When she grew old, my mother used to say, “All my best campfires are behind me.” She was actually quoting some other nature lover. Patrick McManus? Edward Abbey? John Muir? Cousin Sherry? Please, God, not Euell Gibbons.

At the time, I thought she mostly meant how she had changed, her body eroding away as it will surely happen to us all. But now, I see she also meant how the campfires themselves had changed.

I’ve always loved to travel, and have seen wondrous things. Stonehenge across a field of daisies. Machu Picchu at dawn. The Aurora Borealis from Big Sky country. Gannet colonies in New Zealand. Humpbacks and their calves off Cabo. I’m glad to have seen most of these things before the invention of the tour bus. These are some pretty dandy campfires.

My feet hurt and I hate the heat these days. High blood pressure and acid reflux. I no longer seek out beauty without giving a big dash of thought to my creature comforts.

So here’s what I want: I want the things I haven’t seen to come to me.

I would like to see the Taj Mahal without entering India. Victoria Falls without encountering Africa’s army of poor children. I want to take a photo of the Parthenon with no other tourists in the picture. I’ll never drive to Ayers Rock, so please bring it just outside my window.

You might say I could see pretty much all these things by just visiting Las Vegas for a night. But I want the real McCoy in living color.

You’re right. It’s pretty goddamn selfish on the back nine today, thank you so much for pointing it out. But to quote another writer lost to time, it’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to.