When you've been camping out as long as I have, it's easy to wake up at the crack of dawn.

Actually, more like about an hour before dawn. That's when the birds start singing. It's hard to sleep through.

Until this trip, I hadn't really been camping for more than a weekend since I was 12 when Dad used to take me on long fishing trips over summer vacation. Of course, then I hit puberty and started having periods, and camping for a week at a time with my dad and no bathrooms? Yeah, that wasn't something I was interested in anymore.

They sold their house a few years ago to do the full time RV thing, got themselves one of those big ass 5th wheel trailers. The damn thing's bigger than my apartment. Nicer too. I tell them it's not really camping just because they park it in the woods.

As I reflect on things, I pull on my hoodie and crawl out of the tent. It's freakin' cold out here at 5 in the morning. Colder than I expected it to be. Last week I was about as close to Canada as I could get without my passport and it wasn't this damn cold.

Of course, I'm not surprised that this place isn't open yet. I've probably got at least another hour, maybe 3, before whoever runs the place unlocks the door standing between me and a fresh pot of coffee.

That's too long to wait, so I pull my little backpacker stove and fuel canister out of my bag and look for a place away from the gas pumps to start boiling some water.

As the sky begins its transition from nearly pitch black and still full of stars to a lighter blue and then on fire with gold and pink over the hills east of here, I get a chance to take in my surroundings in clearer detail.

It's still hella cold, I've got my hood cinched tight over my head, my riding gloves on and my hands wrapped around my mug full of boiling hot-but-rapidly-cooling black coffee like my life depended on it as I start roaming what I'm pretty sure is the perimeter of the property.

The store is a 2 story building with wood siding that's rough from weather. There's a coat of paint on the lower section where the little store is that looks like it used to be blue and white, but mostly it's just faded and peeling now.

The store itself has big windows set on either side of the door. A variety of neon signs hang unlit inside, one of them the "open" sign that I'm most interested in.

I walk up the steps to the boardwalk style porch that runs along the front of the store. The architecture reminds me of a saloon in an old western-- with a porch over the lower story that serves as a balcony for the upper one.

Not that there's any sign of life upstairs.

Standing in front of the windows, I can see the store is small. There's a sofa and a big screen TV set up in the far corner-- like a makeshift living room.

Makes sense. If you have to hang out all day minding a store that probably goes for hours without anyone coming through the door, you don't want to be stuck in a folding chair behind the counter the whole time but it's probably not a good idea to wander too far off either.

Everything inside is dark. I stare longingly at the commercial coffee maker sitting on a counter next to a fountain soda machine and grip my hands tighter around my mug. My own coffee has cooled down considerably and I'm almost as desperate for the coffee pot in the store to be full as I am for my gas tank to be.

There's hardly any traffic on the road running in front of the store. Every so often a semi rumbles past or a pick up truck, but no one even looks twice at the closed store, the freezing woman standing in front of it, or the tent set up by the gas pump.

Probably par for the course, I think as I watch them roll past.

Somehow, exploring behind the store feels like I'm invading the owner's privacy.

I do it anyway.

Making my way to the back of the building, I find a big Ford truck parked next to a wooden staircase that leads to a door on the upper floor.

Looking up at the second story landing I mostly just see a solid wooden door that has a very locked feel to it. There are a few windows upstairs on this side of the building, but none downstairs. The upstairs windows share the "no one's home" feel that the door does.

At least the truck is here, I think as I make a circle around it. Hopefully that means someone's actually here and the store will open soon.

The truck is one of those heavy duty types, with 4 full size doors, 4 wheel drive, and a long bed. It's not one of those jacked-up bro-dozers that I see back home, it's got a very serious look to it. Not a toy for a 23 year old guy who doesn't have a mortgage and a family to spend his money on, but a serious work truck.

The bed is scratched up, some dried mud caked in the corners. It looks like it gets used to haul more than inner tubes to float the local river in the summer time.

The tires are sporting some serious-looking tread, all terrains. Something with tooth for making easy work of whatever winter in this part of the world throws in the way.

Pretty standard vehicle for this part of the country. I've seen a lot of pick ups on this trip but then, I've also seen a lot of America's back roads on this trip.

