Pavement Ends

The town of Boiling Springs, Pennsylvania likes beyond the end of Flat Iron Roof Road.



I never made it to Boiling Springs.

A half mile down Flat Iron Roof Road, a sign: PAVEMENT ENDS.


I suppose a smarter man would have turned around, and gotten back on the main thoroughfare, headed north to a road with more than one lane, and one where the pavement didn’t end unless you took the unadvisable choice to drive off the shoulder of the road.

But you have to remember, I’m a bit of a country boy. The road to the house I grew up at was unpaved, and is to this day. How hard could it be? The map said it was 1.8 miles to my next turn off from the start of Flat Iron Roof Road, and I’d already covered .5 of that. Even my rudimentary math skills could reveal that 1.3 miles away, I would be on my destination road, and who knows how long it would be if I turned around and took my chances without a local map.

(Note to self, next time, take an old-school local map.)

Bottom line, I had an appointment and limited time in which to make it. My best bet, take the 1.3 miles of unpaved, unmarked roads.

Did I mention the leaves that covered Flat Iron Roof road? No? Well, let me say, leaves covered Flat Iron Roof Road. And it indeed is a very, very narrow road, and minimally tended. It was a very, very rough drive, and my speed probably didn’t get above 10 MPH. The leaves disguised large holes in the road, and I started to feel like an old west settler in a Prairie Schooner. I watched the odometer click…



click…

click…

Until I was past the 1.3 mile mark from when I had gotten off the pavement. Completely nestled in trees, there was absolutely nothing else in sight, and it was awfully quiet.

Now, being a writer, I have a vivid imagination, and I’m not afraid to use it. And yes, I did consider these deep, dark woods in context to the movie Deliverance, which is one of the very few movies that really creeped me out. Still does.

Flat Iron Roof Road is just wide enough to fit a car, so the only way to go the other way is to back up. Not an easy chore on a twisting, turning, leaf covered, unpaved road.

So, I drove on. Yes, I was sure I heard banjo music in the distance.

But I drove on.

Finally, on one side, a house.

I exhaled. One house became two, and up ahead, pavement. No road markers, but glorious pavement and a line down the center. I turned onto the road, and within a half mile had found a sign that indicated I had reached the road that the luthier lived on. Just a few miles up the road, the house I was looking for.

Okay, so my destination wasn’t Boiling Springs, and that’s why I never made it there. But, hey, I have to keep the suspense up, right?

Right?

In the end, my Martin guitar found its way to the capable hands of the luthier, and there it remains, the crack in its top and its very dry condition being healed. I mentioned to him that I’d come via Flat Iron Roof Road. "Never heard of it." He was more than happy to give me alternate directions back to the main road I was going drive back home on.

I followed his instructions to the letter and had a nice, uneventful trip back home.

When I go back to pick it that guitar, I think I'll bypass Flat Iron Roof Road.