Cruising in the Passing Lane

A year ago I walked into the La Quinta Inn of Fort Stockton to find my brother and my father waiting for me in the lobby. They both wore boots, jeans, vests over button-up shirts, and Stetson hats. If they had coordinated their cowboy cosplay outfits beforehand, they had not shared that information with me.

The only plan I knew about was for the three of us to rendezvous at this west Texas chain motel before heading into Big Bend National Park. Despite living all of his nearly 80 years in Texas, my father had never been before. Owing to to a unique confluence of circumstances, all three of us were available in January of 2025 to take a few days off to finally make the trip together. 

And so with my brother at the wheel of his F-150 and my father riding shotgun, we set off the following day. I sat awkwardly in the middle of the crew cab’s back seat, leaning forward in order to engage in conversation with the last surviving Hightower males.

After some inconsequential chatter about sports and hunting, my brother connected his phone to the truck’s audio system to play some music.

At the end of the trip, we said goodbye to one another in the parking lot of the same La Quinta Inn where our journey had begun. I don’t remember all of the conversations that were had, but I know none of them were particularly deep or revelatory. Things that were unsaid before the trip remained unsaid afterwords as well, and I probably remain as much of a mystery to them as they are to me.

I found myself crying as I pulled out of the parking lot and headed east on I-10 towards home. The cause of this welling of emotion was unclear. The trip had been a perfectly pleasant one. Yes, the conversation had been limited as we cruised through west Texas in the passing lane, but there are worse ways for fathers and sons to move through the world. Besides, we had been playing our respective roles for decades and no single road trip was going to change that. 

Still, there was always the hope that it would.