A few notes from the road
"You owe me if I say something funny," Woodrow said from his side of the Yukon.
"You haven't said anything funny in years," I said.
"We're paying for a few things extra for these guys because I'm sitting on a pocket full of jack?"
"That wasn't funny ... wait, really?"
"Yep, and I ain't talking about Jack Daniels, neither," he said. "We're already floundering on this trip, but I ain't talking about fishing, neither."
"Still not funny."
Bubba, Brother-in-Law Robbie, Woodrow and I were leading the convoy on the way to a dove hunt in Uvalde. The following is simply a collection of the notes I took on that morning in a Hunter Thompsonesque fashion, tapping on the keyboard of my laptop while we rolled down the highway.
Our 9 a.m. departure time is held up by biscuits, sausage, Bloody Marys and about an hour's worth of repacking because these guys are like a bunch of little old ladies. No offense, little old ladies.
The Yukon's rear is packed so solid you can't fit in an extra deck of cards. We already have four decks, anyway.
In the pickup truck behind us, Wrong Willie drove Doc, Jerry Wayne and New Wally.
"I packed the funniest movie in the world," I told the guys in the Yukon. "It's Harlem Nights."
"Huzzah," they shout.
"Rev, you skinny dork," Brother-in-Law (BIL) says from the front seat, out of the clear blue. "If you were a calf they'd shoot you for just eating and not getting fat."
Before I can respond to his unprovoked attack, an 18-wheeler changes lanes so fast Bubba, who was driving, spilled half a cup of hot coffee on the dash. All was OK, though. Bubba was still able to tune to the right station, even through the shrieks of terror coming from the back seat.
The conversation changes.
Woodrow doing business on the cell phone while I type. The evils of technology is deep in our lives today.
"Careful, that's hot," Woodrow said when I sip his jacked-up coffee.
My eyes water uncontrollably.
It is a sigh. The trip finally begins in earnest.
Noon. Rest stops are our friend. Woodrow has a bladder the size of a walnut. Rest stops are nice these days, except for those under construct. You can't stand in a porta potty while you friends rock it back and forth.
In the black truck behind us, the boys are more sedate. Our vehicle is the fun one.
Ray Wylie Hubbard on the radio. Entertainment and confidence are high.
We haven't gotten to West yet. Woodrow has peaked at 12:45 p.m.
The phone rings. Bubba's wife on the other end. She asks where we are. Bubba tells her we're somewhere between Waco and Brownsville.
She didn't know anything about the trip. A crisis will await his return.
Woodrow gets a call from a friend. I tell him to hang up because we don't want to hear his inane conversation. It reminds us of people talking on phones in grocery stores. He makes suggestions about my column writing. I make an anatomically impossible suggestion. The four of us ponder the physical implications.
We two-way back to the pickup behind us and ask if those guys if they're hungry. The response is "let's wait until Woodrow's bladder needs draining again."
Woodrow is again on the phone to another co-worker. I suggest that he hang up. He suggests that I've never done any work and especially not for him.
He's right.
Bubba turns up the radio volume to shut off the conversation
Woodrow hangs up and begins to sing Snake Farm.
We roll through Austin, the Capitol on the right. BIL comments that Texas A&M is the promised land, and not UT. Shouts, struggles from the front and back until Bubba has to quickly change lanes, thereby shaking up the Yukon's contents and finally separating the combatants with shouts of "If I have to pull this car over ...."
We roll on.
This kind of trip is what it's all about. Tunes on the radio, guys having fun, away from the office. This is what we work for.
I look at the gray hair in our vehicle and turn around to see the same in the pickup truck behind us. The guys are starting to reach retirement age, and these kinds of trips are the way we get together again. Of the eight hunters, two are already retired, with two more of us in the wings.
This is the consummate form of male bonding. Guys on a Road Trip with nothing in mind except the sheer, pure enjoyment of being on the road and the ability to do what we want.
Lunch is burgers. Filling. The first time the entire crew is together on the trip. The proprietor keeps a wary eye on the crew, but we successfully consume nutrients without involvement from the local constabulary.
An apparent drunk passes us on the left and almost loses control of his 15-passenger van. New Wally, we sometimes call him Super Cop, is hanging halfway out of Willie's truck, wanting to either arrest someone or at least beat them into submission. He is dragged back into the truck to prevent mayhem and even more delays.
On the loop around San Antonio, Bubba plugs in his iPod and plays the movie Lonesome Dove.
The technological world is in the vehicle with us.
Woodrow snores softly for a moment, and all is right with the world on the road.
Gads, I love a road trip.
Reavis Wortham's e-mail address is r.wortham@tx.rr.com.
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