It was early fall, and I was on my way back to school. I had spent the night in a storage shed in suburban Buffalo, and secured a ride to the right side of town. It was still pretty early—sunrise had come only 10 minutes ago, and everything was covered in a layer of frost. I went to the sweet spot on the highway, and in a few minutes I got one of the best rides I ever had.
He was a young man, about thirty or so, driving a Chrysler that was a couple years old, and he was heading to White River Junction, Vermont. He wasn't very talkative, and I never learned why he was making the long drive, or what he did for a living. We talked idly about various political and social issues.
Somewhere near Albany, he left the interstate and took to the back roads. We stopped for gas, and he purchased a Rand McNally atlas. We smoked a couple of times, but I can't remember if we used my stash or his. I love maps, so I spent some time pouring over Rand McNally's latest edition, which was as new and fresh to me as a newspaper.
New England is a truly beautiful place, and I think the best way to enter it is through upstate New York. The rolling plains gradually stiffen into mountains, and the fields gently give way to thickets, then groves, then forest. The network of roads are wonderfuly rural, more so because their age sofened the harshness of rural ares in the west.
At one point, I realized that he had taken a wrong road, and that the highway we were on was taking us north and east of Lake Champlain. I pointed this out immediately, and we were able to find an alternate route. It was several hours after sunset when we arrived in White River Junction, and the bright morning was distant memory. In fact, it had become overcast, and the night that loomed before me was unusually dark. I was dropped off on the right side of town.
Hindsight shows me that the dark night was an omen. I was close to home—only about an hour's drive, so I decided to try to sleep in my own bed that night. That turned out to be a bad decision.
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