Attribution: http://www.ForestWander.com, CC BY-SA 3.0 US, via Wikimedia Commons
By Geoff Carter
I happened to be running an errand in my old hometown, the village I grew up in the other day, and I barely recognized the place. My middle school was gone; they’d razed it. Most of the businesses, including Falls Music, Sergeant Pepper’s Record Shop, and Gessert’s Hardware store, and even the old Dutchland Dairy were long gone. I couldn’t find any of the old pizza joints or bars we hung out in. Most of them were bed and breakfasts or mega sports bars. As I drove around, looking for just a few familiar landmarks, it struck that the one thing that hadn’t really changed were the roads. And, as teenagers, we spent a significant amount of time cruising those not-so-mean streets.
Granted, a couple of the main arteries had been widened or expanded and one of the bigger side roads had been shifted to the north in order to make for the new Costco, but in general, they hadn’t budged. I remembered specific curves, hills, rises, and dips as I cruised through town. They hadn’t really changed—even the modified routes. Ghosts of old memories reared up as I passed by certain houses or parks or even vacant lots—memories of where we used to have parties in that park, or that so-and-so lived here, or I used to go out with a girl who lived there. This road led to the old drive-in theater.
The reckless kids would go to Hogsback Road, a narrow, winding, and wildly dipping two-lane road perched on the top of a saw-toothed ridge. If you opened your eyes long enough to look, you could see crashed cars on the bottom of the steep ravine where some kid had taken a corner too fast or been bumped off the road during a race. They’ve changed the name of Hogsback in an effort, I believe, to deter kids from going there to seek good old-fashioned cheap thrills.
When we were kids, my mom used to take us up north to spend the summer at our lakeside cabin. My brothers and I learned how to drive on those narrow and winding county roads. You could blindfold me today, and I could still drive the three miles into town on County Line D without missing a beat. I still know that road, its peculiar swerves and falls, like the back of my hand.
We’re currently preparing to set out on a long cross-country road trip. We’ll load the car, program the GPS, buy the audiobooks, and prepare to barrel down the superhighways through the cornfields of Iowa and the barrens of Nebraska. Although we’ve traveled this route from Milwaukee to Santa Fe twice before, not much of it stays with me. At least for the first day as we shoot that straight line through Nebraska, land of horizons.
On the second day, we’ll enter Colorado and be flanked to the west by the Rockies as we cruise by Denver, Colorado Springs, Pueblo, and Raton. We go by Pike’s Peak, the Raton Pass, and other landmarks. Much like the roads back home, these landmarks don’t change. Neither does the interstate, but those roads are so blasé and non-descript, it’s hard to kindle any sort of appreciation for them.
The man-made interstate landscape is typically a loop of urban sprawl franchises: Arby’s, McDonald’s, Hardee’s, Walmart, and on and on. You see them over and over. It’s a lot like the background scenery loop in a Roadrunner cartoon—the same buttes and trees and cloud formations go by over and over. The reality loop is a technicolor slice of American capitalism. The saving grace of that part of the trip is looking out the window it the natural beauty of our land, which, at least for now, has remained unchanged. But never say never. Not even the natural landscape is safe.
Strip mining has forever scarred the Appalachians. Some companies even engage in the practice of “shaving off” mountaintops to get at the coal. Never mind the debasement of the natural beauty of those mountains, which have existed for thousands of years. There’s money in those hills! They’re even talking about mining the moon. Imagine looking up on a clear summer night and seeing the moon, its once beautiful profile now marred by open pits, processing plants, and spaceports. I’m reminded of one of the final scenes in the movie Hancock when the superhero paints an advertising logo on the moon as a sign of gratitude, transforming one of the most beautiful objects in our world into a cheap ad.
I guess the roads don’t change because they, like the mountains and ravines, are a part of the land. The concrete and asphalt can’t hide the true character of the land underneath, and, in a weirdly ironic way, they help preserve it. The natural topography of the land is accidentally preserved by man’s desire to make life easier, to construct a smooth and friendly path to the closest local burger franchise.
These roads also reflect the arrogance of mankind. Builders and developers will not hesitate to cut down a three-hundred-year-old tree or fill in some wetlands or dig up a native burial ground to construct the superhighways. They make no concessions for wildlife habitat situated near these great conduits of human commerce. The sight of roadkill is everywhere, and the deaths and injuries of people caused by animal vehicle collisions are mounting, but this is America. Nothing can stand in the way of economic growth and commerce.
Some European countries have constructed wildlife overpasses, also known as ecoducts, or wildlife corridors. These structures are wide bridges covered with foliage and trees that funnel animals into a safe crossing over the superhighways. According to the NCSL, the states of California, Colorado, New Mexico, Florida, Wyoming and six others have passed key legislation or issued executive orders allowing wildlife corridors, crossings, and overpasses. California’s project will be over two hundred feet long, the longest wildlife crossing bridge in the world. It would seem as if we’re close to going full circle.
Roads which originally covered the land in rock and steel to help civilize the American wilderness are now being constructed over superhighways and interstates in order to help preserve that same wilderness. The roads that covered the land could not hide its character. The hills and dips and curves and bumps persist through the concrete and imbue themselves into our memories. We know the roads we traveled as children. We crossed familiar ground walking to school, going to a friend’s house, the store, or the playground, ground which has probably not changed much.
New roads, like the wildlife corridors, mark a new route to a new destination. Mankind is perhaps starting down a new path, finally demonstrating respect for the creatures with whom we share this planet. These new roads will become just as ingrained into our memories as the old, but this time they will not only hint at the land that lies underneath but celebrate it.
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