My daughter and I drove 2,000 miles to college. It was the best goodbye I could've asked for.

After buying a car for my daughter to take to college, the problem was getting the little Mazda from Portland, Oregon, to Fulton, Missouri.

Maria and I are fun in the car, but awful at driving long distances.

We checked the miles, over 2,000, and groaned. “Are we doing this?” I asked. “Remember Eugene?” We laughed, thinking about the time after an exhausting day, we couldn’t manage the usual three hours from Eugene, Oregon, to Portland without stopping every 10 to 15 minutes.

We took turns saying, “Your turn,” as we blasted cold air and chomped Good ‘n’ Plenty licorice to stay awake.

Eventually, we napped at a rest stop.

I finished the drive and let Maria sleep. “Let’s make it an adventure,” Maria said when we were debating whether to take the scenic route.

She knows I love sleeping in a tent and waking up outdoors.

Being in nature would ease my aching heart, already missing her.

I savored our time before we even started.

We mapped our route, picking the long way.

In Yellowstone, we tented next to a motorhome complete with a satellite and TV.

We cracked up as we popped up our two-person tent in the RV’s shadow.

In the morning, it was a quick coffee and on to gawking our way through the park, pointing at bison, moose, elk, deer, wolves, and more.

At a geyser view spot, a tourist tried to touch a bull moose with a huge rack of horns while onlookers poised their phones.

We drove across Wyoming with its wide-open spaces and the prettiest blue skies.

Then camped at Custer State Park, our tent site flanking a river.

In the morning, we plopped on a log and sipped cowboy (unfiltered) coffee. “So much better than flying,” I said, surprising myself.

Rushmore, where we snapped bad tourist pictures, pretending to squish the presidents’ heads between thumb and index finger as a curly-haired woman in white pointy Keds glared at us.

Then, onto Crazy Horse: a massive monument of Crazy Horse, the Lakota leader, still being carved out of the mountain.

I cried at its mass, its beauty, its story.

Rushmore could fit in the finger that points to his people’s land.

Next was the iconic Wall Drug, where we stretched our bodies, then drove on to the Corn Palace. “All corn?” I asked.

Yes, beautiful, detailed murals crafted of corn and other grains covered the Moorish building.

Endless signs in Kansas enticed us with the World’s Largest Prairie Dog, a live five-legged cow, plus rattlesnakes.

Even though the prairie dog turned out to be a 15-foot-tall, four-ton concrete statue, it topped our list for fun roadside attractions and included a bonus rattlesnake “pit” in a gift shop where rattlers slept in terrariums.

She hit the tops of the cages with a cane, startling the snakes to shake their rattling tails.

We jumped too. “It’s OK,” I told Suzy, my hand up in the universal sign for stop. “Let them rest.” “You paid to see ’em,” she rasped, whapping another terrarium as Maria gave her the side-eye.

We held our belly laughs in until we reached the car.

We stopped at rest stops and gas stations.

Drank sparkling water (me) and soda (her).

The only time we drove semi-sleepily was through Kansas with the obligatory, “Are we there yet?” And “Can you drive?” It wasn’t as bad as that haul from Eugene home, but the straight flat is hypnotizing. “My turn.

I got you,” Maria said, tightening her ponytail and her resolve.

I saw her on the cusp of her grown life as she drove the last leg, singing full tilt, our playlist a mix of Garth Brooks, Earth, Wind & Fire, The Chicks, and more.

Willie Nelson sang us across the country.

We played “On the Road Again” every morning, every time we restarted, every time we crossed a state line.

Whenever I hear “Making music with my friends” it’s my daughter I think of.

Once we reached Fulton, Missouri, I knew I could fly home without my girl.

While it was bittersweet to drop my dream-chasing kids — first my son, then my daughter — at college, that year my excitement for her overshadowed my sadness.

We’ll always have the rattlesnakes.

We’ve laughed about them ever since.