Friday, October 28, 2005
'Rideabout' is all about getting up and out
Libba Wolfe
Libba Wolfe's column appears twice monthly in Extra.
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Weren't you inspired by the recent series in this newspaper about day trips on country roads? I clipped it out and put it in my travel stack.
I want to get my two cents in.
My husband and I take lots of car trips. He's the driver, I'm the navigator. I love the challenge of finding a shortcut and beating our old time by even a minute. But that's a car trip with a destination and a deadline.
What we love best is what my husband calls a "rideabout." No destination and no deadlines except finding a place to eat when we're hungry. No big highways and only the vaguest of plans.
He's always looking for something to photograph and I'm just looking. If I've remembered to put the bird book and the wildflower book in the car, it's fun to figure out what I'm looking at. If not, it's wonderful to just look. And I can always find a pocketful of rocks.
One of our first outings taught us to follow a few rules. At 6 a.m. one winter on the Blue Ridge Parkway, Barry got his tripod and the big cameras out so I knew he would be awhile. I pointed out which way I was headed and took off for a walk.
I had wandered off the road to inspect some rocks when I saw him go sailing by, windows up, radio on. He couldn't hear my yells.
I walked forever. There was no one on the Parkway that cold morning. Two rangers stopped and when I said, "If you see an oblivious man in a Jeep, tell him to come back and get me," you could see they thought there was way more to this story.
If you're going to explore areas with no cellphone service, don't get separated.
One Fourth of July weekend we stretched the five-hour drive to Baltimore into three days. I wish I could tell you where we went. It was a glorious drive down back roads through tiny towns. Flags were flying, sweaty little boys were fighting over firecrackers, yards were full of cars and lawn chairs. Everybody was having a cookout. If we'd had a chocolate sheet cake in the back seat I'm sure we could have barged right in. All the junk stores and antique shops were having sales.
Getting off the highways is one thing. Getting off the pavement can be another. I always vote for the dirt roads.
Last fall after a trip along Sinking Creek in Giles County and a beautiful morning in Burke's Garden, I persuaded Barry -- against his better judgment -- to take a "long cut" dirt road out of that peaceful valley. Three and a half hours later we were sitting on a curb in Vansant, a suburb of Grundy. The oil pan in our new car was ripped open and it was pretty much my fault. We rode home in the cab of the tow truck.
We can laugh about it now, but he reminds me with a sideways look when I start agitating for a turn onto a rocky, rutted dirt road.
A rideabout is good for the soul. It doesn't have to be about fall foliage. It's about old farmhouses nestled into the side of a hill. Weathered barns and a line of cows coming home in the long afternoon shadows. Narrow roads bordered with wild columbines or asters. A bag of good rocks.
It's forgetting about weeding and planting and watering long enough for a good long lookabout.
