Guess what, Toto?

LIMON, Colorado -- Yep, we're not in Kansas anymore.

We made it an hour and a half shy of Denver, the kids sleeping much of the way.

It was blissfully smooth sailing. Grand expanses of landscape, smooth roads straight and true, hardly any traffic (did I mention sleeping kids?) and a touch down here in Limon with enough time before sundown for the kids to get a swim in the pool, do laundry, take showers and continue recovery from our little mishap.

While our campsite was kind of on the sucky side, Kansas as a whole was a pleasant surprise. It certainly offered the most breathtaking vistas so far. This is not the Kansas I remember. Of course, I only spent the first few weeks of my life here -- and returned only briefly in the years since -- but the Kansas in my mind's eye is unnaturally flat, unbearably grey and understandably a place worth avoiding.

The Kansas of this trip, however, is rolling and green, verdant almost, and punctuated with, yes, vast rippling amber waves of grain. The wide open skies remind me of Texas, where thunderheads can be seen delivering sheets of rain 30 miles or more off in the distance. I-70 did a good job threading the needle through several cloud bursts unleashing on both flanks and what weather we did hit turned to brilliant sunshine as quickly as it came.

I found myself wishing we could linger, leisurly stopping to spend an afternoon photographing the high plains in golden light, but because we have appointments in Denver to keep we pushed on, instead grabbing what we could in brief snatches.

What made my day, though, was not the beautiful terrain, but once again a chance encounter and a magical moment of grace. In brief snatches of conversation I had met our "neighbors" here at this KOA campground. I'm embarrassed to say their names have slipped me, but they have beautiful and friendly bright-eyed Doberman and a yappy, but a cute fox terrier. They're retirees from New York now living in Florida on their way for a vacation in the Rockies.

As the setting sun painted the distant clouds in brilliant oranges and reds, I told them the story of our filled-to-overflowing greywater tanks. A few minutes later, the man caught me as I returned from dropping off some trash. He held out a small oscillating fan, compact but powerful. Keep it, he said, it will help dry out the bathroom carpet over the next day or so. It's the kind of thing they might very well need. They wouldn't have brought it, if they didn't think so.

Yet, without even a moment of hesitation, it was gift given, to a stranger barely known, not extravagant, but so immediately helpful. It's the kind of gift I hope I can pass on one day not so long from now.