The Lost Highway

As I looked up to the big blue moon hanging low overhead I couldn't help but think of Teddy Roosevelt walking for days on end in the Dakota Territory hunting deer and bison. For my own fleeting feelings of masculinity I was glad that I was unaccompanied by the modern conveniences of man such as a cellphone or OnStar. Five miles down the road my legs and feet were in strong disagreeance with my pride.

I left work last night around 1am and decided to drive south into Landrum, SC. The small town of Landrum is only five minutes from the North Carolina border and considered by many to be worth the effort to avoid NC's $.17 sales tax for gasoline. On the trip back, however, I found myself stranded on the side of I-26 after my car sputtered to a stop. The five mile walk back to town was quiet and black, interrupted only by the occasional big-rig pushing 10 tons of cold air onto my back and my sporadic singing of The Lost Highway by Hank Williams, Sr.

The cars that made a point to avoid me by switching lanes probably upset me more than the 18-wheelers barreling down the shoulder five feet to my left. I figure that there was always a chance that the 18-wheelers hadn't seen me. The cars that actually swerved into the far left lane had no such excuse. I should hold that judgment for myself, though. I don't pick up hitchhikers, either. At one point I glanced to my right to see a herd of deer looking curiously in my direction. I've never before stood so close to a wild herd of animals. Possibly they heard me butchering away at the Hank Williams' classic and decided to investigate the strange noise. Unlike Mr. Roosevelt, though, I allowed them to turn and gallop hurriedly into the night.