Once at the bridge however, I saw tractor tracks and evidence that local woodcutters had been using the road. Someone might be keen to take out some journalists, but I found it doubtful they would like to blow up their uncle or neighbor, so I breathed a little easier. Still, I was not going to take too many liberties trying to predict the unpredictable and rode on the roof, Mad Max style, as Christian pointed out, to keep my eyes open for anything suspicious. Good thing I did. As we were taking a hard, uphill turn to the site, I looked back and saw a green Zastava loaded with some unsavory looking youths following us up.
Mines are one thing, but close encounters of the hillbilly kind are quite another.
Chris, first chance you get, pull off and let these jokers get past us. They had gained considerably on us by the time we pulled off and as soon as we stopped I jumped off, whipped down the old fly, and pretended to heed nature's call. I shot them one of those goofy, Joe tourist grins as they putted past. They returned icy stares and picked at their scruffy beards. They were young, late teens, early twenties, and were wearing mix and match militia uniforms.