Dirt Roads are something that so many people have forgotten about. To some they simply do not have a place in our high tech world. Dirt Roads are off the beaten path, but as I have grown older I have realized that is where I belong. I am a contemplative soul that enjoys isolation. I find myself seeking these places of peace. Solitude lives in those small towns that everyone forgets about. Its down those dirt roads that lead to the past.
It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was making my way through Francestown, a small town in the southwest corner of the New Hampshire. It was a windy day, there were time I had to hold the steering wheel fast or get blown off the road by strong gusts. But I couldn’t get over the beauty that surrounded me on that bitter cold day. The sun shone down bright from the pale blue sky. The wind continued to blow, bringing sheets of pale snow over the snowbank and into the road. Small flecks of snow caught the bright sunlight, and cast rainbows through the air. It was so cold, yet enchanting, and It’s what made me deviate. Close to the center of town, I took a left onto an old dirt road. I wanted to slow down, and admire the moment.
We spend so much of our lives rushing around. Many people are entirely focused on their problems or their our goals, that we forget we are lucky to be here. I do not want to live a life that is a race to the finish. I want to live a life full of experiences and moments that take my breath away.
I grew up in one of those small postcard villages. In the center lay The Meetinghouse, and small winding roads snaked off towards every corner of town. If you don’t pay attention, suddenly you find are on a dirt road that has served the town since the time of its forefathers. Its these places that tourist come to take pictures. In the fall they come in droves, to document falling leaves. Yet there is so much more to these quiet places. I have that same wide eyed wonder when I come here, but there is also a deep knowledge and familiarity of these places. These places are never the same.
So I took my time, slowly rolling down the road that afternoon. The stone walls that line either side lay buried under feet of snow. Behind these the road was lined on either side by tall formidable trees. They reached up towards the pale sky, as bright beams of sun shone down. The trees cast heavy shadows on the snowy road. As I looked around, I recognized its familiar presence. This is winter in New Hampshire. I got out for a moment, reveling in this moment. I am here and life is perfect. It is is the type of moment that gives you strength when harder times come. I gazes one last look around before retreating to the warm sanctuary of the car.
But as I drive away I am thankful for that moment, here among the trees, road and our history.