We drove 667 miles today. Evil plus one. Is that irony or what? I hope it’s irony not lost on anyone.

We left Sedalia around 7:30 this morning, instead of 7:00 as originally planned. In the past the caravan has included a full-size van, an extended cab truck, a five-wheel trailer, and a pop-up camper. This year we’re getting a cabin, so the RV and the camper stayed home. Apparently no one realized that all of the crap they normally haul in the campers had to go somewhere. Add to this, me, an extra passenger with extra luggage, although I travel light. We got out the shoehorn and made it work. And the first rule of the trip - you buy it or steal it, you hold it for the rest of the trip. Guess I won’t be purchasing any wagon-wheel coffeetables

My parents, Wendy, and I squeezed into the truck, and I do mean squeezed. Wendy’s almost six feet tall, my dad and I both take up a chunk of space, and my mom travels with three-quarters of her wordly possessions. Until we hit Kansas City, we talked and laughed and teased. Then my dad declared that it was book-on-tape time (his annual dose of literature), so my headphones went on.

Kansas is always the most dreaded part of the trip. Flat, ungodly hot, and no scenery except the yellow quilts of wheat broken by diving oil wells across the horizon. That’s what we always imagine is going to be the case, but I don’t think it’s nearly that bad. That Kansas doesn’t emerge as soon as Kansas City’s in the rear-view mirror. It unfolds, uncovers as the eastern hills roll out, bumping heads with pale blue sky, where the clouds line in perfect rows, closer as we climb, casting their shadows on the paling green below. The green dries to arid gold as the hills smooth, and the clouds darken to whispers rolling through the dust.

I've gotten to a point where I love to travel alone, and I really understand why, after being among other people’s crap, playing by their rules. All it took to ruin my mood was a slug from my dad on the arm where I got a tetanus shot on Wednesday. I went silent, driving another thirty minutes until we reached a picnic area just outside Russell . After sandwiches, I retreat to the backseat with my CDs and book, paying little attention to the world around me.

667 miles, twelve and a half hours later, we pulled into La Junta, Colorado , a town where everything, even the McDonald’s and the Super 8, is pink. Flat and dusty, grain elevator shadowing the town. I’m tired. My arm hurts, my stomach hurts, and I feel like I’ve been accordian-folded like a map.

Not everything in La Junta is pink. As I walked across the motel parking lot, I watched as heavy violet dusk clouds slowly engulfed the streaked tangerine sunset. No Independence Day fireworks. Just sudden slashes of rainless lightening cutting through the night.