Road Trip: Part One

My spouse grew up traveling across the country with his family, five kids and both parents crammed in a worn station wagon, with an even more worn pop-up camper trailing behind. My father-in-law was a high school English teacher and as such would allot many weeks every summer to traipse about, budgeting $10 a day to see places of interest.

Like many Minnesotans, I too grew up camping. I enjoyed it as a kid, but it never quite stuck as an adult. Now a days, I would much prefer to sip Chardonnay, eating a spicy arugula salad, garbed in a lovely cotton sundress.

I knew my spouse longed to relive his childhood trips, introduce it to our own children. He had for years. So, after nearly a decade, I felt the time had come. We borrowed my sisters pop-up, a similar contraption of yesteryear (and therefore an extra delight), and plotted a course to the Black Hills, South Dakota.

The night before our departure, my husband comes home and says, Let’s leave tonight, just get a little head start. What do you think? I thought about the 90 degree weather, that I was looking forward to spending one last night in air conditioning, one last night in a proper bed. Sure, why not? I say.

A little before twilight we drive out, the neighbors are out putzing in their yards, my husband waves to them all brightly, elbow out the window, wind in his hair, looking as proud as the guest of honor in a ticker tape parade--all for hauling a camper. For a fleeting moment, I feel like a heel for denying him this joy all these years.

We arrive at a no-name basic campground after dark about an hour outside the Twin Cities. The best thing I can say about it, is that it was fragrant with clovers, I can almost taste honey from the weight of it. I breathe it in as I fall asleep.

The next morning is the first of what will become our daily routine: Wake up, eat cereal, pack- up the camper, and hit the road.

I haven’t travelled much in a car, that is, very far. One of the things that always strike me when I do venture out though, is how much space there really is in between cities. Miles upon miles of land, mostly flat, mostly growing corn at this time of year. This realization is interesting to me at first, but after many hours of it, I grow bored looking at corn.

I doze off. Often. When I wake: more corn.

Eventually we will end up in our first resting spot, De Smet, South Dakota. For those who have ever had a little girl in your life, you know this is Laura (Ingalls) Land. It is a beautiful place, the sky stretches a pale blue to meet the prairie grasses, winds blow across the vastness, hot and strong.

We visit the structures that once housed Ma, Pa, Mary, Carrie and Laura. My daughter recites scenes from the series around artifact and person, she washes towels out back, wisps of hair escaping from her old fashioned bonnet she wears for the occasion.

We spend a lovely afternoon here, my body is thankful for being able to stand upright. Soon we are back in a silent car, driving. We drive until just before dinner, set up, eat. It is hot, the kids jump in the pool (my spouse proudly tells me we are in a KOA for my benefit. He only stayed at state campsites in his youth). I know the next morning we will eat cereal, then hit the road again.

Even though we have just started out, I am already struggling. I envision my husband’s face driving out of our neighborhood, so happy and joyful, I try and hold on to that feeling. I try and fail. It is over 90 degrees, sweat mixes with bits of the dusty road making a grimy damp layer that coats me everywhere. Mosquitoes are biting my ankles, my head, my arms. And I am at a luxurious KOA. Knowing we are to repeat this scene over and over until we get home frustrates me to no end.

Thoughts of cool glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and glazed salmon come unbidden, taunting me.

I stuff down my discontent , try to not let it bloat me. As we go to sleep, spread out on top of our sleeping bags trying to stay cool, my husband whispers, this is just magical.

I soften, take a deep breath, and reach for his hand.