“We do not take a trip; a trip takes us.”
–John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley

I know the Montana sky. A cyanic canopy stretching beyond beyond. Open country. I’ve been lost and found beneath that sky. I’ve slept under it, made love under it, rode horseback under it, cooked campfire steak under it, but I’m always overwhelmed by it. That sky captures everything like a giant picture frame hung over the land.

Once again, my old Chrysler pulls west, a compass on wheels. The road uncoils before me, like a long, black snake. In the distance, hot July air shimmers, a mirage of water that vanishes the closer I approach. Cattle fencing on both sides. Sentinels made of sturdy, square wooden posts strung with miles of rusty wire. They point the way, converging my past with my present, birthing my future.