this shit again

There isn't a single human voice other than what pours out of the radio speaker, singer belting passionately some song that you've heard a dozen times by now since you began your journey. He vies hard to be heard over the whirr of the air conditioner, the rumble of the engine that propels you over the dusty Western roads.

It's a good car. It's weaved its way through mountain roads, past towering walls of pine and cedar and places where snow clings well into July. Out the window are sheets of clouds underneath as only a thin metal rail protects you from tumbling over the edge. You've dipped below the clouds, finding the little villages hidden underneath shrouded in rain. Up and down you went, the car ferrying you without an ounce of protest.

It gets to take a break now, on the perfectly flat roads of Wyoming, without a single peer other than the occasional semi truck in sight. You roll down the window a crack and the roar of wind drowns out the music, just to fill the interior with dry air and the smell of sage grass. So barren are the roads that you can finally take a break, take everything in.

So your head turns sideways and you slow the car to take a look. Maybe others would have called this place boring, flyover country. Is a place truly defined by what it can offer a person in loud, incessant entertainment, though? You never thought so.

There is value in a sky that never ends, in some places a seamless line between it and the land in every direction you look. A hundred miles away angry clouds rage and thunder and flash, and you can observe, safely skirting around it, tracking its movements. You move around mountains, raising out of the ground, jagged tips etching lines into the sky and silently regarding the dry prairie. Sometimes, a particularly close glance rewards you with the sight of a springing pronghorn, or, on one remarkable occasion, a herd of bison, grazing peacefully on reclaimed land.

You return to full speed ahead, but still can't help but make a glance sideways every now and then. Up goes the window and you change the station, to the peaceful chattering of NPR. Perhaps sometimes you silently mouth some of your thoughts to yourself, but for the most part, your head is empty, aware of nothing but smells, sounds, sights.

The sun is going down, disappearing behind a mountain but clearly evident in the fiery orange and yellow it casts just behind the black silhouette. The clouds stand out pink against the darkening blue, and the land glows. A true frontier sunset.

It looks like another night of sleeping in the car, as a mistake in your timing puts you a hundred miles from the nearest town. On the bright side, that's a hundred miles from the nearest person who might do you harm. You pull over and examine what's left for dinner. A can of tuna and a few handfuls of trail mix, chased with a bottle of water. You know what? That's just fine, you think. It's all part of the adventure.