I’ve never once left a place wishing I had squeezed in more.
Not once have I driven away thinking, ” If only we had added one more stop. One more overlook. One more state line photo. “
Every single time, the ache has been the opposite.
I wish we had stayed longer.
In 2018, we set out to conquer a map.
Nine people. One rented RV. Fifteen days. Twelve national parks. A route that looped us from Tennessee through Arkansas, Oklahoma, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Oregon, California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and back again.
On paper, it was impressive. Efficient. Maximized.
In reality, it was exhausting-and if I’m honest, traumatic. There is more truth than fiction in the movie RV. Neither we nor the RV returned unscathed.
We witnessed the towering majesty of the Rocky Mountains-but I wish we had lingered long enough to let them rearrange something inside us.
We sat in traffic while a herd of bison crossed the road in Yellowstone National Park-and I remember feeling pressured by the clock instead of awed by the miracle. What a tragedy, to experience inconvenience where there should have been reverence.
We stood over wagon wheel ruts carved into the earth along the Oregon Trail, and instead of wandering in wonder, we worried about missing sundown at the next campsite.
I rushed the coastline instead of letting the Pacific Coast Highway carry me to a quiet beach where the cold Pacific could have baptized my hurried spirit.
In the red hush of Redwood National and Humboldt State Park, I should have let the sunbeams pin me to the forest floor. Instead, I was mentally ticking bedtime boxes and campfire logistics.
I gazed at Bridalveil Fall in Yosemite National Park from a distance when I could have lingered close enough to feel the mist on my skin.
I wish we had stargazed until our cheeks burned in the cold air of Bryce Canyon National Park.
I wish I had hiked below the rim of Grand Canyon instead of confusing observation with experience.
I wish I had let the desert heat press into me longer in Death Valley and Saguaro National Parks.
I wish I had truly seen the bend in Big Bend National Park- not just checked the box that said we were there.
But here is the quiet humbling truth:
I cannot go back in time.
I can return to places. I can revisit coordinates. But I cannot reclaim those unhurried hours I never allowed.
And the hardest part? There is no one else to blame.
I spent five meticulous years planning that trip. I believed we would get the most bang for our buck if we maximized eye candy per mile. I mistook accumulation for abundance. I confused efficiency with depth.
That road trip changed me in countless ways-but the most overshadowing lesson was this:
Less really is more.
Especially in sacred places.
The parks are not meant to be consumed. They are meant to be entered. Not photographed and fled. Not conquered. Not optimized.
Entered.
Give yourself more time than you think you need. Let the bison cross slowly. Let the sun move without you. Let the desert heat and alpine chill and coastal mist have their way with you.
Don’t rush to the destination and call it travel.
The journey is not the gap between sights.
It is the point.
And if I’ve learned anything from all my road trips and one overstuffed RV, it’s this:
The only thing I have ever regretted in travel is not staying.
