It started out simple enough: a trip to check one off the bucket list. For some twenty-odd years, I’ve dreamt of going to the last overland stage station. This wasn't only because I'm something of a history nerd when it comes to the 19th-century American West, but ever since I was a child I’ve had a fascination with the man who built it: Joseph (Jack) Slade. Tonight, I should be uploading The Last Station project and telling you all about the elusive legend, but the universe had other plans.

Both rolls I shot didn’t develop.

For some perspective, the last three months have been very rough for me, and the cherry on top seemed to be the crushing realization that I had only two photos from my trip to Virginia Dale. Two photos from a place I have dreamt about most of my life. Two photos of something I care deeply for.

I cried the first time I laid eyes on the station, felt the old wooden planks creak beneath my boots, heard the birds chirp on nothing short of a perfect spring day, and met two amazing, knowledgeable, and sweet women. I was at home, standing somewhere I didn’t want to leave, completely at peace. And although I don’t have the photos to prove it, I was there and I experienced it. Am I already planning my trip to go back to the Virginia Dale Station? Yes. But in a way, this trip was personal, and it really was from the start—even though I didn’t realize it until I was already back in the Valley.

I needed this trip. I needed to reset my compass, to run away, wander the streets of Cripple Creek, visit with my wonderful aunt and uncle, camp out on the side of the road in my rental that I so lovingly named “Wild Bill,” eat my favorite Mountain House meal (Buffalo-Style Chicken Mac & Cheese) somewhere in the middle of nowhere, treat myself to In-N-Out Burger, hike through the Garden of the Gods, and revisit Cody, Wyoming… a place I used to call home and that, in large part, is responsible for who I am today.

My heart was broken, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t still. It was shattered into so many pieces I wasn’t sure what, if anything, was left, but beside the road, there they were… a few pieces along the way.

A piece once buried but now uncovered by that first night, drinking far too many Yerba Mates and cruising to my favorite tunes all the way to Buffalo.
Another I found at the home of dear family I haven’t seen in far too long.
A piece was among the red rocks at the Garden of the Gods, a place where I felt close to my mom.
Tucked off the highway at the stage station was a piece that felt like meeting an old friend, with the sun itself radiating in my chest.
Somewhere along Sheridan Ave., or maybe even on the banks of the Shoshone, was a piece that wasn’t new to me—just lost and very loved.

I experienced it. I lived it. I was there for every mile. Tonight, my heart is a little more whole, and for that, I am grateful.