A Long Way There

The busyness of the evening had slowed, and most of the guests had left for their homes and families.  The sliding door opened and Paul stepped onto the deck to joined us at the end of the table.  Wine bottles were scattered across the table, indicating another successful wine party, affectionately referred to as the great Wine Adventure. 

At this point, only the mosquitos showed much life, but they were being held at bay by the citronella candles burning at various points along the deck.  Our wives were in the house, putting away food and catching up on each other's fading summer plans.

I was filled with melancholy, perhaps attributed to the wine or maybe I was feeling sad at the prospect of another summer coming to a close.  Fall was around the corner, with its cooler temperatures and longer nights, and I was thinking about how quickly the summer had passed. 

I was asking Doug a question when Paul sat down and emptied the remaining wine from a nearby bottle into his glass. 

"So, Doug, do you know what we were doing forty-two years ago?" I asked.

Doug's face, illuminated by one of the candles on the table, repressed a smile and nodded,  "No amount of wine will ever keep me from remembering that trip.  Four hundred dollar car, Little River Band on the radio, chalk outlines on cement and you learning how to drive a stick."

Paul put his glass down and added, "And getting carded buying some beers on the beach."

I laughed, "How could we ever forget that?  You bring it up every time we're together."

"Just saying."

"What about tossing all that fruit out the window as we entered New Mexico because we were afraid they would bust us at one of their checkpoints?  I don't think they bother anymore, but we were scared shitless that they would find us with oranges or bananas."

"We were so clueless.  I'm still amazed that we were able to find our way."

We were silent for a moment, then I added, "Think about it guys.  We were kids right out of high school driving over 2,000 miles in a car that Doug had bought for a bad song.  I don't know about you two, but I had never been further west than Minnesota.  And that's not saying much."

Doug said, "Before GPS, Google Maps or computers in our cars."

"Before John Lennon was shot."

"And Microsoft Windows, Apple iPhones and Facebook."

"September 11, 2001."

"And Make America Great Again!"

I looked across the table at the gray haired guys who were still my best friends, despite everything life had thrown our way - marriage, the passings of our parents, children, jobs, and Father Time.  Sometimes I think we wouldn't be life-long friends if it wasn't for that trip.  A trip that defined not only our adolescence by ending the banality of high school, but also changing our lives in ways none of us ever imagined.

Yes, it was unforgettable -- the trip of our lives.






I was eighteen when Doug, Paul and I left for California.  We were nerdy kids who wore rolled up jean shorts and foot high athletic socks.  We were all from the Great Plains, who firmly fit the corn-eating, vanilla chit chat, Midwestern Nice profile.  We avoided trouble in high school by spending our Friday and Saturday nights playing euchre at a friend's cabin.  In a throw-back to "American Graffiti," we occasionally enjoyed driving around downtown on a weekend night  looking for chicks and avoiding a guy named Malum who once pointed a gun at us because our stupid antics had pissed him off.  But, typically our summers consisted of a few girls, minimum wage jobs and wasting a few afternoons on the Mississippi River. 

I'm not sure whose idea it was to drive to California, but there was little doubt it would happen once it was mentioned.   California sun?   Disneyland?  Pacific Ocean beaches?  Mexico?  San Francisco?  Check, check, check, check and check!

It was a different time --  when our parents didn't worry about mass shootings, climate change and safe places.  If we had the money and our own transportation, they were ok with it.  None of us can even remember calling our parents while on this trip, which is unthinkable today.  I can imagine my mom telling us to drive safe, eat every day and get lots of sleep.  Oh, and keep your eyes on Paul -- he could be trouble.  I made up that last part, but it's a good joke every now and then.  Everything else was up to us.

It was a time when Fleetwood Mac was on top of the charts with Rumours, which stayed at number 1 for 31 weeks.  Star Wars introduced a generation to a galaxy far, far away, and a peanut farmer became our 39th President.

It was also a time when after four years of unmistakably plain high school, we were heading in different directions.  Paul and I were heading to college, but not the same one, and Doug was heading to WWTC to study auto mechanics.  It was an opportunity for one last adventure -- before summer ended and we went our separate ways.

