My brother-in-law drove me far into the Flint Hills to relish in wide open spaces - the joy of this heart - but my photo opportunities had to be quick.
It usually went something like this:
We barreled down the road with me hanging my head out the window like a dog, the wind so violent against my glasses I secretly feared they would be ripped off. I would spy some old lovely thing and squeal. B-i-L would pull over and the clock would start ticking... I had mere seconds to snap before he began pulling off the shoulder and back onto the road. Some squeals would go unanswered, and I quickly learned that I was only permitted so many squeal-stops per hour.
At one point I bolstered my quota by suggesting I buy him a Coke and some chips. We pulled over surprisingly quick for that, and I was in and out of the dollar store in no time and with a food supply that would make even the Pillsbury Dough Boy proud.
This is one of my favorite shots of that trip. As I was taking it, the ground rumbled up through my feet and deep into my chest as the longest train I'd ever seen roared past just feet away from me.
I was dangerously close, it's true, but that sound, that feeling, that deep shaking I will never forget.