As I drove through Iowa, I began to understand how pioneers from the East went mad in the vast landscape. Field follows identical field: brown cornstalks, limp and rotting in the rain; straw stubble standing in rough-plowed soil; farmhouse, outbuildings, a clump of trees; cornstalks, stubble, farmhouse. An occasional horse or cow or tractor.

I began imagining I was driving in circles. The sameness, the unchanging distance from a remote perimeter, the low gray sky glued to the horizon, made me feel like a tiny fish on a large salver, choking for air, longing for a hand to remove the platter cover. It was hard to stay alert; more than once I found myself swerving over the lane dividers, brought back to myself by the goose honk of a passing semi.

I stopped periodically to slog through fields around the rest stops with Peppy. A thin, cold rain had been falling since we left the Quad Cities, turning the ground muddy. After the first stop, I changed my socks and jeans and then had to do it again at our next break. I should have packed more clothes, another pair of boots, newspapers to wrap them in, my espresso machine, a fireplace, my mother’s piano, a case of Barolo, a ticket to Basel.

I drove through eastern Nebraska and took old US 77 south. Late afternoon we reached the Flint Hills in central Kansas. Even though the drizzle continued, at least the rolling hills made the horizon less oppressive. I found a dog-friendly motel on the outskirts of Fort Riley. It didn’t have an espresso machine or a fireplace, but it did have a washer and dryer, and after supper I was able to clean the clothes I’d dirtied during the day.

When I woke early Tuesday morning, the air had cleared; I drove to a nearby national park with Peppy. On a rocky outcropping above a creek, I watched the sun rise over the hills while the dog splashed in the water. It was strange, urban dweller that I am, to be the sole human presence in a landscape. Birds were hard at work, hawks were circling in the vast sky, the dog flushed a rabbit and took off in furious chase, but I was the lone person. I stood still, letting the silence close in on me. At first it felt soothing, but after a time it began to seem ominous. I jumped down, called the dog, and ran along the trail.

At ten, in clean jeans and my good jacket, I presented myself to the base commandant. He proved surprisingly helpful, or at least his secretary did. A brisk woman in khaki whose insignia I was too ignorant to interpret, she was startled by my mission.

“Emerald Ferring? How funny—I never heard of her until she showed up last month, and now here you are, looking for her.”