The Road Trip

A Parable

I was once heading out on a long-cross country drive, and I was excited to see a lot of great scenery along the way. The US is fortunate to have a wonderful variety of natural sites to enjoy, even if they are a bit scattered all over the map.

My destination was a vista I had been assured was an amazing view over rugged cliff sides and out to the crashing waves of the crystalline ocean beyond. It was supposed to offer perfect presentations of things I love. And so I set out on a trek of many, many miles.

It started off well—I mean, every highway has its potholes here and there, but they didn’t dampen my enjoyment of winding roads, mountains to climb, and cool riverside valleys. From forests to salt flats, the journey provided drama, beauty, and excitement. Some of the navigation was even a little scary, but only in the adrenaline rush way.

Far enough into the trip to consider myself committed, a few aspects of the drive started to bug me. Billboards advertising stops where you could indulge vice were plentiful. Somehow, the route I had chosen lacked for the billboards that remind you God is real and that he wants to have a relationship with you. Not that those are my favorite signs out there, since they tend to be kind of simplistic or occasionally a little over the top, but I’d prefer them by a long stretch to those pointing me toward strip clubs, bars, or casinos.

Have you ever driven south on I-95, where somewhere in the Carolinas you end up seeing signs EVERYWHERE for South of the Border? There were advertisements on this trip of mine like that began to crop up about halfway into the journey. The billboards felt like something in the nebulous gray area between a promise and a warning. But as the miles flew by, the billboards for this “must see” attraction grew more and more frequent. They promised the stop would be meaningful, or maybe even life-changing.

The landscape beyond these billboards was wide open, full of space where no signs of civilization appeared within my 360 degree view, save the road, telephone poles with their wires, and advertisements every few miles. As dusk crept nearer, I thought it would be great to pull onto one of the occasional side roads—many of them just gravel—and stargaze after night fell. I live in a place where light pollution never allows for a clear view of the heavens, so I was definitely liking my idea more the closer the sun got to the horizon.

When I’m on a long-haul drive, I try not to stop unless I need to tend to nature’s call or am too tired to keep driving, so I pressed on until after dark. I hit a tiny gas station bathroom, then got back behind the wheel to find my stargazing road.

Before I found a suitable turnoff, though, I started to nod. Ahead of me, the horizon still glowed with a little light, so I sucked down a little more caffeine and pressed onward. But as I continued, I realized the illumination ahead wasn’t lingering sunlight, but parking lot lights. And neon. And a veritable wall of huge, LED billboards announcing I had made it to THE PLACE! The tourist trap that had been promising me amazing things for miles now rose up from the wilderness and stole my stars that had just begun popping into view before I drove within the blue light aura that now bathed my surroundings for what seemed like forever. It was hard to tell how far their influence extended due to the sheer number of flashing banks of images that blocked my view of the rolling plains beyond.

The attractions inside this supposed marvel of the traveler’s world inspired in me not joy but eye rolling. Every feature meant to inspire just came across as overwrought and overblown. It made me sad, because whoever had created this place clearly thought they were offering tourists something important and special, but it felt more like a misguided pile of silliness to me. My trip was in no way improved by its existence along my route.

Fortunately, I was closing in on my ultimate destination, so I could put this dumb place behind me and look forward to that.

Or could I?

I hadn’t personally seen the place I was headed. I could only go upon what others said it would be—and what I imagined it would be like. What if it turned out to be like the tourist trap—with no shortage of hints and buildup, only to be more of the same kitschy, groan-worthy offerings I was so ready to forget I ever saw?

And so I headed onward, a little less optimistic about what I’d find at the end of this long trip. I could only hope that the people in charge of the place I was headed would allow its natural beauty to speak for itself, rather than trying to improve it with manmade contrivances that at best, cheapen the destination, or at worst, make it into something it was never meant to be.