Columnist John Moore (right) and his sister, Renee’, are pictured on a 1966 trip to Carlsbad Caverns. Photo: Mary Moore

By John Moore | TheCountryWriter.com

Leaving Ashdown, Arkansas, was an event unto itself. When your family has one car, going anywhere was a treat. Especially if the destination was a long one where there were lots of people.

So, to be told you’re going to see somewhere you’ve never heard of was the equivalent of going to England. Which at even the ripe old preschool age I was, I had heard of England. The Beatles made sure of it.

When I was quite young, my parents drove us to Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, and then back to Dodge City, Kansas, before sailing down through the Ozark Mountains on Arkansas’ western side.

This was in a ‘60 model Buick with no air-conditioning. When you add a four-year-old and a two-year-old to a June trip in a ‘60 model Buick with no air conditioning, you’re witnessing true bravery.

In the mid-1960’s, the Interstate Highway System was not completely finished. It wouldn’t be until 1992, when the last segment of I-70 through Glenwood Canyon, Colorado was done.

So, in the 60’s, you had your choice: the back roads or the backroads. Even many of the state highways then looked like backroads.

And it was on the backroads that I first met America.

I remember the state police saying hello to my sister and me. The Buick had overheated trying to climb a mountain in New Mexico. Their uniforms looked more like the ones I’d seen on TV.

The police told my dad that cars overheated at that spot all the time. Since we were crossing the top of the mountain and headed downhill, the car shouldn’t overheat again.

It didn’t.

The park rangers and visitors at Carlsbad Caverns were nice to us kids. They told us that it was hot outside, but soon we’d ride an elevator down into the caves and it would be nice and cool.

It was.

I remember my dad telling my mom that he was amazed I had walked all the way through the caves, which was over two miles. Mom had carried my sister the whole time. Hindsight, that was amazing. My mom was five feet tall and about 100 pounds.

I recall the trip from Carlsbad to Dodge City took way longer than I wanted it too. But once there, we watched a real gunfight (at that age, it sure looked real), and rode in a period stagecoach.

We have the 8-millimeter movies to prove it.

From there, we headed home.

My dad had radar for peaches or peanuts. If there were fresh, Elberta peaches or bags of peanuts for sale, we stopped.

The people who ran the stand where dad wheeled in were older. Older folks love little kids. Most older folks back then did, anyway.

The lady gave my sister and me a peach each. I’m sure that was after dad had purchased plenty from them.

You feel special when you’re young and are given something. Especially if it’s from someone you just met.

What was special was dad stopping at the roadside parks that once dotted the landscape of the backroads. The concrete picnic tables and cover were free and great.

I took a bite of that peach and chased it with roasted peanuts. Today, I still cherish that combination.

You don’t get that view of our great country when you’re on a plane or a train. Only from a car.

Maybe that’s what I miss most about traveling before the interstates took over. Getting there wasn’t something you endured. Getting there was part of the trip. You passed through small towns, saw courthouse squares, filling stations, diners, farms, and people sitting on front porches. You knew when you crossed a state line because things looked a little different.

There was no GPS telling you when you’d arrive. Dad had a paper map, and we had windows to look out of. Sometimes we got lost. Sometimes we stopped just because something looked interesting. And somehow, we always made it home.

Over 25 years ago, my wife and I hatched the idea of driving what’s left of Route 66, America’s original mother road. A number of things prevented it, but I intend for us to do it.

I’ll be looking for more of what I saw the last time.

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