Cirrus clouds stretched thinly across the blue morning skies, and a warm sun reflected off our white Jeep as we followed a winding backroad through the great red rocks of the Front Range.

We kept the windows rolled down to keep the air cool, fresh, and smelling of wildflowers and fresh spring grass, and bags full of snacks, waters, and sodas shifted ever-so-often in the backseat. Dad kept one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear stick, while I had one hand resting on the windowsill, and the other clasped around an ice cold bottle of water. 

Life was good. 

Under the Jeep’s rattling and roar of the wind, I heard a faint, peculiar buzzing near my right shoulder. At first, I ignored it (it was 7:30 in the morning, so I was still groggy as all hell) till it stopped. But, when I heard it again, I just had to diagnose the noise. 

“You hearin’ a buzzing, Dad?” I asked first. 

“No, why?” he replied. 

“Cuz I keep hearing buzzing over to my right…” I answered just as my eyes drifted over to my right shoulder. 

Perched on my shoulder like a parrot was a fucking yellowjacket wasp. 

“OH SHIT!” I startled then froze. 

“What?! What?!” my dad began to freak out too. 

“There’s a wasp, there’s a wasp, there’s a wasp and itscomingfuckin’closeritsgonnabitemeohmygod!” I panicked mostly incoherently.

Thankfully, my dad spotted the wasp and quickly flicked it off my shoulder before it crawled under my hoodie. Crisis adverted. Oh, and I was now fully awake. 

“My God, you’re such a little wuss!” my dad laughed, “It was just a little wasp.”

“It was just a little wasp?!” I whined between panicked breaths.

“Yeah,” my dad shook his head, “Wasp stings suck but crashin’ the jeep would suck more.” 

“You’ve… got a point…” I trailed off as I reached for my water. 

“I might have to revoke your Redneck card after that.” My dad continued to taunt, laughing to himself still.

“Ha ha, very funny…” I rolled my eyes. 

We fell silent as we got on the highway, and the wind became too loud to talk over. It had been a few weeks since I last rode in the jeep, and during those few weeks away, my dad had put in quite a lot of work in preparation for the off-roading season. Aside from new tires, my dad had cleaned up the driveshaft and replaced a few rusty nuts and bolts holding the front driveshaft to the yoke. He had also replaced the struts, bought a portable air compressor, and strapped some new “oh shit” handles to the roll-cage inside the jeep. Thanks to my dad’s work, the Jeep no longer death-wobbled at 60 miles per hour, though it was still louder than a jet engine especially with the windows rolled down. 

Soon (thankfully), we arrived in Idaho Springs. We pulled into an empty parking lot, whipped out our phones, and began to plan our journey. It was exceptionally warm and dry in the mountains, so we weren’t concerned about mud or snow. Plus, the town was teeming with off-road toys. It seemed like everyone with a Jeep or a dirtbike had come to Idaho Springs from Denver to raise hell. The chances of us getting lost and dying a horrible death were pretty low. 

“What do you think about taking Virginia Canyon Road to Two Brothers Road, then driving that till we find Bald Mountain Road, which should turn to dirt and take us all the way to Yankee Hill…” Dad asked. 

“Works for me.” I shrugged, “I’m just along for the ride.”

“Ok, can you remember 1-7-5-1? That’s the trail that takes us to Yankee Hill. Cuz, I sure as hell ain’t gonna remember it.”

“Yup. Got it down!” I smiled. 

“Alright, let’s do this! Oh, and play some music through the Blutooth.” Dad shouted. 

“Hell ya!”

Onto the steep, mountain backroads we began, nodding our heads to the song “Curse of the Cajun Queen” by The Legendary Shack Shakers, hyped up and ready to conquer the mountains in our old, rusty YJ once again!