Several decades ago, I met a man in Buford, Georgia, born and raised there, who had never been to Atlanta. Atlanta is a mere 35 miles from Buford via Interstate 85.
In fairness, he avoided Atlanta because he considered it an evil place full of crime and villainy.
But in addition, he had never set foot out of Georgia. He was in his 40s, an auto mechanic, married with kids. He was content and saw nothing unusual about his situation.
I, on the other hand, found it mind-boggling. Having been to, and lived in, so many different places in my life, I simply was astounded.
When I was a kid, my dad was in the Air Force, and we moved often. Very often. Growing up, I lived in Macon, Jacksonville, Savannah, Japan, Virginia, Florida, France, and Germany, in that order.
During our two years in Japan, we traveled the islands regularly. During our three years in Europe, we visited Spain, Italy, France, Germany, Belgium, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Switzerland, Austria, England, Denmark, Norway, and Sweden.
When we returned to the US in 1960, I spent the next four years at the University of Georgia in Athens. It was the longest I’d lived in one place in my life.
On the About Mr. Write page on this blog, I describe myself as a frequent road-tripper. I mean that literally.
Since 1992, when I finally began documenting my travels, I have taken 134 multiple-day trips somewhere around the country. That’s about four trips annually. In other words, for the last 30 years, I’ve hit the road every three months.
I have visited every state in the US except Alaska. Especially after my divorce, I made it a point to seek out new places, just to see, explore, and experience.
As you may know, I have a special affinity for the Southwest, and Grand Canyon is my go-to vacation spot. As I am quick to note, I’ve been to Grand Canyon 28 times in the last 28 years.
I’ve probably driven every paved road in Arizona, New Mexico, and the southern halves of Utah and Colorado.
At some point, I began taking trips to fill in the blanks, going to New England, the Great Lakes region, the Pacific Northwest, the Gulf coast, the Appalachians, Montana, and so on.
Lately, COVID has cramped my style a bit. Age and arthritis have slowed me down, too. I don’t think my traveling days are over quite yet, but when they are, I’ll be content because of the memories.
Stored in my head are decades of superlative memories, many of them documented by the thousands of transparencies, prints, and digital images I’ve amassed — and which, I assure you, are carefully preserved and organized.
Like all of us, I am a walking memory vault of my unique experiences.
I am blessed to be a son, brother, nephew, cousin, father, and grandfather. Family memories will mean the most, always. But the memories of my travels and adventures on the road are in a special category.
I thank God I’m not the Buford mechanic.
Recently, on a travel website, I read an article entitled, “The 16 Most Beautiful Places in the US.”
Listed were Acadia, Antelope Canyon, Badlands, Everglades, Florida Keys, Grand Canyon, Grand Teton, Great Smoky Mountains, Horseshoe Bend, Mammoth Cave, Monument Valley, Niagara Falls, Shoshone Falls, White Sands, Yellowstone, and Zion.
A fine selection. But they should have made it 17 and included Yosemite. For the record, I’ve visited all 17.
Okay, that said, I am compelled to include some photos…
The trail to the top of Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park, Utah, follows that ridge.
A black bear and her cub, Shenandoah National Park, Virginia.
The French Quarter, New Orleans.
A boy swimming nose to nose with a manatee in the city of Crystal River, Florida. Up to 1,000 manatees winter there because the water in the bay is warmer than the Gulf.
A nice Monet in the National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.
Native Americans sell their art daily at the Palace of the Governors, Santa Fe, New Mexico.
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