Completing a Great Lakes Dream with My Electric Truck
It started as a simple eBay search and evolved into the journey of a lifetime. I was on the lookout for an old farm truck, and when my buddy sent me a link to a 1966 Ford F-250, I was instantly captivated. I told him if my bid won, he had to go from Rhode Island to Idaho with me to get it. (He’s a lot more mechanically inclined than I am.)
This led to a trip across the American countryside through the Grand Tetons, Yellowstone, Badlands National Park and beyond, captured by my camera lens from the timeless beauty of my recently purchased vintage Ford. I realized I’d found so much more than just a truck. That summer of 2020, we had the adventure of our lives.
Idaho
Once we arrived in Idaho, we set out to get my newest purchase, which was previously used on a potato farm.
I wasn't much of a car guy back then, but I fell in love with its perfectly frozen-in-time aesthetic — the color, the patina, the logos. As an artist and photographer, I was hooked immediately.
I got in the cab and when I went to start it, I had a moment of panic. It didn’t start … turns out, it was just out of gas.
The truck also didn’t have a key to lock the cab, just for the ignition, so traveling with all my photography gear felt like a bit of a gamble. But what’s an adventure without a little risk?
Wyoming
From Idaho, we crossed the border into Wyoming. I was struck by the vastness of the landscape against a backdrop of mountains. We suddenly seemed so small. Onward we went, swallowed by the wild, untamed land of bison and wolves.
We entered Yellowstone National Park on its Western side, a place that felt less like a park and more like a living, breathing testament to nature’s raw power. It’s a land of extremes, where steaming geysers erupt from the ground with primal force, painting the sky with plumes of white, only to settle back into tranquil, blue pools.
Our journey then took us along Route 212, where we paused occasionally for crossing herds of cattle, including some ambling along the edge of the road, escorted by women on horseback. We were truly at the heart of the American West.
Montana
The road carried us over into Montana, and as dusk settled, the vast, ancient landscape began to fade into shadow.
We were still riding the high of the day's sights when, without warning, the headlights flickered and died, plunging us into a sudden, disorienting darkness — along a mountain pass, no less. Our flashlight’s beam was a meager comfort against the night.
But the lights did flicker back on eventually. And while investigating under the hood, we made a shocking discovery: taped to the electrical wiring of my headlights was none other than the missing cab key.
A small victory, maybe, but the quirky moment reminded us of the truck's own eccentricities, and it felt like a good omen as we prepared for the next leg of our journey.
South Dakota
The landscape shifted from mountains to sprawling plains and plateaus as we entered South Dakota. We were cruising along, not far from the Rosebud Sioux Reservation, when I saw it — a green sign poking out from a patch of tall grass. Rosebud County.
Something about the name Rosebud resonated with me. My buddy saw the wheels turning in my head and gave me a grin.
“That’s it. You’ve got to get a picture of the truck next to that sign,” he said. It was a perfect, unplanned moment — a piece of the journey that just felt right, captured forever.
We continued deeper into South Dakota, eventually reaching Badlands National Park. The High Plains were a sharp contrast against the lush forests we left behind in Yellowstone. The landscape is stripped down, bare — a palette of ochre, rust, and cream against the endless blue sky.
Driving through the otherworldly scenery, I was suddenly struck with the thought: This is America, in its most unvarnished form. It was the land that shaped the pioneers, the backdrop for countless stories of resilience and discovery.
The Badlands, with its exposed layers and weathered beauty, felt like a geological metaphor for the very spirit of this country — forged by immense forces, bearing the marks of time, yet standing defiant and endlessly fascinating.
It was a landscape that spoke of deep history, of struggle and survival, and of an enduring, wild freedom that still pulses beneath the surface.
Iowa
We kept pushing east, the miles blurring beneath the old truck’s tires, each state line a new chapter. Eventually, the dramatic, rugged beauty of the Badlands softened, giving way to the gentle, rolling farmlands of Iowa. The fields stretched out, green and gold, under a sky that felt closer, more familiar. It was a different kind of beauty, one of quiet industry and endless horizons, a stark reminder that we were nearing the end of this incredible cross-country odyssey.
It was bittersweet knowing it wouldn’t be long until we reached Nebraska, where I’d hand the keys off to have Rosebud towed the rest of the way. From there, it would be a quick flight back to Rhode Island, trading the vastness of the American West for the familiar, comforting confines of home.
The adventure was over, but the memories, the feeling of the open road, the smell of that old truck, and the sheer joy of chasing a dream — those were etched deep, a permanent part of me now.
Back Home with Rosebud
We’d had the road trip of a lifetime. Rosebud, with so much original equipment, had been amazing, surviving the journey incredibly well. I don’t doubt she could have made it all the way, but I was ready to get home, much to my wife’s relief.
Life here has settled into a different rhythm, one rooted in the familiar. The vastness of the western plains has been replaced by a coastline sculpted by countless coves and inlets. It’s its own kind of wild, one where the air carries the briny scent of the Atlantic, and the gentle, rolling hills give way to sandy barrier beaches and salt marshes.
Rosebud has found a new life as a workhorse. My logger friend and I often drive around picking up large branches and logs, hauling them back to my property where we mill the lumber. But during the warmer months, my family and I load Rosebud with surfboards, beach chairs, and coolers, driving right up onto the sand. The truck that once used to haul potatoes feels perfectly at home with the waves crashing just yards away.
The adventure with Rosebud continues — not on distant highways, but in the everyday moments that make up a life well-lived.
Jesse Burke is a storyteller and photographer.
If you have a story and, like Jesse, want to share it on From the Road, email us at fromtheroad@ford.com.
