The journey is often the story.

The untold story, really.

I remember pulling up to the Fens area, the Back Bay, in Boston one night when I was still a high schooler and closing a locked car door in a hurry with the keys still in the ignition and the car still running. Seriously. The Fens area is close to Fenway Park, and the Red Sox had already started Game 1 of a twi-night doubleheader (remember those?) at Fenway.

Parking near Fenway? That’s an impossible dream.

I pulled over a curb and onto some grass, breaking about every City of Boston vehicle regulation you can think of. But, hey, there were a bunch of other cars parked the same way. Let’s go. The game has started.

Then, there was the day I was covering a PGA Tournament and got there driving a car with expired license plates. You know how that story ends. It’s the only time I ever stood in a courtroom when I wasn’t a reporter.

I have sat in a line of five miles of cars while waiting to go to a North Carolina State versus Clemson football game on the same day of the North Carolina State Fair. I have cut a path across the track at Daytona International Speedway and ducked into a tunnel beneath the track at Charlotte Motor Speedway. I paid $40 to a guy for parking in a private yard near the NCAA Final Four in St. Petersburg, Florida, only to see a homeowner running out of his house, a rifle raised into the air, because it was HIS yard, not the guy standing out there taking $20 bills.

All of this craziness brings me to the night of July 11, when Mid-Prairie’s softball team played an Iowa Class 2A softball game at Chariton.

It is the home of Hy-Vee’s distribution center.

And lots of trains.

And little else.

But when I shove a reporter’s notebook into my back pocket and slip a credential pass around my neck, and hit the gas station for a full tank plus a Coke, I will get there. Period. It’s a quest. And this little tale will tell you what that quest turns into some nights.

I did not see a pitch that night.

But I got there. Success. Sort of.

I once arrived at a college basketball game with 1 minute, 10 seconds left. A coach I know saw me walk in with 1:10 remaining. So embarrassed. He called me a week later to tell me that was the best story he had ever seen written by a guy who walked in at 1:10. Chariton was something like that.

The plan to reach this rural town in south central Iowa was this: Take Interstate-80 west, then get off in Newton and head south on Highway 14. It goes right into Chariton. Easy.

Instead, I should have just followed a Hy-Vee truck. Any Hy-Vee truck.

Five miles into my journey on Highway 14, I saw a “road closed ahead” sign. Really? I ignored it.

Then, yep, the road ends. Completely. Two lanes turn into Iowa dust. Not even one lane. No detour sign. Nothing.

I reversed myself and found a road that goes east. OK. I’ll just go until I find a north-south road, then head south on that one. It has to go somewhere.

I did that. After five more miles, the next road actually intersected with Highway 14. Guess what? More orange barricades. Road closed.

I turned around. I found another road. It just ended. Now I’m on gravel headed to who knows where.

I thought about just cashing it in. Done. Going home.

No. This is a quest.

And I’m mad.

I turned around. I wound up on bumpy neighborhood roads somewhere near Newton. I have no idea where. I was in Nebraska maybe. I glanced off to my right and there’s a high school baseball tournament game about to start. But where?

After more than an hour of this nonsense, I wound up right where I began, on I-80 with orange construction signs clearly in vision.

I got off another exit. Hot air balloons soared overhead. I headed south going around Des Moines and finally found that north-south road I was seeking, Highway 65. I went through places like Avon Lake and Scotch Ridge and Liberty Center and Norwood. I found Highway 34, which goes through Chariton. And I found a Hy-Vee truck.

I followed the Hy-Vee truck.

And eventually, I ran into a softball field.

I saw Mid-Prairie’s Golden Hawks assembled in the outfield grass while Chariton’s players happily danced away into the spectator sections to greet their parents.

I know what that means.

But I got the story.

And now I know where Hy-Vee lives.

Another Iowa adventure.

News columnist Paul Bowker can be reached at bowkerpaul1@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter: @bowkerpaul