June 12 – Our two-day oasis that was Breckenridge came to an end early on June 12 when it was back into the van for another 7-hour haul. At least we’d get to see my old friend when we got there, and he was already staying in an Airbnb for work and it was big enough so we didn’t have to book one.

Again, like Denver, this was merely a pitstop on the way to our next destination, Reno.

But what it lacked in time, it made up for in laughter and Kirsti got a first-hand look at what good old friends of 40 years are like. Dinger is my Annie, a guy who regardless of the time elapsed since the last visit, the conversation  picks right up as if we lived next door – usually with sarcastic banter and lots of laughs. We’ve lived through some stories that would seem unbelievable to many, but we won’t go there.

We dined at a cool place called the Red Iguana 2, more Mexican food, with an amazing iguana sculpture out front. I look like I’m in pain in the picture shot by the waiter because I suck at fake smiles and he didn’t make us laugh.

Because he had worked all day and because we had driven all day, our nightlife consisted of heading back to his Airbnb and watching the Bruins get spanked.

But among the high school and college and life after college stories we told and Kirsti endured, one interesting thing did happen.

Rattling around in a cooler without ice in it for days was that mason jar with the remnants of the moonshine that had now traveled a couple thousand miles with us. I wanted Dinger to try too. We had consumed basically all other types of liquor together over the years – but never moonshine – and definitely not moonshine from the trunk of a car in Mississippi.

But probably from being in water that was formerly ice, the lid had rusted shut and I tried everything to get it open, from banging on the sides with a knife to prying from underneath. Nothing worked and I actually cut open my thumb in the process.

That led to a final decision to just stab through the lid and pour it through the stab hole to get our taste.

He hated it.

I didn’t love it and I think Kirsti passed on it, with Dallas still too close in the rear-view mirror.

And the well-traveled jar stayed behind in Salt Lake City when we left.

I still don’t know if our taste buds were on pause in Clarksdale when the moonshine really tasted quite good or what? Or does it start tasting different once opened? But I do know that it didn’t taste nearly as good the other two times it touched my lips. Maybe it was the moment in that super cool little Mississippi town, the product of blues music and interesting characters.   

I had never been to Salt Lake City before and really can barely say I was there this time. I had only been in Utah once before, driving through on a trip with my wife before kids. I will say the scenery on the drive there was epic, however, though it’s harder to appreciate the beauty on a trip like this when so many hours were spent in the car with it whizzing by.