Travelers can generally be divided into two categories: the “southbound and down, craned neck” types and the “slow lane, leaning on the armrest” group. For years, I’ve fallen into the former rather than the later classification—if not because of my tardy departure times, then because my driving was a reflection of my driven self. But now, having just returned from an outing to South Carolina, I think I may have unknowingly switched teams. And I like it.
Covid did something to me. When quarantine began, I stayed home, managing to venture out sparingly. On one of those trips to Campbellsville (20 miles away), I contracted The Virus (according to my theory). While my Covid case was mild compared to others, the main effect being fatigue, it quarantined me for a couple of weeks. Much to my surprise, I rather liked my meetingless (not meaningless) life. Sitting down on our back porch, if even for a short while (it was winter), heightened my sense of awareness. Later, when I was out of quarantine and feeling healthier, I ventured out on short walks, then longer ones, then hikes, in the open field behind our house, even when it snowed. I want to think I improved my ability to see deer, their tracks, wild geese, nesting and flying, or various critters in the ground and their crawling and hiding. All those were experiences I would have never enjoyed in my more hurried life.
So, as Lori and I planned this short trip to South Carolina, I had a novel idea: “Let’s take our time; let’s drive some backroads.” I didn’t realize it, but I was opting for a lane in the slow-drivers club. My wife reluctantly agreed, not so much because she opposed taking the long way but more because she knows my proneness to wander and get lost. I assured her I knew the direction. (Full disclosure: she had to redirect us from wrong roads on two occasions, both my fault, of course. “But that’s part of the fun,” I said, in feigned defense.)
Traveling the back roads allows for serendipitous moments, like stopping at an overlook and taking in the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance, or relishing a meal in an out-of-the-way restaurant, or buying fruit and vegetables at a farmer’s market, or drinking a bottle of pop and eating a Hersey bar at a little grocery store. Off the beaten trail, you see roads with names like Wolf Creek, Rustic Ridge, Bear Run, Soggy Bottom, and Toogoodoo. Since you see actual homes of people along the back roads, and not simply the featureless forms that too often adorn the four-lane, you can make up stories about what the people are like who live “back in there.”
I rather like being a part of the back-woodsy group of travelers, though I’ve not gone in whole hog. I still zoom along the four-lane at times when we get a little anxious to get there. But I’m learning that “there” is “here.” It’s where you are at any given moment. The joy is in the journey, whether the trip takes you down the back roads or on the main highway. Life doesn’t begin when we arrive at our destination but when we open ourselves to the gift of each moment, no matter where we are on our particular trek of life. The journey continues as we welcome new places and people into our hearts.
Having returned, I was ready to plop down on my back porch, which I had sorely missed, though the porch and I had been apart only a few days. Breathing in the morning air behind my Kentucky home, I eyed my growing garden and the cornfield beyond the garden, realizing once again that though I’m not exactly on the move, I’m still traveling down the back roads.