The scary thing is that all of the above four interpretations, each vastly distinct from the others, possess some validity. To me, they all make some sense.
That's a tribute, perhaps, to Neil's mini-masterpiece, a minute and thirty-four seconds of pure heaven.
When I explore the backcountry of the Upper Missouri in north-central Montana, which in season requires availing oneself of the three small ferries operating on the Missouri River, I conscientiously play "Cripple Creek Ferry" every time that I access the service. The music gets me in the mood for the lonesome wanderings that lie ahead of me.
It's a trip, baby, a real gas. And the most magnificent, mysterious, mind-blowing country that I've ever seen.
The scary thing is that all of the above four interpretations, each vastly distinct from the others, possess some validity. To me, they all make some sense.
That's a tribute, perhaps, to Neil's mini-masterpiece, a minute and thirty-four seconds of pure heaven.
When I explore the backcountry of the Upper Missouri in north-central Montana, which in season requires availing oneself of the three small ferries operating on the Missouri River, I conscientiously play "Cripple Creek Ferry" every time that I access the service. The music gets me in the mood for the lonesome wanderings that lie ahead of me.
It's a trip, baby, a real gas. And the most magnificent, mysterious, mind-blowing country that I've ever seen.
Thanks, Neil, for seeing me across the river.