Why Wyoming

Thoughts on driving six hours through empty space.

I tell people that my trip west was my much needed western fix. My husband grew up in the Black Hills and we met in college in Colorado. My parents even built their retirement home in South Dakota, confident that we would return there when Bill retired. And now both he and my dad rest in the windswept veteren's cemetary between the dark hills and the golden prairie. My mother thrives in South Dakota and my brother and his new bride have made their home there. And for me, the trip to South Dakota was a trip home in more ways than I expected. I enjoyed my family but I reveled the Black Hills. The Lokota Indians hold the hills sacred and the pine covered slopes do feel reverent, even nurturing to me. More than ever before, I felt like I was coming home to the place where I am most myself. I even decided to start the search for a place of my own in those familiar mountains. But my wanderings around Rapid City came to an end and I started the long drive back to Denver. 

On that drive between Denver and Rapid City, Wyoming is usually regarded as the desert to cross to get to the promise land but this trip felt different. Anyway- all deserts have lessons to teach. In this case, as I drove in the vast empty spaces I was reminded of pioneer perseverance, of modern self reliance but also the stalwart, western community of like minded people. People who understand the vulnerability of living in a harsh land. People who proudly wear mucky boots and sweated stained cowboy hats. People who are ready to help the distant neighbor but who are also willing to leave a soul alone when solitude is wanted.

There were a million images that tugged at my heart as I crossed the miles. My nieces dread the six hours to the Black Hills- equipping themselves with ipods and books to distract them from the miles of boredom. I had often travelled this route twenty, even thirty years ago and on those treks I would put my bare feet up on the dashboard, absorbing the vast emptiness around me as Bill drove. On this trip that same emptiness felt full of the promise of lessons to be learned and images to be captured. I found myself longing for a rv so I could park in a friendly rancher's driveway and wait for the afternoon light to change, to wait for the wispy morning clouds to accumulate themselves into the afternoon piles of white, to wait for the sunset that so often erupts and sillouttes the backdrop of the buttes and bluffs. My heart ached from the beauty I saw and I wondered about the beauty I've likely missed as I've dashed across the miles of my life- getting to my destination without savoring the trip! What a difference it makes to choose to watch, to be deliberate and see the details that speak to my heart along the way.