Four days, three time zones, 2053 miles and a dozen old friends along the way. Endless philosophical ramblings, Thucydides and Robert Jordan on tape and hours of dueling “Well, listen to this song from my generation.” Best damned road trip ever.

The trip really does deserve a longer writeup, but I don’t see that happening. It would take time and careful wordcraft to describe the miles and chance encounters and planned (socially distant) reunion with old friends. Stopping for pie and burgers at an old haunt in the Sierra foothills, sleeping out in the (very modern) barn of a college housemate outside of Salt Lake City. Introducing Jeremy to my favorite BBQ in the world (Georgia Boys, in Longmont, CO). Catching up with one of J’s spiritual “big brothers” and his wife, who J hadn’t seen since he was elbow height and meeting their new son.

Visiting my best friend from high school, my college girlfriend and a couple of their own amazing now-adult kids. Spending time up on the ranch at the foot of the Spanish peaks that their great great grandfather homesteaded after crossing the Rockies on a wagon train. (Spending time there with them when we all were much younger was what gave me the yearning for a sense of place that I blame front and center for having ever bought a farm, so y’all are indebted to Brian and Gretchen as much as I am for all this.)

Chasing blue highways across eastern Colorado and Kansas through graveled Main Streets and gas stations where tall, bronzed, blonde (and entirely maskless) corn-fed teens and old farmers studied us curiously. Countless Jesus-in-a-cornfield pop ups.

Eight hundred mile days, across the wide Missouri, singing “Shenandoah,” and into the winding starlit night, hills and trucks on high beams, coming out at the end within fifteen minutes of when we thought we’d pull up at J’s new apartment in Rolla.

I’d write all of that up, but right now, I’m just way too tired right now. Time to sleep.