History and Mystery Across the USA

As we threw our high school graduation caps into the air I longed to fly after them, eager for a bird’s-eye view of the world obscured for so long by my parents’ roof. Lacking the requisite anatomy for flight, I was content to climb, at least for a while. Excitement and anxiety propelled me up gorges and cliffs overlooking our little town. By night I scaled silos to perch above fields of dandelion and corn.

One late night, as we gazed at the stars from atop the tallest silo yet, Ian dared me to climb Mount Marcy, the highest point in New York State. It’s a 5 hour drive to Keene, and he wanted to leave right now! Tonight! We snuck into my silent house to grab sleeping bags from the attic and peanut butter and jelly from the pantry. After a quick prayer that we wouldn’t be caught, we got into his old Volvo and were off.

The highway got darker and emptier as we drove further north. For miles ours was the only car. The headlights illuminated the leaves above and the road directly ahead, stretching onward in shadow. As the witching hour struck we began to feel our lack of sleep, and still two hours to go. When I first saw the strange figure in the middle of the road, skinny and bent, I blamed my drowsy imagination. “What is that?” Ian whispered, sending a shiver down my spine. He slowed down to approach it, and we saw it for what it was- a sculpture of twigs tied together with twine and molded to stand on it’s own. As we drove past he lifted a hand from the steering wheel to wipe on his pants, leaving a trail of sweat.

When we recovered from the scare exhaustion set in. A small roadside sign declared free campgrounds at the next exit. We drove into the empty parking lot before dawn, only to find that it was a mile hike to the tent pitch. We resignedly carried the sleeping bags on our shoulders and the tent in our sweaty hands, making our way across the rocky dirt path on shaky legs.

Dirt turned to sand. I looked up through the evergreens to see the sun rise over Marcy in the distance, warming the sky and lake a vibrant pink. Sweating despite the mist, we dropped everything and dived in, then ran shivering into our sleeping bags. We fell asleep listening to the chorus of birds on our hidden beach.

To replicate this experience, I suggest you leave on a dare, swim when you’re hot, sleep when you’re tired, and apologize only after you return. If you have the time, try to find out what invisible hand left a twig figure standing alone on that empty road.