The stuff trips are made of

THERE ARE THE THINGS men love just for the way they fit together. A well-built bridge. A dovetailed furniture joint. Tea Leoni.

I am packing the car with that in mind, hoping to achieve perfect harmony in all the many parts. Engineering as art. A sexy functionality.

My goal? To drive 400 miles without a rattle in the back seat, without so much as a cue ball’s click of sound.

“Can we bring the tennis racquets?” the little girl asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“I’m bringing the cat,” vows the older daughter.

August beckons, so off we go into the wild green yonder, off into the mountains with too much luggage and other personal gear. Five gallons of body lotion and scented shampoos. Pedicure sets. Romance novels. A quarter-ton of kids.

“There’s bug spray in the garage?” I ask.

“It’s old,” my wife says. “Does bug spray go bad?”

“It’s already bad,” I say. “That’s why bugs don’t like it.”

“What I’m asking, is there any sort of expiration date?” she says. “For bug spray, I mean.”

Around and around we go on the bug spray issue. We sound like a couple of grad students over-analyzing Melville. But we’re discussing bug spray. The nuances of such. The inherent glories.

“Maybe we should purchase the bug spray when we’re up there?” my wife says.

“That’s good,” I say, “then we wouldn’t have to bother with the stuff we already own.”

On the kitchen counter, there’s a list of items not to forget: Bikes. Helmets. Walkie-talkies. Beach towels. Pancake syrup. A dozen board games, stacked like coffins near the door.

The way things are going, we may be the first family ever to go off on vacation in a Mayflower moving van. Even then, there would be items bungeed to the top. Coolers. Camp chairs. Couple of kids. Certainly that miserable cat.

“Don’t you hate bringing all this junk?” I ask.

“It’s all stuff we need,” my wife insists.

None of it is “stuff we need.” It is merely “stuff we want to drag 400 miles into the mountains.” It will have to be packed, then repacked perfectly, to fit it all in.

Undoubtedly, halfway through the car trip, we will unpack it all so we can find someone’s inhaler. Then we will pack it again in a rush in some Denny’s parking lot near Fresno. I’ll end up spending the rest of the road trip enduring the tap-tap-tap of a fishing rod tip against a window.

“Are we going to fish?” the boy asks as I collect more summer gear.

“Does a bear have hair?” I ask.

“What is this, ‘Jeopardy!’ ?” he says.

And off we go into our little basement to check out our arsenal, savoring the musty-wonderful smell of fishing gear pulled from storage.

“Is this bait still good?” the boy asks, taking a jar of Power Bait goo from the tackle box.

“Sure, it’s good.”

“It doesn’t smell good,” the boy says.

“That’s because it’s bait,” I say.

Ah, the musk of an impending car trip. Bug spray. Bait. Dads.

Fortunately, there is also the mountain air to look forward to. Brand-new air. Just the thought of it invigorates us as we prepare for this much-needed break.

Two weeks of packing reminds us, as vacations always do, that there is no emotion sweeter than pure anticipation. Not happiness. Not lust. Certainly not love.

And vacation anticipation may be the richest anticipation of them all.

“How about singing to your baby brother,” my wife asks, looking for some help as she packs.

“Sing what?” the boy asks.

“A nice lullaby,” his mother urges.

The boy thinks a moment.

“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer....”

How much do we need this vacation? One night, with the baby screaming, we argued for an hour over who ate all the avocado from the salad. Another night, the kids spent two hours trying to find the dog’s bellybutton.

So we’ll savor this upcoming week. It will go far too fast, as will we, trying to work satisfaction into every available moment.

“Try Bridge 9,” says my buddy Mike, suggesting a valued fishing hole.

For the first time since junior high school, I write something on my wrist.

“Bridge 9?” I ask.

“You can park right along the road,” he says.

Bridge 9 it will be. With 2-year-old bug repellent and 4-year-old bait. Minnows scurrying in the shallows, in a stream sweet as champagne.

Beware, you old bridge. We’re on our way.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.