I’m on my way home. It’s ear­ly morn­ing, and the air is clean and clear. Everyone on the bus is asleep, and even­tu­al­ly I suc­cumb to the drowsi­ness.

Half-way through is the Log Cabin, a Greyhound autho­rized stop that’s a com­bi­na­tion con­ve­nience store and restau­rant. Out of the dozens of times I’ve trav­eled this route, I nev­er get off the bus. It’s some pho­bia I have of los­ing my seat, or los­ing my place, or for­get­ting to get back on, but this day I grab my cam­era and step off, giv­ing up to my wan­der­lust.

This shag­gy, old build­ing, locat­ed on the side of a two-lane asphalt road stretch­ing end­less­ly, is sur­round­ed by wilt­ing trees and grass. There’s noth­ing else around but an aban­doned red struc­ture 50 metres away. I walk behind. To my sur­prise is a frozen riv­er run­ning par­al­lel to the high­way, a stark win­ter scene I rarely get to see. The ele­va­tion and veg­e­ta­tion keeps this hid­den from my view on the bus.

And once again, I’ve tak­en a chance, and this is my reward.