March 6 – The Drive

The car smelled like coffee and camera bags. Sean had stacked his gear carefully in the backseat—backpack, hard case, tripod folded down and strapped so it wouldn’t slide when they took turns. Michael’s duffel sat beside it, a little less organized, hoodies and flannel sleeves pressed against the window.

They pulled out of the driveway just after nine, the sky a flat March gray.

Early spring, not quite warm, not quite winter anymore.

Sean sat in the passenger seat, knees drawn up slightly, hands wrapped around a travel mug. His camera rested in his lap like a nervous habit.

He watched the house in the side mirror until it disappeared.

“You locked the door, right?” he asked.

“For the third time, yes,” Michael said.

“And the office knows you’re actually gone?” Sean added. “No ‘surprise, I’m just working from the mountains’ plan?”

“That was never the plan,” Michael replied.

Sean gave him a look.

“It was absolutely the plan at some point,” he said.

“Not anymore,” Michael said. “Grayson changed all my passwords, remember?”

“That’s because you told him to if you chickened out,” Sean reminded him.

“Exactly,” Michael said. “System works.”

The highway unspooled in front of them—lanes of asphalt lined with bare trees, the occasional billboard, early commuters already halfway through their day.

For a while, they drove in companionable silence.

Sean scrolled through a map on his phone.

“Once we get close,” he said, “we should fill up before we go up the mountain. Gas stations are weird up there. I don’t want you freaking out about the tank when I’m trying to get you to, like, appreciate clouds.”

“I don’t freak out about gas,” Michael said.

“You freak out about running out of control,” Sean countered. “Gas is just one version.”

Michael huffed a laugh despite himself.

“You’re getting good at this whole ‘reading me’ thing,” he said.

Sean’s fingers froze on the screen for half a second.

Then he shrugged.

“Occupational hazard of being your kid,” he said lightly.

Michael’s chest twitched at the choice of words.

He let it go.

For now.

“Got our route?” he asked.

Sean zoomed in, tracing the blue line with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he said. “Straight shot for a while, then we hit the entrance, then Skyline Drive. It might still be a little icy in places, but the main sections should be fine. They’re usually open most of March unless there’s a storm.”

“Good,” Michael said.

He’d checked the same information himself, of course. But hearing Sean say it out loud made it feel more real, like a guide reading from a manual.

“So,” Sean said after a few minutes, “rules.”

“Rules?” Michael echoed.

“For the trip,” Sean said. “We should have some, right? Or it doesn’t feel official.”

Michael considered.

“Okay,” he said. “Rule one: no work.”

Sean smirked.

“You’re the only one that applies to,” he said. “But, agreed. Rule one: no work. Rule two: you listen to your teacher.”

“I always listen,” Michael said.

“Do you?” Sean asked. “Because yesterday you said ‘aperture’ like it was a new type of sandwich.”

Michael raised a hand off the wheel briefly in surrender.

“Fine,” he said. “Rule two: I listen to my teacher. Even if he’s smug.”

“Especially if he’s smug,” Sean corrected.

“Any more?” Michael asked.

Sean stared out the window for a moment, watching trees streak by.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Rule three: if either of us needs a break, we say so. No pretending we’re fine just to keep the other comfortable.”

Michael’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

He glanced at Sean.

“Deal,” he said.

Sean nodded, still looking ahead.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s it. Three rules. No work. Listen to teacher. Say when it’s too much.”

“That last one applies to feet too,” Michael said. “My knees will be filing complaints after the second overlook.”

Sean smiled faintly.

“We’ll pace it,” he said. “I don’t want to break you on day one. Then I’d have to carry you back down and that’s not happening.”

“Rude,” Michael murmured.

They drove.

The city thinned out.

Buildings gave way to stretches of field, then hills, then the slow rise of ridges in the distance.

As they got closer to the park, the road narrowed and started to climb.

Sean put his phone down and just watched the world change.

“Look at that,” he said softly.

Bare trees stood in dense ranks along the road, their branches like black veins against the pale sky. In the gaps, you could see layers of blue‑gray mountains, one behind the other, fading into haze.

Michael whistled under his breath.

“Not bad,” he said.

“Just wait until we’re up on the drive,” Sean replied. “You haven’t even seen the good angles yet.”

