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Mcleod ShirtMcleod Shirt The day starts cold and damp, the kind of grey that hangs low in the Scottish Highlands. The West Highland Line cuts through valleys still holding last nights rain, boots on the carriage floor, hands wrapped around nothing but warmth. You step off where the track thins, moving uphill through wet grass and stone, old boundary walls half swallowed by moss. By midday the work is steady. Shoulders moving. Sleeves rolled. The Mcleod Shirt

The road off the Pan-American Highway looks quiet enough

built for air to move through while the city sweats

Sand still holds the cold of night

sweet tea while a hookah drifts lazily between conversations

Nothing tearing when you misjudge a rut or slide off balance

The Cadia holds steady through long dinners

By evening the temperature drops sharply

This is gear for movement without negotiation

rails pulling you toward the high country and the long shadow of Machu Picchu

Somewhere between the edge of the Namib Desert and the road pulling north from Dakar Port

crawling past mist and wet rock

whatever you grabbed in a rush