"Getting There"
Someone who’s never traveled with three kids five and under once said that getting there is half the fun. If they’d ever taken a trip in my family’s car when all three kids were present and awake, they never would have made famous that phrase. Instead, they would’ve come up with something like, “Getting there is an ear-splitting means to an end.”
Nevertheless, the point of the senitment is taken. Regardless of the purpose and destination of a particular trip, there are a lot of memories to be made along the way. A lot of songs to be sung, conversations to be had, punch buggies to be seen, arguments to be waged, and hands to be held across the center console once the kids are asleep and the only sound is the whine of the tires along the asphalt.
Aside from family trips to theme parks, zoos, aquaria and the like, hunting trips illustrate our adage perfectly. If the sportsman measures the success or failure of his trips by how fast he arrives at camp and how many deer he shoots, he is missing out indeed. Whether home and camp are separated by a three-hour or a half-hour truck ride, getting there really is half the fun.
Because of the remoteness of most hunting land, trips to the camp generally take us through places we might otherwise never see anywhere other than on a map. Quiet, slow places with courthouse squares and houses that all look different from one another. Rural places, long ago bypassed by the interstate, that still slumber quietly on old state highways and farm-to-market roads just beyond that blurred treeline outside our car windows as we zip by on the way to somewhere fast. To me, stops along the way at places like these add much to the trip. The people and places along the way to the camp are some of the best parts of our trips up there.
No matter where our travels take us or where our favorite duck blind, ladder stand or bream bed may be, we all seem to know about the same tiny hamburger stand where the best burgers we’ve ever tasted come tucked in greasy white wrappers with seasoned fries. There’s the meat-n-three across from the courthouse where they have consistently rebuffed years of begging for their secret to making collards so much better than any we’ve ever had. The diner where they took an out-of-town turkey hunter’s word that he’d be back to pay his bill after getting cash from the service station’s ATM up the road, because they don’t have a debit card machine. Of course, he didn’t find that out until after he’d finished his meal and sauntered up to the counter to pay.
The bait shop that always seems to have crickets when everyone else is out. And don’t forget the gas station with the two stained and splattered crock pots that contain the world’s finest boiled peanuts, right beside the lottery tickets.
Just 45 minutes from town is that old sporting goods store that still sells your favorite old camouflage, despite the popularity of today’s digitally enhanced camouflage patterns. They even carry it in kids’ sizes. There’s the hardware store with as many deer mounts on the walls as linear feet of PVC pipe for sale. No matter when you stop in there, the same three guys always seem to be camped out on the same three stools with “Stihl” emblazened on the shiny rubber seats. They seem to be wearing the same caps and overalls each time you go in there, too. Sure they look indignantly at you every time you come in, even though you recognize every one of them, but you’re from out of town, on your way some place to get away from your troubles for a while, and that’s just part of the charm of the place.
There’s the market six miles from the turn-off to the camp where tradition requires that you pull in for the weekend’s supply of ice, oysters, homemade cole slaw and anything you forgot to bring. They even sell those old 8-ounce Coke bottles that require an opener and capture the true “Cocola” flavor the way no aluminum can ever will. Every third trip or so, you have to replace the vermouth.
One afternoon last weekend a friend and I took our boys bream fishing on some lakes about a half-hour from home. It was a pretty meaningful trip for my son and me because he caught his first fish all by himself that day. In fact, he caught a mess of them. I will always carry with me the images and happy sounds of my son’s first fish. But my mind also has a small corner tucked away for all the hopeful, innocent questions he asked, and the fantastical and imaginative stories he told on the way up. And the quiet confidence I saw in him as he interacted with my friend’s two older boys on the way home after he’d held his own and caught a slew of blue gills that afternoon.
Getting there really is half the fun. As long as we don’t miss it for the blurry trees out the window.
(c) Roger Guilian 2009
Nevertheless, the point of the senitment is taken. Regardless of the purpose and destination of a particular trip, there are a lot of memories to be made along the way. A lot of songs to be sung, conversations to be had, punch buggies to be seen, arguments to be waged, and hands to be held across the center console once the kids are asleep and the only sound is the whine of the tires along the asphalt.
Aside from family trips to theme parks, zoos, aquaria and the like, hunting trips illustrate our adage perfectly. If the sportsman measures the success or failure of his trips by how fast he arrives at camp and how many deer he shoots, he is missing out indeed. Whether home and camp are separated by a three-hour or a half-hour truck ride, getting there really is half the fun.
Because of the remoteness of most hunting land, trips to the camp generally take us through places we might otherwise never see anywhere other than on a map. Quiet, slow places with courthouse squares and houses that all look different from one another. Rural places, long ago bypassed by the interstate, that still slumber quietly on old state highways and farm-to-market roads just beyond that blurred treeline outside our car windows as we zip by on the way to somewhere fast. To me, stops along the way at places like these add much to the trip. The people and places along the way to the camp are some of the best parts of our trips up there.
No matter where our travels take us or where our favorite duck blind, ladder stand or bream bed may be, we all seem to know about the same tiny hamburger stand where the best burgers we’ve ever tasted come tucked in greasy white wrappers with seasoned fries. There’s the meat-n-three across from the courthouse where they have consistently rebuffed years of begging for their secret to making collards so much better than any we’ve ever had. The diner where they took an out-of-town turkey hunter’s word that he’d be back to pay his bill after getting cash from the service station’s ATM up the road, because they don’t have a debit card machine. Of course, he didn’t find that out until after he’d finished his meal and sauntered up to the counter to pay.
The bait shop that always seems to have crickets when everyone else is out. And don’t forget the gas station with the two stained and splattered crock pots that contain the world’s finest boiled peanuts, right beside the lottery tickets.
Just 45 minutes from town is that old sporting goods store that still sells your favorite old camouflage, despite the popularity of today’s digitally enhanced camouflage patterns. They even carry it in kids’ sizes. There’s the hardware store with as many deer mounts on the walls as linear feet of PVC pipe for sale. No matter when you stop in there, the same three guys always seem to be camped out on the same three stools with “Stihl” emblazened on the shiny rubber seats. They seem to be wearing the same caps and overalls each time you go in there, too. Sure they look indignantly at you every time you come in, even though you recognize every one of them, but you’re from out of town, on your way some place to get away from your troubles for a while, and that’s just part of the charm of the place.
There’s the market six miles from the turn-off to the camp where tradition requires that you pull in for the weekend’s supply of ice, oysters, homemade cole slaw and anything you forgot to bring. They even sell those old 8-ounce Coke bottles that require an opener and capture the true “Cocola” flavor the way no aluminum can ever will. Every third trip or so, you have to replace the vermouth.
One afternoon last weekend a friend and I took our boys bream fishing on some lakes about a half-hour from home. It was a pretty meaningful trip for my son and me because he caught his first fish all by himself that day. In fact, he caught a mess of them. I will always carry with me the images and happy sounds of my son’s first fish. But my mind also has a small corner tucked away for all the hopeful, innocent questions he asked, and the fantastical and imaginative stories he told on the way up. And the quiet confidence I saw in him as he interacted with my friend’s two older boys on the way home after he’d held his own and caught a slew of blue gills that afternoon.
Getting there really is half the fun. As long as we don’t miss it for the blurry trees out the window.
(c) Roger Guilian 2009
posted by Days Afield Host | 6:28 PM
