Nothing says summer fun like driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic as millions of travelers hit the open road. Nothing says “I live in a vacation mecca” more than sitting in gridlock with gawking sightseers, returning snowbirds, and established residents just trying to make it through the day without incident.

Preparing for my trip, I’ve packed all essentials: food, water, backpack, tent, first aid kit, and porta-potty. With a full tank of gas and lowered expectations, I depart for what promises to be an exciting adventure.

Parking at the end of our road, I wait to make a left turn onto the highway. I wait, and wait, and wait. My head is a metronome, moving left and right, watching for an opening. I’m listening to Michael Bublé’s emotional rendition of  I’ll Be Home For Christmas. This apropos driving music brings a tear to my eye. It also makes me wonder if I will make it home for Christmas—even though it’s May.

After a 30-minute layover on our bumpy dirt road, I find a break in traffic, punch the accelerator, and merge into the fray. The driver behind me is laying on his horn, unhappy that I found an opening and took it. Now precariously close to my bumper, I see angry furrowed brows in my rearview mirror. Hands are flailing. Fingers are gesturing. The driver is frothing at the mouth. Lips moving rapidly, he yells something indecorous.

Lowering the windows, I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with clean mountain air. For a few moments, all is well. Until the driver of the monster truck in front of me decides to clear carbon from his exhaust. A nuclear charged mushroom cloud is now spewing black smoke through open windows. Glancing over my shoulder, I check on my impatient tailgating friend who is now sitting in my back seat. “Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” he sputters while choking on the acrid pong of exhaust fumes.

Meandering through hairpin turns on the narrow, two-lane highway, I notice a Super Class C motorhome in my peripheral. It appears to be a 5-bedroom, 3-bath home on a semi chassis towing an ocean liner. The driver cannot see me, or anyone else as she blindly merges into my lane. The only indication that someone is at the helm of this enormous rig is a floof of pink cotton candy hair peeking over the top of the steering wheel.

Knowing that anyone with hair that looks like spun sugar is not going to be an accomplished driver, I slam on the brakes and take evasive action. With not a care in the world, Cotton Candy toddles into traffic completely unscathed. Undecided on staying in a hotel or taking a cruise, it appears she brought accommodations for both.

As we leisurely snake through twists and turns, the lake comes into view. Instead of pulling over to enjoy the panoramic views, tourists stop in the middle of the highway and hang out the window to take pictures. After all, no one has anywhere to be.

Up ahead, a bear jam has occurred. Poor bear just wants to make it to his grazing area without being plowed down by a Prius. Bear heard the monster truck coming. Everyone heard the monster truck coming. But he cannot hear the Prius.

Physically unharmed, the bear tries to advance, but is now surrounded by people who have exited their vehicles to take selfies with him. These people are called Tourons. They are also called snacks. Unfortunately, Karma and Darwin have not yet arrived. They’re probably stuck in traffic.

The bear moves on. Tourists climb back into their vehicles. Speedometers barely register as we inch along. My 30-mile round trip excursion took 8 hours. With another shopping trip in the books,  I return home with my meager groceries.  The milk has curdled, the bread is moldy, and the chicken has died of old age.

But like cockroaches, the Tourons not only survive, but have multiplied. They are loutish, demanding creatures that can be seen pillaging, plundering, and relentlessly harassing wildlife. Besides natural selection of the most obtuse individuals, Tourons don’t have any predators. Unfortunately, these seasonal pests can only be eradicated by one thing: cold weather.

After unloading my truck and slam-dunking my weekly provisions into the garbage, I drop to my knees, look toward the heavens, and pray for an early winter. And an early end to tourist season.