We were out just driving around in our heap of language but needed to be somewhere else. The map indicated a route: Fording Road. Sounded promising. We found it and made the turn. It proved a paved but narrow country lane through an expired cornfield. The farmer did not wave when, waving, we drove past. Pavement soon gave way to dirt, dirt to mud. Recent rains had transfigured potholes into turbid little lakes. On either side of the now-fading fieldway were raveled skeins of woodbine and poison ivy. Passage was slow and slower still. In the end, well past all connotation and hope, the route elapsed in a wide and fast-running creek. We had arrived at the fording.