One of my favorite riding routes has a grid bridge spanning The River, and the road’s approach is a steep pair of steps off the ridge overlooking the narrow valley. Normally I whisk across the bridge at some speed, but not yesterday. Saturday’s crash made me more cautious than usual, so maybe I was in the right frame of mind to obey omens. Sometime in the last week, someone painted a pictograph on the road just before the bridge. Here’s the figure:

 

 
This is not an ordinary example of North Country graffiti. Instead of being vulgar or obscene, it displays talent and imagination. The being outlined in orange is mysterious, with curvy horns, a wide stance, and outstretched arms. It reminds me of some of the Native American pictographs of the American Southwest, or of the legendary Hearne the Hunter of English folklore. Who painted it? And what does it signify? As I pondered these questions, the wind carried the fresh aromas of riverside wildflowers and flowing water.

 
And then I heard a voice. Not loud, and I couldn’t discern words, but there was definitely someone speaking. Or was there? I didn’t see anyone around at all. Doo doo doo doo…. Must be the wind in the trees, I figured. Sometimes the wind does sound like someone speaking, but no, there it was again. I was getting too much into this mythical frame of mind, I concluded while walking over to my parked bike. And then I saw him, down below my feet, through the wide openings in the grid bridge deck. A man in a kayak, drifting on the current. Was he speaking to himself? No, he had a young child with him:

 

 
The man was showing the boy how to paddle and spoke with a soft voice. They seemed to be having a great time on this beautiful morning. I didn’t want to disturb them, so backed away from the railing and returned to my bike. And as I coasted away from the bridge, I concluded that the pavement spirit was probably meant to be a benevolent one, opening his arms to embrace all who chose to drift this way.

 
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