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I pulled off the highway in my silver Jeep, the GPS draining my phone battery. "The destination is on your left," the GPS said. My jaw dropped. The only thing before me was a gravel lot and a narrow building. With faded paint, faded signs and crumbling wood, the business - a convenience store of sorts - looked abandoned. I thought, "this was the South Dakota 'cowboy replica town' a travel website had praised?" Roadside exhibits are quirky, but it looked more Texas Chainsaw Massacre than Little House on the Prairie. Nevertheless, I set aside my doubts, parked, walked in and inquired about the "town." The not-too-creepy manager pointed me up a hill, and up I went. Dusk was falling, my phone was dying, and I was the only soul in sight. Thanks to horror movies and a skittish mother, voices in my head yelled "Run." But I ignored them, honestly, partly because I relished the fear-induced adrenaline rush. I read about the settlers of Buffalo Ridge, the real-life inspiration for this rinky-dink tourist trap. I snapped photos of everything, from every angle, like a wannabe Ansel Adams. I mused over farm tools and the gallows where an outlaw was reputedly executed. Then I stepped up to an exhibit of animatronics staged in a saloon scene. I pressed a button. One of them started to move, but the rest appeared broken. It was EERIE. I imagined them suddenly, murderously springing at me, or that a real person was hiding among them, waiting to pounce. I lost all my nerve. I sped through the remaining sections, my heart racing. Finally, the last aspect: a tower overlooking the town and surrounding landscape. If something or someone came after me, I'd have no escape, yet up I went. With each step I thought about the unexpected events that had led me there. Step. I got an internship at a Minnesota magazine. Step. I'd reconnected with a friend working in South Dakota. Step. I visited her for the weekend, and decided to see one more cool thing on my drive back. Step. So, there I was, at the top of the tower, looking out over an obscure museum about an obsolete town -- resting atop a green, Midwestern vista, as the sun spent its last seconds above the horizon, blazing yellow-orange. A year ago, I saw my future self on a California beach. I never expected "beach" to be "cowboy town" and "Cali" to be "South Dakota/Minnesota." Once I got to Buffalo Ridge, part of me never expected to live to tell the tale. Yet I've survived, I'm thriving and I'm cherishing that Midwest memory.