My father lived in Oklahoma most of his life, yet I’m pretty sure he had never really seen most of this intrinsically moving state before he died, probably due to a mixture of punishing loneliness and crushing laziness. But, after my own brush with the flames of Hell, I made a vow that I would take every opportunity to, if not see the world, at least see my home state.
My most recent trip took me to the Wichita Mountains and, conversely, their National Wildlife Refuge. Backpack loaded with bottles of lukewarm water, a couple of granola bars and, for some reason, a whole roll of toilet paper, my girlfriend and I set out like many of the explorers of old, but without all of the colonizing bullshit that traveled with them.