I'm flying into a tiny southwestern airport tonight. There's only one runway, shared by commercial puddle-jumpers and private crop-dusters alike, and it might just as well be a dirt road leading to a ghost town. Air traffic control is essentially a guy sitting on top of a stepladder with a pair of binoculars and an air sock. Googling ground transportation options, I came up with a picture of a donkey and the dictionary definition of "charabanc."
I'm pretty sure our luggage is strapped to the fuselage with bungee cables, so after being rummaged through and not properly resealed by TSA, I expect our bags will distribute most of their contents somewhere over Colorado. Expect to see a few Oxford shirts and some Argyle socks caught on the cacti if you happen to be in that area. Still, it's been a long time since I was last in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if it's changed.