On the Early Road

And the sons of Pullman porters
And the sons of engineers
Ride their father's magic carpets made of steam
Mothers with their babes asleep
Are rockin' to the gentle beat
And the rhythm of the rails is all they dream

Arlo Guthrie, City of New Orleans






When I thought of this particular post Guthrie's City of New Orleans kept harping at me.  I'm not one of those people who memorize lyrics to songs, Hell, I barely remember my own address.  But I remembered a line or two talking about the rocking gentle beat of the rails.  Having travelled by train a few times I know what he is talking about.  

There is also a somewhat hypnotic gentle trance that can befall one driving at night.  Listening to a favorite tune,  in the early hours when you may or not meet a fellow traveler heading in the opposite direction, the lines on the road and you can drift into a thoughtful repose, yet still be fully alert to your job as driver.  

On this particular morning in Northlandia, heading back to Emerald City from barge hunting, my song, the rhythm of the road,  and a feeling that all was well carried me to a place where you think you are the only one on watch - the lone knight on the North Wall - the endless sky above and a small road in a large land below.  Hypnotized by the convergence of music, silence and the womb-like embrace of the night.  This is impossible to achieve in Kitschland.  It is noisy, too well-lighted and crowded even at this hour.  Northlandia may be too taxed, too corrupt, too low on list of states for many things, but there is richness here.  I found some of it on this morning, in this old 21 year old truck and CD of music only I could like.        

But everything has a price.  The cost of a rose are thorns.  Beware the night in Northlandia, for there are hazards here that can shatter your peaceful bliss.  I discovered that almost every trip below the bluff, and there were a dozen or more, deer and other critters are feeding, roaming and disregarding the rules of the road.  My average speed was around 40-45 and even it is meaningless if one darts in front of you. 

For me, my lifeline here is the old truck.  It is also my ticket to a place not on the map.  Remember when driving at night in the summer heading home from whatever was the best part of the night?  A time to think, to get away from the din and melt into the dark with all its myopic sights and smells.  Best thinking environment ever - even if you did get the spooks on occasion.  It cleared the brain.  Got y'a back to basics.  Funny how clear things are in the dark.