“The car in front of me & the tour bus in front of them were on our way up the gap, or so we thought. When the “Road Closed” sign came up out of nowhere on a tight curve, we all pulled up in a line, to gaze at the sign, not far from the “Snow Bowl” turn off, each contemplating what was to be a personal decision. I was already 15 minutes behind schedule, trying to get to a job over the mountain. I let the engine of the Chevy idle, while I reasoned out my choices, pausing my audio book, so that I could concentrate. I knew the route, and its lack of alternatives, once up and over the tip of the notch. If the bridge was truly out, back-tracking from there would cost me another half hour, at least. The tour bus inched forward. Normally, I would be a follower, and assume that someone knew something I didn’t. But ... maybe not a tour bus. Too many recent stories of trucks stuck in place on Smuggler’s notch, a place far north, loomed fresh in my mind. As the tour bus made its move, and the compact car behind haltingly proceeded in tandem, veering around the sign in good faith, I stayed put. I was decidedly, of a different mind. I sat and relaxed, and looked up, which is not an uncommon view, in Vermont. I knew a road. I was not just a traveler. My self-taught education in ways to get around in a state full of raging rivers, and fragile byways, kicked into low gear. I would return the way I’d come, for a few miles, & see what I could do with the next gap, further south. Past the trail head to Moosalamoo, & the old Blueberry Hill lodge I’d once dined at, in a former life. Suddenly, I wanted to see it all again, and remember, just a little, who I’d been. The road seemed to have its old features, still intact. I passed one truck, and the one finger wave, ascending small riles and forest, in quiet solitude. Then the cute cottages, of summer people I imagined, so neatly trimmed and cut into impenetrable swamp land, beneath mightier peaks. Then the lodge itself, still as it had always been. Romantic in its oblivious tribute to remote civility, and the ever-present specter of idyllic perfection, done up country style. This type of thing still twangs on my heart. Who doesn’t like being treated royally, if only for a night, and being embraced by the illusion of “all is well”? Now it seems a bit naive, a bit too youthful, a harbinger of all things rotten. But I digress. It was none-the-less, a viable route to get to the southern gap, where no bridges were out, and once back on pavement, I trailed behind a huge tractor trailer, driving nicely for its size, obeying speed limits, and making me feel safe. Kudos to the smart side of the rural trucking industry. They do amazing things, and deliver goods to forgotten corners. Or places in peril of being isolated. Which is where we’re at again tonight, as my ride home was again diverted, on the other side, and I chose to go through Granville Gulch, a more realistic place, of ancient ramshackle Ski Clubs in farmhouses that would otherwise have fallen down by now. And double wides, river bends, and one wooden bowl factory, that may or may not be open anymore. The gulch had a lonely traffic light, erected for flooding reconstruction, but sort of navigable if one could understand the concurrent red light, and nearby blinking yellow. No one was on the road, so I ran the light, a mere 50 feet or so. Moss Glen was ghostly, pummeling more water in the near darkness than should be possible, yet looking spiritually adept. The Lincoln Gap, not my favorite in an older truck, held no problems. The rain came harder, but being close to home, 4WD seemed to keep my traction steady, guiding me onto the roads that are part of my wiring. In the dim light, I clocked the stories, as they ran by me. The pilot who had died, leaving his widow to maintain a plot in the wilderness; the Goodyear farm, of generations, still dotting the lower portion of the downward road, with a solidity earned, and rooted; the driveway of my son’s house, where I had built, and lived, when I was in that phase of expecting everything from life. Its a crossword puzzle I am working on, even now. It felt good to come home.”
