Why I Drive the Slow Country Roads and Choose Not To Hurry
The allure of the world in its natural state is a call to slow down, take the road less traveled, and be present.
Road trips. They’re as much a part of my summer memories as sand in my bathing suit and s’mores around a campfire. Living in the northeast where winters can be long and the roads slush-covered well into April, the lure of the blacktop beckons to those of us with wanderlust in our souls.
My journey towards becoming a road tripper started early, when my parents would pile all six of us into our Rambler station wagon and drive to exotically named places like Watkins Glen, Buttermilk Falls, Fair Haven, and one year, across the border–our first time ever in a foreign country–to Montreal, Canada, where we tried to decipher the speed limit in kilometers.
To me, every trip was beguiling no matter the destination. I spent these rides with my head out the window, hair flying in the wind, watching the landscape unfold as a patchwork of farmland, pastures, evergreen forests, and craggy shale walls with signs that warned of falling rocks.
I’m sure these excursions influenced my love of the open highway and the magic of simply pushing a gas pedal and transporting myself to a whole new world. I’ve logged thousands of miles over the years which have taken me east as far as Cape Cod, west to Chicago, south to the Carolinas, and north to the Adirondacks.
Most of these trips were taken on highways that offered rapid speeds but flat, monotone vistas that seemed never-ending with nothing but the occasional billboard to break up the scenery. I settled for it because I wanted to get wherever I was going as fast as possible.
It wasn’t until my fifties when I became less inclined to hurry, that I started to appreciate the tempo of two-lane country roads that revealed epiphanies of sublime beauty and majestic grandeur. Not long ago on a drive to one of the Finger Lakes, a hairpin turn slowed me down to thirty-five and, as I rounded the curve, a mirror-smooth lake appeared through the trees, sun glinting off the water in the morning sun. It was glorious. What I missed when I hurried were these priceless moments of wonder.
This summer I’ve intentionally planned road trips that take me off the highways to rediscover driving as a soulful act. Driving with every sense engaged is a kind of mindfulness exercise: it demands my concentration, attention, and careful observation, not only of what’s up ahead, but for what might leap out from the roadside–deer, skunks, and groundhogs in particular. These sudden encounters catch me off guard and often require a quick, both-hands-in-the-wheel maneuver. My heart races and then I let out a sigh of relief as I watch my two- or four-legged friends waddle safely across the road. Even these panic moments are precious because they remind me of what it feels like to be fully present.
What’s most inescapable is the sheer lushness of the landscape. I pass acre upon acre of cornfields, sometimes down roads so narrow I can almost reach out my window and grab an ear of corn still warm from the sun. Orchards ripe with apples and pears, and vineyards erupting with plump, purple grapes merge into the smaller, homesteader plots–the family farms tilled by hand and overflowing with produce that will be sold through an honor-system at their roadside stands.
What isn’t planted or cultivated is virgin grassland and forest that rolls on for miles. I often think about how this land was once traveled on foot by Native American people who named so many of the creeks and rivers that I cross. I sense their spirit in the wind, reminding me that this land is sacred. That the country roads I travel were often built on paths worn down by their feet touching the earth. On four rubber tires, racing along featureless blacktop, it’s impossible to know this kind of kinship; this allegiance with water, sky, and dirt. I yearn for it, and maybe that’s the reason I return to the slow roads, time and again.
Traveling country roads brings back memories of my family’s trips both delightful (eating at mom and pop diners) and miserable (car sickness). But more than nostalgia and a romantic allure diverts many of us from the faster, more well-paved highways. The slower road offers us time to observe life rather than pass through it; to be present and put the destination on pause to revel in the moment. It’s in such moments of being conscious of our presence in a place that we’re most alive. Too easily, we let them slip by unobserved, missing the small miracles that stir the soul with delight, wonder, and joy. They are healing balms that restore us when the demands to rush to the finish line wear us down.
Driving on a slow road in rural Pennsylvania, an Amish horse and buggy appears on the roadside. I’m tempted to speed past but, instead, I slow down and follow. I’m offered a chance to linger a little; to open my window and breathe in the scent of threshed hay and watch the gambling of baby goats. This moment invites me to be present and enjoy our shared aliveness. I can hurry another day.
Elle Harrigan is a contributing writer for the Religious Naturalist Association and hosts the Instagram community @livingwildwisdom focusing on mindfulness, creativity, and spirituality through encounters with nature. A Certified Intuition Practitioner (CIP), she is currently working on a personal growth book that focuses on the power of nature to unleash our inner wisdom.
