting dirt roads named after the farmers who tamed the land; Babb road, East Whitman, South Hardesty, then Whittier, Davis and Bradshaw.
The green expanse of the Palouse in June stretches out from horizon to horizon, tumbling across the landscape like waves on the ocean; unencumbered by the harsh constructs of man.
There are no grid-like street patterns, no buildings or sky-scrapers tearing up the rhythm of the hills like a dissonant chord.
The hand of man has been here though, laid down by his plow. A soft concerto, easy on the soul, things are tended here, not developed; Pianissimo.
As I ride, I take in the scent of turned earth and wildflowers in bloom.
The wind is cool and soft.
My anxieties relax.
This is the beginning of my Vacation.