There is no greater joy in my life than adventure.  I love to travel, to explore, and to experience new things.  I’ve always been a simple kind of guy; I’m not prone to setting down roots and acquiring the “important” things in life (house, wife and kids, dog, 401k, and an SUV in the driveway)  I like to get in my trusty Ford Ranger and hit that open road.

It’s been awhile since I had a good road trip and I’m due.  Andy wants me to come out to Salt Lake City later this month, and I’m really looking forward to that.  But I’m not going to fly, hell no.  I hate flying to begin with.  So did my mother, so I know where I got that part of me from.

I feel like when I fly somewhere I’m missing out on so much.  When you’re driving down the highway you see so much more.  You get to see such beautiful scenery–and you can take it all in.  If you were flying, you’d pass all that by.  And you get to drive through towns, big and small, and have more chances to interact with people you’ve never met before.  When I find a place to crash at night I’m usually so excited about being on the road that I’m barely able to sleep.

A few years back I drove from Chico to Las Vegas to meet a friend.  It was summer and it was damn hot.  Flying down the highway between Reno and Las Vegas was one of the greatest experiences of my life.  The heat from the road, arm hanging out the window, the desert air blasting me in my face…  are memories that I’ll treasure forever.

There’s just something romantic about it, you know?

I almost made it to Las Vegas that night, but decided to stay in a small truckstop town a little over an hour from the city limits of Las Vegas.  I can’t remember the name of the place.  The little gas station slash truck stop slash bar slash restaurant slash casino was the only gig around.

I walked in and asked if they’d mind if I set up my little tent in the back of my pickup truck to spend the night–they didn’t mind.  I set up my camp, cooked a meal on my little propane stove on my tailgate, and ate blissfully.  Then I walked into the casino and took a seat at the bar with the truckers and travelers–and struck up a conversation with the bartender.

I’ll never forget that guy’s name: Sam.  You see, Sam was a guy who’s been on the road his entire life.  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit envious.  He started in Michigan when he was a young buck, and made his way across the country in his own little beater pickup truck.  He made his way to Alaska and back and all the states in between.  Sometimes, if he liked the town enough, he’d stop get a job bartending.  He’d save up his money and when he’d had enough of that particular town he’d hit the road again.

We talked for hours.  I was entralled with his stories.  I want to be able to tell stories like that when I’m his age.  I finished my Budweiser, said goodbye to my new friends, promised to stop by if I was ever in town again, and went back to the ol’ Ranger.  (A fitting truck model for Tom Bissell, don’t you think?)

I fell asleep that night listening to the semis roaring past my tent with a smile on my face.  There’s something about that sound, the sound of a moving vehicle, that’s soothing to me.  I can remember as a kid we’d go on trips in our camper, and I’d inevitably fall asleep on the road–and sleep better than I did in my own bed.  In the Navy, when I was out to sea, I’d fall asleep to the sounds of waves crashing against the hull and the subtle hum of the engines.  So in the past I’ve tried to find places to live that were near busy streets, just so I could listen to the sounds of travel: busses, trains, 18-wheelers, and the like.

Ahhh, the sound of the open road.  It calls to me now, like a siren’s song.  I need to get out of here for awhile; I’m ready.  I’m so glad that Andy called me when he did.  I can’t wait.