Cruising the Highways and Byways

There's only one way to unwind, as far as I'm concerned. That is to go cruisin'. No, fellows, I'm not talking about cruisin' chicks. I'm talking about cruising along the highways and byways.

I don't even have to know where I'm going. In fact, it's better if I'm not on my way to any place in particular. Just riding up and down the hills, listening to the transmission as it shifts easily into and out of its gears, and catching glimpses of the landscape and wildlife along the way are enough.

One day, we saw hawks. Another day, it was turkey buzzards; they are hideous creatures, but they really do look like turkeys – gone wrong, that is. Along one old highway, a farmer raises buffalo; they are so large that they almost look like mastodons. One afternoon, while cruising along the back roads, we came across a flock of guinea hens. Strange looking creatures, sort of like turkeys in the face, with long, thin necks, and bodies not unlike oversized pigeons. We stopped to admire them only to be run off by the homeowner's dog. Apparently, it considers the guinea hens to be its property!

Last spring, my husband and I took a daytrip to ride on an excursion train. It was a short run, just about five miles long, but the coaches are old, wooden ones, and the scenery is relaxing. At the time, the farmers were just putting in their corn and soybeans. As we neared the end of the run, we crossed an old trestle. What did we see down below but a turtle! He scurried toward the water, not at all happy about our intrusion into his afternoon siesta, but he didn't manage to disappear before my husband caught a picture of him.

Along the way home from our favorite Mexican restaurant is a bog. In that bog grow tall grasses, and in those tall grasses live beavers. The beavers built dams, and they lived happily...until the landowner decided the beavers had no right to live there and mowed the grasses. The beavers were determined, however, and rebuilt their dams. Bravo to the beavers!

Last winter, thousands of Canadian geese wintered here. They essentially took over a turf farm, which lays in a low area between the interstate highway and the old highway, across from the local airport. I've heard nothing about how the turf farmer viewed seeing his turf a mass of dark avian bodies. At any rate, when the warm weather moved in, most of the geese flew home.

One pair remain that I know about. They settled in the bog with the beavers. Mrs. Goose is nesting atop one of the beaver dams, while Mr. Goose sits on the bank, watching to make sure the cars that speed past don't come too close to Mrs. Goose and her eggs. His is a wicked eye, too! Bravo to the Canadian geese!

Along one route, a farmer raises ducks on his dairy farm. The orange-billed, white-fathered avians live in two ponds, one on either side of the road. It's a treacherous road, narrow, hilly, and winding. So many accidents have occurred along that thirty-mile stretch that the speed limit has been reduced and is strictly enforced. Even so, people "fly" along – until they reach that farm. If the ducks are crossing the road, the motorists stop and wait very patiently until the parade is over. No one honks. No one tries to pass. Everyone knows that's where the ducks live.

Whoa! Must stop! The local railway’s afternoon excursion run is crossing the highway just ahead.