Alas, my husband and I have become predictable. My younger self would be appalled by our comfortable routines. We eat at the same restaurants, get together with the same people, and follow the same schedules week after week. Even our retirement purchases mirrored those of other people our age, specifically a small travel trailer when I retired, and as Bill approaches his retirement date, we are contemplating buying a camper van.

While we enjoy local camping which provides affordable waterfront, we want to be nimbler in our travels. Neither of us enjoys towing, and nothing tests a marriage more than the eons-long minutes endured when backing the trailer into a campsite. Taking a walk around a campground during check-in time can be a complete lesson on the pitfalls of marital communication.

We’re not talking about van life here. No matter how much I love Bill, months cooped up in a small vehicle sounds more like hell than pleasure. I’m sure he feels the same. We would, however, like to take some exploratory road trips, much like we did 25 years ago. The differences are that we no longer want to sleep on the ground and won’t have a 12-month-old child with us.

I don’t remember why we thought taking a toddler on a cross-country road trip was a good idea. But we did it in a small Ford Escort loaded with a satchel full of tourist books and maps, a baby jogger and camping gear. We always said we’d take that trip again, but it hasn’t happened. When we are both retired, we imagine finally living out that promise.

Our youthful road trip didn’t have a final destination and our stops were dictated by necessity or interests. Occasionally we splurged for a cabin, but mostly we slept in a tent or rest stops. While Bill wouldn’t stop at the Spam Museum in Rochester, Minnesota (still on my bucket list), we visited both obscure and well-known sites. At Mount Rushmore, though, something shifted.

“Lynda,” Bill said to me in a serious tone.

“What?” I responded, expecting an insightful epiphany.

“Do you realize every mile we drove out; we have to drive back?”

And that was the beginning of the end.

We made it to Yellowstone and set up our tent. It was as beautiful as imagined except on every surface: picnic table, boulders, and trees, metal signs warned that “All odorous items that may attract bears, including food, cooking gear, toiletries and garbage, must be kept secured when not in use.” Makeup and water bottles were listed as items not to keep in your sleeping space.

We looked at Chloe cheerfully playing on a tarp. We looked at her diaper and took a deep breath. The best solution we could come up with was that all diaper changes would take place in the bathhouse located a quarter mile down the road.

During the day we visited the sights: Old Faithful, hot springs, mud pots and wildlife. The park was magical until we returned to the campsite bearing its barrage of ominous warnings. Night came and we dutifully kept a clean site, disposed of garbage and locked everything on the list in the car. Content that we had been cautious, we drifted off to sleep, only to be woken at 3 a.m. by a strong pungent odor. It was Chloe’s diaper. Her bad case of “toddler’s tummy” was evidenced by the smell emanating from her bottom. This stench was exactly what we had worried about.

Stealthily we picked up the sleeping, stinky babe and extracted changing supplies from the car. Despite the campsites being full, the darkness was eerily still and foreboding. Like ninjas we sped to the bathhouse, me clutching our girl close to my chest and Bill sweeping the way with his flashlight, searching for predators.

When the end goal appeared, our heart rates lowered a bit. With steps to go, a sound ripped through the night.

“Hrrr, hrrr, hawrnk. Hrrr, hrrr, hawrnk.”

Like a combat soldier, Bill whipped the flashlight beam toward the growl. Even in those microseconds, the sound seemed to grow louder.

“Get in the building now!”

As we now backed toward our destination, our eyes followed the small ray of light.

“HRRR. HRRR. HAWRNK!”

The beam spotlighted the source of the growl. His mouth was opened wide, but it wasn’t a bear. There, illuminated in the surrounding dark, was a rather large man snoring away in his tent. Sheepishly Bill snapped off the light before we woke the innocent sleeper.

After a successful diaper change, the rest of the night was uneventful.

The next morning, we were on the road again. This time, though, we were headed for home.