Our road warrior was a four-hundred dollar, 1972 Chevrolet Vega GT, a straight line four cylinder hatchback, which was famously known in its ads "as the only little car that does everything well."  What a slogan!  Reminds me of those ads today telling you not to settle for someone who is  "pretty good" at something.   Coincidentally, 1977 was the last year of production for the Vega, as reliability, safety, rust and engine durability spelled its doom (good thing our parents didn't know about that).

With the backseats down it bragged about having a whopping 49.3 cubic feet of interior space with the seats down.  It had holes in the passenger quarter panel from a dent puller and a manual shift, meaning I had to learn on the fly.  I thought I did ok, except the one time I was pulling out in front of a speeding semi-truck somewhere near Anaheim.  I had shifted into third gear, which for anyone who has driven a stick knows will either stall the car, or at best, cause the car to chug-chug-chug until you pick up speed. 

Honestly, I had things under control, despite what the other two will tell you.

The Vega rear hatchback also served as a bed for when we would drive through the night and one of us needed to get some sleep.  After a day, the sour smell coming from sweaty socks, uneaten food and three bodies needing a bath was almost overwhelming.  If lack of sleep didn't knock you out eventually the smell did.   And I don't know how we squeezed into the back because it contained all of our clothing, food, camping gear and everything we purchased.  But, we were young, flexible... and thin.  A lot thinner.

We passed time by listening to the AM/FM radio, talking on the CB radio or popping in a cassette tape of Little River Band's first album with "It's a Long Way There," "Curiosity Killed the Cat," and "I'll Always Call Your Name."  Little River Band would go on to have a number of Top 40 hits.  Another band, but one much less known, was Lake with songs no one would ever hear of,  "On the Run," "Time Bomb" and "Jesus Came Down."  We also enjoyed listening to Boston's first album and everything Rush.  We must have listened to those songs until the cassette tapes broke or spooled out of the cassette player like strings of silly string.

By my calculations, it is over 2,000 miles from La Crosse, Wisconsin to San Marcos, California.  To get there we drove through Minnesota, Iowa, Kansas, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California.   Our first night was spent in Liberal, Kansas in a campground after 884 miles and more than 13 hours of driving.  I'm sure it was a long day, but the freedom we felt and the excitement of new states, new landscapes and people was enough to keep our young bodies and minds racing toward the next town.

The following day, we made a quick stop in Dalhart, Texas so I could buy a tooth brush and toothpaste  (I'm not sure if it was my idea or Paul and Doug who had to sit next to me in the car).  From there we made it to Tucumcari, New Mexico where we bought some food and drinks, but decided to pass on the goat heads that were for sale in a convenience store.  I'd heard of head cheese while working at K-Mart Foods, but never the whole head.  I'm pretty sure we got out of there as quickly as Paul did whenever he heard my mom's voice, wondering what new trouble he was getting us into.

Before our experience with the sadistic head hunters of Tucumcari, we encountered another novelty (to us at least) in New Mexico -- agricultural checkpoints when you crossed their border on Interstate 40.  Our naiveté was on full display as we started throwing oranges out the window, only to find out later that they weren't interested in three guys driving a Vega hatchback to California.  Of course, you never knew what other "illegal substances" they might find, so we were always on our best behavior when crossing the borders of New Mexico, Arizona and California.

After a less than exciting night in our small tent the night before, we decided to forgo stopping again  and continued our push through the hot desserts of Arizona by driving all night long.  It was a trip of over 1,100 miles and more than 17 hours --  before satellite radio, iPhones and GPS.  There was no internet or DVDs of Mash, Threes Company or All in the Family to pass time.  And the only FaceTime was the one you had with the person sitting next to you in the car. 

It was during these long, cramped hours that our conversations wandered from girls, sports, girls, music, girls, school and life.  We were too young to have the burden of 8 to 5 office hours, diapers and baby food, or even the responsibility that comes from a steady girlfriend or wife.  Our interests were our own and our obligation to ourselves.  The trip was full of new experiences for all of us -- a strange voice coming from a radio station originating out of Albuquerque, New Mexico at two o'clock in the morning, sunrise in the desert, with the sky becoming a deep neon blue as the sun's  upper limb broke over the horizon, a gas station warning us that this was the last gas for 200 miles, and a night sky filled with millions of tiny stars, forming brilliant constellations we was seeing for the first time in our lives.

