Contributor: Eli James Yanna
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We bounced down the rutted two-track. My truck slammed into the sand at he end of the trail. Sounds of slamming surf beat against the sugar sand like a thunderous chorus. Above the capping waves and just beyond the tree line, hung a massive orange-red moon that bathed the landscape in a sepia tint.
Point Solitude was isolated and rarely entertained evening visitors. It was inhospitable terrain just to get there. To get here you needed two things—a tricked out truck like mine or a big set of balls. And there have been many who have bowed to both.
My rig was like no other. Metallic purple graced by pearl ghost flames from nose to tail and just enough lift to give plenty of room for a set of fat Mickey Thompsons to ride on. Christened “The Purple-Headed Monster”, this old Chevy was a labor of love that...
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Author:
Eli James Yanna
