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Each winter, humpback whales leave their 
icy homes for the warm waters of the tropics 
to mate and breed. They journey thousands 
of miles across open seas. Every year, great 
herds of wildebeests roam the planes of Africa, 
searching for greener pastures.  They cross 
crocodile infested rivers and travel under 
the watchful gaze of hungry lions.

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Every fall, pacific salmon leave the open 
ocean and work their way upstream to the 
waters of their birth.  They travel hundreds 
of miles against swift currents, braving 
grizzly bears and fisherman.  Scientists 
are unsure exactly how they are able to locate 
the exact streams in which they were born.

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And each spring, the men of Chestnut Springs 
fill their flasks, load their yeti’s into 
their SUVs and, golf clubs in tow, leave 
the relative tranquility of their suburban 
Cobb enclave for the fertile fields of Lower 
Alabama.  Their journey is fraught with peril. 
They endure bridge falls, little beers, the 
occasional cart incident and Burgett’s playlist.

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They will be subjected to smoke filled double 
wides full of crusty natives, intolerably 
bad karaoke, my snoring, and Burgett’s playlist. 
 Only the strong will survive, and only those 
of marginal intelligence and questionable 
character will return year after year.

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But return they will.  Driven by forces they 
don’t understand but are powerless to resist 
and sustained by brown liquor, junk food 
and beer they will descend upon the shores 
of lake Martin in a sad attempt to recapture 
their road tripping youth.

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And on Sunday they’ll stagger back to East 
Cobb, short on brain cells but long on stories 
and secure in the knowledge that somehow, 
someway, they will find their way back to 
Stillwaters again next year.

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Pass the bourbon, bitches.