With determination and a little luck, we arrived the following morning at our destination, California, the land of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.  At least that's what the Rolling Stone magazine said before it was lost in the growing pile of stuff in the back of the Vega.  At the time, I couldn't tell you if California had more sex and drugs than any other state, but I could certainly dig their rock 'n' roll  --  San Francisco and Los Angeles alone produced some of the best 70's bands -- the Eagles, Journey, Doobie Brothers, Grateful Dead, the Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Santana and of course the band that was synonymous with southern California, The Beach Boys.

Our plan, once we reached California, was to spend time with Paul's aunts and uncles living in San Marcos and Costa Mesa.  This was southern California and pools were everywhere --  some of my best memories come from George and Carol Halland's pool in San Marcos and Orv and Darlene Mundinger's pool in Costa Mesa.  However, our enjoyment at Disneyland and Knotts Berry Farm was muted as we watched the CBS evening news on August 16, 1977 to learn Elvis Presley had died in the bathroom of his Graceland mansion in Memphis, Tennessee at the age of 42.

We also went to Tijuana, Mexico for a day, even though none of us had passports.  In today's violent world, I don't think we would have wandered through the streets of San Diego's sister city looking for leather belts and wallets.  Were we in danger?  Who knows, but none of us gave it a second thought.  What did three boys from the midwest know about cardboard shanty towns and drug cartels?

The last few days of our trip were spent traveling north to the much cooler (both figuratively and climatically speaking) San Francisco where we would spend a few days with Paul's Uncle John and his partner Don.  I never gave their relationship a second thought -- beyond wondering what their neighbors thought of three young boys coming for a visit.  But hey, it was California, where everything goes!  Visits to the Golden State Bridge, Fisherman's Wharf, Alcatraz and riding the cable cars were like dreams come true for all three of us.

If it hadn't been for Paul's relatives, I'm sure we would've been part of California's first homeless invasion, living in a Vega down by the Pacific Ocean.

As it was, we enjoyed a week in the luxury of the gods (at least by my standards), sleeping on nice beds, swimming in private pools day and night, body surfing in the Pacific, cruising the beach in a convertible, and being treated to great beach-front Mexican restaurants and bars.

But all good things must end, and like the morning fog in San Francisco, ours ended  much too soon with a non-stop trek through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, South Dakota and Minnesota.  It meant driving all 2,029 miles without stopping for much more than bathroom breaks, some food and something to drink.  While our trip out to California was an adventure full of excitement, our trip back was one filled with monotony and a desire for our own beds and our mother's homemade food. 

Lack of sleep eventually caught up to us in Minnesota, only a few hours from home.  None of us can remember whose turn it was to drive, but as the sun was rising over the pockmarked landscape of rolling hills and plains of southern Minnesota, we could go no further.  It was Paul, perhaps driven by my mom's final words to him when we left -- "make sure to bring my favorite child home" -- who pushed us through the last one-hundred miles to arrive home, safely.

In the end, it WAS the trip of a lifetime. 

Not because of where we went --  we have since all travelled much further from home and to much more exotic and older destinations than California.  But because of who we were and what we meant to each other.  It prepared us for life by teaching us about life.  And the bond that was developed in Doug's 1972 Vega GT, where we traveled more than 4,000 miles in little more than a week, has remained strong even forty-two years later. 

We all did our own thing after that long trip in a small car -- college, marriage, kids, death of our parents and everything else in between.  But no matter what came our way, good or bad, we have remained great friends.  My memories of that eventful journey always bring me back to them and to our midwestern roots where we could be kids, have fun and explore the great unknown without fear.

Thanks guys!


"Hey everybody yeah, don't you feel that there's something?

Feel it, feel it?

Hey everybody yeah, don't you feel that there's something?

People on their own are getting nowhere,
I am on the road to see,
If anything is anywhere and waiting, just for me.

Every night I walk around the city.
Seems like I'll never know,
That feeling of being together when I go.

And it's a long way there, it's a long, long way
it's a long way to where I'm going," 

- Little River Band