Turning into the gravel pull-off, I notice a car parked in my spot, which is unsettling. Halfway on the walk to my camping site, my shuffling feet and clinking cooking pot alert him. Sitting on a boulder is a man, who has turned and is looking right at me.
With his heels set against the base of the boulder, elbows resting on his thighs, he’s as relaxed as if he’s on a lazy boy in his own living room. “Good evening,” he says, adjusting towards me, to which I respond in kind, closing the remaining gap between us. “What a beautiful spot you have there,” I say to which he turns, and we survey the bouldered bowl cove and surrounding hills. “You can say that again. It’s one of my favorite places. Especially at sunset. Looking out. That view.”
His demeanor is a “There, there” of a mother to their child, a calm to my activated nervous system. I need this, “Do you mind if I sit with you?”
“By all means,” he says, motioning to a neighboring rock. Setting my things down, I hop up on a boulder next door as he extends his hand, “I’m Joe.”
“Nice to meet you, Joe. I’m Jaclynn.” After the greeting, we turn to the water, the warm highlights of the sun’s glow fragmenting in the water’s ripple.
“I stopped on the way home to watch the sunset, but now I’ll barely make it for dinner. I’ll have to rush out of here since I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Do you live close by?” I ask.
“Just down the road a few miles. I’m living at my Mom’s and helping her out this summer. What about you?” he asks, glancing at me and then at the landscape.
I don’t see the point of lying. “I’m camping here. I’m on a road trip, and this is my first time in Wyoming. This is the furthest East I’ve ever been.”
The sun, orange as a pumpkin at picking time, is less than a finger’s distance from touching the land. The moments of silence are like tuning a radio, only to the land’s frequency.
Joe suddenly turns towards me, “Wait! You say you’re heading East?”
“Yeah,” I tilt my head and furrow my brow, curious at his change in temperament.
“Ok! Well, have you heard of Sturgis?”
I had, from my friend Ben, who’d ridden there on the same Yamaha R1 he’d taken me on to Mount Rainier National Park. I vaguely recall the frat-like party stories he told me and tell Joe, “Yes.”
“You know, I believe you may be able to catch the tail end of it.”
I’m excitedly thinking, but a worry comes to mind, “How far away is it?”
“Oh, not too far at all. A couple of hours at most.”
The possibilities of the day ahead fill my mind. “That’s doable,” I say, thanking him for the idea. The sun’s hard edge gently hits the horizon, waving itself at the hillside. Our time together will end soon.
“Before I go, may I ask you a question?” he says.
“Sure, what is it?” I say.
“I think about this myself and am curious. What do you see as your generation’s biggest struggle?”
Later that evening, while scooping the last bites of tomato soup from the pan, I think of Sturgis, Jim, Robby, Joe, and home. I also think of my answer of “their mind” to Jim’s question.
After rinsing the pan in the lake, I place it far away from my tent, grab a journal and pen, and start to write.
“People love to talk about the area where they reside. Jim and Joe from Wyoming, I met different men on Day 4. During my nap, the ants kept biting me, and I’d like to think they were letting me know this was their land.
“Sturgis came up in a conversation. There is no doubt that this is the next step in my journey. I will get awesome pictures of me between two big biker dudes! Tonight, I went to Sheridan. I like the nature of these Wyoming folk. Sit and watch lakes, waving at strangers, and free coffee at the gas station.”
I write a bit more and use the word “cacophony” to describe the sound of the insects, then lay back on my sleeping bag and close my eyes.
Going On 40 
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