That just reminds me I have to get home.

I carry my empty coffee mug back to where I left my camp stove set up out front and check the time. 6:34. The sun is over the hills now and it's finally starting to warm up.

Another cup-- or 7-- of coffee stills sounds amazing, but at least I don't need it to keep my hands from turning to ice anymore.

I gather up my stove and things and head back to my tent to start packing up camp and get everything tied back down on the bike.

At least it's warm enough I can shed the hoodie now.

No sooner do I have the sweatshirt peeled off and am starting to pack it away with my sleeping bag than I feel something bounce off my knees. Looking down, I find what I can only assume is a real-life Tasmanian devil spinning in excited circles a few feet in front of me and then throwing itself against my legs again.

If it wasn't making high pitched barking noises, I'm not sure how long it would have taken me to recognize it as a dog.

"Hey pup," I hold out my hand to the hyper little thing as I squat down so I'm at its level, "what's your name?"

The thing is solid black fur, not very big, full of energy, and not at all shy. It doesn't bother sniffing my hand, it just throws itself into my arms and, since I'm down on its level, starts licking my face. I go over backwards and land on my ass while my new best friend does its best to make up for the showers I've had to skip for the last 2 days.

"Ninja!"

Ever hear a voice and immediately feel like you should recognize it?

That's how I feel when I hear it. The little dog and I both freeze in place and tilt our heads in unison to listen for it again.

"Ninj!" This time the voice is more emphatic, more impatient and less searching.

The black puffball in my arms twists its head to look back at me curiously, as if waiting for me to cover for it, "Sorry, bud," I say, "I'm not your alibi."

"Dammit, dog, where the fuck did you--"

The voice is all male. Gruff with the impatience of a man who's trying to hide concern under anger...and failing.

I see him coming toward us from behind the building, his brow furrowed in worry until he spies me sitting on the cold concrete with his dog between my outstretched legs. Then his jaw settles into a hard line and a scowl darkens his face.

The hard expression does nothing to make him less attractive.

No. "Attractive" is not the right word for this guy. Holy fucking shit white-hot is more along the lines of what I'm thinking as he stalks toward me and the little black demon that's still in my lap, wagging its tail so furiously I have to turn my head to avoid getting hit in the face.

The man stares at me, I stare at him, the dog wags its tail and barks at its owner without budging from my lap like a little kid bringing home a lost puppy asking if he can keep it. Except in this case, it's the puppy asking if it can keep the person it found.

Looking up at the man staring at us, I'm all for it.

He's tall. I mean, I'm sitting on the ground, so from this point of view pretty much anyone would be tall. But he looks tall. He's got dirty blonde hair that doesn't look like it's been brushed since he crawled out of bed.

Speaking of which, it looks like he just crawled out of bed. As in, he's wearing a pair of sweat pants, some slip on shoes, and not a damn thing else.

Oh yes-- and it's not my brain that's doing the begging as the thought runs through my body like fire-- please keep me.

His jaw is covered in a dark shadow of stubble. His body is solid muscle. His skin is bronzed and smooth with just a bit of fur running down the center of his torso, a shade darker than the hair on his head, and disappearing below the elastic band of his sweats that hang loose below his waist.

Oh my God, do I understand why they call it a "happy trail" now.

My mouth is watering. Literally watering.

It's hard to force my eyes up to his. I want to see how thick his thighs are under those loose fitting work out pants. I want to climb those abs like a fucking ladder and I want to drag my tongue across the flat, brown nipples that are tight from being exposed to the chilly morning air.

I kinda want to bite his shoulder.

Wait. No. I'm going in the wrong direction...I want to start with the biting and work my way down.

Damn. I'm being rude. Am I being rude? I should stop staring at his hunky bod and make eye contact.

Oh. My. God.

I work on focusing on his face. Really focusing. I'm lost. The man is made out of my dirtiest fantasies from head to toe. All I need is to get a peek at what's under those sweats to be sure, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love.

"You're a chick," he says in a voice that's nothing short of disgusted.

If this was a movie, you'd hear the sound of glass shattering. A train skidding down the rails as it brakes hard to avoid hitting a school bus full of kids. A needle being hastily dragged off a spinning record.

So much for love.