Someone always knows another way to get you where you’re going. It’s always shorter, faster, less “trafficky,” or in some way better than the route you foolishly chose.
In our most recent example some people at a party in Bridgewater – nearly all flatlanders*- knew a way through the woods that would get us back to our campground in Plymouth more efficiently than the boring, albeit paved, way that had gotten us there.
At the end of the party or rather, at the point when my party gene receded, we made our good byes and humored our hosts by attempting to find the suggested road. We did this in spite of mention of a five-way intersection and promises that “you can’t miss it.”
We missed the five-way intersection; unless a couple of abandoned logging roads count. The road twisted up through a stand of hardwoods and narrowed as the height of the grass at its middle increased. At the top of a steep incline the road leveled and widened a bit and the land that abutted it changed to pasture.
Our headlights caught a pair of eyes and I came to a quick stop that drew a cloud of dust around the car. A large doe looked at us from where she had been feeding at the base of a gnarly apple tree. Across the road from her, another smaller deer bounded into the pasture and disappeared into a flash of white. The doe, transfixed by our lights, looked in our direction for a few seconds before leaping a small ditch and disappearing in the opposite direction.
We started up again and a few minutes later, the road became paved.
“This is a good sign.” I said to Renée who agreed.
Shortly after that, the road became gravel again.
I was beginning to suspect we would spend what remained of the night exploring the maze of roads that checkered the woods between Bridgewater and Plymouth. At about the point where suspicion was turning into despair a cemetery appeared at the right side of the road.
“I know where we are! That’s Coolidge’s grave.”
“I think you’re right,” Renée answered.
Buoyed by the landmark we continued down the road that I knew intersected Route 100 and that would take us to Coolidge State Park and our camper.
“Gives new meaning to the phrase “Keep cool with Coolidge,” we agreed.
*Anyone not from Vermont – even if it’s Colorado. This is only relevant because in this case the flatlanders were, for the most part, transplanted from New York or New Jersey, capital of the “another way” school.
In our most recent example some people at a party in Bridgewater – nearly all flatlanders*- knew a way through the woods that would get us back to our campground in Plymouth more efficiently than the boring, albeit paved, way that had gotten us there.
At the end of the party or rather, at the point when my party gene receded, we made our good byes and humored our hosts by attempting to find the suggested road. We did this in spite of mention of a five-way intersection and promises that “you can’t miss it.”
We missed the five-way intersection; unless a couple of abandoned logging roads count. The road twisted up through a stand of hardwoods and narrowed as the height of the grass at its middle increased. At the top of a steep incline the road leveled and widened a bit and the land that abutted it changed to pasture.
Our headlights caught a pair of eyes and I came to a quick stop that drew a cloud of dust around the car. A large doe looked at us from where she had been feeding at the base of a gnarly apple tree. Across the road from her, another smaller deer bounded into the pasture and disappeared into a flash of white. The doe, transfixed by our lights, looked in our direction for a few seconds before leaping a small ditch and disappearing in the opposite direction.
We started up again and a few minutes later, the road became paved.
“This is a good sign.” I said to Renée who agreed.
Shortly after that, the road became gravel again.
I was beginning to suspect we would spend what remained of the night exploring the maze of roads that checkered the woods between Bridgewater and Plymouth. At about the point where suspicion was turning into despair a cemetery appeared at the right side of the road.
“I know where we are! That’s Coolidge’s grave.”
“I think you’re right,” Renée answered.
Buoyed by the landmark we continued down the road that I knew intersected Route 100 and that would take us to Coolidge State Park and our camper.
“Gives new meaning to the phrase “Keep cool with Coolidge,” we agreed.
*Anyone not from Vermont – even if it’s Colorado. This is only relevant because in this case the flatlanders were, for the most part, transplanted from New York or New Jersey, capital of the “another way” school.
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