By Me, unfortunately.

Still in West Virginia—because apparently, I enjoy humidity and odd signage—we decided to go see the New River Gorge Bridge. This is, for those unfamiliar, a giant piece of civil engineering slapped across a massive canyon like a suspension bridge built by someone showing off at a high school reunion.

But before we got there, something peculiar happened. From where we stood, it was dry. Bone dry. Sahara dry. But less than half a mile ahead, it was raining. Not the polite British sort that mists your glasses and apologizes—no, this was mountain rain. Angry, biblical, truck-wash levels of precipitation. You could see the line where dry stopped and monsoon began. It was like watching nature run a software update mid-drive. Even my girlfriend yelped. Actually yelped. Which, given her usual air of unshakable calm, was the meteorological equivalent of DEFCON 1.

Then we got to the bridge. And it was… magnificent. A towering slab of American engineering spanning two mountains and a very enthusiastic river. You half expect an eagle to fly under it carrying old glory and a slice of apple pie. The only blemish on the scene was the man in front of us—ponytail, cargo shorts, and a T-shirt loudly proclaiming that Florida is the only free state. He also loved guns. Apparently, very much. He looked like he had emerged from a bunker where he’d been arguing with a microwave for the last decade. Grooming? Not so much. Civics? Not recently. History? Also no. The shirt alone violated the Geneva Convention.

After that, off we went to Thurmond, an abandoned railroad town—though I say that loosely because it’s been lovingly poked at by the state and converted into a museum of sadness. They’ve restored the train station into a sort of tourist welcome center, which is nice if you like your ghost towns with brochures. The buildings? Still crumbling. Still tragic. The failed bank still offers 3% interest, no limit. Tempting. But then again, so was Enron.

From there, it was off to Indiana, where my sister lives. Now, Indiana isn’t known for being the culinary capital of Earth, but that didn’t stop her from throwing enough food at us to drown a buffalo. My diet? Out the window, across the lawn, through the neighbor’s cornfield.

The next morning, we went for breakfast in a family-run restaurant using what can only be described as a militarized golf cart. Four-wheel drive, off-road tires, painted like a warthog on holiday. If Land Rover ever collaborated with a Bass Pro Shop, this would be the unholy offspring.

And inside the diner? Bliss. Proper Americana. Locals greeting each other like long-lost cousins, stories flying like pancakes, and bacon sizzling in the background like applause from a Taylor Swift concert. My girlfriend, who comes from a place where the sun tries to murder you daily and drivers view stop signs as personal insults, was in awe. “This,” she said, “is how people should live.” I nodded solemnly and agreed, because in Texas, people don’t smile—they sweat aggressively.

My little dog also had a grand time. Out back, there was no fence. No leash. No security cameras, land mines, or moats. Just a yard that drifted lazily down to a lake. In Richmond, you’d lose your barbecue, your catalytic converter, and possibly your dignity within the hour. The dog took off across the green like a hairy torpedo, spotted a fellow canine tethered across the way, and decided to introduce himself. Now, the other dog was enormous. A beast. Looked like it could wrestle a bear and come out wearing its pelt. But to my horror—and then immense relief—the dog wagged its tail and the two became fast friends. They ran, they played, they sniffed. It was like the Lady and the Tramp minus the spaghetti.

Then came the boat. A pontoon, to be precise. We removed its winter coat—also known as a tarp—dusted it down and discovered a clutch of duck eggs at the back. Naturally, I thought breakfast. You know, like a caveman who’s found brunch. But apparently, these were sacred. Protected. Endangered breakfast. My sister’s husband—who has the calm wisdom of someone who’s watched many YouTube tutorials—said, “They look rotten.” So we did the legendary water test. Drop the egg in water—if it floats, it’s bad. These floated like bath toys. Like smug little life preservers of disappointment.

Anyway, we launched the boat. Sailed across a picturesque lake filled with happy Americans doing happy American things. There were boats with garages. Artificial Lily pads for swimming the size of king mattresses. And yes, even the little dog stood up like Jack Sparrow facing the breeze, ears flapping like victory flags.

That evening we gathered around the TV to watch the Pacers. The poor souls have never won an NBA title but hope springs eternal in Indiana. Their star player got injured early in the game, which basically flushed that hope straight down the toilet. But no matter. Maybe next year. That’s the spirit of sport, and the excuse of every losing team since time began.

We also made a detour to Kentucky to see the Noah’s Ark replica. And by detour, I mean we willingly drove into what looked like a giant wooden box stuck in a field—no rudder, no paddle, no propeller—just a colossal boat designed to float and let fate take the wheel. Impressive? Absolutely. Accurate? Let’s just say the dinosaurs onboard made me do a double take. Scientific accuracy went out the window faster than my diet plan.

But then again, if you look past the prehistoric extras, they hammer home some decent points: faith in God, equality of all men regardless of skin color, and the whole “love thy neighbor” thing, no matter how you praise Him. I even ended up buying a couple of books that piqued my curiosity—something those ultra-scientific types would scoff at without so much as a glance. But here’s the thing: in every human endeavor—no matter how bonkers—there’s a nugget of wisdom to be found. Whether you use it or toss it aside, at least you come away with an honest perspective.

Eventually, like all good things, the visit ended. We loaded up the car and began the 12-hour drive back to Virginia. It’s supposed to be 9 hours, but driving 9 hours non-stop is what you do if you’re being chased by bounty hunters, not if you want to remain a living person.

My girlfriend offered to stay awake for the entire drive. Two hours later, she was in REM sleep, probably dreaming about eggs that don’t float.

And so, it was just me, the little dog, a long road, and the memory of a golf cart that could invade France.

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