It’s a long way from western Washington to central Colorado. Two days on the road. Twenty-two hours of actual driving time. Fourteen hundred miles (give or take a few). Pete wasn’t really on vacation, so I drove while he stared at his laptop worked. Since he was concentrating so hard, I didn’t want to distract him. No inane conversation. No comments on weird things we passed. No music.
I had a lot of time to think.
As we crossed the plains and farms of eastern Washington, I wondered about a notice in the menu of a seafood restaurant in Bellingham:
Is it possible for fishermen to catch stale fish?
As we climbed into the northern Rockies, through Coeur de Alene, across the narrow part of Idaho, and into western Montana, I wondered what it would be like to live in one of the tiny towns we passed by at 75 mph. How do the people there earn a living? What do they do for fun? Where do they go to church? And most important, living an hour or more from the nearest market, how do they get ice cream home before it melts?
As we turned south in Wyoming, we passed cowboys on horses rounding up cattle the way they have for over a hundred years. My eyes were burning, and I begged a few hours in the passenger’s seat. Coffee would have helped. I don’t like coffee.
Crossing the state line, once again in “Colorful Colorado,” I began to think about the piles waiting for me at home. Work to do. Bills to pay and accounts to balance. Plants to water; weeds to pull. Piles of dead miller moths to sweep up and toss outside for the birds. A piqued cat who will let me know her displeasure at my absence by draping herself over my face while I try to sleep that night.