The Road Less Traveled

Hannah Brown, Chester High School

I have journeyed the Whitlash Road many times throughout my life. It used to be an adventure to travel its length, forever going up and down the hills during the trip to the north side of the Sweetgrass Hills. My trips have been twice a day, a week, or a month. The gravel was always trying to reach me from below, crying to enter our Suburban. The familiar yet sometimes terrifying crackle seemed to drone on forever, sometimes faint, sometimes overwhelming. Dad must be a genius, I had thought, for how else would he know just when to turn without getting us lost. In actuality, only about five turns needed to be made, but it took me about fourteen years to figure that out.

As a passenger, I learned to amuse myself and amuse others. My sister Sarah told us the vehicle would fly if we had the right sound effects. We would all pretend to be "backseat drivers" and turn our own steering wheels whenever we felt like turning, prodding imaginary pedals and gear shifts. Every hill we "drove" up, we had to say woooaaaa really loudly, and wheeeeeee for the way back down. Our favorite hill was near Haystack Butte because Dad would help our Orange GM Suburban fly as we drove up the hill and down and around a sharp corner.

Haystack Butte has always had the ability to start conversations. One such sobering moment, Dad told us about the father and son who hiked up, but only the son came down alive. I would question my dad until I was red in the face about those people. Knowing these strangers seemed to be important to me. Perhaps seeing the same kind of flowers they may have seen, or maybe the fact that I wanted to know what things used to look like provoked these interrogations.

Mom, on the other hand, would play "I spy" with us, and we learned to appreciate every ounce of wildlife and every piece of junk metal we would come upon. Sometimes when we were lucky, we would see a horned cow or bull. Or sometimes, on a rare occasion, an eagle would grace us with his or her presence. I would ask my dad about the nature of things and how they all fit together. Whoever had the privilege of spying those beings, large or small, would have the ability of turning all of our heads to where they were pointing. Sometimes cows in their own fenced in area turned out to be large rocks. On other occasions, the rocks turned out to be cows. For a long time, my favorite things to see were the sleek horses running happily in a golden-green meadow with all their friends. I believed everything I was told, and someone told me George Washington had a white horse with purple polka dots. One of the horses I looked for fit that description, and I always thought the owners were really lucky to have George Washington's very own horse.

Whitlash Road is only about forty to forty-five miles long, beginning two miles west of Chester on the highline and ending a few miles shy of the Canadian border. Somehow at times it could seem so much longer, and on other occasions seem to vanish in a flash. The buttes and mountains would be highly anticipated before they finally appeared and disappeared. Our little faded red Chevy Luv has frequented the familiar route on countless occasions, and my oldest brother Josh enjoys telling me about the time we went to the ranch in it with everyone in the back. I was a baby, and he was a kindergartner. He determined that I was too near the tailgate, and he worried the whole bumpy way to Whitlash that he would lose his baby sister to the unforgiving road. He didn't trust the pickup to hold us all in.

Fourteen years passed by, and he and the pickup have developed a greater trust now. It still runs, twenty-some years after being brand new. My dad put a new topper on the back when I was just entering my teenage years. When calving season came, about six of us piled into the back and came along to help out. Josh taught me that anything could keep us entertained, including singing the topper's manufacturing code to the tune of a church hymn over and over again. I still remember it: 466-441-590-321. It kept us distracted from the cold outside, and the long way to go.

I don't always course the familiar road with my family. Yellow school buses and friends' vehicles have taken me over Whitlash Road many times. I didn't know about the road's past until one such ride. My 4-H sewing instructor shared with me her memories of the old Whitlash Road before a shorter, straighter route was taken between the first couple of ranches. Now, whenever I gag from the smell of the pigs on one of those ranches, I wonder if those extra miles may have been worth it. I'm not sure.

I have learned to see this road with a particular kind of reverence during the past year and a half. I know that winding, newly graveled country roads offer some disasters, but I figured only crazy drivers who don't slow down at sharply angled curves, and forget to merge to the right when approaching a hill ever met those perils. July 24, 1997 changed my view forever. Sarah, my sister, was driving down the familiar dirt road, returning from a work errand. The newly grated and graveled portion of the road grabbed the small brown Toyota she was driving, and flipped it over. Sarah was wearing her seatbelt, so the gymnastic stunt of the Toyota's didn't kill her; it just broke her neck. I was shocked and worried. Sarah coped and adapted unbelievably well with her quadriplegia. Her strength resulted in a more sure knowledge that what happens to me doesn't make who I am. It become even more clear that it is how I deal with my circumstances that matters. I'm amazed that lessons so great can be learned from experiences on such a humble road.

The summer of the accident was the same summer I took drivers' education. I was scared to drive anywhere after my sister's ordeal, but I have been able to become a confident driver through the many months that followed. Mom made me take my driving test when she came home after taking Sarah through rehab. I passed. With a driver's license, I no longer had any excuses to use against driving myself to the ranch. I was fearful of the long stretch of unforgiving terrain the first few trips, but I later came to enjoy the fence-posts whipping past and the thrill of singing to myself when I was tired of the radio. I enjoyed feeling like I could drive forever with the window down, air blowing by my face. Now I still get really quiet when I pass the sight of the accident, but now it is the only place the road is frightening.

I came to appreciate the soft ruts between piles of gravel after having a tire blow out. I had to run two miles to the nearest neighbor's place to summon for help. For those two miles, I was surrounded by the grandeur of the bluish hills and the morning sun. This was the beauty that had so many people stomping mad about the threat of losing it to mining for gold. Suddenly enveloped by its awe, I appreciated their efforts to keep the hills pure. The sole fact that I, an insignificant human being, running along, could start a heard of black grazing cattle to worry and walk away from me, also struck me.

The road dipped down and rose again, and I kept running. The air was incredible. This road had had so little traffic, that I could fill my lungs quite comfortably. The road was the route of trustworthy individuals whom I had no fear of asking for help. When I came upon the farmyard, now familiar because of my passing so often, I slowed down and approached the house. I was received with the hospitality displayed by almost everyone around here. My hosts and I visited, then jumped into the black pickup to change my tire. The man told me some of his experiences with the road. He told me about his health, and the summer he road his bike all the way to Whitlash. He was pretty pleased with himself, and I was too, even though I had never met him before. Our only connection was our means of travel, and we were comfortable with that. When I think about my future, vast, and unlimited, I hope I can have these peaceful feelings associated with lonely, serene country all my life.

Essay of Place Issue
Home