From time to time, after making a wrong turn or missing the right one, I end up on that road. I’ve been on that road many different times in many different states, but no matter where I am, it’s always the same.

That road is very narrow, and it seems even more so in my truck. My left tires grab at the double-yellow lines while the right ones peek over the edge of the shoulderless road. There isn’t much traffic on that road, but when you do pass a truck (and it’s always a truck) you instinctively flinch and hope that somehow your side will dodge theirs.

The sides of the road are lined with trees, all quite tall and quite dead. Even though the leaves have all fallen, the tall, skinny spires still manage to block much of the light. Behind them sit houses, most of them mobile homes or small, square houses wrapped in used-to-be-white siding. Each one has covered parking out front, propane tanks out back, and a barn on the side. At least half of them have American flags, waving at whoever happens by. Each house has at least half a dozen vehicles, maybe more; some have new trucks and old cars, others have old trucks and new cars, and everybody has at least one for sale. Nobody is outside, save for a few unleashed dogs too lazy to give chase. The only people here are the people who belong here … which is not me.

On that road it has always just rained. On that road it is always fall, even if it is spring.

Branching off of that road are other roads, some gravel, most dirt. Few of them have street signs — I suppose those who use them know where they go — and the few signs you do see are hand written, with names like “Carpenter Road” and “Bull Run”.

That road twists and turns and tries to buck you off its back. The posted speed limit is 55mph seems too high on the straight-aways, and the yellow signs warning of sharp curves are serious. For a moment I’m a kid again, gripping the wheel tightly with both hands and taking the turns as fast as I can. A peek down into the steep ditch below calls my bluff and convinces me to ease off the throttle.

I can never get a cell phone signal on that road and sometimes my GPS stops working, too. I suspect the people living here don’t mind. My guess is, the Y2K scare, the latest outbreak of salmonella in peanut butter and the current state of the stock market doesn’t affect these folks or their lazy dogs in the slightest.

And suddenly, sunlight hits my windshield. Cars whiz by and I’m free. As I pull out onto an interstate and look back, there’s no sign of that road; just the small opening I was jettisoned from. I’ve been on that road many times in Oklahoma, Arkansas, Missouri, Ohio, even West Virginia. They’re always the same. It’s always the same.