I remember one night in July, maybe 45 years ago, my two brothers and I were huddled out on the porch, hiding in the branches of a giant sycamore tree that covered nearly half the house.

Even though it was past our bed time, we couldn't sleep. Even if it had been two o'clock in the morning, which it wasn't, we wouldn't have been able to sleep because we were waiting for our Dad to come home so we could all head out on a vacation.

Mom was taking a nap on the sofa while Dad went out for last minute provisions and to fill the car up with gas. Mom had said we were all to get some sleep before Dad got home since we were going to be taking off that night in order to drive through the desert in the cool of the evening which we later found out doesn't exist anywhere in the Mojave Desert.

Anyway, there we were, hiding out on the porch waiting for Dad and careful not to wake Mom who had threatened us for the zillionth time right before she had dozed off.

Who did she think she was kidding? After all, Dad only got two weeks vacation each year and we'd been planning this one for a very long time. Of course we were going to go. What else were we going to do with all that camping gear crammed into the back of our 1953 Chevy Station wagon, green with the genuine wood trim?

Moms can be really foolish sometimes.

So there we were waiting for Dad. Waiting. Waiting. It was taking forever. Where could he be? Why is he so late? Maybe he's gone off without us? Maybe in his excitement, he just drove out of the Texaco and headed east without even thinking about the precious cargo he was leaving behind. It made us nervous, I can tell you. Waiting isn't an easy thing to do when you're eight years old and about to leave on your summer vacation.

We were going to Whitefish, Montana. It was the most exotic name I had ever heard for a town, even with me growing up in the City of the Angels. All my short long life I had heard tales of this town with the strange and intriguing name. My great grandfather Henry T. Mayfield had been the mayor of Whitefish sometime around the first world war and although I had never had a chance to meet him before he died, he lived on in the tales told of him and Whitefish, Montana whenever Mayfields congregated. We were headed on a pilgrimage. A holy journey. It was hard to wait.

Finally, Dad returned from his errands and we set off through the desert. We drove through the tip of Nevada and into Utah with some of the most beautiful dirt in the world. Red. It glowed in the morning sun. After awhile, the dirt got a little boring. It was still a long way to Whitefish.

To keep our minds off the heat and to relieve our boredom, Dad regaled us with stories about the wonders of Whitefish. We'd heard them all before, of course, but now as we grew closer and closer, the stories took on a new and powerful meaning.

We sang some songs as we sailed through Idaho. Family singing was something of a tradition for us. Although, truth to tell, it was my Dad who did just about all of the singing. All kinds of songs, some that we actually enjoyed listening to. They filled us with memories even then and they continue their charm to this very day.

Five miles to Whitefish the sign sang and we let out a howl from the back seat of the Chevy. It had been a long, long time but now, on the edge of heaven, we knew it would all be worth it. In fact, in a curious way that I can even now still somewhat recall, there was a kind of sadness that the trip was about to end. None of us wanted to admit that, of course, but somehow you could tell that it was just a little bit painful to say goodbye to the journey and hello to Whitefish.

Deep down and in a way that I am only now beginning to realize, there is a sense of satisfaction over that long time traveling a long time ago. It would have been a real shame to have just hopped onto a plane and flown direct to Whitefish.

We would have missed out on some great stories, a few lovely songs and all that beautiful red dirt.