After a visit to Kevin's workshop, we took a circuitous route home. Three of us traveled the backroads between Fairfield and Waterville on our way to Jeffersonville. Awestruck by the verdant greens and the subtle hues of the natural landscape, we drove at a leisurely pace. We marveled at old maples, deep gulches and weathered rock. Stopping or slowing to stare at an old barn, it's curiously ornate cupola saluting the cobalt sky. We looked in amazement at an old barn, listing so far to one side as to seemingly defy gravity. We listened to Larz point out a house that got the "Connecticut Treatment" since he last saw it; new siding and windows, and nary a decrepit piece of farm machinery in sight.
"Turn right" commanded Kevin "Look down there!" He pointed at the ruins of an old mill, a delicate stone arch disappearing into the tranquil darkness of overgrowing trees.
"There used to be a sign on that road that said Egypt, I think it was a town... though I only know it as a dot in the Gazetteer map." Said Kevin
Winding our way through a deep valley, we talked about a place where there was supposedly an old hippie commune "Look at the paintings on that rock!".
"There's a good old bridge down that road, but someone crashed into it, so it's been closed a while" said Kevin.
"What kind?" I ask.
"A Burr-arch covered bridge" replied Larz. "Like the one near my house".
"I wonder how they sprung the timbers to such a curve?" I wonder aloud.
"They didn't" said Kevin "It's a segmented arch".
"I think the one near my house is sprung" replied Larz.
You see the three of us are woodworkers, boatbuilders, artists and engineers, so the matter of a segmented arch concerns us greatly. As we happily argued and reveled in beauty of the dirt back roads, we saw peaceful cattle suddenly startled. A mink raced feverishly across the road, a profusion of birds and flowers, both wild and planted.
Nearing home, we took a detour toward the old bridge, and sure enough, Kevin was right. The quaint old structure, straight and sound, did contain a faceted curve. Laughing, we remarked at the tight joinery of the bridge, suspended for over one hundred and fifty years above the frothing, boiling waters below.