Somehow, I made it here. Against all odds, I’ve arrived. 2,500 miles didn’t seem like a big deal at the onset. Thursday, I wove my way through the states. Ohio. Indiana. Illinois. Iowa. Nebraska. But not all was well.
With each mile, the dusty, bumpy roads jarred the car all the more, tearing lose what rusty bits of a muffler were left until the sound was almost deafening. The temperature rose higher and higher, until it felt as though I was soaked to my skin. The roar of the engine and the roasting of the sun were nearly unbearable. Then, disaster struck.
Midway through Nebraska, in the middle of nowhere, the gas light came on. It was too soon. I had calculated just right how much gas I needed to get to the next station, but the uphill climbs took their toll, leaving me precariously close to being stranded until finally, she died on the side of the road. I checked the gps. Three miles short of the station. With roadside assistance unable to find a contracted operator in the area, I was left to make the six-mile trip on foot under a sweltering sun.
I plodded along for the first mile until I just couldn’t take it anymore, and I started running. “This is taking way too long,” I kept telling myself. Two miles later, I was exhausted and dehydrated, but the station was in sight. Thankfully, midway through the hike back, a farmer named Ivan, driving on the frontage, saw me and picked me up. Praising God, despite being terribly late, I continued on my way.
The rest of the trip was as harrowing as it was serene. There was everything from narrowly missing a coyote who though it wise to stand his ground against an 80-mph vehicle in the pre-dawn light to watching in speechless wonder as shooting stars dazzled the night.
So now I’m here. I’ve met the team and started recording, and we’ve had a great time. But I’m certainly not looking forward to the drive back afterwards. Perhaps God will provide a solution for the maladies of the silver chariot. Either way, blessed be His name.