It was the moment we looked out the window of our hotel room in Moab.
Splashed with the mud of the red rock of Utah,
she looked like wild animal that we had reared from a babe.
It was the moment that she grew up,
had her first taste of blood and grime and dust of the trail.
She surged forward going further than we would have thought reasonable on a December day,
when all the north-facing canyons and mountains stayed covered in snow.
Perhaps warming slightly enough to melt the snow in order to create a thin layer of ice that solidifies quickly as the sun sets behind the canyon.
She was a beast.
No longer the babe with less than a thousand miles under her tires.
Roaring like a tiger.
She led us forward in adventures against our rational planning.
I was afraid for her claws and teeth that were anxious to sink their way into the mud and dust of Deadhorse State Park.