It's getting sent up the river that's supposed to be depressing. Not driving downstream. Yesterday's events, however, flipped that script.
Here's the lowdown.
I'd left Long Island
in high spirits and all was uphill 'til high noon. I had scheduled a late-morning meeting in Yorktown Heights and delighted in the scenic, northbound drive across the East River and several Historic Hudson Valley waterways. I've always been a sucker for scenery and open water.The pleasant, productive sitdown hit high notes, too. The [dare I say, "other"?] smart, upbeat, socially conscious participants and I all left looking forward to collaborating anon.
Unfortuntely, the tide changed during the return trip.
The homebound trek began with my moseying happily down Croton-on-Hudson's scenic waterfront drive, all five senses firing. I'd naughtily savored a Scooter Pie
(what they are, where they are), shaking crumbs from my napkin-bib into the trashbag while drinking in the view of the sun-dappled, tree-lined Croton River. Holiday tunes were jingling on the radio. Fresh, fragrant air was wafting in the open windows.At Underhill Avenue, I picked up the Sprain Brook/Taconic Parkway South. One exit past the Croton Dam, something I saw punctured my balloon of eullience.
I'd switched lanes and found myself behind a tan-colored, late-model Mitsubishi Montero. A quick glance revealed that its driver was a deer hunter. The evidence was a dead deer bound, bellyup, on the backboard, stiff legs tied in a prayer-shaped steeple, hooves scraping the rear window.
Read: Not ALL U.S. women go wild for hunting. ###
