Daylight was fading and the road was slick with a thick coating of icy snow. Inside the cab of a forest-green Chevy pickup truck, Clyde and I were on our way to keep an appointment with the powder monkey, a man who was well versed in all the intrinsic elements of black powder. It was dangerous work, drilling into a rocky ledge, filling the holes with a mixture of sulfur, potassium nitrate and salt peter, then blowing off the side of a cliff. You could lose an arm, leg or your life, but somebody had to do it.