There was a kind of quiet in the car that Michael recognized from their best nights at home—when the TV was off, the house was settled, and they were both just… there.

No performance.

Just existing in the same air.

“You nervous?” Michael asked as they turned onto the road that would lead them toward the park entrance.

“About what?” Sean said.

“Being out here with me,” Michael said. “Just us. For this long.”

Sean chewed on that.

“A little,” he admitted. “But in a good way. Like… first‑day‑of‑school nervous, not ‘something bad is going to happen’ nervous.”

“That’s an upgrade,” Michael said.

Sean snorted.

“From where we started?” he said. “Yeah. Big upgrade.”

They reached the park entrance, dealt with the practicalities—pass, map, a brief exchange with a ranger who explained where Skyline Drive was clear and where to be careful.

Then they were on the drive itself, winding along the spine of the mountains.

The drop‑offs were steep in places, hidden by trees and fog.

The overlooks appeared like small interruptions in the guardrail, little paved pull‑offs with stone walls and names on wooden signs.

Sean pointed out a couple as they passed.

“We’ll hit that one Monday,” he said. “Light will be better then. Today, we just get to the hotel so you don’t crash at the wheel.”

“I’m fine,” Michael said.

“You say that,” Sean replied, “but your back is already complaining.”

Michael opened his mouth to argue.

His back spasmed.

He closed it.

“Okay, maybe a little,” he said.

Sean laughed.

“Thought so,” he said.

They rolled into the small town near the park’s entrance that would be their base for the next few days.

The hotel was nothing fancy—a low, long building with a decent parking lot and a view that hinted at the mountains behind it.

Michael pulled into a space.

For a moment, they both just sat there, listening to the engine tick as it cooled.

“Well,” Michael said. “We made it.”

“Rule one survived the car ride,” Sean said. “I didn’t see you check email once.”

“I wanted to,” Michael admitted.

“I know,” Sean said. “But you didn’t. That’s what matters.”

They got out.

The air bit at their faces, colder up here than it had been at home.

Sean stretched his arms overhead, joints popping.

“Hotel first, then food,” he said. “Then sleep. Tomorrow and Sunday we can scout, but no major hikes. Monday is when work starts.”

“Work?” Michael repeated. “I thought this was a vacation.”

“Vacation for your brain,” Sean said. “Not for your feet or your dignity when you see your first twenty bad photos.”

“Rude,” Michael said again, but the word came with a smile.

They hauled their bags inside, checked in at the front desk, got key cards, rode the small elevator up to their floor.

The room was as expected: two beds, nightstand between them, a small table by the window, a dresser with a TV.

Sean stepped in first and went straight to the window, pulling the curtain back.

Even from here, you could see a slice of the ridgeline, blue and distant.

“Yeah,” he said. “This will work.”

Michael set his duffel on one bed.

Sean carefully placed his camera bag on the other.

For a moment, they stood there, caught in that strange in‑between state—no longer home, not yet fully in the trip.

Then Sean clapped his hands once.

“Okay,” he said. “Official announcement: you are now off duty, Dark Evil. Welcome to the part where you’re just my dad.”

Michael felt the words hit him in a place nothing at HQ ever touched.

He nodded.

“Feels weird,” he said. “In a good way.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Sean said.

He dropped his backpack, sat on the edge of his bed, and looked over at Michael.

“Thanks for driving,” he added. “And for… coming. For real.”

Michael sank down onto his own mattress with a groan.

“Thanks for asking,” he said.

He leaned back on his hands, feeling the room sway just a little from the hours on the road.

Outside, a truck passed, the sound low and distant.

Inside, the heater kicked on.

“Tonight, we eat and crash,” Sean said. “Tomorrow, we breathe. Monday… we start seeing.”

Michael closed his eyes for a second, letting the words settle.

“Seeing,” he echoed.

As the hum of the heater filled the space and the mountains waited just out of frame, it felt like more than photography.

It felt like exactly what they were here to do.

Next, we can move into March 9, the first full photography day at the overlooks—Sean in full teacher mode, Michael learning, the first father‑son shots that match your reference images.

Do you want that next, or would you rather I outline the beats of March 7–10 in bullet form so you can see the whole mini‑arc before more prose?