This post isn’t exhilarating. But I want to write it.

‘Twas May of 1994. I was about to graduate JJ Pearce high school.

I’d only gotten my driver’s license in the summer of ’93. I’d been driving for less than a year. Most of my driving had been predetermined routes from A to B. Those distances weren’t far.

But this May day was different.

Rain had just fallen in North Texas. The sky was the pretty type of gray you see after storms. It was a cozy gray.

Going east on Campbell Road in Richardson, I decided to take a left and go north on Custer. No real reason why. Just wanted to see what was up that way.

Well, going north on Custer here is going through suburbia. I started in Richardson. Soon I was in Plano. Same thing.

Then Plano petered out. Suburban homes were disappearing. Then they disappeared completely.

Old cotton fields replaced everything. As far as I could see – and I had no idea where I was – fields of Blackland Prairie Clay grew tall grass that promised bright greenery when the sun was to shine again.

My windows were down, and the breeze was perfect on my hairy left arm. Then the smell hit. It was dank, muddy earth. It too promised life in June. It was a wonderful smell.

Then it hit me how much I loved this moment. I’d lost track of time because I’d discovered the simple joy of exploring new land by driving.

Now, it’s possible that I’d been far north of Richardson on Custer Road before. But had I? No idea.

Regardless, here was born a habit that’s stayed with me. It will always stay with me. Being behind the wheel with no particular destination so as to wander through new lands has brought countless hours of pleasure.

Indeed, it’s not some Colombian journey of discovery. There’s usually nothing of interest to report. But that doesn’t matter.

The fact is that random horizons can hit me in small, pleasurable ways that no one will ever understand. A tall oak or cottonwood. A deep creek. A small ravine. A gorge. A vista where you can see the far side of a river basin 15 miles away…

It’s not like this all the time. Often, driving is not – especially in traffic. But it is so enough, for me.

It’s strange that some random afternoon in an old Jeep Cherokee created such a powerful memory that I still look quite fondly upon. Or else I wouldn’t write this.

And, getting home was no problem. I figured I’d hit US 75 if I headed east. I did, somewhere north of McKinney. Drove like 30 miles north. Tempus fugit.