Even if
some day I
become so
senile
that I
cannot
remember
my name, I
will still
remember
our first
trip to
Emmitsburg.
We left
the
University
in
Morgantown,
W. Va.,
around 4
a.m. that
day in
April,
1957, and
headed
east on
Route 40
toward
this
pinpoint
on the map
where, I
had been
assured,
Mount St.
Mary’s
College
was
located. I
had
studied
the map
for days,
and
carefully
added up
the
mileage…
about 200
miles… and
divided by
35 mph,
which I
reckoned
was a
conservative
estimate
of the
speed that
would get
us there
in time
for my
10:00 job
interview.
But I
hadn’t
allowed
for the
number of
times a
6-week old
baby would
have to be
changed,
or the
length of
the train
that held
us up
while it
crossed
the main
street in
Cumberland,
or a
broken
radiator
hose, or
the effect
mountain
roads
would have
on a
nervous
young
wife’s
stomach.
We were
lucky to
be no more
than two
hours late
when we
pulled up
to the
terrace at
the
college to
face
Father
Gordon. It
had taken
us over 8
hours to
get there.
All of
that
recurred
in my mind
this fall,
when my
wife and I
returned
to our old
hometown
to attend
a wedding.
We had not
been back
for
several
years. I
knew the
old Rt. 40
had been
replaced
by
Interstate
routes 70
and 68,
but I
still had
in mind
those days
when the
kids’
perennial
question,
"How much
longer til
we’re
there?"
could be
answered,
"Six
hours,"
without
exaggeration.
We got on
I-70 east
of
Hagerstown,
set the
cruise
control on
65, and
kept one
eye on the
rearview
mirror to
avoid
being run
over from
behind as
we
proceeded
westward;
and we
arrived in
Fairmont
in about 3
½ hours.
I have
to admit,
with a
twinge of
guilt,
that I
enjoy
driving on
the
Interstates.
I
appreciate
getting
where I’m
going
quickly; I
will never
forget the
panic I
felt that
day, 45
years ago,
seeing the
hands of
my watch
speeding
around as
we crept
up Polish
Mountain
behind a
line of
trucks
with the
baby
crying and
my wife
trying
desperately
not to
throw up
before we
found a
place to
pull off.
And I
enjoy the
scenery;
that
incredible
geosyncline
that was
exposed
when they
cut
through
the top of
Sideling
Hill
Mountain
is worth a
thousand
pictures
in geology
textbooks.
Nevertheless,
the new
roads make
me uneasy.
Their
graded
curves and
gentle
inclines
make
driving
more
comfortable;
but I get
the
feeling it
will only
be a
matter of
time until
the whole
country
will be
flattened
out by
giant
earth-movers,
and all
roads will
run
straight
east-west
or
north-south.
I’m not
sure it’s
a good
trade-off.
In
spite of
the extra
time it
took, I
think
there was
value in
going over
the
mountains
instead of
through
them. In
the old
days, you
knew when
you were
going up a
mountain;
you had to
gear down
and pay
attention.
When you
got to the
top, there
would be a
sign
giving its
name and
elevation;
you
learned
some
geography.
My kids
could
recite the
names:
Cooper’s
Rock,
Keyser’s
Ridge, Big
Savage,
Martin,
Polish,
Green
Ridge,
Town Hill,
Sideling
Hill,
Catoctin…
it gave us
a way to
keep them
occupied
during
that
interminable
drive, and
today the
habit of
noticing
things is
being
passed on
to their
children.
The
mountains
had
something
to teach
us.
The old
Route 40
approximated
the road
laid out
by George
Washington
when he
set out to
survey the
way west
for Gen.
Braddock’s
army in
1755.
Considering
the
problems
involved
in getting
an army
through a
virgin
forest in
mountainous
terrain,
no one can
blame
George for
taking the
path of
least
resistance.
So he went
along
stream
banks
whenever
he could,
and when
it got
steep he
would
sidle up
the
mountains
at an
oblique
angle
instead of
trying to
go
straight
over the
tops of
them.
Perhaps
with a
premonition
of what
lay ahead,
Braddock
doesn’t
seem to
have been
in any
hurry.
Some of
his
campsites
were
marked
along the
old Rt. 40
west of
Big Savage
Mountain;
I used to
point them
out to the
kids on
the way
home for
holidays.
Some of
them were
barely
five miles
apart, and
that was
on fairly
level
ground.
I’ve
always
wondered
how long
it took
them to
get over
Polish
Mountain!
Washington’s
route was
sufficient
for the
next 175
years. As
the
country
grew, it
became the
Cumberland
Road, the
main way
west
through
the
mountains
and on to
Ohio; and
later,
when
paving
became
fashionable,
it was the
National
Turnpike.
It was
widened,
of course,
and the
grade was
improved
here and
there, but
it wasn’t
until the
late
1920’s
that
automobiles
began to
demand
really
significant
changes.
In the
1930’s
they began
paving
country
roads and
assigning
U. S.
Highway
numbers,
partly to
speed up
travel and
partly to
create
jobs; but
even then,
in the
main, they
continued
to follow
the
original
trail. It
wasn’t
until
after
World War
II that
the entire
public
began
demanding
roads on
which they
could
exercise
their
new-found
birthright
of driving
over 50
mph for
long
periods of
time.
That, and
the need
to
transport
goods
between
explosively
growing
metropolitan
centers,
led to the
creation
of the
Interstate
Highway
system…
and the
demise of
Rt. 40 and
its kin.
The
bureaucrats
and
engineers
of the
Eisenhower
Administration
designed
the
Interstate
system to
have
beltways
so
long-distance
traffic
could save
time by
going
around
large
cities. It
was a nice
idea; but
the
designers
did not
foresee
that those
beltways
would also
provide a
means for
people who
had jobs
downtown
to move
from the
inner city
to the
country
and still
get to
work on
time. The
result was
twofold.
When the
working
folks
moved
outward,
they took
their
money with
them;
urban
decay
accelerated.
And a
major
ecological
problem,
urban
sprawl,
was born.
Forests
and
farmland
have
disappeared
along an
increasingly
wide swath
as
developers
convert
Emmitsburg
and its
sister
towns into
cookie-cutter
bedroom
communities
for
Washington,
D. C. and
Baltimore.
We rapidly
losing our
individuality
as we are
swallowed
up into
the
growing
megalopolis
that
extends
from
Richmond
to Boston.
And the
dwindling
space
available
to
wildlife
is being
carved
into
smaller
and
smaller
islands,
between
which
predatory
traffic
efficiently
eliminates
any animal
that dares
try to
cross.
I know
the clock
cannot be
turned
back. And
when I go
to
Cumberland
to visit
my
grandchildren,
I am glad
to be able
to get
there in
two hours
instead of
four. But
one of
these days
I would
like to
turn off
the
Interstate
at
Flintstone,
and see if
I can find
where the
old Rt. 40
went up
Polish
Mountain.
If it’s
still
open, I
will go to
the place
on that
hairpin
curve
where we
found a
rickety
picnic
table and
stopped to
nurse the
baby and
let the
car cool
off while
we waited
for the
line of
trucks
ahead of
us to get
past the
worst of
the
curves. It
may have
taken
longer,
those 45
years ago,
but we did
get to
where we
had to go;
and I got
the job
despite
being
late,
because
everyone
understood.
I liked
the world
better
when it
was like
that.