The Road Not Taken (except by everyone)

Oh, no! Say it ain’t so! At the Robert Frost Interpretative Trail, Ripton, VT, near the Green Mountain National Forrest, the road not taken is, in fact, the road everyone takes—at least the visiting hiker, that is. That famous poem is emblazoned on a sheet of tin near the top of a wooden post, while a branded arrow at the bottom to point you in the right direction—to the right, to the path to take, to the path everyone takes! Oh, how Frost must be turning in his grave. Oh, how I wish they (the interpretive trail designers, of course) would have omitted the wooden arrow. Oh, how I wish I would have turned left.

I know, I know, the impact on the environment and a park with individual paths squirreling through the woods in every possible and untaken direction would not be appropriate or orderly or acceptable, I suppose. But isn’t that the point?! Forging my own path would have been so much more romantic, and Frost-like, than following that darn sign. But follow, I did.

On this day, I was awaiting the start of a writer’s conference at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. This interpretative trail was a short drive away, and I couldn’t resist a visit. But I should have resisted following the instruction of that sign. Of course, the path to the right was lovely, leading to a relaxing trek through the woods, over brooks, and around white birch trees stretching toward the gray, spring sky. Every so often, another post emerged, hoisting another Frost poem into the air—a literal manifestation of his observations and interpretations of the sublime nature around him. Around me.

As relaxing and whimsical as this afternoon was for me, I began to indulge in the farcical notion that Frost’s words had come down from on high in a bolt of wooden-post signage. Ta-da! And there it was for all the world to see, or at least for Frost to see. I can imagine Frost taking an afternoon break from his nearby farm in the Green Mountains (as he was known to do) where he would have labored over just the right word or perfect phrasing. I imagine him contemplating the important questions of the universe, of human relationships, of nature and God. And then, poof. Right before him, the words arise from the forest floor and onto a signpost. Ah, if it were only that easy.

A writer’s path is not nearly as inspired or tranquil or so superbly rendered. Ours is an arduous task with questions in abundance—Is this character fully revealed? Is that the most precise word? Are the right themes present? Is a comma required here or there? Do I understand this setting at its core?

What I would give for words and answers to appear so sturdily before me—wooden posts or not. But I could do without that arrow. Next time I visit, I’m turning left—arrow be damned!