The truth is, I kind of like road trips. I like having the kids tucked snugly in the back, and Mark and me up front, enjoying a rare opportunity to talk as we conquer the miles before us.
We had it all planned. We'd rouse the boys as gently as possible and leave at 4 a.m. so we could cover two or three hours while they slumbered. We realized quickly that our plan had backfired, and all three boys and Ben's friend, who joined us for our trip, were excited and wide awake as we began our sojourn.
Mark and I took the setback in stride, buoyed by anticipation and can-do attitudes, and those took us pretty far. I really do love road trips ... until I hate them. That sentiment set it in right around Mitchell, SD.
After stopping for a picnic lunch and taking in Sioux Falls, we made a stop at Mitchell's majestic Corn Palace. We'd been forewarned that it was kind of lame, so I expected that, but it still managed to underwhelm us spectacularly.
We bought obligatory trinkets for the kids and were on our way, eager to get to our cabin. I can pinpoint the moment of desolation. It's when I saw the first mileage sign for Rapid City, shortly after leaving Mitchell. It read something like 280 miles. We'd already driven eight and a half freaking hours. We felt like we'd accomplished something, crossing into South Dakota. And we had more than four hours to drive (plus more to reach our actual destination of Spearfish).
After enthusiasm wore off, things got challenging for a while. The boys' devices had long since lost their charges, and they were getting restless. It began to set in that this was a really boring drive that really didn't begin to get interesting until we saw the Badlands.
Finally, we reached Wall. We'd seen one or two billboards advertising someplace called Wall Drug, but we were tired and decided to skip it. We did, however, stop in the city for dinner.
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| Stick racing |
Mark sagely decided to eschew the familiar and pedestrian Subway in favor of an authentic South Dakota dining experience. We popped into a joint called Fat Boy's BBQ. The place was crowded, and the two waitresses were frazzled. I scanned the menu for something healthy or healthy-ish. Nothing doing. I settled on what I thought was the safest choice: tacos, and Mark ordered the barbecue pork sandwich.
The food the waitress brought us was filled with small errors, all of which we overlooked. For $8, I was presented with two paltry-looking tacos, but Mark's meal was the most hilarious. His "barbecue pork" was a giant piece of breaded pork on a small bun. We laughed and ate ice cream to make up for our lackluster meal.
We finally pulled into our cabin 16 hours after we'd begun our trip, exhausted and bleary eyed. In the morning, though, we saw how tranquil and idyllic the place was, mountains as our backdrop and a stream running through the grounds.
We soon realized that the beautiful little place we'd selected was set farther away from most attractions, and we drove a minimum of an hour and a half to see any of the sights. Our first day had Ben feeling ill, and visions of the greasy burger he'd eaten at the diner haunted him throughout the day.
Soon, the boys discovered their favorite activity at the cabin: racing sticks in the stream. This resulted in wet, stinky shoes, skinned knees, and much joy. The proprietor told us about a rugged hike we could take. It had three tiers, the first was the easiest, the second more challenging, the third, she'd never actually attempted. Just don't go at dawn or dusk, she warned, lest we encounter mountain lions.
Ben and his friend, also named Ben, took it upon themselves to set off on their own and hike all three tiers. It's a good thing I didn't know what it was like, because I never would have let them go. Later, they invited us to hike the first tier. It was steep and completely ungroomed, and I could barely make my way up.
The Black Hills were ridiculously beautiful, and I didn't tire of the scenery. We saw so many deer that I joked they were as ubiquitous as squirrels in Wisconsin. "Squirrel!!" I'd bellow whenever we saw one.
As we racked up the miles on our minivan, however, my tolerance for spending time in close quarters with the boys began to wane. The presence of Ben's friend meant he was always "on" and cracking jokes (the same ones ad nauseum), Paul couldn't help provoking Gus, and Gus incessantly sang the song, "If You Like Pina Coladas," from Guardians of the Galaxy.
On Thursday afternoon, after we'd spent a lot of time in the car exploring Custer State Park, I began to snap. We were supposed to go out to dinner for our last night in South Dakota. "If you like pina coladas, and you're calling my name, if you like doing yoga ..." Gus belted these nonsense lyrics from the backseat for 50th time. "What are we doing for dinner," he whined.
"We were going to to a restaurant, but you don't deserve anything nice," I blurted. "You're making everyone in this car suffer!"
Of course, my outburst served to make everyone uncomfortable, but I managed to claw my way out of my funk enough to enjoy our final dinner. It had all passed too quickly, as I knew it would.
As I thought about our trip on the long, long, loooong ride home, I decided that the thing about vacations is that even when they're going badly, they're so, so good. I'm sure that the boys might remember seeing Mt. Rushmore for the first time, but when they reminisce someday, I suspect it'll be about the smaller things. It's all the quirky things and the mishaps that are truly memorable.
Remember that awful restaurant? When we climbed that crazy mountain? Stick racing? When Mom lost it in the car after Gus wouldn't stop singing that stupid song? When we rode horses for the first time and that crazy trail guide who kept railing against "tree huggers?"
I'm thankful for all of it: the glorious and the awful. We're ridiculously blessed to be able to have experiences like these: to see new places, to have best friends, to have one another.
