Two days in PT Cruiser cramped with suitcases and sleeping girls was taking its toll on me as we neared the mountain
We had left the night before, all weary eyed and hungry—enough so that we consented to eat McDonalds for the first time in a while. The filet of fish, awash in a sea of Hi-C and tartar sauce, churned in my stomach as we drove through the undeveloped stretches of highway between north Tampa and Ocala.
Nothing to look at but darkness and headlights.
Passing The Villages is always interesting. Approaching other motorists becomes a game of roulette. There’s a good chance of pulling up next to a retired senior who is used to putting around in 50 horsepower golf cart—the favored mode of transportation in Florida’s biggest retirement villa. On the open road, their Cadillacs have a little more horsepower, and their drivers have a little less control.
Southwestern Georgia became something of a game between me and the two guys in the other car in our party. We tried to spot the sleaziest stops. A family-owned gas station somewhere near Valdosta won that game. The floors of the bathrooms were a terrible but entrancing shade of brown, yellow and green.
I stared into that abyss for a little too long, and it stared right back.
We stopped for the night in a small town called Perry. I made a few too many jokes about The Band Perry. Eyes rolled, curtains were drawn and five full-grown adults crammed into two small beds and a blow-up mattress. You can probably make a statement about young people and the lousy economy here, but the reality is we’re just that comfortable with each other. Wouldn’t have it any other way.
With about six hours of uphill driving before we would reach our destination at Mt. Pisgah, N.C. for a friend’s wedding, and with only six hours of sleep propping open our eyes, I tried to energize the two girls in the car with a song. “Peaches,” by The Presidents of the United States of America seemed appropriate, being in Georgia and all. Is it a lighthearted song about a fruit? A very dirty one about a girl? We listened to it twice to parse the lyrics.
The trip’s final disappointment came at a northern Atlanta gas station. Our friend had warned us in advance that Waynesville, the town below Mt. Pisgah, was dry. That’s right—there are still tiny towns in the hills living as if Prohibition was still in effect in an age when a brand battle between Budweiser and Miller is as American as apple pie. So we stopped a few hours early to check the wares and found nothing but light beer.
No thanks.
Traveling up the mountain was harrowing. Narrow roads gave way to miles of fog, and not much else. The sky and the ground blended in that hazy layer, prompting some of the more queasy of our party to wonder if we’d make it alive.
But when we made it, boy were we alive. The fog gave way just as we arrived. I greeted the soon-to-be bride and groom as they walked away from their rehearsal ceremony, arm-in-arm with miles of panoramic blue hills behind them.
A quote attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson says “life is a journey, not a destination,” but that seems like a false dichotomy to me. Because right then, when journey gave way to destination, life seemed to say something to me.
Damned if I can remember what it was though—I was too busy having the time of my life.
rlaforme@mail.usf.edu
