I live in northwest Montana, and I have a teenager, and my teenager plays sports. That means a lot of driving — over-the-Rocky-Mountains-and-back-in-one-day kind of driving. I think about Meriwether Lewis every time I cross the Continental Divide, usually with sleeping soccer players wearing headphones in the back of my Suburban. I want to say, “Can you imagine everything depending on your horse and your ability to dream of an ocean past the mountains?” But it isn’t worth the eye-rolling.

Teenagers seem devoid of wonder. I get tired of making the trip yet again, this tremendous beauty being met with the clicking of tiny buttons on tiny devices. The conversation: “Why isn’t there a Gap here? Why do we live in the middle of nowhere?” I want to shake them back to who they were just a few years ago, skipping and yawping at the bounty that Montana dishes up daily.

Last week, something miraculous happened. My daughter’s teammates had rides, so she and I made our mountain crossing alone. She forgot her iPod. There was no cellphone service.

I didn’t want to jinx it. I kept my mouth shut and turned up a CD of hers that I had in the car in hopes of this exact moment.