Miles City, MT

Driving through Montana it’s easy to imagine what it must have looked like a hundred years ago. A milky grey sky stretching on and on, muscular rolling plains and the Rockies standing like imperial guards to the west. It’s easy to imagine mainly because not a whole lot has been done to Montana in the last 100 years.

Part of this feels weird, one of the things I’ve always enjoyed about traveling is the secret pleasure I take from it, the zen-like trance tires humming on pavement creates in me, the quiet little moments of bliss that become silly and pointless if exposed to the mental process of trying to explain them. It’s like I’m opening a door to a secret world for you.

The first day or two of the trip my mind sort of revolts. The idea of having no pressing matters or deadlines sort of rips a hole in the space-time continuum for me, like a faulty logic loop. Once my conscious mind accepts that it is just along for the ride, that this trip is for the benefit of my sub-conscious, things tend to smooth out. The part of me writing this is the conscious, a loudmouth hitchhiker sharing mostly inane observations. Occasionally the other part of me volunteers something, but it's mostly mute.