A Traveler’s Topographical Tale
This is a tale of contrasting landscapes, an account of the sights and sounds seen and heard enroute to a seaside sojourn. It began on a suburban driveway and continued with a short cruise out of the neighborhood, onto a four-lane state road that eventually led to an accelerated merge with a sundry mix of vehicles onto an interstate with six lanes. Fortunately, within two hours, the roadway held less commercial activity and the atmosphere became placid, with little movement but for nature’s own.
The drive through three states mostly encompassed uneventful scenery and the typical, familiar activity seen on interstates. Wanting to avoid boredom, I challenged myself to “re-view” what I saw outside the car window. Adopting unconventional creativity, I purposely observed what I beheld in an out-of-the-box way, coaxing my imagination to describe the usual uniquely.
In this mode, I noticed infinite, chalky hyphens dominating the faded, blackboard road, the dashes lying parallel and seeming to lead nowhere. Out of that nowhere, huge metal storage units appeared, noisily speeding on eighteen hefty wheels: red ones branded with white bullseyes and blue ones displaying giant smiles from A to Z. Signs lured the fast-moving machines, inviting them to weigh stations which thankfully did not include me.
For an hour or more, a barrier of naked, sixty-foot sticks, each projecting a flurry shade of leaves upon their tops, enclosed the asphalt giving the illusion of an emaciated forest engulfing the pavement and its inhabitants. To divert attention from the far lane, patches of grass sprouted marquees, mini murals that lured a mélange of speeding robots on tires to replenish and nourish. My favorite placard announced a “truck care” named LOVE’S — where else but at a nurturing fuel stop would a weary traveler choose to rest and reboot?
Pulling off the interstate, I tried to ignore the abundance of car dealerships and shopping centers lining both sides of the main road that leads to stillness and repose. The deluge of dining options was not enough to assuage my quench for tranquility. What I needed at that point was greenery (not salad), blue water (not a tinted sports drink), and the call of fowl (not foul honking).
Finally, I arrived near coastal waters and settled in a sunny chair outdoors to take in native flora and fauna. With the tide out, I identify seagrass poking up through thick mucky mud, some of the strands stretching over three feet tall and bending faintly with self-weight as though bowing in reverence to the mighty sea. Nearer the embankment, tiny crabs maneuvered among broken oyster shells embedded in the same slimy wet sludge, seeming to enjoy their moments of freedom as much as I took delight in mine.
Eventually, the tide leisurely began to return from the ocean, and I continued to lounge on the terrace, amused by the fish in the lagoon who played like schoolchildren during recess. White, juvenile trout splashed in the water, vaulting in the air like gymnasts competing for my attention. I remember wondering if their late afternoon frolic was an impulsive urge to entertain me or if they had merely become jittery, instinctively knowing they were vulnerable prey.
As if on cue, a heron appeared on the aquatic stage, dancing as it landed quietly, minus applause. With pomp and arrogance, it bobbed its head like a strutting, wild turkey and glided across the water in search of supper. Choosing to delay its meal, it flew to a nearby tree, rested a short while, and then like a Boeing 747, soared in a straight and purposeful pattern over the lagoon, high above the marsh, and out of sight.
Witnessing the seabed exposed to the air at low tide and then submerged at high tide prompted thoughts of my life cycles. Within hours, the creatures and vegetation became invisible again, and I felt veiled, too, as a mere mortal in the menagerie of the universe. No matter what happens, this hamlet remains my happy place, this venue, my village, and this world where I want to be.
