I never know what state I'm in...
..other than lost. I am presently in Pennsylvania.
Without the gps machine, though, only the ghost of Robert Frost would know which road I've taken.
New england has been around so long that they have filled up every nook and cranny with people nestled together in little hamlets. (Don't get me started on the language barrier---”towns” are not towns at all, but very large sections of land which contain towns. No more than one town per town, please.) Where there are not towns full of people, there are rivers and road connecting all the dots.
I left Canton Sunday a.m. heading for my friends' Steve Gillette and Cindy Mangsen's home in Bennington Vermont. It took somewhere around fifteen different roads to get to Bennington....excuse me, to NORTH Bennnington. To get to Bennington itself takes another whole set of directions. I came down through Adirondack State Park, alongside slowly moving, very large rivers, much physical beauty, and virtually nobody outside enjoying it. One of the puzzlements of this section of my trip are these huge rivers with nobody playing on them! But back to the roads. I imagine because of the incremental growth pattern --filling in here, filling in there—and the need to utilize every square inch of land, there is no road grid pattern. To get from point A to B, they put a road in. Then when points Aa and Ab And B1 etc. came into being, you just drew a bunch of squiggely lines hooking them all together. In any event, there is much truth to the old Maine joke with the punc hline: “you know, you just can't get there from here.” There is certainly no easy way.
In a minor rebellion sort of mood, I turned off my GPS machine. She and I had been developing something of a contentious relationship, and there were some communication issues...such as my asking “why do you say “bear right here” when what you really mean is “turn right”...there is a difference you know! So after a wonderful visit with Steve and Cindy, and a night spent in the sleeping loft over their music studio (look for one of their CDs and you will not be disappointed: Steve Gillette is the singer songwriter responsible for Darcy Farrow and Molly & Tenbrooks and his sister Darcy (yes Virginia, there IS a Darcy) was due to take over the studio sleeping pallet the day after my departure), I headed south west to my ultimate mid-point destination of Matamoras PA. Being off-GPS I got lost almost immediately. After wandering around a bit, finding ever tinier and quainter hamlets, I stopped to ask for directions to the interstate, which maps indicated should be no more than about twenty miles away.
This proved to be a non-trivial problem. After scratching his head a bit, the gas station owner said I should come inside and talk to Bob. I did and Bob said: “...mumblemumble,bestway, I goto my grandson's that way, so you ...left then straight and pick up Highway 22 South. Take you right there.” [Pause] Me: “I thought I was on Highway 22 south.” Bob: Oh you are. But you gotta, mumble draaaz [incomprehensible] then leftrightleft,,,,,or rightleftright? You'll see. Then you mumble mumble and pick up Highway 22 again.”
Having reconciled with my GPS, we wandered south, found the interstate and safely arrived at our destination in Matamoras. Old friends and new bikes to talk about. More later on the 11th Road King Riders (and Gliders) Annual Rendezvous.
..other than lost. I am presently in Pennsylvania.
Without the gps machine, though, only the ghost of Robert Frost would know which road I've taken.
New england has been around so long that they have filled up every nook and cranny with people nestled together in little hamlets. (Don't get me started on the language barrier---”towns” are not towns at all, but very large sections of land which contain towns. No more than one town per town, please.) Where there are not towns full of people, there are rivers and road connecting all the dots.
I left Canton Sunday a.m. heading for my friends' Steve Gillette and Cindy Mangsen's home in Bennington Vermont. It took somewhere around fifteen different roads to get to Bennington....excuse me, to NORTH Bennnington. To get to Bennington itself takes another whole set of directions. I came down through Adirondack State Park, alongside slowly moving, very large rivers, much physical beauty, and virtually nobody outside enjoying it. One of the puzzlements of this section of my trip are these huge rivers with nobody playing on them! But back to the roads. I imagine because of the incremental growth pattern --filling in here, filling in there—and the need to utilize every square inch of land, there is no road grid pattern. To get from point A to B, they put a road in. Then when points Aa and Ab And B1 etc. came into being, you just drew a bunch of squiggely lines hooking them all together. In any event, there is much truth to the old Maine joke with the punc hline: “you know, you just can't get there from here.” There is certainly no easy way.
In a minor rebellion sort of mood, I turned off my GPS machine. She and I had been developing something of a contentious relationship, and there were some communication issues...such as my asking “why do you say “bear right here” when what you really mean is “turn right”...there is a difference you know! So after a wonderful visit with Steve and Cindy, and a night spent in the sleeping loft over their music studio (look for one of their CDs and you will not be disappointed: Steve Gillette is the singer songwriter responsible for Darcy Farrow and Molly & Tenbrooks and his sister Darcy (yes Virginia, there IS a Darcy) was due to take over the studio sleeping pallet the day after my departure), I headed south west to my ultimate mid-point destination of Matamoras PA. Being off-GPS I got lost almost immediately. After wandering around a bit, finding ever tinier and quainter hamlets, I stopped to ask for directions to the interstate, which maps indicated should be no more than about twenty miles away.
This proved to be a non-trivial problem. After scratching his head a bit, the gas station owner said I should come inside and talk to Bob. I did and Bob said: “...mumblemumble,bestway, I goto my grandson's that way, so you ...left then straight and pick up Highway 22 South. Take you right there.” [Pause] Me: “I thought I was on Highway 22 south.” Bob: Oh you are. But you gotta, mumble draaaz [incomprehensible] then leftrightleft,,,,,or rightleftright? You'll see. Then you mumble mumble and pick up Highway 22 again.”
Having reconciled with my GPS, we wandered south, found the interstate and safely arrived at our destination in Matamoras. Old friends and new bikes to talk about. More later on the 11th Road King Riders (and Gliders) Annual Rendezvous.
Weal, Hippie D. Truly enjoying your vents and meanderings from here on my back porch. I too talk impolitely to the GPS lady (she seems like a real bitch). As far as empty streams, Amish farmers, and C&W music go, I got nothing new to say: it's up to you to get off the hog and swim in 'em, talk to 'em, and make your own, the RIGHT way. You can do it, you svelte thang.
ReplyDelete