The Six-Mile Canyon Coloring Contest
Few things in this world are more alarming than a freshly striped road, unless it is a politician who has just discovered a new ribbon-cutting ceremony.
Six Mile Canyon Road, that noble and somewhat obstinate roadway winding toward Virginia City, has been selected for an improvement of the highest order: coloring between the lines. Accordingly, the road'll be closed Sept 15, and again on Sept 16, from nine in the morning until three in the afternoon, while the county applies its artistic vision to the pavement.
The Storey County Sheriff’s Office has advised travelers bound for Virginia City to seek an alternate route during these hours. This is sensible advice, since attempting to pass through a road-crew operation generally requires the sort of courage formerly associated with charging a fortified hill, except that the enemy is wearing a reflective vest and holding a paddle that says STOP.
The recommended alternatives are State Route 341 and State Route 342, both of which have the considerable advantage of actually being open. This may seem a small distinction, but it is one upon which the success of a journey occasionally depends.
A man may leave Dayton intending to reach Virginia City in time for lunch and find himself, three hours later, sitting beside a cone, contemplating the mysteries of government and wondering whether the restaurant will still have pie when he arrives.
Road striping is one of civilization’s quieter miracles. First comes the road, then the potholes, then the complaints about the potholes, then the repairs, and finally the glorious appearance of a line down the middle to remind us where civilization intended us to drive.
It is the county’s way of saying, “We have not lost control entirely.”
Naturally, some motorists will regard the closure as an inconvenience. These are the same people who become irritated when a traffic signal takes longer than 30 seconds to change, as though the machinery were deliberately conspiring against them.
They will approach the barricade tomorrow morning, read the sign announcing the closure, stare at it for a moment, and then ask whether there's some secret arrangement to open the road specifically for them. There will not.
The road crews, meanwhile, will perform their work with the solemn concentration of men entrusted with the fate of the republic. Somewhere behind them a truck will idle, a cone will stand at attention, and a freshly painted stripe will stretch confidently into the distance.
By three o’clock, assuming the machinery, weather, and human race cooperate, Six Mile Canyon Road should once again be available to the public. And so we are reminded that progress is rarely convenient. Sometimes it requires detours, patience, and the willingness to admit that the man holding the STOP sign knows something you do not.
Take Route 341 or 342, allow extra time, and remember: tomorrow, civilization will be closed from nine until three—not because it has failed, but because it is busy coloring between the lines.
