My 13-year-old named our makeshift Spring Break trip to Saluda, NC Friday afternoon with the above moniker, as the Governor of Georgia signed an order on Thursday saying our entire state had to “shelter in place” starting at 6pm Friday evening. At 3:15pm, we drove for 3 hours without stopping, concluding at a house a friend of mine owns whose law practice is in Columbia, SC; his name is Bill. I’d written Bill a couple weeks ago to inquire about beaches and parks in South Carolina once I realized our flight to Amsterdam / Berlin wasn’t (realistically) going to happen. He indicated the beaches were unlikely to be open by the time our children’s break arrived, but that we could use his vacation house in Saluda. We confirmed Thursday afternoon; we packed and left as soon as my Friday morning deposition via Zoom concluded.

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Bill told me he heard anyone with an out-of-state tag entering North Carolina would be forced to quarantine 14 days before he could do anything, go anywhere, or leave. I called the nearest visitors’ bureau to Saluda and talked to whoever answered the phone for half an hour. She recommended I print the email on which Bill gave me permission to use his house (since short term rentals are suspended) and that we had to stay in the house and not go into town for any meals, groceries, etc.; in essence, we needed to stay away from locals.

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We arrived just after 6pm. I struggled to figure out the wi-fi as the children picked where they’d sleep–as far from each other as they could possible get without sleeping outside. Bill’s vacation house is huge; the children were on 3 separate floors. We figured out his TV and Netflix configuration and enjoyed “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” before burning some of his firewood and playing horseshoes outside.

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The next morning, I climbed the spiral staircase to where my son chose to sleep–a little room I called the “crow’s nest”–and watched the sun rise across the wooded mountain; when the rest of the family joined us, my bride noticed with surprise that so many of the leaves were still bright yellow at this time of year; 30 minutes later, we realized the leaves were green–the sun had illuminated them as it rose above the horizon.

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We drove to the area I thought would lead us to Little Bradley Falls and let Scout the dog lead us along the Green river, over downed trees, and around other groups of “shelter in place” ignorers as we climbed up and down ridges through the woods until finally realizing after a few miles that we’d chosen the wrong trail. We enjoyed the overlook where 8 people have died, managed to avoid their fate, and took pictures from the rock ledge hundreds of feet in the air, as we stared across the tree-lined chasm at the larger waterfall named Bradley that poured down the mountain.

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On the way back, we stopped in a creek to see, hear, and touch the cool waters.

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Driving back to the house, we saw a restaurant serving takeout; it was called Green River BBQ. We pulled over and ordered ribs, pork sandwiches, mac & cheese, and local beers we drank from mason jars like wild animals. The bbq was so delicious that we went back the next day to get a bottle of the “hot” bbq sauce for use at home.

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After enjoying our bbq “lupper” on Bill’s porch, we watched the sun set over the treeline from a swing he has down the driveway a bit. Not content to let the evening conclude peacefully, Scout pursued a chipmunk into a hollow tree stump, threw her head and neck inside, and fought the angry vermin with her face. A few seconds later, the chipmunk somersaulted through the air as Scout turned to face it, caught it before it hit the leaves, and snapped its spine right in front of us. Valuing my functional spine as I do, I knew then that I really need to watch my tone if ever frustrated with Scout.

I needed a drink, so my bride made us cocktails with the French press she packed, and the children spent time with the enormous metal chicken in the back yard while I read a Hunter S. Thompson biography at which I laughed out loud more times than I’ve ever laughed at a nonfiction piece.

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Sunday, rain was predicted, so we enjoyed games we’d packed, more books, and exploring the woods around Bill’s house in between storms. I called Delta and finally cancelled the flight we were supposed to take to Amsterdam that evening. My strategy to wait until the “last minute” worked, as by the time I reached out to them, the trip home had been cancelled, meaning the flight disappeared from the “my trips” section of the app when I looked at it, and we all got our airline miles and money back instead of an e-credit we’d have to use on another flight this year (as happened when I had to cancel a trip to New Orleans for a conference in mid-March). I had dreaded that call for weeks and weeks, but it was not as upsetting as I’d thought it’d be. Certainly, calling from a vacation spot helped.

Monday, April 6, was my 11th soloversary. My bride made us a delicious breakfast before we set off in search of the trail we’d missed on Saturday that lead to Little Bradley Falls. It exceeded expectations.

The parking area, unlike what we saw on Saturday, was nearly empty. We saw nary a soul on the hike to the falls, and once there, just a family of four with their dog. We spent a couple hours enjoying the stream, the woods, and the falls.

That afternoon, we baked chocolate chip cookies that didn’t rise like they do in the oven at home, but fused together to make a giant crusty chocolate chip sheet cake that looked like trash but tasted like celebration. Afterward, I added Nikka Whisky from the Barrel from our trip to San Francisco last summer, my last Cuban cigar from our anniversary trip in November, and a fire on the patio before we showed the children the eminently relevant “Groundhog Day” that evening.

We decided we’d head home after lunch on Tuesday, which we were able to do without incident from NC, SC, or GA police. Our “barely legal” getaway was a success.

This trip was the most antithetical to our family’s “normal” as we’ve ever taken. I didn’t know we could go anywhere until Thursday afternoon before we left Friday after lunch; I wasn’t even sure we’d be able to get to our destination until we crossed the state line without sirens or road blocks, and I didn’t know we’d be able to leave the house once we arrived until we tried it Saturday morning. We had no plans for what we’d do each day, and we didn’t know when we’d go home until a couple hours before we drove away. I’m usually of the Hemingwayesque mindset that having fun is too important to leave to chance, but these days, one can’t plan fun, as what’s disallowed can change each day, and the rules vary by city, county, and state.

In the few days since we’ve been home, each of the children and my bride have–without prompting–thanked me for throwing together this trip and driving them a few hours away for a change of scenery. While the location of the trip won’t be as memorable as the past spring breaks’ trips have been, the circumstances surrounding it certainly will be, and I’ll forever be grateful for my bride’s spontaneity and Bill’s generosity that made it a feasible escape, ambiguous legality be damned.