TOWNSHEND — If you drive long enough, it will happen to you.
Something small darts into the road in front of you. You slam on the brakes, but it's too late. There's a sickening thud, and in the rearview mirror you see a flattened chipmunk.
Every year thousands of animals, from mice to moose, become roadway fatalities.
Most of the victims seem to be squirrels. They have a manic and indecisive crossing style. Like rodent matadors they cheat death by dashing in front of oncoming traffic.
Many don't make it. Their broken bodies litter the breakdown lane like sacrifices to the gods of the highways.
Moose approach things from a different angle. They like to stand in the middle of the road, a glassy look in their eyes, as if in the midst of an existential crisis.
I once saw a turtle crossing Route 495. His pace was slow, deliberate, and suicidal. Cars swerved to avoid hitting him, their drivers impressed by his bravery or lack of comprehension.
I don't know if he made it; he had three lanes of rush hour traffic in front of him. The odds didn't look good.
The results of the collision of machine and animal are gruesome and public. There are no morticians to lessen the harshness of roadkill.
But there are some consolations. A woodchuck run over by a pickup truck lies in state in the breakdown lane, receiving mourners on their daily commute, with a murder of crows as his undertakers. Dressed in shiny black suits, they strut around him, taking an occasional peck.
Stand by the side of the highway at any time of the day or night and listen. The traffic roars relentlessly with the whine of tires on asphalt. We rush from city to city jacked up on caffeine and high-octane gas. Wild areas get smaller each year, bisected by roadways.
Wildlife doesn't stand a chance.
Coming back from Pennsylvania I once saw a bear that had been cut down by freeway traffic. He slept the deepest of slumbers in the travelling lane while a procesion of cars passed slowly by.
What had compelled him to try to cross a four-lane highway? I'll never know for sure.
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Something else is at play here, too: bad luck.
A few years ago, I was driving through part of New York state past abandoned houses, boarded-up factories: ghost-story country.
Gray clouds hung low over the earth like beaten lead. In the distance, a black rat emerged from the edge of a corn field.
Not realizing what was about to happen, I didn't slow down. As I passed by, he darted in front of my truck. There wasn't another car in sight.
Was it pure chance? The cruel hand of fate?
The presence of roadkill forces us to confront uncomfortable questions about death, fate, and luck. Behind all the gore lie some of the deepest of life's mysteries. That's why we want to look away but can't.
So we try to joke about it. Road pizza, flat rat, the Firestone challenge.
The laughter has a nervous edge to it. We all know that someday something will hit us. It might be a heart attack instead of a gravel truck.
But one thing is sure: None of us will make it across the road of life without getting run over.