“Somehow, the late color is more poignant, causing an unexpected strike of longing, or melancholy. On good days, it hits like a balm. On bad days, like a request of some urgency, that one is at a loss to fulfill. We are geared to improve and many of us would jump at the chance, but when met with too many unknowns, the way forward is often unclear. Being human right now feels like being caught in a wild eddy. The copious waters only remind us of how much we have to give & how impossible it seems to focus that energy, despite the force of nature that roils inside us, as the only outcome of wanting falls back into waiting, and a torturous sense of impotence. Perhaps that’s why projects become so important, being tasked, and doing, and constructing objects, and seeing the things we put our hand to, grow, that someone else might use them. Even the smallest accomplishments in this regard, make a day livable. Making a cup of coffee for someone, writing a song to share, hammering together a bench, or a garden. So when the call came to me, after dark, as I was settling in for the night, I didn’t hesitate. “Can you pick me up in Rutland?” she said. “Of course,” I said. Not having to think about it, is also the mark of a mission, with results that can be measured. I set out in the truck, without much gas, half of me knowing that on a Sunday night, not much would be open. But her car had been towed, and she was soon to be dropped off somewhere, a gas station, or parking lot, due to some misunderstanding created by city officials poor use of signage. Who would have known that there was a difference, between an interstate “Park & Ride”, and a municipal one? No overnight parking was something they had neglected to post. I put the truck in 4WD, with a new plan formulating in my mind, to have her dropped further along, more into the mountainous section of the projected route, an area I knew well. “Let’s meet in Stockbridge instead,” I texted, and she replied, “Okay”. I was hoping for no new washouts; it was another deluge, with rain beginning to slam my windshield as soon as I headed south on dirt roads heading towards the gap. My familiarity with the less traveled portions of Vermont, has always done me right. And for better or worse, I’ve stuck to my guns being partial to gravel, and the solace of trailers, forest gates, shuttered up supply stores, and long stretches of fence line, battered down by years of dedicated use. I guess I feel safer, knowing I’m in a part of the country, where folks have worked and lived, for centuries, that’s still trying. This particular road, even in the murky tomes of its after hours, could show me glimpses of a dying bonfire, a silent blinking construction light, the mist-coated hills beneath which Robert Frost once built his stone walls, & familiar camp roads, still heading to their destinations, though vacant. Oddly comforting, though desolate; fully present while being shrouded by weather, something no one in these parts can feel separate from, nor should they. “Can you meet us in Pittsfield?” she texted, when upon regaining my cell service, I received her message. “Is the gas station open there?” I replied. The minutes ticked on, as I drove, with no response. Finally, my phone once again glowed, to tell me: no, as I wound my way down the back side of the range, near Texas Falls. I had a little time to think. “I’m in Hancock” I texted back, once the truck was idling, stopped, at my next junction. “Text me back in five minutes. I’ll know if the pumps are still on in Rochester”. We were still on track, vaguely heading towards the eventual merger, of our twisting paths across Vermont, at least if I didn’t run out of gas. It was another ten minutes to civilization & the next approximation of services, as I imagined them, although truth be told, it being Sunday night, this was a bit of a fantasy on my part. I continued along, passing the ranger station, the blueberry farm, and a low country of river frontage, known for its propensity for flooding. I was still above the water line, though the rain was beating in harder. I tried relaxing, as an exercise, better than any form of panic, and likely more what I needed to succeed. Pulling into Rochester, I felt relief, and the ease of knowing the village was still alive. Alive, but rather past any period of normal daily activity, as I was soon to discover, arriving into the lot of the convenience store that held up later than most, during the weekdays. I pulled in reflexively, gliding in slowly like a docking motorboat, as the pummeling abated, under a protective roof, of sorts. Well, it was wishful thinking, that pumps with no functioning card reader would be open after hours. It was 15 past closing, on a Sunday, at 8:15. “Can you meet me in Bethel?” I texted. I didn’t want to sound desperate, since she was probably more stressed than I, at any moment under threat of being dumped on the side of the road. I eye-balled my gas gauge. It was not yet fully on E. One more ride up and over another set of mountains was surely in my cards. I could make it to Bethel, probably, and it being closer to the interstate, my gamble to find gas was not going to end in disaster. I settled in with my heater on high, wasting a little bit of that gas, on respite, awaiting her reply. “Okay,” she texted back. “I know the store in the village will be open, “ I lied, but it was a lie based mostly in fact. I’d done some pretty late night stuff over that way, during the Tweed, driving into town to pick up the kind of supplies, that only a rock music festival can warrant. Please don’t let me down, I intoned to myself, only slightly embarrassed still about some of those crazy times I’d screwed up pretty bad, from a personal point of view and set of personal ethics. Nothing I couldn’t write about in the future, and will, from the viewpoint of what rural musicians go thru, trying to make their way in the world. As it turned out, there was gas in Bethel, and I did connect with my passenger. She was a delight to drive home with, and we laughed, and chatted, and went slow, back through the whole lot of convoluted “routes to China” or whatever it was that explorers like Magellan were looking for. Let’s just say, I do know a few inland routes that will get you there, come hell or high water.”
