I used to be a hunter.
And now I am a gatherer.
At least as it applies to amusement parks.
I think it’s because I’m getting older.
I’d like to blame something else.
But aging has no alibi.
Plan a trip to X
to see Y
and flawlessly execute the plan.
I found the game,
and then I took it down.
Hunt complete.
The young people amusementing themselves with us
are still hunters.
Each day they planned the big game of the day,
And set out to capture the death-defying roller coaster of choice.
The ROC.
Their logic was not to hunt in the picked-over concrete forest
but to seek out the untouched land.
Getting to the game before the other hunters was urgent.
And of course it was always the furthest away.
Being reasonably responsible people,
Hubby and I did not buy fast passes for six.
And for the same reason,
we stayed at a three bedroom four-and-a-half bath VRBO
instead of one of the park hotels offering early entry.
We learned a long time ago:
no matter how many people you pack into a hotel room,
there is only one bathroom per room.
And one bathroom divided by six people
equals misery for five at any given moment.
So: no early entry, no fast pass.
The hunters still wanted to beat the crowd.
The death march began the very instant
our feet hit the parking lot pavement.
The mission was to walk as fast as we could
on the pre-determined straightest path to the ROC.
No sightseeing.
No people watching.
No dilly-dallying.
Not even a bathroom stop,
if the hunters had their way.
But mine is a 69-year-old post-chemo bladder.
It always gets its way.
None of them are under 5’8″.
They are young and fit,
with powerful slender legs
and long, easy strides.
They were hunting with passion.
I was none of those things.
So I raced along,
double-stepping as fast as my little feet –
including the injured big toe –
would carry me.
That first death march
my watch clocked a mile and a half
before we reached the hunting ground.
And that was in the smaller park.
I arrived exhausted,
sweating profusely,
and to be honest – pretty put off.
(Southern for: not at all pleased.)
The rest of the day was a remake of that first death march,
ride after ride after ride.
Hunters hunt.
That’s what they do.
Their hunting went on.
My thrill did not.
Without their big game to direct my focus,
I started looking around for what would entertain me.
I realized what I wanted was to
enjoy a cool breeze,
watch the little kids’ shining faces
getting their pictures made with in-character characters,
sit and have a drink in the shade,
admire the beautiful scenery, and
smell the metaphorical roses.
I had become a gatherer.
I was torn, to be sure.
I wanted the S’kiddles to have a great time.
And while I knew a great time,
in the hunter’s sense,
wasn’t going to happen for me,
I didn’t want the death marches to become the death of me.
So instead of chasing their ROC,
I let the pack go on ahead of me.
With two men over 6’5″,
they were pretty easy to use as landmarks.
And I looked around as I walked.
I saw things I’d had no idea were there.
A bathroom, up the hill to the right.
A water bottle refill station, just to the left.
A Starbucks, tucked into a cute little alcove up ahead.
None of it was their ROC.
All of it was exactly what I needed.
I used to search for the ROC
looking neither left nor right,
and hunt it down.
Now I was noticing shade.
Hunters hunt.
Gatherers gather.
And it turns out,
somewhere around mile two of a death march,
gathering looks a lot more like wisdom than giving up.
-Pattie
