That West Texas town was dead quiet out of respect to the whistle grinding howls of the trains that came through every couple of hours or so. A cowboy here, a Mexican family trying to cross the border there, and ranchers and rich artists everywhere. We settled in, thinking the traveling was over. She was content, finding ways to fill her time. I was doing the same, new friends, new places to drink and explore and Jeep rides into Big Bend National Park. Tristan found a 25 year old lady friend who took him to work on gardens and fix up a hostel almost every day. Things seemed to be working out well.
But life is rarely, if ever, what it seems to be and I’ve learned for certain that no plans are ever definite. Changing up the angles on your own particular life’s shape is an inevitability that anyone who grabs onto the traveling life will find themselves clinging to. Not that everyone will suffer our fate, or that it’s even suffering that needs to be our fate, but I couldn’t sit still. I felt trapped in the reality of compromise, and simultaneously, at the age of 30–maybe a midlife crisis, I don’t know–was feeling in my prime, a rebirth of energy and potential like I’d never know before. I felt and feel as though I can do anything.
And so like that everything that was wasn’t, and the next day my son and I were in a rental car headed for Colorado.