Along I70, just east of the "Hell Is Real" sign.

I was driving to Columbus after a long, stressful day. I decided to take my camera on this trip, hopeful for the chance to use it. More truthfully, I brought it out of guilt. With anxiety high leading up to the trip, I threw it in the car to alleviate said guilt of not using it. I haven't been taking pictures lately.

As the trip was coming to an end, I realized the camera still sat. Unused. I took note of my location and realized the "Hell Is Real" sign was close ahead.

If you frequent the I70 corridor through Ohio, you are likely familiar with this sign. I always wanted a picture of it, but never had the chance.

I took the next exit, driving down country lanes and farm access roads until I came to the closest point. There was an access road to the sign, but it was through someone's yard. Considering the content of the sign, I decided not to chance an encounter with the owners.

I crept down the lane. The disappointment was there, but the less from the missed photo and more from capturing no photo at all.

As I looked over my left shoulder at the sign fading behind me, I caught a good view of the sunset. It was a perfectly clear night. The air was crisp. Cold enough to force you inside even without the slightest breeze. I again took note of the sunset, saddened that I wasn't heading south. I would have a better chance of getting a photo. Getting anything.

I turned my attention back to the road and saw a radio tower in front of me. The tower was ordinary. Red and white striped up its height, a small power station at its feet, and a dead winter field surrounding it. I slammed the breaks, not enough to chirp the tires, but enough to pull me tight to my seatbelt.

In front of me stood a tower like hundreds I have seen before, but it stopped dead. Before me was a rainbow. It wasn't created by rain and sun, it was created by the clear sky and cold air. Sunset to my back, the sky was painted from horizon to stars in a gradient of color unlike anything I had ever seen before.

I realized I was still idling in the middle of the road, and to my left was a long driveway. I reversed, and pulled down the drive just enough to be out of the road.

I grabbed my camera from the passenger seat, opened my door and entered the cold. I took only two photos. One of the plain sky off to the left of the tower, and one of the tower.

As I returned to the warm embrace of my car, windows hazy from the cold, emotion welled.

I didn't understand at the time, but this experience meant a great deal to me. South of me was pain. I was leaving something that caused great stress and resentment. Constantly looking over my shoulder at what I had missed or what I could have done differently. Driving north was hope. Heading toward rest and safety.

Without looking back, I never would have been at this spot, on this night, looking for meaning.

Without looking back, I never would have known the discoveries ahead.