I’ve been busy planning our big vacation for this Fall. It involves plane tickets, passports, and a big ship heading to the Bahamas. This is all foreign territory for me. I’ve never been on a plane, never had a passport and never been on the ocean. The only foreign country I’ve visited is Canada – though it really didn’t feel so foreign. I’ve traveled for thousands and thousands of miles with my parents to the Rocky Mountains, been in the most desolate of places in the wilderness, on horseback with grizzly bears crossing my path, riding on winding roads through mountainous landscapes and spent many, many hours inside tourist traps. At least back then most of the items were still made in the USA. Now you know how old I am.

But my favorite destination has to be Big Trade Lake in Wisconsin. My parents, two older brothers and I, along with my parents’ best friends and their five kids spent two weeks there every July. My dad had a 1970 Chevy pickup with a truck camper and a Jon boat. My first trip to Wisconsin was when I was four years old and the last when I was sixteen.

The campground was situated on a small, narrow peninsula on the lake. Cedar trees lined the shores and filled the air with their glorious scent. A natural spring provided fresh, cold drinking water – the best water I’ve ever had. The fishing was great. Nobody ever went back skunked.

There’s a lot of funny memories of our vacations at the lake but the parts I remember most were the preparation and the traveling. Before 51 was a four-lane highway to Bloomington, that stretch of road was the worst part of the whole trip. It was often bumper to bumper. We had the misfortune of being stuck behind a pig farmer in a beater pickup from Clinton to Bloomington on one trip. We couldn’t pass because the oncoming traffic never let up. 30 miles an hour for 30 miles was enough to send anyone over the edge. Thank goodness we could close off the window from the truck to the camper once my dad became more and more perturbed. It was probably after this trip that my parents decided to travel at night.

We’d leave at midnight, after my dad came home from Caterpillar and our friends met us from Taylorville. Our friends often went over-prepared and often arrived late. They had the same size boat as us but it was loaded down with so many supplies, the trailer nearly buckled from the weight. One time, they had packed two cases of pork and beans. My dad got a laugh out of it and told them, if they ran out of gas between stations, they’d be prepared!

My mom cleaned the house from top to bottom and inside and out before our trips. She ran in and out of the front door carrying this and carrying that, often times nearing her breaking point. We knew to steer clear and do what we were told – even if cleaning a house that would sit empty for two weeks, didn’t seem to make any sense. I never knew what the big deal was. It was a vacation. It was supposed to be fun. Now that I have to make the vacation plans, I completely understand and when I come back from a vacation, the last thing I want to do is come home to a dirty house.

I’d lie down in the camper and try to fall asleep but usually never managed to. My hamster inside its cage rode next to me. She tried to run on her wheel but that didn’t work out too well along the bumpy highways. By dawn we’d be in Wisconsin. The hills, trees and rocks amazed me. Growing up in Decatur, I hadn’t had much experience with hills, miles of forest or really big rocks. They intrigued me. They still do!

But there’s something about packing up your life, even temporarily, and heading for some distant place that fries the mind. It’s adventurous but kind of scary at the same time. It’s not as if there aren’t Wal-Mart’s in every state, just in case you forget to pack your socks and underwear. You’re not going to skin a deer for clothing or stitch together fig leaves for your undergarments. Civilization is widespread but it just feels weird to buy underwear outside your home town.