Around dawn, Mom would wake us up and with sleepy eyes, my brother and I would take our seats in the back of the camper's cab - me on the left, my brother on the right. It always seemed so early; the neighborhood was still asleep, the roads quiet. When Dad finished his preparations and loaded the last of the supplies and food, he'd start up the Winnebago and we'd be on our way. The familiar smell of diesel would fill my nose, a reminder of previous trips.
The Winnebago in Shenandoah National Park. |
The Winnebago couldn’t go much faster than 60 mph. On our CB radio, we'd hear truckers making fun of us and radioing other truckers so they knew to pass us as we struggled to get up a hill. Once or twice we broke down and had to stay overnight at a hotel while the camper was being fixed.
One year, my parents gave me my first journal, a thin, glossy black notebook with a globe on the cover. I liked the journal so much that I really didn’t even want to write in it. Wherever we were camping, I sat at our campsite's picnic table and recorded the day's events: visiting the battleship USS Massachusetts in Boston, Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia or Kennedy Space Center in Orlando, Florida.
These camping trips were an important part of my childhood. I still love roadtrips and camping and over the years I've visited some of the great National Parks of the American west. Whenever the weather gets warm, and summer is near, I get the urge to travel.
Originally written on May 26, 2021.