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The Valley

The Valley

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On the way to Kentucky it’s the prelude; on the way home, it’s the coda. But whether coming or going it’s never a destination of its own, only a blurred backdrop at 70 miles an hour.

Still, it’s a pleasant one: broad fields, middling mountains, the eye drawn to that combination of height and breadth; to the purples, blues and browns; to the cattle grazing black against the green.

The Shenandoah Valley slices down the western side of the state, 200 miles of in betweenness. If it weren’t for the pulse-pounding traffic of I-81 it would be a meditation. Some day, I’ll pause and make it one.

Flow

Flow

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This morning a choice: Turn left or right out of the park-and-ride lot on my way home to write.

Turn left and I wait twice. Turn right and I drive farther —but without stopping.

I turned right.

It’s about movement. Flow.

It’s about that in so many ways.

Gradual Ascent

Gradual Ascent

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The road from Kentucky to Virginia (or from Virginia to Kentucky, for that matter) is by no means  flat. It crosses a major mountain range, of course, so you don’t choose whether to drive through mountains, only how you will do it.

For much of the route the altitude shifts are buffered by the grade restrictions of the U.S. interstate system. In other words, nothing too extreme. If your car is powerful enough and you’re in a hurry, you may not realize how high you’re climbing.

This got me thinking about the gradual ascent, the steady accretion of duties, the daily growth of a child that’s invisible to you until she sees distant relatives who say, “How much you’ve grown!”

So much happens to us slowly, invisibly, without our permission. It’s probably better that way.

Notes on a Napkin

Notes on a Napkin

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It’s a bad habit, I know, this tendency to scribble on whatever is at hand. Usually, it works. The scraps discovered, assembled, copied. The ideas, such as they are, saved.

But today I’m bereft. The napkin I used on the long trek through the mountains Monday, all the ideas I had while driving, gone.

There’s one more place I can look, one more dark corner. I dig and search and … success. Found it.

I unfold the napkin, examine the squiggles. Yes, there are ideas on this napkin. Two of them I’ve already used in posts. The others, hmmm — they’re not as brilliant as they first appeared.

Next time I’ll keep my eyes on the road.

Drive-Through Winter

Drive-Through Winter

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The season has been mild for us, so I’m glad I took the mountainous route home yesterday. The road winds from Intestate 79 to Interstate 81 on two-lane roads with drop-dead views.

The drop-dead part is not entirely metaphorical. Guardrails are few, elevations are high, descents are steep. Some of the hairpin turns make your stomach drop, especially heading east, when you’re on the one-foot-more-and-I’d-be-over-the-edge side.

My heart was pounding extra hard about this route yesterday, because the road was still sloppy and gritty from a nighttime dusting. I almost turned around, but am so glad I didn’t.

New snow had whitened each branch of each tree, freshened the ground cover, softened all but the craggiest mountain peaks. For miles I drove through tunnels of white under a blue, blue sky. And then, I crossed some divide, descended to some height and the snow was gone.

It was winter without the work. Drive-Through Winter.

EZ Pass?

EZ Pass?

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Our newspaper today was wrapped in a advertisement for Virginia’s new 495 Express Lanes. The construction of these lanes has tied up traffic for years, and now it’s time to enjoy the benefits. But first we have to figure out how to use them.

So into our already harried suburban lives come new complications. To use the lanes you need an EZ Pass transponder. You can use your old transponder if you don’t plan to use the lanes with three or more people in the car. If you do, then you need a new EZ Pass Flex transponder.

To use the lanes you must be able to read, drive and count at the same time. If your truck has two axles, you’re in. If it has more, you’re out. If your car has three people, you’re free; if it has one or two, it’s, well, you’re not sure how much it is because the price depends upon the time of day and the traffic conditions. Prices are posted on a display board that you must read while driving.

Do I sound pessimistic? You betcha. I’m remembering one of my favorite New Yorker covers. It ran around Thanksgiving, a holiday which is becoming known less for giving thanks and carving turkey than for the sitting in traffic on the way to the feast. The cartoon, titled “To Grandmother’s House We Go,” showed a bunch of cars proceeding through the EZ Pass toll gates. Then it showed another group of cars flying above them. They were using the EZR Pass lanes.

Until those are installed, I think I’ll stick with my crowded old tried-and-true routes.

(This is the cover by Bruce McCall; it ran December 9, 2002.)

Moonset

Moonset

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On my drive west Saturday I followed the moon as it slid slowly toward the horizon. It was a beacon for the early hours of my trip, the ones I struggle with most because it’s dark and I’m tired and the steaming mug of tea has cooled and there are hours to go before I enter the Bluegrass state.

But the moon was dramatic in its slantwise trip, thanks to its full state and to the banks of clouds that colored in its wake. It seemed even larger as it reached the horizon. Big and glorious and sun-like in its setting. A full moon can mimic the sun much better than a half or a crescent.

I realized, though, as I admired the moonset, how sun-centric I am, how I compare the satellite unfairly with the star.  The moon has its own motions and missions and poetry.

I missed the moonset’s final moments, because by then I was driving south through the Shenandoah Valley and the western sky was hidden from view.  But it was there when I needed it most.

(A partial-moon moonset viewed from our house.)

Sunday Drive

Sunday Drive

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A late summer afternoon, work and chores are done, the sky still light, the air still delicious, a car in the garage — and not just any car but the red convertible. We pop off the top, drag out the maps, find a route and head west.

For the first few miles we zoom along in familiar traffic, but then the road narrows and the scenery swells into hillocks and pastures. Fields are green and the hay is baled. The landscape soothes, as it always does when left to its own devices.

Half an hour later we cruise down a road we’ve never driven before. Trees arch overhead, stone walls line the lane. I lean my head back against the seat, trail my hand out the window. We could drive like this for hours; it would be fine with me.

Curved and Straight

Curved and Straight

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A walk yesterday along the mall was a study in shapes. The National Museum of the American Indian loomed before me, its curved stone walls a link to the mesas and pueblos of our native past.

Beside it was a straight sidewalk, the stricture into which the native past was placed. We, the inhabitants of the 21st century, we live with them both.

Closest to the surface is the straight line, the crossroads, the grid. But underneath its order are the curved paths of our past. The deer trails and the wagon train trails, the old roads that wound among hills and ridges.

I walked yesterday along the straight path, but I kept my eyes trained on the curves.


Photo: visitingdc.com

Right Turn

Right Turn

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Yesterday I drove down a street I’d never driven before. I turned right instead of going straight, and I was in … the country.

In many parts of Fairfax County there are vestiges of the old mixed in with the new. My first view to the left was a green field and a barn, a scene I pass every day but from another angle and therefore completely altered. It made me think about the scale of times past, houses closer together and right on the road, as if leaning in to tell secrets.

The lane narrowed as I drove until, at the end, I could scarcely turn the car around. With each leg of the passage, I felt myself being drawn further back into Oakton’s past. It wasn’t a bad trip.