Earlier in the year I had received an invite to my great niece’s wedding in Prince George.
Thirty years ago I was at her mother’s wedding and over 50 years ago I was at her grandmother’s wedding — my sister — so I took the opportunity to get away.
I have been to Prince George many times for visits or conferences and I’ve always blasted my way there in nine or 10 hours.
This time, I threw some clothes in a suitcase, some fishing tackle in the trunk and some CDs in the front seat and I pulled out without a map or a reservation.
I pulled into rest stops and viewpoints and read the signs telling me the significance of the spot where I had stopped. If there was a lake there, I would take out my fishing rod and walk down to the edge.
I never had a bite, not even a nibble, but the sound of the line zipping from the reel and the plop of the lure breaking the calm, green surface was a sound from the past.
Each cast reeled in memories and there was never anyone else around. Actually catching a fish would have probably disturbed my reverie.
If my neck tightened up or my back was getting stiff, I’d pull into a coffee shop, stretch my legs and take pictures of rusted old cars or trucks parked in the fields or behind the boarded up service stations. There was no deadline to meet. Side roads or secondary roads were deserted for the most part and it was an adventure to see where I was going to come out.
When it came time to park for the evening, the first place was usually the best place. One small town motel looked tidy and well-kept and even though there were two neon letters burned out in the vacancy sign, it didn’t have the appearance of being owned by a psychopath and his mother.
As a matter of fact, Elaine lived in the back and had run the place, “For the best part of 30 years.”
Elaine was also a bit of a philosopher, commenting on my trip by sharing, “We put too much stock in maps and reservations these days. After all, we’re all headed for the same destination anyway.”
She directed me to a restaurant that advertised ‘Home-style cooking,’ and the meatloaf, fresh veggies and mashed potatoes and gravy were simply the best.
The wedding was outdoors by a beautiful river setting and the reception was a chance for everyone to let their hair down. New families were welcomed and old families reconnected. During late nights around a kitchen table, the coffee was poured and brothers and sisters stirred in childhood memories. It is hard to believe we are in our 60s and 70s, but we take pride in the generations following behind.
A day at a lakeside cabin was filled with dogs and kids and waterskiing, buffalo burgers and more reminiscing. Then it was time to journey home.
It takes two days to get home, still no fish in the creel, but a camera full of memories. The cobwebs are gone as I arrive back where I started. I open the trunk and look at the suitcase. I am tempted to leave it there and go again.
I’m afraid watches and calendars will be the death of us all.
At least, that’s what McGregor says.
