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

I was driving from Cincinnati after a long, stressful day. I decided to take my camera on this trip. Hopeful for the chance to use it, but 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 more often. 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.

As I crept down the lane disappointment was there, less from a missed photo, more from no photos 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 slight breeze. I again took note of the sunset, wishing I was headed south. I would have a better chance of getting a photo of the sign from the highway.

I turned my attention back to the road ahead 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 be hugged tightly by my seat belt.

In front of me stood a tower like hundreds I have seen before, but the sunset to my back painted the sky 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 to a farm house in the distance. 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. Wedging myself in the corner of the door and the open car I took two photos. One landscape of the plain sky, adjusting exposure to the left of the tower. One portrait of the tower itself.

I reentered to the car, the heated interior pressing back like a wall. I swung into my seat closing the door to biting cold and felt the warming embrace, 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 that lay ahead.