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The CB crackles on, a voice says, ''Bear, eastbound at mile 109.'' And then I see him, too, at 55, moving in a flock of vehicular courtesies, in which the semi hoods appear to nod, the Hondas demurely stay in line. The trooper's eyes fix front, His Smokey hat straight as a plank. A few miles west of Clearfield, together we herd through a highway cut in a hill, dusted pink with a billion crown vetch blooms.