intro: 
A ....... A  F#m  D  E  A


A                                   F#m
It must be that time of year
    D                     E
I'm feeling that pull again
A                                            F#m
I've got to get away from here
        D                            E                     
and back to where my feet can stand
A                                                 F#m 
Back to where the trees grow tall
        D                           E          
and ain't a sound for miles around
A                                       F#m 
Except for the distant call
       D                       E             A
of that lonely coyote's howl

D                                                          A
Life's mysteries unravel when my tires hit that gravel
              E                                              A
and I leave the paved road far behind
A                                                               F#m
Every breath I breathe is one step closer to me
     D                       E           A
easing my worried mind


Repeat same pattern 

Way back in the sticks
is where I feel alive
in my rusty old '66
that won't even go fifty five

Nothing can compare
to the joy that I've found
every time I go back there
to my own spiritual ground

I'll make a quart of sweet corn whiskey
from ten gallons of sour mash
I'll turn a pile of firewood
into a pile of sky grey ash

If there's anything left inside me
that remembers what it's like to feel
that cold rain falling on the top of my head
and the mud beneath my heels