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Sunday, August 14, Cut Bank, Montana
An hour before dusk it's well over eighty degrees here on the prairie, I've been drinking
liquids for about four hours, and it seems hard to believe that I was here once before
on a journalistic assignment, back in the 1980s on a January day when Cut Bank re-
gistered the coldest temperature in the continental United States, twenty-three degrees
below zero. No wonder nothing looks familiar.
I'm in the flats of Montana now, and maybe thirty miles back the Rockies finally dis-
appeared behind me. I watched them go as I rode, looking back over my shoulder, stop-
ping now and then and staring as they became smaller and smaller and finally shrank
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