Where I live, out in Oregon, it's about an hour to the ocean and not much more to get 7,000 feet up Mt. Hood. It's one of the reasons I always say I'm here, but I don't go either of those places very often.

When I do, it's the drive, the getting there, I love as much as the being there. I love the journey at least as much as the destination. The unexpected.

You wind along miles of mountain road, two lanes, nothing but trees and sky, then around some bend, a viewpoint. There it is, everywhere you've been and some of where you're going, rolling peak by peak, as far as you can see.

There's a point in separation, at least in my separation, like that. Miles of winding and climbing, nothing but work and groceries, cooking meals and wiping butts, then vision.

Around some bend, an unexpected overlook, and I can see everything. It's breathtaking.

The whole road and all the steps behind, spread out in the view.

That woman, way back there at the start of the path, the one holding up her exhausted self with the stroller she's pushing. I see her.

So tired she can barely step, and it's close to dinner time and nothing's cooked and she can't spend one more minute alone with two kids in her tiny apartment. It's dinner time and she's pushing a stroller to the coffee shop. She's crying. Wants to lie down on the sidewalk.

She'll be okay. I want to tell her, but I know now she knew then. She'll be okay.

She'll find the rhythm, start getting the kids to school on time, even enjoy being the only grown-up at dinner.

For all the miles of nothing but trees in sight, she'll come round to this overlook.