Sometimes the littlest things can mean the most. Driving through the middle of nowhere with my forehead glued to the window, my eyes turned up, scanning the sky, scanning the clouds. The storm rolling through drove rain and wind all around us and I watched the swirling screaming clouds like they were the most mesmerizing movie; the swish woosh of the wipers and drumming of the drops as the soundtrack.
Out of the nothing there was Carhenge, and it was all I wanted it to be. One of those things where it’s value is the hope and happy you have in it, nothing more and nothing less. Out in the middle-of-nowhere Nebraska, this is what I wanted. The laugher at the sheer ridiculous of these cars stacked up and painted, the marvel that we actually went to see them. It’s not necessarily the most fancy or typical tourist, but there’s joy in it. Joy in the hilarity, joy in the crazy.
Nebraska mud is sticky. And roads labeled with numbers are often made of dirt. Slipping, sliding adventure ensued, making laughs and layers of souvenirs on the car and trailer. And then the native name for this Oregon trail path marker and the wonder that it’s still there, that so many people passed it, saw it, camped by it.