My Travel Quests

I have so much on my bucket list, there's not way I'll be able to complete it all before I die (even if I'm just 20 right now). Among the basketball players I want to see before they retire, the countries I want to visit, the thrills I want to seek and the sights I want to see, nothing matches me national park goal.

Eventually, I'd like to visit all 60 U.S. national parks (it's going to be real difficult if they keep adding more of them). So far I've marked off Grand Canyon, Big Bend, Petrified Forest, Great Smoky Mountains and Rocky Mountain National Parks. I have a way to go still.

The joy in visiting parks is immense. Public land set aside for pure enjoyment, without being marred by manmade monstrosities, serve a crucial role in our mental health. Once, the entire continent spanned coast to coast as untouched wilderness; now, only these parks remain the last refuge of wild, free from industry and economic interests.

I feel like I owe it to Teddy Roosevelt to visit these parks. He did so much incredible work in establishing the scope of the National Park Service that it just feels like doing right by him. But once I finish with American national parks (it'll take me a bit), I won't stop there.

Thanks to Stan Rogers, for just one time, I would take the Northwest Passage. Canada represents something akin to what the North American continent once was: vast frontier — mysterious, harsh and altogether wild. To venture north of the Arctic Circle and sleep under midnight sun sounds like a fantasy novel, but people do it every year. What's stopping me from making the long trip northward? I mean, I have a passport and a healthy dose of wanderlust. What more do I need?

Of course, I would not journey alone... which makes the trip all the more difficult to pursue. My girlfriend hates the cold, plus she doesn't have the same ill-advised spontaneity that I possess. That's definitely a good thing.

As for now, my bucket list is on pause. Some day I will journey northward, like my forefathers once explored, but for now I'll continue to go to class, sleep in a dorm room, drink lots of coffee and pull all-nighters to finish major projects.

Missing the Mountains

Life has a lot of little delights. A warm cup of coffee in the morning is delectable, no matter how trite that sounds. But few of the little things can measure up to waking up to sunshine on the mountains in the morning.

Growing up in Oklahoma, I thought mountains were just rockier hills that you could summit in shorts and tennis shoes. The first time I saw the Rockies, I didn't even know what I was looking at, as the snowcapped peaks just looked like clouds on the horizon. As the shadows beneath the snowcaps grew, I realized just how small I really am (and how flat Oklahoma really is).

I believe you never quite get used to the view of the mountains. If you're ever had the privilege to sleep in a room with a mountain view, you know what I'm talk about. You're not prepared for the brilliance when you draw back the curtain. It's like fire. It quite literally takes your breath away.

Willie Nelson once compared the view of golden mountains at dawn to true love, and I don't think he was wrong. The most spectacular views come in the most innocuous places, much like love is strongest in the mundane details.

I remember walking out of a Walmart once in Colorado Springs and being stopped in my tracks. We'd been driving through mountains for the better part of the day, but emerging from a stuffy supermarket into a grand view from the parking lot was both startling and breathtaking. Pictures and secondhand accounts don't do it justice when you can see Pike's Peak from your parking place.

It's on hot summer days in Oklahoma that I miss Colorado the most. Maybe I have a bit of John Muir in me, or maybe I just long for 75 and no humidity. Probably a bit of both.

It's the possibility they represent that tugs at me. If I lived at the foot, one day I could pack up and journey into the highlands, making friends with the moose like I'm Snow White. Of course, I couldn't leave that settled life (I like burgers and basketball too much), but just the idea of backpacking into the wilderness without a plan to come back is enough to drive me to Denver.

Maybe someday I'll make it there...

The Four Types of People You Meet on the Trail

When I go hiking, which I don't do enough, I never fail to run into a fellow adventurer. I can respect anyone who ventures out into the wilderness in search of... well, whatever that person is in search of. It could be physical fitness, a sense of fulfillment, a good time or a good story. Any reason you can find to waltz into the woods is reason enough.

If you spend enough time on the trail, eventually you begin to run into the same types of people. Here are a few that you're bound to run into on your next trek in the wilderness:

The Ironman

This guy/girl might not look chiseled out of stone, but they sure are in better shape than you.



Often spotted wearing a Patagonia jacket with an Osprey backpack, the Ironman man means business — don't let the man bun fool you. Whether they're running down the trail like ankles grow on trees or purposefully making their route more difficult by jumping between boulders, they always look like they were born for the trail.

