Each winter, humpback whales leave their icy homes for the warm waters of the tropics to mate and breed. They journey thousands of miles across open seas. Every year, great herds of wildebeests roam the planes of Africa, searching for greener pastures. They cross crocodile infested rivers and travel under the watchful gaze of hungry lions.

Every fall, pacific salmon leave the open ocean and work their way upstream to the waters of their birth. They travel hundreds of miles against swift currents, braving grizzly bears and fisherman. Scientists are unsure exactly how they are able to locate the exact streams in which they were born.

And each spring, the men of Chestnut Springs fill their flasks, load their yeti’s into their SUVs and, golf clubs in tow, leave the relative tranquility of their suburban Cobb enclave for the fertile fields of Lower Alabama. Their journey is fraught with peril. They endure bridge falls, little beers, the occasional cart incident and Burgett’s playlist.

They will be subjected to smoke filled double wides full of crusty natives, intolerably bad karaoke, my snoring, and Burgett’s playlist. Only the strong will survive, and only those of marginal intelligence and questionable character will return year after year.

But return they will. Driven by forces they don’t understand but are powerless to resist and sustained by brown liquor, junk food and beer they will descend upon the shores of lake Martin in a sad attempt to recapture their road tripping youth.

And on Sunday they’ll stagger back to East Cobb, short on brain cells but long on stories and secure in the knowledge that somehow, someway, they will find their way back to Stillwaters again next year.

Pass the bourbon, bitches.