On a sunny August day we were driving way out in the country, and I made a wrong turn.

Dolores said that the highway sign stated "north" for the direction I didn't go.

When I found she had been right, had turned around, and was headed safely north again, I said, "The sign must have been wrong."

I've only been lost on a Maine road once, and I can't remember where or when. I also can't remember being lost that time.

Moody Mountain Road is a paved back road that passes a small lake and climbs a low mountain, Moody Mountain, of course, on its way from Lincolnville to Searsmont. It seems to be populated with a few folk, folk who, like us, enjoy a good chuckle. The chuckle that made us stop "Ellie" and grab a photo of a road sign, a homemade one about 12 feet tall. Did you know it is 95 miles from You Are Here to Saponac? We didn't, and we're still not sure.

This sign along the rural and woodsy Moody Mountain Road out in the country lets you know that from this part of Maine, you actually can get there from here... maybe. Photo by Milt Gross.

On the way home on yet another country road we found, after we had pulled off onto a steep, gravel shoulder to take a photo, we heard a rattling noise under "Ellie" Echo.

We had this horrible thought, no! no! Toyotas don't develop rattling noises.

So we stopped in a wide roadside gravel area and found a two-foot-long twig, shaped like a fork, stuck up into the tailpipe where it leaves the front. To get it out, I had to lie on my back and slide under the car, from where it was easy to dislodge. As I crawled out, I saw an SUV behind us, and heard a voice say, "Is this where the chest pain is?"

I heard Dolores say, "No, it's just a twig, but thank you for stopping."

When I got to my feet, I saw the woman was an EMT and the SUVs flashers were on.

"Well, I better go then," she said. "The chest pain must be farther up the road."

If it was, we didn't see a chest pain farther up the road.

Then we talked about what Dolores could have said:

"Yes, this is where the chest pain is, but if you can help me get the car off him, I think he'll feel better."

"He crawled under the car to have the chest pain."

"No, I didn't know twigs got chest pains."

"I thought the chest pain had killed him, but he seems to have crawled back out and gotten up."

We really weren't that cruel. And we at least had thanked the EMT for her trouble. I was thankful, as I thought maybe this had been someone who stopped because she thought we were having car trouble. That's always something for which to be thankful.

And "Ellie" ran quietly all the way home.

Now two years later, "Ellie" has become the one who takes me to work to drive my bus each day, to the dump on Saturday, or to Ellsworth Feed and Seed where I stock up on sunflower seeds for the host of critters at our house.

"Miss Kitty," our Toyota Yaris, has become our rural-roads-explorations vehicle. She has less than 6,000 miles under her rubber, and most of those less-than-6,000 have been on those rural roads. We have taken lots of "screen saver" photos during those rambles of cows, fields, houses, lakes, mountains, and more.

Sometimes this rambling reminds me of those Sunday rides we took when I was a kid in Pennsylvania after my older brother got his driver's license. Of course, he drove a bit differently than we do. What I remember most about those childhood "rambles" is how fast a '53 Ford could go with my brother at the wheel. He taught me a valuable lesson about driving one afternoon.

We came to a stop sign, and he slowed and turned onto the other road. Funny, I always thought "stop" meant stop, kind of a safety thing. Thanks to his not stopping, I always stop at stop signs. I figure that country rambles or crazy Ellsworth or Bar Harbor streets, a good stop is better than a bad accident.

Thanks, Big Brother.

On one trip to the country, Dolores and I found ourselves in Freedom with two interesting discoveries. Columbus may have found Florida, but we found three wind towers and an organic farm, the Village Farm. At the farm, we stopped in hopes of bagging a dozen organic eggs. We enjoyed chatting with the farmer and his son, but our egg hunt produced no eggs. The non-organic refrigerator where they keep the organic eggs was empty.

The three wind towers seemed surreal. We drove to within 1,000 feet of them but declined to walk up the gravel road any closer in case a non-wind-powered rottweiler might be lurking nearby. We didn't hear any sound but a compressor on a farm down the hill behind us, which gave this part of Freedom the eerie affect of being located on the moon.

This farm in Freedom is one of the many rural scenes we have enjoyed as we tool around. This "tooling around" began one day when we decided to turn left instead of our usual right, as we left home. Photo by Milt Gross.

On our way out of the Freedom hinterland from a very rural road, we came to a stop sign at the highway, the highway being Route 137.

At that intersection, the highway comes from the left around a gradual curve well over a quarter-mile long and goes off to the right around the same continuing curve for at least another quarter mile. (Or it could be the other way around.)

We spied an old pickup coming around the curve to the left. We waited, and waited, and waited a bit longer for the pickup to pass. It did and continued on around the long curve to the right and eventually out of sight. No other vehicles were to be seen.

"Traffic sure is heavy here," I commented to Dolores.

This past week I shared that experience with several people on my Island Explorer bus on a route involving heavy traffic. Upon hearing the tale of the busy intersection, each one got kind of a gleam in his or her eye -- kind of a dream gleam.

I told Dolores about those gleams.

"Better hadn't tell anyone else," she said.

Milt Gross can be reached for corrections, harassment, or other purposes at lesstraveledway@midmaine.com.

Milton M. Gross Copyright 2011