If you encounter an Ironman, they will likely be polite as long as you aren't littering, but don't get in they're way. They don't have time to talk. They're setting a personal record. What are you doing with your life?

The Peacock

At first glance, this hiker may look like an Ironman, but don't be fooled by the high end gear; they're just as lost as you are.



The main difference between a Peacock and an Ironman is that while the Ironman will fly past you without a second thought, the Peacock is willing to talk. Really willing to talk.

They'll tell you about every trip they've ever been on (it's more than you), their mileage on those trips (did they drive a car?), their philosophy on thru-hiking (it's the only real way to hike — what's the point if you aren't roughing it?) and of course their new backpack (just ask how much it cost. Please. They're practically begging you to ask).

If you end up getting away from the Peacock, you probably won't see them again. They turned around and went back to the car as soon as you were out of sight.

The Mismatched Couple

Someone is sleeping on the couch tonight.

This phenomenon happens when one partner really loves the outdoors, and the other really loves their partner. They'll probably love them a bit less when this is over.

You can tell the one that's really into it with a few telltale signs:
- they're leading the pack, always
- they're constantly looking over their shoulder to make sure their S.O. is having a good time (spoiler alert: they're not)
- they probably have a walking stick (I don't really have a reason for this one, they just do)

The Hippie

This man/woman is just here to get in touch with their inner self, man. Like, don't take it so seriously.



Whether they hike twenty miles or twenty feet, it doesn't matter. It's all about the journey, man. By the way, do you have any trail mix? I could really go for some trail mix right now.

IHOP vs. Waffle House at 4 a.m.

We've all been there. Maybe you were pulling an all-nighter cramming for an exam, or maybe you were pulling an extended shift on a cross country road trip. Whatever the case, you inevitably felt that hunger pang hit, like a rock dropped in your stomach. It's time to shovel some eggs and bacon in your gullet — the greasier the better.

But when it comes to that late night (so late that it's early morning) craving, which 24-hour breakfast chain do you rely on? Which one is going to sate that oh-so-good-but-oh-so-bad-for-you itch?

If you're south of the Mason-Dixon line, that usually means Waffle House. If you're looking for more of a restaurant experience, it's IHOP. There's pros and cons to each, but they can both confidently say that they're better than Denny's (I can't stand Denny's).

Here are some categories and who I think is the real winner for fourth-meal adventures.

Price

Waffle House beats outs IHOP when it comes to your wallet. This really only matters when you're trying your best to clean out the kitchen, but let's be honest, you were probably gonna do that anyway, or else you wouldn't be eating breakfast just past the witching hour like a degenerate.
Winner: Waffle House

Selection

While Waffle House definitely has the options when it comes to customizing your hash browns, IHOP takes the (pan)cake here. You can get burgers and stuff now, so that's kind of wild. I guess that's just the status quo in Trump's America.
Winner: IHOP

Atmosphere

Here's where we get into personal preference, since we haven't done that already on this completely subjective blog post with an arbitrary number of categories. If you prefer diner-style eating establishments but always think to yourself, "this place could really use a sticky floor and a few more half-smoked cigarettes," then Waffle House is your main squeeze. But if you really like Applebee's and think they should venture into breakfast food after they finish finding another way to insult steak, then IHOP wins.
Winner: Push

Quality

So let's get one thing clear: you're not sitting in a booth at a breakfast chain at four in the morning because you make sound life decisions. That means you aren't particularly picky when it comes to your food at this time. It's not like you're going to hit the gym in the morning anyway. Instead of making an objective judgment, I'm going to decide based on my gut.
Winner: Waffle House

So there you have it. The next time you find yourself on the verge of total exhaustion at 4 a.m. and salivate at the though of a pancake, hit up your local Waffle House. Or IHOP. I don't care. Just don't go to Denny's.

The Tao of "Rocky Mountain High"

For an unknown reason, some people don't like folk music. I don't get those people. Of course it may not scratch every itch, but there's something about a rambling banjo, a scratchy washboard or even the clickety-clack of spoons rapped against a bearded mountain man's leg.

