Dec. 13, 2012 – Moriarty, NM. to Flagstaff, Az.

The howling jarred me out of a deep sleep and sent my heart up into my throat.

Snarls and barks grew louder. The dog’s large silhouette lit up the wall of my tent.

I was terrified.

Lynch and I were camped outside a strip club a few miles from Moriarty, N.M. After having arrived in town at dark, we decided we’d brave the elements, save a few bucks, and sleep outside – he in his truck and me in my tent.

We spent the night hanging out in the front of his truck, drinking and listening to Spanish music while laughing at the conveyor belt of 18-wheelers pulling off I-40 and into the strip club.

I put on every single layer I owned (including rain gear and shoes) before crawling into the tent. I slept fitfully – until the dog started roaring a few hours later.

I knew I had to get the hell out of the tent. I couldn’t risk being shredded to pieces. When the barking briefly subsided, I grabbed my sleeping bag and high-tailed it to the truck for the rest of the night.

“You scared of that stray?” Lynch mumbled sleepily from his fort in the back.

By mid-morning, I bid my pal goodbye and posted up at the Moriarty truck stop. After 30 minutes of asking around, Georgie picked me up – he was heading all the way to California, which meant I had a straight shot to Flagstaff.

I reached town just ahead of the monster snowstorm, and powered through the two-mile walk to the hostel. After settling in, I hit the town with a Quebecoise, an Argentinian, and a Californian, and no dogs.