“Yup, it’s possible,” My brain said. “Just not likely.”

As I pulled out of the gas station Monday morning, I hit the reset button for the trip meter in my car. It now reads 1028.8. It’s Wednesday evening.

I might’ve mentioned this before, like everyone else, I have a day job. One that requires driving. Sometimes, a lot.

Needless to say, I spend quite a bit of time in my car. Essentially, I live in it.

My girlfriend often groans because she has to stand outside the passenger door waiting for me to remove the accumulation of empty water bottles and gas station burrito wrappers before she can sit down. Not exactly how she planned to start our weekly date night I’m sure, but the gas is paid for so my car it is.

1028.8. My brain’s telling me that’s a lot. At least, I think that’s what the intermittent pauses in my brain function are trying to tell me.

Most of the miles I’ve cruised this week, were through open desert. I live in Nevada, pronounced Nevada, not Nevahda, (short a sound) a name derived from the Spanish for its snow covered mountain ranges. Boy, are there a lot of them.

As pretty as they are, they’re about the only thing to look at. According to the Bureau of Land Management, about 63% of Nevada’s land is publicly owned. 63% covered in nothing but sagebrush.

As I watched that sagebrush move from windshield to rear view, I couldn’t help but wonder, what if someone built a golf course here. I’m pretty sure I identified at least 12 suitable sites just yesterday. They might not have much water but the ground would be cool.

That’s a problem us afflicted golfers have. Always mentally building golf courses on every empty acre as we drive by.

I imagined a resort, far from the nearest town and cell tower, nothing to keep you busy except life and golf itself.

I envisioned the sheep and cows, a mere barbed wire fence away, munching on fairway grass rather than dry twigs, and thought about all the courses around the world still mowing their fairways the old fashioned way.

“Yup, it’s possible,” My brain said. “Just not likely.”

As soon as I said it, I regretted it. What if the settlers had a “not likely” attitude 150 years ago, when things were actually tough. Would we even be here? Would I even be driving through this great state I called home?

While the way this country expanded wasn’t always done in the right way, I’m glad I’m here to pass through the last vestiges of open range out here.

If I’m being blunt, I’m not quite sure what the point of this week’s blog is. I feel about 10 ideas fighting for importance in my mind, all trying to reach the metaphorical mountaintop, but really, all I know is that I’m getting delirious. The miles are taking their toll.

I guess all I’m saying is, I wouldn’t want it all to be covered in golf courses crawling with people, but maybe just one so I could spend all my time out here appreciating the sound of the mountains.

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