As a kid, my family would drive out to Savanna, IL to see some relatives, and we'd always drive down Route 72. Our dog, Patches, would bounce around in the typical "WOO HOO! A ride in the car!" dog's way for a little bit and then he'd eventually settle down, usually ending up on the floor of the front seat passenger side on my mom's feet. We'd always stop at this place to stretch our legs, grab a snack from the cooler in the trunk, and walk Patches.
We noticed something about Patches. That dog knew exactly when we would be getting close to this place. Near as we could figure, he must have recognized the smell of the area or something. We tried to trick him all the time, wanting to figure out how he just KNEW this place. Dad would drive under the speed limit after leaving Hampshire, taking a little longer to get here. He'd slow down way early, after that slight S curve just east. We took a few different back road routes to get here. He wouldn't slow down for the stop sign until the very last minute. We'd agree after getting off the highway that no one was allowed to use the words "walk" or "stop" after turning from 47.
Didn't matter. Patches just *knew* where he was. Every. Single. Time. We'd be a mile away, that dog would raise his head, stand up, stretch, jump on my mom's lap with his front feet on the dashboard, and wag his tail. Every single time, that dog just KNEW.
So, pull in, get out, stretch your legs, grab a cache.