I’d expected the trip to be emotional — cathartic, even — but I hadn’t expected it to be fun. We laughed and talked incessantly across five states (more apologies to my teenager), so 20 hours of driving felt like only a few. We stopped at the historical landmarks our dad would have stopped at, and we took him into mountain creek beds, questionable gas stations and a slew of establishments serving the pickle-and-onion-only burgers he adored.
When we realized at the “Welcome to Cheyanne” sign that I’d misrouted us and we shouldn’t have actually been in the state of Wyoming at all, we cackled to the point of tears until we remembered dad had lived in Cheyanne when he was younger. He had always spoke of it as a place he loved. It felt like he had a hand in our detour, so we reveled in his stop off before