Roads That Don’t Get Used

Not every road disappears. Some of them stay right where they are and simply fall out of polite conversation.

They don’t make it onto maps anyone hands you. They’re not mentioned unless you ask—and even then, the directions come with qualifiers. Probably still passable. Depends on the weather. No reason to go that way anymore.

That last one is always doing a lot of work.

These roads tend to be narrow, uneven, and oddly confident about it. Trees lean in like they’re listening. The gravel crunches louder than necessary, announcing your presence as if it’s offended you showed up uninvited. Cell service drops off early, which people will insist is “spotty” even though it disappears with impressive commitment.

I’ve noticed the same pattern every time. Someone brings up a road like this, and suddenly everyone remembers something else they need to be doing. Eyes shift. Details blur. The story gets shorter and less helpful.

Oh, that road?
Pause.
Haven’t been down there in years.

Of course they haven’t.

What stays with me isn’t what happened on these roads—it’s what didn’t. The trips that were postponed indefinitely. The places people meant to check on and quietly never did. Roads like these collect intentions the way ditches collect rainwater.

Some of them still go somewhere. Others end at locked gates, washed-out bridges, or a hand-painted sign that suggests turning around is a favor being offered, not a suggestion.

And sometimes they just keep going, long after common sense has filed for divorce.

There’s a moment—usually a few minutes past the last mailbox—when it becomes very clear no one is coming along behind you. No traffic. No headlights. No helpful stranger who accidentally took the same wrong turn.

That’s usually when I decide I’ve gathered enough information for one day.

Not because I’m afraid. I just have a strong respect for places that have worked this hard to be forgotten.

Places remember things people don’t.

And some roads would really prefer you mind your business.