Where is Dorothea Lange when you need her?

Last month, to celebrate the celebration of our nation's greatest presidents (Taft and Harrison), Chris and I decided to traverse to California and visit his family. All was not smooth sailing, however. As we trekked across the Nevada desert, we could hear a scraping noise. It was coming from the bottom of the car.

After entertaining all sorts of wild ideas about what it might be (a hobo, a Sideshow Bob-like stalker, a tumbleweed), we pulled over to investigate. Well, Chris did the investigating, and I did the documenting.

Here he is finding the source. (Turns out it was our MUFFLER. Just kidding, it was a piece of plastic stuff.)

The sky was angry that day, my friends. Later we would be trapped in a blizzard south of Las Vegas, one so terrifying I forgot to take a picture.

I imagined we would be stranded there forever, lonely lost travelers along I-15, without even a Hooverville to live in. "Well," I thought, "at least our new home has a beautiful name."

Naturally, my heart was filled with worry over our plight. I wondered, "How will we ever survive? We only have half a can of Pringles, some Swedish Fish, two water bottles, beef jerky, pillows, blankets, extra clothing, hygiene supplies, a first aid kit and cell phones." Road trips can be hard.

So to remember this difficult journey, I decided to recreate my favorite Dorothea Lange photograph, Migrant Mother, because I suddenly knew just how she felt.

I think it's pretty close, don't you?

Also, keep scrolling down. There is much more, and I know how everyone's been waiting with bated breath to read what I've got in my noggin.