Road trips are a wonderful opportunity to stop at places you normally wouldn’t think of as being a destination.

I try and deviate from the I-10 concrete whenever I go to Louisiana so I can experience the small towns and back roads.

One year, I took Highway 77 North into Baton Rouge instead of I-10. Even though the road had lots of turns, I saw a slice of Cajun Country I would’ve missed barreling along at 70 miles an hour.

The wooden farmhouses were situated back from the road, surrounded by waving stalks of sugar cane and rusted sugar cane pots. Cows and horses grazed in nearby fields and cattle egrets soared above the cut fields, knowing they’d find tasty morsels left by the harvesters.

But I was in a hurry traveling through Cajun Country around lunch time this past weekend. I started thinking about boiled shrimp and crawfish, and I could practically smell cornbread baking in the oven. I saw a sign for Breaux Bridge and decided to exit the interstate.

Anyone familiar with Cajun history and Louisiana knows Breaux Bridge is the self-proclaimed “Crawfish Capitol” of the state. As soon as one leaves the interstate exit ramp, it’s not hard to understand why they think their crawfish is the best.

Every inch of ground within eyesight of I-10 is covered with junky crawfish and MardiGras trinkets designed to take money from tourists.

The traffic’s bumper to bumper, chain fast-food joints are jammed in back to back, and that little-town charm is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps deeper into the city the old Breaux Bridge lives, but I was in a hurry and grabbed something at the first place I saw.

I wish I’d waited because the next exit heading east was for Henderson, and that’s a much better representation of what the area used to be like than the commercially-packed Breaux Bridge exit.

Down a narrow two-lane road in Henderson, travelers will see simple homes owned by folks who make their living from the rivers and lands in and around Breaux Bridge. Youngsters still ride their bikes down this road, although they’re careful to watch for people headed to Pat’s of Henderson at the end of the road.

Pat’s is a well-known staple for true Cajun foodies, and it’s relaxing sitting on the deck, watching jon boats go by, fishermen lazily casting their lines into the water.

As I pushed my way back into the merciless I-10 traffic, a box of greasy fries and shrimp next to me, I thought about a trip we made to Yellowstone National Park years ago. I’d picked up a Yellowstone Park travel guide book, and the man who wrote it  knew the backroads of the national park.

We followed his advice and were always pleasantly surprised. One afternoon, while waiting in grid-lock traffic in the park, I read his entry about a side trip inside the park.

We were nearby, so we followed his route. At the end of the one-lane road, we walked about 50 yards along a path worn down by deer and other critters and found a beautiful waterfall and a small lake filled with crystal-clear, icy-cold water.

I wrote the author a letter, thanking him for his advice that allowed us to experience the simplistic beauty of Yellowstone the way it was meant to be seen – quietly and up close.

I thought about that trip to Yellowstone as I passed the exit for Henderson., regretting I hadn’t waited and gotten off at that quiet exit. I knew the poet Robert Frost was right: “I took the road less traveled, and that has made all the difference.

      This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald