A couple of weeks back I was lent a convertible for the weekend. Such a state necessitates a drive. My boss recommended a visit to Fort Ransom. His directions were simple: head south out of town and turn onto a highway headed towards "Kindred". My Californian sensibilities of what a new highway looked like, led us to miss the exit. And instead we found ourselves in South Dakota. The glittery Dakota Magic greeted us at the state border. After two games of roulette and a hand of blackjack, we left with an additional $6 and a greater sense of direction.
Upon heading north, we discovered that the "Kindred" highway had been fifteen minutes outside of Fargo. This time we made the exit, but were tempted by a new possibility. Veering from course we followed a pair of scenic binoculars down a dirt road. We switched the radio from our found: Taylor 92.7, "a station for any girl who's ever been dumped" a Taylor Swift only station, to KNDSU's student-run Sunday bluegrass hour. Like Alice's evasive white rabbit, the binoculars vanished, leaving behind a fork in the road.
Signs of suburbia are few and far between in North Dakota. Strip malls and stop lights fade away four miles outside of Fargo city limits. Following the rearview mirror compass we wove through Dakota fields. The day's sun had retreated behind a calvary of storm clouds. North and West turns brought us to the western edge of our new city. Day was done. We went home without reaching our intended destination. We spent the day lost, without knowing it. And as it turns out being lost is generally the best way to find everything.
