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Going To Rest Area National Park

My mother was getting ready to leave the other day to go home but she came up with an idea before walking out the door.

“I’ll stay one more night if you’ll take me to the rest area across the lake.”

“Do you know how ridiculous that might sound to anyone listening?” I asked.

But I got it.

I knew exactly what she was asking. We’d been hearing about Rest Area National Park since I’d moved back to the lake and we’d been meaning to go for a visit. And I’d seen its bright lights up on the hill across the lake.

And thinking there were worse bribes, I agreed to take her.

My brother-in-law had stopped at the rest area a few years before on his way from Ohio to Albany and he’d been raving about the place ever since.

“Nicest rest area I’ve ever seen,” he said. He’d stayed for an hour sitting at a table overlooking the lake because that’s the kind of spot that can derail your travel plans. You kind of get sucked in.

And others had mentioned the rest area to us when we told them where we lived.

“Great rest area there,” they’d say.

So, my mom and I piled in the car with a picnic basket and set out for the bridge and then across the lake, planning to have a snack at the rest area and watch the sun lower in the sky, leaving before it got too late.

On the way there my daughter called to say hello and to ask what we were up to.

“We’re headed out to visit a rest area,” I told her.

“Seriously?” she asked, although my family never seems to question the strange circumstances I tend to find myself in with my mother.

“It’s a long story,” I told her. “But if you never hear from me again, I was kidnapped by a trucker and I’m heading down 86.”

When we arrived, I got out of the car and felt a little less ridiculous for being there.

“Wow,” I said. “This could be a national park.”

It really is beautiful up there, up on the hill, overlooking our little slice of heaven. We sat at a table for a few hours reading the informational plaques, taking pictures, and just gazing across the lake.

My mother called my daughter and dangled the idea of the rest area as a wedding venue one day.

“You’d be lucky to be here,” she told her, not admitting how odd it would be to have “rest area” scrolled on the wedding invites.

But the truth is that it’s a special spot up there, offering something those of us at sea level don’t get to appreciate too often. So on those days you’re craving a little altitude and want to mosey somewhere to look out at the lake, well – I can’t think of a better spot. Just disregard the “Rest Area” sign.

And getting to my point: too bad that rest area isn’t some kind of public park. Not that it’s wasted on our traveling countrymen who need a place to rest. I’m offering not a criticism but an observation here: spots like that are special. So it deserves, perhaps, some other designation other than just “rest area.”

“Chautauqua Lake National Park and Rest Area” would be fine.

My mother took on the role of welcome committee as we sat there, talking to weary travelers as they departed their cars.

And every single one of them got out of their car and stood and looked at the lake. Some folks – just as my brother-in-law had done – even decided to stay, not wiling to waste a good view. Some even made a commitment to staying for a while, stretching out on the grass, reluctant to get back in their cars.

There was a kiosk in the lobby with brochures but I was thinking how we’re missing a great marketing opportunity. We should have an attractive wooden cart selling our honey, our jam, our corn. I’ve seen this sort of set up at other rest areas – even a farmers market at one in Pennsylvania.

But can you think of a better marketing tool – this rest area above the lake?

It certainly beckons traveler’s to come back again for a visit or at least take a peek at what they’re missing.

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