A Happy Wanderer

A Happy Wanderer
Dave Wright

When I was in college, I had an index card pinned to my bulletin board that read, “Efficiency and organization are the keys to progress”—and I lived by those words—that, and its corollary, “Focus. Finish.” Finish the assignment before taking a Mountain Dew break. Wash all the dishes. Don’t leave that fry pan for later. Mow that last strip on the boulevard. Complete the chapter before turning out the lights.

These words of wisdom got me through a rigorous veterinary curriculum and served me well throughout my professional career. I could withdraw to my dorm room, outline three chapters in a medical text with a fraternity full of rowdy conversations competing in the background, and still retain the salient points. I focused best with outside distractions. If I was forced to study at a quiet library, I set an alarm to remind me when I could leave. Silence shouted at me to go home and get something done.

When I was in veterinary practice at the peak of our busy season, I could pick up a list of fifteen calls at the front desk and finish them by five thirty. I could deliver a calf, complete a displaced abomasum surgery, trim an abscessed foot and still be on time for my next herd check. No problem.

When family vacations approached, I thrived on the preparation nearly as much as the trip. I prepared lists, gathered camping gear and hi-lighted the trip on Rand McNally. If it took all night to get to the next destination, so what. It took all night. I was not a wanderer. Follow the plan.

All that has changed with retirement. My wife, Sue has always taken pleasure in a day without an agenda. She loves to get up an hour after I do, sip her tea, read the paper and decide what might interest her during the next few hours. When she has the opportunity, she is the model of whimsical decision-making. I’ve had to learn that skill. It doesn’t come naturally to me. Sue gets anxious if she has too long of a list. I become anxious when my list is empty.

I am learning. A few years ago, we took a camping trip dedicated to serendipitous wandering. Shortly after Labor Day when the off-peak season is supposed to begin, we packed our camping gear and headed southwest, intending to visit as many National Parks as we could along the way to an undetermined destination. We arrived at Rocky Mountain National Park. “Sorry. Full,” read the sign. We forged ahead to an empty national forest campground thirty miles from the entrance and took a day trip through the park the following day. Arches National Park proclaimed the same message. The line outside the entrance stretched to Moab. All the national forest campsites along the Colorado River outside the park were occupied. We drove another two hours west on I-70 and decided to change our plans. We vowed to seek less familiar places.

When asked where we might find such a place, the Sleepy Hollow motel proprietor in Green River advised, “Try Goblin Valley State Park.” The next morning, we exited the well-worn surface of the interstate and meandered south through a dusty state highway with more tumbleweeds than semis. After securing a campsite, we explored a wonderland of sandstone hoodoos. It reminded us of a miniature Bryce Canyon, but allowed an intimacy not available at a national park.

We pursued “the road less traveled” for the next two weeks. We studied the petrified forest at Escalante State Park rather than fight the crowds at Capitol Reef. We caught the early bus into Bryce and hiked the Peekaboo loop before the Japanese tourists unpacked their Nikons. At the end of the day we toasted our success by clinking a couple of Polygamy Porters at Kodachrome State Park.

When the North Rim of the Grand Canyon came into view we were told, “No sites available for a month.” We peeked over the Rim and drove south to Paige, Arizona where we took a room at the Red Rock Motel. The owner agreed that our national treasures were becoming less available to middle-class Americans who arrived without reservations and without a hefty bank balance. He commanded $200 a night during the busy season for a room resembling a Super 8, but he supplemented our off-season discount by guiding us to “Big John’s Texas Barbeque” for dinner and to a campsite on the beach of Lake Powell for $7 a night. I was learning to wander.

A typical day of retirement finds me thinking I should sit down at my computer to write something worthwhile. Better have my coffee first. Read the newspaper headlines. Ignore the dismal details. Go to the computer, but before opening Word, click on my unread email. Respond to friends. Delete the political background noise. Check my Facebook account. Who has the funniest post? Does anyone like me? Not today. Oh well. Maybe in an hour. My back is stiff from sitting too long. Time to take a walk. Is that a Pileated Woodpecker? Look at the way those grey squirrels fly from one tree to the next. I believe that’s the sound of a Sandhill Crane. Looks like an eagle roosting on its nest. Home again. Maybe I can write something now. My stomach is growling. Too noisy to write. Scrounge the refrigerator for lunch. Now I’m sleepy—better rest my eyes. I’ll contemplate what to write next. Vowed to phone a friend every day to keep in touch in a time of social distancing—they usually make me laugh. It’s four o’clock. How is our wine supply? Short! News is only an hour away. The liquor store is an essential business. I wait in a line ten-deep. The bouncer at the door is keeping people from going in, not throwing them out. Return home. Better see that the wine hasn’t turned. Survived the news for another day. Dinner time. I’m too tired to write. Let’s watch a movie. I’ll be more ambitious tomorrow.

What an interesting day!

[If you would like to leave a comment on my blog, click “Publish” before leaving the site.]