The occasional washboard roads were making mincemeat of my truck. If you own a truck, you’ll know that they don’t drive along washboard roads, as much as dance. It’s when the truck leads that you know you’re in trouble.

There I was, bouncing along, my muffler threatening defection, and the sky edging toward darkness.

I aimed my car in the general direction of home and prayed the roads would cooperate. At one point I turned onto a road heading southwest, toward Spearville and home. I drove for nearly 20 minutes when it suddenly jutted around to the right, in the direction of the North Pole, with no turnoff in sight.

Whoever had designed these roads did so under the assumption that the fastest way to get from point A to point B was to put your right foot in, put your right foot out, do the hokey pokey and turn yourself about.

The sky to the west was slowly turning into an orange, yellowish color, offsetting the deep blue sky to the east. I saw a rabbit look up at me as I drove by – not so much frightened, but curious to see a person on this road, a road so long void of life. An owl flew by and called my name: "Moron! Moron!"

But it wasn’t until I saw one of the lost tribes of Israel that I knew I was really in trouble. The tribe of "Bruce" had wandered the deserts of Kansas for hundreds of years after an ancestor took a wrong turn at a "mailbox near a windmill" just north of Egypt.

Regardless of the many twists and turns, eventually I found myself moving in the right direction. Along the way, I encountered some interesting sights, such as old, dilapidated barns from who-knows-when, cows, a railway car in a field, a squashed skunk, cows, several miles of barbed wire fence, a bird, another bird, two little birds attacking a bigger bird, cows, a shoe, a hubcap, an abandoned U-Haul trailer, a horse, another horse, two little horses attacking a bigger horse, and a man whom I would come to know as "the guy."

Except for the old gate at the front of the road leading to his distant ranch, the guy appeared to be standing in the middle of nowhere.

"Can you tell me how to get to Highway 50?" I asked the guy.

"Yap. Just take that road up there to the second road and go left. ... Wait. ... No. ... No, you would go right. Then go up about ... I never take 50, ya see ... take the second left and that will take you all the way to County Road 75. Or is it 57? I think it’s 75. If there’s a big house with a blue top, then you’re okay. That should get you to County Road 65, which turns into 39, which should run you right into the highway."

"50?"

"No. That would take you to 83. I never take 50."

So I pointed my car in the general direction of home and drove off.

After several more turns and a few more lonely roads, I finally found a familiar road I knew would lead to home and hearth. Several minutes later, I drove up to my garage and checked my watch. How late was I?

I was 20 minutes earlier than usual. Although laced with twists and turns, I had actually found a shortcut. Unfortunately, it was impossible to retrace my steps after being so hopelessly lost.

Now, as I drive those extra minutes along paved highways to get home each day, people passing me by dangerously if I go under 70 mph, the scenery whizzing by in a blur, I think about the old barns, the deep blue sky, the guy, and the sometimes bumpy roads that force you to slow down and take notice, and how much I miss them.