Trego's Mountain Ear

I was following a bunch of posts on facebook about speeding and slow drivers on our roads.  It started with comments about a black and white ‘stang passing someone on a 35 limit road, then moved onto another commenter complaining about old people driving below the speed limit on 93.  In other words, the gripes were getting personal.  Then, a couple days later, I saw a pickup stop on the road by the pond, followed by ravens.

The guy in the pickup had moved the dead fawn off the road.  The ravens confirmed the body was there.  Whoever hit the little animal didn’t stop – but left me with the task of picking up the body and moving it to a spot where it wouldn’t attract my dogs, or the neighbor’s dogs, onto the road.

See, the road that goes by me is a 35 mph road – but it’s also over ¾ mile of straightaway.  It tends to get some drivers going by that are exceeding the speed limit.  Unfortunately, Bambi doesn’t have much chance against a ton and a half of automobile making 35 miles an hour.  Bambi’s chance goes down as the speed increases – and the chances of an old man having to go out and move the body for other animals’ safety go up.

So maybe my reasons for going along with the 35 mph speed limit are a bit selfish – I don’t get any particular enjoyment out of moving the dead deer off the road to keep them from attracting my (and other peoples) dogs.  It’s just a task I have to do because others drive faster than their abilities to share the road with wildlife.  Yes, one of those bodies left for me to pick up was left by the ambulance – and I can understand the willingness to indulge a heavy right foot on a long straight.

Depending on the rig I drive, I may be that old guy who isn’t making 70 on 93.  My Suzuki has a small 4 cylinder – generally, if I turn north from Trego, it’s just before Grave Creek that I reach 70 mph.  Acceleration isn’t its long suit.  On the other hand, acceleration and speed are the Talon’s long suit – so I generally click on cruise control to keep it at 35 on the slow road and 70 on the fast road.  Even cruising highway 93 at the legal limit, it’s surprising how often I get passed. 

There are a lot more white crosses on 93 than there were when I started driving.  I’ll pull off to let the traffic past when I’m driving north and planning a left across traffic to pull into Trego.  Turning south with the Talon, I don’t worry – slow left hand turns across traffic are a lot more hazardous than right hand turns with a turbocharger.

There are crosses at Stryker that weren’t there when I started driving in the mid-sixties.  The Highway department has added a flashing light – but they haven’t added extra lanes to make getting onto 93 any safer for folks leaving their homes in Stryker.  They haven’t reduced the speed limit as you go around the corner at Stryker, to give the folks entering the highway a little better chance.  This old man has hauled enough dead deer off a 35 mph road – the highway 93 corner at Stryker is one I take at the speed limit, or a bit less. 

I began driving at a time when Montana’s speed limit was ‘reasonable and prudent’.  The Supreme Court opinion differs with mine – I believe drivers should be capable of recognizing that there are times when you can speed up safely and times when prudent driving is slower than the posted limit. 

I enjoyed watching the fawn grow – watching her learn to drink from the pond was a visual treat.  She enjoyed running – all small animals seem to enjoy their amazing speed.  I suppose that the privilege of watching her antics from birth should offset the irritation at being stuck with the task of hauling her little body off the road so that other small animals wouldn’t be put at risk of another driver exceeding his or her ability.  On the other hand, as I look up from writing this, I see the doe in the field with no fawn.  I recall a time when I had slowed for a flock of coots that were covering the road – only to be passed by a smartly dressed young lady in a beemer, flipping me off for slowing as she smashed 30 or more birds.

Maybe reminding people to look at the crosses that brought the flashing light to Stryker isn’t all that curmudgeonly.