We are driven, throughout our lives, by highpoints, whether literal or metaphorical, whether our birthdays, graduations, weddings, childbirths and funerals or to Mount Everest (the highest point in the world), Denali (the highest point in America), or Hawkeye Point (the highest point in Iowa). These highpoints/high points organize our lives; we set our schedules by them; we measure our time between them (a year until I graduate, a month until I move). This is both seductive and dangerous, because most of our lives are spent in the lowlands, in the liminal spaces between these metaphorical and literal crests.

For this project, I’m traveling to the highest points of the 99 counties in Iowa, from Allamakee in the northeastern corner to Fremont, in the southwest. What I’ve found on the many roads between them is an undeniable push-pull: a sense that the most interesting things happen between them, and yet, if not for the highpoints themselves, that interstitial travel would be impossible to imagine. In that way, high points/highpoints are the black holes of our lives: necessitating movement and discovery while also proving themselves to be only occasionally possible of either.