A dusty trail

They laid logs crosswise corduroying the low areas in each soupy bog and heaped mountains of gravel until it would support the rails. Over the years the rails were lifted and anybody much like my self hopped on it to take advantage of what the ditches along side provided.

The road or ambitious trail is in everyway, but a simple grade, so flat and straight it lacks much in curvy undulating character of other back country by-ways however I have walked its entire length three times over the years and shot two does and one four point buck. What it lacks in ups and downs, bends and turns, it makes up for flush with flora and fauna.

Several evenings this week I walk just easing up to what would be a bottomless ditch and stroll the gravel shoulders picking raspberries. I wait until after dinner to pick my fresh dessert. After two pints I call it a night.

I have pot shot more ruffed grouse on the generous gravely stretches from late September through October and many mornings the road gives up some timber doodling woodcock as well. Wet spots, which there are only five, have surrendered mink and spring beaver from trapping. Two of the wet low areas actually have some decent brook trout water that I ply as often as possible but this year, even with all the rain, the road is pretty dusty and dry.

In short, for a short road, it's got a lot of friendly miles I enjoy. I can hear a vehicle coming so I turn my face from the dusty cloud that will fill my nose and eyes. The pickup truck slows down when he sees me, which I thought was pretty nice.

He was just out enjoying a quiet ride and he asks if I’m having car trouble. I said no I was just picking some berries. Then he asked if I was a bit parched in the throat? I answered yes to that one. He pulls over and parks.

His black lab when the guy got out inspected his truck tires right away. The guy asks me if I lived around here and within minutes we were trying to find out who we both knew. It didn't take long and as it turns out, I used to coach his granddaughter in soccer several years ago.

Then mentally sitting on his tailgate we talked just about every rock up and down that road until the mosquitoes chased us off. He had to go his way, something about his wife would be wondering, and so I went mine.
Before he left I gave him the little Tupperware full of berries, it was all I had to say thanks and as I walked home it occurred to me that road wasn't as dry as it had been in earlier in the day.