In early October 1974, Ron Lawler and I began planning an Elk hunting trip to Colorado.

The country was in a crisis. The price of gasoline had skyrocketed as a result of the 1973 oil embargo by Arab members of OPEC. The scarcity created long lines at the pumps and many stations had closed.

More sober minded individuals might have chosen to hunt closer to home instead of setting out on a 1,200-mile journey to Sweetwater Lake located high in the Rocky Mountains. We didn’t sweat the small stuff.

My old green, GMC pick-up, which carried no title and no bill of sale, had a camper canopy on back and held about 15 gallons of gas. It averaged approximately 12 miles per gallon. If we couldn’t find gas along the way our trip might end at Memphis.

“Why don’t we put an extra tank in the back?” said Ron. “I can connect it with the existing one.”

“Good idea.”

He bolted a 30-gallon tank in the bed of the pick-up. On the rear of the truck we strapped a 5-gallon Jeri can of gas. In all, we had about 50 gallons of petro, enough to carry us halfway to our destination.

We departed Athens in our mobile bomb, happy to be on the road and away from our grumbling wives who didn’t appreciate the importance of our trip. Ron drove.

“Did I ever tell ya about that ol’ one-eyed horse I owned in Waxahatchee, Texas?” he drawled.

“Nope.”

“Well, he was the dangest ol’ horse I ever saw…”

His voice was relaxing. I soon forgot about nettlesome clients, tyrannical judges and creditors. Ron was still talking about that one-eyed horse when I fell asleep near Iuka, Miss.

Around 3 a.m. we pulled in at a windswept station somewhere in the Texas panhandle. A kid ran out in the cold, shivering.

“Can I he’p you?”

“Fill ‘er up,” I said.