Everybody in the car. Boat leaves in two minutes … or perhaps you don’t want to see the second-largest ball of twine on the face of the earth, which is only four short hours away? – Clark W. Griswold, 1983
The tent was a new addition, although I easily recognized the musty, fleece-lined Sears sleeping bag from countless similar pilgrimages over the past 35 years. Even before laying eyes on it, the scent of the ancient sack wafting out from the new nylon gazebo took me back to those arduous family vacations complete with the backseat bickering, unending car trouble, wrong turns and failing patience that can spoil a summer like nothing else.
As its owner – my father – rolled the cotton monstrosity into the third-largest ball of twine on the face of the earth, I stuffed my own down bag into its tiny sack and gave silent thanks. Thanks to my father, and mother, for introducing me to this world of car camping so many years ago. Thanks for modern technology sparing me from the potential mystery disease contracted from bedbugs or other micro-organisms that might have decided to take up permanent residence in the dank, old sleeping bag. And, mostly, thanks that it no longer was my turn to ride along on this gruelingly meticulous adventure. That honor befell my nephew, Bobby.
With Internet itinerary in tow, the Wagon Queen Family Truckster – “You think you hate it now, but wait till you drive it” – loaded to near airtight capacity with roughly a dozen cases of diet soda to quench an unquenchable thirst in 100-degree July heat, Bobby and his grandparents set out for the attractions of Yellowstone National Park.
The route from Denver traveled first through Rocky Mountain National Park and on to Saratoga, Wyo., followed by a Buffalo Bill shootout and rodeo night capped off by sleeping in a teepee in Cody, then on to Old Faithful before a visit to the Grand Tetons in Jackson and the push south to Flaming Gorge, Utah, where I joined in for a fly- fishing float on the Green River.
Yes, the Griswolds are alive and well in the American West. The only thing missing was Christie Brinkley in a red Ferrari.
Of course, if you asked Bobby, a 15-year-old from Richmond, Va., there might have been a few other things missing as well. Like his granddad’s plush new Lance camper. Never mind that it sleeps six in condo-like comfort, Paw-Pa (as he’s known among the next generation) was determined to introduce the young lad to tent camping, figuring it might be his last chance to rugged the suburbs out of the boy. The teepee was an added bonus.
They camped in the rain at Yellowstone, gawked at the buffalo, elk and antelope along with the summer throngs, logged hour upon hour in the Family Truckster and survived on a menu of chili cheese dogs, chili cheeseburgers and campfire chicken with neither chili nor cheese. They learned how to catch a fish on the fly, to live without TV for a week and to share a tent without showering for a few days.
But the way I see it, the kid got off easy. The nuclear Griswold experiences enjoyed by his father and I began years earlier with an epic from Virginia to San Francisco in a pleather-interior station wagon, then back. Soon after, we graduated to the boundary waters of Minnesota and Canada, and learned to lather on mosquito repellent while carrying aluminum canoes and Army surplus rucksacks loaded with canned foods and fishing hardware at once.
That was also before the extravagance of an iPod or even a cellphone, both of which young Bobby was astute enough to carry along in search of the mythical Wally World. After removing his earphones long enough to learn the literal translation of “Grand Teton,” he picked up the phone to share the joke with friends back home.
There’s a lot to be said for the traditional Griswold vacation, as well as the modern conveniences that make it bearable enough for a 15-year-old to endure. Without our annual quest, I can’t say how long it would have taken me to discover the wonders of the outdoors and the West. And while it’s still too early to tell if Paw-Pa’s plan to cleanse his grandson of the harrowing trappings of the suburbs will take, my guess is he’s well on his way. Like Clark, in his infinite wisdom, once said, getting there is half the fun.
Scott Willoughby can be reached at 303-820-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com.
