For twenty eight years, every trip ever made on what became an annual pilgrimage to Wyoming, I didn't drive out of the state. Even when I had to cross Wyoming while traveling to the Collie Nationals (twice in CA, once in NV, and once in ID), I made sure I had a co-pilot who could drive across the state line. Even my son knew of that superstition and a few years ago when we vacationed in Wyoming with him and our grand-daughter, he knew when I said, "Co-pilot's control," he had to lean over and take the wheel until we were across the state line. (Thank heaven for cruise control.)
I've been close--Deadwood, SD is darn close, but last summer, we had to hurry back to Flatlandia and couldn't swing over to the place where my soul needs to go to recharge. This summer--well--let's just say nothing went according to plan.
So, now I find myself scrolling several Facebook pages dedicated to images of Wyoming. I have literally filled a thumb drive with images of that harsh, sometimes starkly barren, yet incredibly beautiful place. There is a German word: fernwah--that translates as "farsick." Sometimes, looking at these images I've saved, looking at the pictures I've shot, I am so "homesick" that it feels as if my heart has broken into pieces. It truly does feel as if a piece of my heart and a large portion of my soul are missing and I can only find those missing parts in Wyoming.