Photo by Jan Canty on Unsplash.

The Epiphanies of Driving on Country Roads

The allure of the world in its natural state is a call to slow down, take the road less traveled, and be present.

Road trips. They’re as much a part of summer as beach umbrellas and s’mores around a campfire  Living in the northeast where winters can be long and the roads slush-covered well into April, the lure of the blacktop beckons to those of us with wanderlust in our souls. 

My journey towards becoming a road tripper started early, when my parents would pile my three brothers and I into our Rambler station wagon and drive us to exotic places like Watkins Glen, Buttermilk Falls, Fair Haven, and one year, across the border–our first time ever in a foreign country–to Montreal, Canada. 

To me, every trip was beguiling no matter the destination. I spent these rides with my head out the window, hair flying in the wind, watching the landscape unfold as a patchwork of farmland, pastures, evergreen forests, and craggy shale walls with signs that warned of falling rocks. 

I’m sure these excursions influenced my love of the open highway and the magic of simply pushing a gas pedal and transporting myself to a whole new world. I’ve logged thousands of miles over the years which have taken me east as far as Cape Cod, west to Chicago, south to the Carolinas, and north to the Adirondacks. 

Most of these trips were taken on highways that offered rapid speeds but flat, monotonous vistas that seemed never-ending with nothing but the occasional billboard to break up the scenery. I settled for it because I wanted to get wherever I was going as fast as possible. 

It wasn’t until my fifties when I became less inclined to hurry, that I started to appreciate the tempo of two-lane country roads that revealed epiphanies of sublime beauty and majestic grandeur. Not long ago on a drive to one of the Finger Lakes, a hairpin turn slowed me down to thirty-five and, as I rounded the curve, a mirror-smooth lake appeared through the trees, sun glinting off the water in the morning sun. It was glorious. What I missed when I hurried were these priceless moments of wonder.

This summer I’ve intentionally planned road trips that take me off the highways to rediscover driving as a soulful act. Driving with every sense engaged is a kind of mindfulness exercise: it demands my concentration, attention, and careful observation, not only of what’s up ahead, but for what might leap out from the roadside–deer, skunks, and groundhogs in particular.These sudden encounters catch me off guard and often require a quick, both-hands-in-the-wheel maneuver. I grip the wheel; my heart races; I let out a sigh of relief as I watch my two- or four-legged friends waddle across the road. Even these panic moments are precious because they remind me of what it feels like to be fully present.

Summer road trips in my part of the state means driving past acre upon acre of cornfields, sometimes down roads so narrow I can almost reach out my window and grab an ear of corn still warm from the sun. I climb and dip on roads surrounded by fields of undulating green, and feel a rush of excitement when the descent is deep and I can soar down a hill with my foot off the gas, letting momentum carry me into a valley that rises up to the next hill. 

What isn’t planted or cultivated is virgin grassland and forest that rolls on for miles. I often think about how this land was once traveled on foot by Native American people who named so many of the creeks and rivers that I cross. I sense their spirit in the wind, reminding me that this land is sacred. That the country roads I travel were often built on paths worn down by their feet touching the earth. 

When an Amish horse and buggy appears on the roadside, I’m tempted to speed past but, instead, I slow down and follow. I’m offered a chance to linger a little; to open my window and breathe in the scent of threshed hay and watch the gambling of baby goats. This moment is full of magic and begs to be savored. I can hurry another day.