Once a year, we make a pilgrimage to Bass Pro Shops in San Jose. It’s a full-family affair. Everyone finds something to spark their curiosity. Gear, spectacle, or just time together. The trip always delivers joy.

It’s odd, really. An hour away. Not a casual drive. I could save gas and just buy online, or swing by Dick’s Sporting Goods in Serramonte.

But we go anyway. Partly for practical reasons. Partly for something deeper tied to dreams, wishes, and myths.

First, the gear’s legit. Especially the shoes and outerwear. Built tough. Made to last. You have to try things on, too. It’s not really online-friendly, not when returns are a hassle.

Second, and honestly more fun: the spectacle. The whole place is outrageous. A cathedral of hunting and fishing. A giant waterfall cascading into a tank full of oversized crappie and bass. Forests of taxidermy. Camouflage for miles. It’s like Disneyland strapped on a rifle and went fishing. So American.

But there’s more. Bass Pro runs on myth. The dream of landing a monster fish. The wish to provide food for the family. The legend of the rugged outdoorsman. It taps into the male ego hard. And I feel it.

I get it. I take it seriously… kind of. I’ll cast for hours at the beach at Crissy Field, chasing the dream of a giant halibut. But I only wade in up to my knees. The ocean freaks me out. And I respect it. Lot’s of fast toothy creatures out there that are way larger than me.

I like the outdoors. Love it, even. But I also love getting home without having stepped on a stingray.

Bass Pro scratches a weird itch. It’s half practical, half fantasy. A place where I can prep for real adventures and also pretend I’m tougher than I am.

2