We have been driving for hours. Since before the day knew it was new. As dawn breaks, the inky night retreats into soft shades of lavender and blue. The sky is velvet. Rich and secretive. Miles of open road unspool before us with service stations scattered here and there like poorly sewn stitches. Their neon and fluorescent lights sit gaudy against the vast open silence. A harsh tattoo on nature.

At 80 mph, the bright lights blur into streaks of abstract color. In the endless stretch of highway, they are markers of speed and distance, but also anchors of necessity, reminders that however rugged the open road feels, it has long been tamed. The pioneers relied on wit and weather and luck. We stop for gas, a bad coffee, a shrink-wrapped sandwich. 

How times have changed.