Back in the wood. In the hood. Back on the home road. Everything except my baby, the 856. I farmed a whole year to buy her. I farmed another to rebuild her. That was a rebuild or so ago. It’s due again. At least for injectors and an injector pump. She’s parked up on the farm north of town. Tucked away between the bin and the road fence. Or what’s left of the road fence.
The harvest run is done up in the great white north. It wasn’t that great showing up last year after the snow to pick the mountains there. I swear every farm has slopes as steep as any mountain side I’ve driven by. Not many but they’re there. They need to be respected because your life literally depends on it. This is still the most dangerous profession out there.
Good to be cutting corn on the south side again. Just in time. My cheap auction get me by until the real pickup gets fixed pickup needs to be on the home stretch. I can feel the rotors being ruined every time I apply the brakes. Limping in on a wing and a prayer. Again.
God I love it.