But for those that can't find love in backwoods West Virginia hillpeople moonshine music (as I do), there's an entry-level folk god everyone can vibe to: Henry John Deutschendorf, otherwise known by his moniker, John Denver.

Denver-mania isn't a new phenomenon by any means, but the recent inexplicable resurgence of "Take Me Home, Country Roads" has brought Denver back into the public conscience, if only indirectly (they've been singing it in Morgantown, West Virginia, during the third quarter for years). The hit isn't quite Denver's best work, even though it's sure to rouse a few friends to try to harmonize in the middle of a party (guilty).

The opus of John Denver's discography is "Rocky Mountain High" and you can quote me on that, although it's probably not the most controversial opinion. Back in 2007, the Colorado state legislature officially declared the alpine anthem as their second state song behind "Where the Columbines Grow," which has traditional roots in the state (much like how "Oklahoma!" is the state song of Oklahoma, when it undeniably should be "Merry Christmas from the Family," even though Robert Earl Keen is from Texas).

We don't need the government to tell us which song is better because we have functional ears. Anyone who has ever heard the opening acoustic chords and the subtle steel guitar at the end of the third chorus feels immediately compelled to trek up the side of a mountain with a fur-skin hat. It's just human nature.

Of all the songs to listen to while in the mountains, "Rocky Mountain High" takes the cake. It awakens that deep part of your spirit that yearns to climb among the eagles. I've done my fair share of hiking, and I just wish that I could feel the high Denver felt when he penned the song's simple and eternal verses. The closest I can get is by turning my turntable as loud as it will go and trying to hit the high harmonies.

Gravitating to Golf

I needed to find a new hobby.

One that relieved stress. One that got me outdoors. One where I could relax while keeping my brain active. One that got me moving. One that I could do with others or in total solitude.

Needless to say, I was lucky to find golf — a sport only as serious as you make it. Few things are as peaceful as the dewy green grass in stark opposition to glistening water and sandy white bunkers. The landscape resembles something natural, but in it's most idealized, artificial form. In a golf course, man showcases his control over every aspect of nature ("it's beautiful, but think about how much prettier I can make it"). It is the ultimate triumph and the ultimate tribute.

But sheesh, don't I sound pretentious?

I came to golf for the same reason most people come to Jesus: pressure from their family. Well, it wasn't direct pressure, but it sure felt like a sign from God. My grandparents were in the process of moving away to Alabama and, as is tradition, holding a garage sale. In the back of the shed, I noticed a bag of old golf clubs — either from the 70s or from 2005 (it's hard to tell with golf clubs) — with a sticker marked "$20."

I let my grandpa know that if he didn't sell it, I would gladly take it off his hands. I'd been to the driving range a few times with my dad when I was 12, and I watched Tiger every weekend growing up. It only seemed right to learn how to play before I joined the PGA Tour.

He said, "Take it. It's yours. I hope you have as much fun with them as I did."

_________________________________________________________________________________

My father and I snap a quick selfie at Westwood Golf Course
during my first ever round of golf. At least I had the
outfit down.

My first time at the course came shortly after, and lord was I nervous. I had gone to the driving range *once* and had watched about a thousand YouTube videos, so my swing was just a few tweaks away from looking like Arnold Palmer's. Lucky for me, my dad paid for the cart, so when every drive I hit sliced into the woods, we didn't have to trudge back and forth to find them.

I really caught a break when I hit it into the water, since that meant I didn't have to trek through the forest to find my 50 cent Top-Flite ball.

So it goes without saying that I wasn't Tiger on my first try... but on that fifth green... oh my god, that fifth green...

My ball is 20 feet from the cup. A pitching wedge rests in my right hand as I tighten the glove on my left. I survey the slope of the green.

It breaks ever so slightly downhill to the left. There's nothing you can do with that information right now, but just so you know.

I take two quick practice swings and a deep breath.

Remember "Secrets of the Short Game" with Phil Mickelson. Accelerate and follow through.

Now in position, my mind is racing. Tiger's chip-in on 17 in 2001 plays back in my head. My chin slides into place directly above the ball. I quiet my mind, and I swing true.

Next thing I know, I'm chest bumping my dad on our way back to the cart. I chipped it in! He had never done that in all his years of playing golf, and I did it in my first round.

I was hooked. As hooked as my next shot, which sent that lucky ball straight into the depths of the lake. Oh well.