Memorial Day Weekend Story: Sacraments of Travel

More than 50 years ago he killed a 7-year-old

Handsome, 7 months old, with his entire life ahead of him.

A sweet measure of bliss has descended upon me these last few days. Tomorrow, we’ll see the first of summer’s parade of RVs as they head from Massachusetts and other points south up to White Mountain campgrounds for the long weekend.

I know enough to avoid the Memorial Day traffic at times other than early and late in the day, but I enjoy watching the variety of trailers being towed. I envy them in a deliciously happy way. For they’ll be settling into their campsites and escaping from wherever it is they come from. I wish for them magical nights by the fire.

For years, I’ve considered a trailer, but that means a bigger tow vehicle, campground reservations, poor gas mileage, and more planning for a trio that does our best to keep things on the Thoreau plan: “Simplify! Simplify!”

So, for now, I am happy to look upon the endless train of northbounders with the wonder of a child watching the floats and massive balloons of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

There’s always excitement in getting out and going somewhere, be it for a weekend or a winter. How I tremble with anticipation just thinking about it, even after the last six years of traveling cross country. It never gets old.

By now, you probably know I get giddy over a good rest area. It’s more than just a parking spot, a place to go to the bathroom or to stretch your legs. The best rest areas carry hidden surprises as a desert keeps a secret spring.

On the day we left the busyness of San Francisco and the Bay Area six weeks ago, there was freedom in escaping the bumper-to-bumper traffic. After 45 minutes, it felt as if we’d departed a busy harbor and were finally at sea. We sailed north, and even with Samwise not feeling his best, there was a lightness to our moving into the upper reaches of California.

Highway lanes dwindled from four to three and eventually down to one. Small towns came and went, and we were watched over by blue skies and a bright, grinning sun. The temperature was perfect, and Clarence’s windows were down.

Rolling hills and gleeful green farmland dropped away, and forests grew denser and taller. Somewhere south of Laytonville, we pulled off U.S. Route 101 and dropped down into a rest area, which curled to a dead end.

There was a single pickup truck by the service building, which housed restrooms, water fountains, and vending machines. We pushed beyond that and parked next to a stream and a shaded path lined with assorted trees but highlighted by redwoods!

One of the splendid things about traveling with Samwise and Emily is that without many others around, I can just open Clarence’s doors and trust them to stay near to me.

We walked a little nature path, and my adrenals buzzed with the expectant trill of there being something special about this place. There we were in a cathedral of redwood trees, and we had it to ourselves!

My writing spot among the redwoods.

I sat at one of the picnic tables and wrote a letter to a friend. Birdsong showered us, and a breeze whispered about us. Below, the stream trickled and sparkled. As my pen danced across the page, Samwise and Emily sat and gazed about us. None of us moved for an hour.

These are some of the most underrated sacred moments of a long road trip. They are valued not only for their tranquility but also for how unexpected they are. You are neither here nor there, but taking a break between the two, yet you feel totally at home.

A van pulled in near Clarence, it was followed by a couple of motorcycles. There were not many parking spaces, so I knew our recess had ended.

Near the bathrooms, the rest area’s superintendent was putting around. He had a small dog off-leash at his side. I greeted them, thanked him for a clean place, and we began a friendly conversation.

“This is Handsome,” the fellow said.

I bent down to pet the pup, and he looked up at me. His eyes were shining with an infinitude of possibility—his whole life was ahead of him.

“He’s only seven months old. He can be a handful, but he’s a good dog. I’m lucky he gets to come to work with me.”