Sometimes, it’s just plain impossible to escape the cacophony that is such a hallmark of human life.
Our riverside trail here in Augusta, Maine, is bordered by the Kennebec River on one side and, for much of its length, a buffer of trees on the other, shielding the trail from the houses and streets that lie beyond the woods.
The temperature had inched up to the low 40s when I took to the trail the other day for a three-mile walk. A woodpecker was hard at work on the opposite shore. Songbirds chirped and trilled from nearby oak trees, where a pleasant breeze rustled the few dead leaves that remained affixed to their branches.
It was still too cold for the kamikaze cyclists who scream “ON YOUR LEFT!” at every pedestrian they pass, so that was an added bonus. The occasional walker whom I encountered either kept to himself or greeted me with a soft-spoken “good morning.” A cute Jack Russell terrier, out for a stroll with his owner, added a light note to the proceedings. In other words, the scene was tranquil, laid back, almost serene.
But there’s one spot along my route where the trees disappear and a wholesaler’s parking juts out to within a few yards of the trail. Usually, it’s empty at this time of year, but not this time. Parked at the edge of the lot closest to the trail was a rusted white Jeep, its motor running and the windows rolled down. The driver was either deaf or well on his way to losing his hearing, because the Jeep fairly vibrated from the muscular, cranked-up beat of a song I haven’t heard in years: Barracuda, a 1977 hit by the rock band Heart.
Winter has returned since that premature taste of spring. It should force the headbangers back indoors for a while. And keep all of those speed-crazed Tour de France wannabes off the trail for a few more weeks as well.
Our riverside trail here in Augusta, Maine, is bordered by the Kennebec River on one side and, for much of its length, a buffer of trees on the other, shielding the trail from the houses and streets that lie beyond the woods.
The temperature had inched up to the low 40s when I took to the trail the other day for a three-mile walk. A woodpecker was hard at work on the opposite shore. Songbirds chirped and trilled from nearby oak trees, where a pleasant breeze rustled the few dead leaves that remained affixed to their branches.
It was still too cold for the kamikaze cyclists who scream “ON YOUR LEFT!” at every pedestrian they pass, so that was an added bonus. The occasional walker whom I encountered either kept to himself or greeted me with a soft-spoken “good morning.” A cute Jack Russell terrier, out for a stroll with his owner, added a light note to the proceedings. In other words, the scene was tranquil, laid back, almost serene.
But there’s one spot along my route where the trees disappear and a wholesaler’s parking juts out to within a few yards of the trail. Usually, it’s empty at this time of year, but not this time. Parked at the edge of the lot closest to the trail was a rusted white Jeep, its motor running and the windows rolled down. The driver was either deaf or well on his way to losing his hearing, because the Jeep fairly vibrated from the muscular, cranked-up beat of a song I haven’t heard in years: Barracuda, a 1977 hit by the rock band Heart.
Winter has returned since that premature taste of spring. It should force the headbangers back indoors for a while. And keep all of those speed-crazed Tour de France wannabes off the trail for a few more weeks as well.
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