Coursing diffidently through the Tidewater country of eastern Virginia, the Pamunkey River (like most local, colonial geographic taxonomy – drawn from an old Native-American word) cuts a wide swath through marsh-grass lined canals and other waterways as it makes its way inexorably to the sea. Along its route, farmland spreads out in the oppressive summer sun and attendant heat. Along the road where I did most of my walking, what appear to be fire roads branch off and head into the deep woods. Upon further exploration, these trails would either peter out or end in some flooded bottom land but never come out on the river, which was my hoped for ultimate destination.

Studying maps of the area, offers little in the way of edification. There were, however, small gravel roads shown leading to the water’s edge. I followed one of these, Hill Farm Road in hopes of finally accessing the elusive banks. I started out one July morning before the day had reached its sweltering crescendo. I had a somewhat romantic notion of finding a large shade tree on the banks of the elusive Pamunkey where I could sit and pass the day reading while wrapped in cool breezes wafting off the swiftly passing waters.

How quickly reality stepped in to relieve me of that bit of whimsy. The road started out promising enough, lined with densely packed thickets on either side that provided welcome shade from the swiftly ascending, blindingly blazing orb of the late morning sun. This continued for approximately one mile before the road opened on a large cornfield. At this junction, the road abruptly turned ninety degrees east, steering me directly into the path of the rapidly rising midday sun.

It was becoming increasingly warmer and I began to rue the book I had in tow (the better to complete my earlier envisioned idyllic reverie); it started to feel sweaty and leaden in my hands. The road was now an agonizingly open track bordered on either side by sun-splashed cornfields that offered none of the welcoming shade of the earlier wooded thicket. Fortunately, I had brought along water because I was losing fluids at an alarming rate.

The gravel road stretched out before, dusty and dry. Far ahead, I could see what appeared to be the end of the road. I hoped that I would find the river access there but from my vantage point, it did not look too promising. I saw no sign of any shade tree or the river for that matter. I tramped across the field only to arrive at the terminus and there, welcomed none too engagingly by a no trespassing sign, I saw a sign advertising a river resort.

There was still no river in sight but at least the resort held out some promise. The road carried markings proclaiming an end to county maintenance. There had been little evidence of any so this was not terribly disconcerting. Another sign asserted that I was about to embark on Old Settlers Road. This had a nice ring to it so I decided to proceed.

The road rose to gain another field this one of sorghum. I was definitely walking on someone’s farm but still I saw no sign of any river. I walked on past more uniform cornrows and rusting farm equipment when there before me was the broad gunmetal expanse of a waterway. In the distance, I could make out the Smurfit Paper Mill and the West Point Bridge. At least now I could somewhat surmise where I was.

I had come a long way around a major housing development planned for Cooks Mill Road (the road where I lived). I knew this was the case because I spied some sculptures of birds originally mounted at the entrance but subsequently removed. These, one of some ducks just taking flight, the other of some swans attempting a decidedly more difficult lift off now relegated to a backwoods obscurity for reasons unbeknownst to me. Perhaps their capricious nature better suited their new station. Ours is not to reason why.

Now at least I was near the river. There was no shade tree; there was hardly any shade at all. The waters were maddeningly still in the now stifling heat; no breeze ruffled them at all. So much for my bucolic fantasy, I slogged on knowing that I must find my way back to the road and out of this heat.

Some recent tree plantings alerted me to the way out. I had seen trees of this kind transplanted near the entrance and I guessed that they probably would lead me out. I trudged along the dusty track making periodic guesses of which way to turn (correctly, I hasten to add), eventually making my way back to the main road.

Coming out the entranceway, I saw the statue of two children fishing and wondered about their counterparts frozen in flight deep in the woods but thought better of any over-contemplation. Then again, perhaps, some slight cogitation is in order.

Perchance, like my unrealized reverie, the waterfowl were never on the right track in the first place. Is this how all good dreams die? Do we search and search only to find our dreams mere fictionalization? Better to limit ourselves to scenarios that are more pragmatic. In this way, we would never run the risk of disappointment, only going through the motions hoping for some acceptable denouement. What an utterly sad way to look at life. Without a doubt, a way of thinking I am loath to countenance.