Not All Roads Go Through

This seems a simple truism, and, of course, it is. There are lots of dead end roads in the world; I even grew up on one (it might be amusing one day to wax lyrical on the obscene phrase "cul de sac" that my mother unwittingly liked to use to describe Oak Knoll). There are dead end roads and roads to nowhere all over the place.

But the Delorme Vermont Atlas let me down today. Not all roads go through -- not even those that look like they should. Usually, Delorme is precise: if you look carefully, for instance, you can see that Buck Hill Road East and Buck Hill Road West in Hinesburg Do Not Meet -- you can't get there from here. But Hayden Hill Road? It ought to have gone through. And if it had, I would have come out on the other side of Hayden Hill on Texas Hill Road, neatly on my way to Huntington.

Instead, I had an adventure. When I got to the big broad stretch of the road where the schoolbuses, snowplows and mailmen turn around, I just kept on going, blithely and quixotically trusting in my map. Besides, there were tire tracks! That meant people had driven this way. The road (such as it was) kept going, down, down, down, getting more and more rutted, and rocky. It wasn't long before I was in first gear, threading my way gingerly among the ruts and the (large) stones that were scattered here and there. Down, down, down... I laughed nervously as I heard the alarming sound of small rocks bouncing beneath the vehicle. Down still more.

Suddenly, I looked ahead and spotted two things. Up ahead, the texture of the road seemed to change as it turned to the right -- and was that a house through the trees? Maybe! I must be approaching the other side of the road, Hayden Hill East. But not yet. I wasn't there yet, alas. Closer at hand was a creek. And yes, it went right across the "road." Uh oh.

Now, I've always been completed fascinated by fords. I find the idea that I could just drive my car across a stream bed completely irresistible. I remember using a ford in Owings Mills, MD once, with Margery, and Robert and Pat and I drove across at least a couple of fords out in the back country of New Mexico, visiting Riley. I also used to drive regularly across a small ford in Simsbury, CT, except when the road was closed for flooding. So exciting! The drama! The danger! So naturally, I forged ahead.

Crunch. Whirr. Whirr. Oh, shit. The bottom of the Subaru was stuck on the edge of the creek. Whirr. The tires were racing. So was my heart. Oh, shit! In a total panic, with a rush of adrenaline, I threw the car in reverse and held my breath. Puh-leeeeeeeeese.....

Phew. The car sailed back UP and over the hump, and blessedly, blissfully, thankfully, there was a space right there to turn around in (I was NOT looking forward to backing up). I should have stopped and taken pictures, stopped and enjoyed the stream, stopped and listened to the silence of the woods, stopped and rested the poor car... but no. I was too shit-scared for any of that. I high-tailed it back to Hayden Hill Road West, and headed straight down the hill towards the paved roads of civilization.

Not all roads go through. I could probably have gotten through this one with a jeep or an ATV or a Hummer or something, but the Subaru Forester was just not going to cut it. And maybe, just maybe, those tire tracks I noticed were from idiots like me, who innocently trusted their Delorme atlases ,and then had to turn around just before the creek, just as I did. Not all roads go through. Nope. You can't get there from here. Not no way, not no how.