The drive was long and lonely. We were far beyond the possibility of any radio reception. There were no other cars on that two-lane asphalt stretch that rose and fell before us in silent waves. It simply turned and disappeared into the middle distance. Brian and I were traveling home from a wedding. It had been a deeply Birkenstockian hippie affair with lots of whiskey. We were invited, along with about 50 other revelers, to celebrate Bill and Beck’s wedding. Everyone stayed at the rustic Elkhorn Hot Springs resort in Western Montana. The ceremony was held at a grassy clearing atop the great Continental Divide. We were all there, wrapped in woolen blankets from the resort. Young and old alike, we shivered against the chilly August winds that reminded all the locals that even colder days that would follow.

The trip had started out in the Bay Area. We traveled straight up I5 through Oregon and Washington state, camping and fishing along the way. In Acme, Washington, we visited a few days with my sister. From Northwest Washington, we forged eastward, passing through Idaho, then dropping down through the ravishingly lovely Bitterroot Mountains of Western Montana. With Bill and Beck’s wedding weekend behind us, we were now on to the next stretch: Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, and finally, California. How could we know that this would be our last adventure as a childless couple? Ten months later, our son Max would be born, and our carefree honeymoon days would be over.

But on that particular road, on that afternoon, we savored a classic slice of wild west Wyoming. The air was dry and still. The rolling, verdant grasslands had long since perished beneath the hot sun, and become a vast expanse of parched, golden brown thatch. Brian slowed for a hairpin turn. Then, our dust-encrusted pickup truck climbed a gentle hill, at whose crest an old cemetery came into view. It was odd to see a graveyard in such a remote, isolated place. No town, no cities were nearby. There was not a single farm or out-building in sight. Only this forgotten scattering of old stone crosses, statues, and grave markers. It seemed to have been waiting beneath the dusty terrain, only rising up into view when it heard us coming.

The most startling feature of this scene was a stand of blood-red amaryllis flowers. It formed a streak of crimson in single -file that began at the highway. From there, it sliced through the cemetery, and marched over a distant hill, where it disappeared from our view. It was the first color we had seen in hours.

I urged Brian to stop, just for a few minutes. After all, it was time to stretch our legs. Standing in the baking sunshine, we passed a canteen of body-temperature water between us, taking in the sight. There were no words. We simply pondered the scene. (At least I did.) The sleepy old graves, the silent breeze gently nudging that fringe of red blossoms atop their sturdy, thick stems. After a few minutes, we climbed back into the truck and continued on our way.

All these years later, I still think of that moment in time. The people who slept in those earthen crypts. The red flowers that stood over them: silent, living sentinels. The long-forgotten life stories of those souls. And the way it all grew smaller and smaller before disappearing in the dusty rear-view mirror of our truck.

One of the many moments in our lives together.