Scenic Road...I'd say. The Summer was full of back-road, behind-the-wheel time in Raven - our F250 Camper Special. Old trucks drive a different pace, perhaps a different state of mind. Either way, there was something about that little hand-painted sign on the side of the road. "Turn here. Scenic Road." As if the road I was on was not scenic enough... Different country for sure - no billboards, no telephone or electricity poles, no hustle. Wide open space speckled with infrequent cattle and the hope of a head-nod and/or simple wave from a stranger, a fellow traveler. I am not entirely sure where I was - somewhere between Western North Dakota and Eastern Montana...between comfy and really hot...somewhere between conventional borders separated by conventional states. This state - being. The wind knew the way and I could not help but heed the advice of the simple sign. I turned off the lone paved road and floated across the sage brush and crushed stone. Big grin and loving the subtle Detroit rumble. Mile after easy mile of sagebrush wind and Western meadowlarks... Every inch of this road lives its name. Go find it.