RIDING THE RUTS

A VERMONTER’S GUIDE TO APPRECIATING THE MUD

This morning, I missed my turn. Despite having my GPS on, I got distracted and drove at least 15 minutes out of my way. Google Maps suggested alternate routes. On one, I came across a “Road Closed” sign and had to turn around. On another, I encountered a “Muddy Road” sign. I decided to chance it anyway.

Beginning in March, the dirt roads of Vermont can be unpredictable. There are sections of the road that look like focaccia dough. If you don’t drive over them the right way, they can suck your car down as if you’ve suddenly driven over quicksand. The trick is to “ride the ruts” (stay on high ground and don’t let your tires go down inside them). I’ve learned over the years that it’s important to find flat ground even for just one side of the car. If you let both the left and the right tires go into the ruts, you’ll bottom out and get stuck.

The alternate route I took put me on a seven-mile-long mountain road. I drove past gorgeous estates, modest homes, and dilapidated shacks. That’s one of the many fascinating things about Vermont: if your road is long enough, chances are your neighbors will run the gamut. The texture of the road changed at every turn due to factors like sun and proximity to streams.

When I encountered smooth sections of the road, I congratulated myself on my choices and adventurous spirit. When I came across doughy sections of the road with no clear way through, I gripped the steering wheel and shouted, “Christ! What do I do?!?”

I then heard my late father’s voice say, “There’s a right way to do things and there’s a wrong way to do things.”

Vermont has always been my home. When I was eight years old, my parents bought a house on a dirt road on the outskirts of Woodstock. I grew up hearing my father lecture us on how to drive correctly, especially during mud season.

Despite insisting that he knew exactly how to ride the ruts, his haste often got him in trouble. When I was about 13 years old, he sank our mustard-colored Jeep Cherokee on the way to church. We were late as usual but today was Easter Sunday, an event not to be missed. My father commanded me and my sister to get out and “push”. Dressed in our Easter best (which meant an Amish-looking dress for me and a leather blazer and skirt for my older sister), we placed our hands on the back window and braced ourselves as my father hit the gas.

Mud shot out from the back tires, covering my sister from head to toe. I backed away, fearful that our now gooey shoes might make us lose our footing. My sister leaned in and pushed on the car harder. The Jeep eventually dislodged itself and we made it to church. For the next hour, I sat in the pew next to my sister and watched her remove caked mud from her permed hair and leather outfit.

As an adult, I have lived in Vermont for more than a decade. Navigating the ruts at this time of year is familiar yet daunting. It reminds me of my father. When I finally reach a main road, I am flooded with emotion, relieved that I made it. It’s the same feeling I have on a warm and sunny day after a long, dark winter in this state. I am filled with gratitude for every single obstacle that made me doubt myself and challenged me to find a way through.

Driving in Vermont feels like a crash course in courage and resilience. It teaches us how to be in this world. We must see the road ahead and assess the situation before deciding the most sensible course of action. But even the best plans sometimes go awry. If we find ourselves stuck, bucked, or sliding, we have no choice but to let go of the outcome and have faith that we will make it to the other side. It’s not easy but it’s good preparation for life. It’s a lesson my father taught me.