Scenic Road Quotes

Sometimes the most scenic roads in life are the detours you didn't mean to take.

It is better to fill your head with useless knowledge than no knowledge at all.

Odd, how life makes twists and turns. I never would have guessed that I’d end up where I am now, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I wouldn’t trade this path I’m on for the whole solar system, for that matter. If I’ve learned anything these last several months, it’s that sometimes the most scenic roads in life are the detours you didn’t mean to take.

I’m a first class passenger on the Spaceship Earth, and I got one ticket. And I gotta make the ride count, you know? And, as far as I figure, you can either take the service road or the scenic route. And, man, if I only have one ride, I want it to be beautiful. 84. Highway.

Homeschooling allows you the freedom to step off the highway of learning and take a more scenic route along a dirt road.

Talking about a scenic route in southeast Iowa is like talking about a good Barry Manilow album. You have to make certain allowances. Compared with an afternoon in a darkened room, it wasn't bad. But compared to say, the coast road along the Sorrentine peninsula, it was perhaps a little tame.

Phrases offered to the grief-stricken, such as “time heals all wounds” and “the day will come when you reach closure” irritated him, and there were times when he sat silent, seeming half-buried in some sediment of sorrow. “Closure? When someone beloved dies there is no ‘closure.’” He disliked television programs featuring tornado chasers squealing “Big one! Big one!” and despised the rat-infested warrens of the Internet, riddled with misinformation and chicanery. He did not like old foreign movies where, when people parted, one stood in the middle of the road and waved. He thought people with cell phones should be immolated along with those who overcooked pasta. Calendars, especially the scenic types with their glowing views of a world without telephone lines, rusting cars or burger stands, enraged him, but he despised the kittens, motorcycles, famous women and jazz musicians of the special-interest calendars as well. “Why not photographs of feral cats? Why not diseases?” he said furiously. Wal-Mart trucks on the highway received his curses and perfumed women in elevators invited his acid comment that they smelled of animal musk glands. For years he had been writing an essay entitled “This Land Is NOT Your Land.

I wanted language that could be simple and clear when the subject required it, but sometimes clarity requires complexity. I believe in the irreducible and in invocation and evocation, and I am fond of sentences less like superhighways than winding paths, with the occasional scenic detour or pause to take in the view, since a footpath can traverse steep and twisting terrain that a paved road cannot. I know that sometimes what gets called digression is pulling in a passenger who fell off the boat.

The Lord’s Plan It was getting so Norbert stopped pretending that they were going to do anything else. He didn’t warm her up. No candy for Betty. No love talk, no pretense. They didn’t go to the soda fountain or for a scenic drive or to a movie on the days it changed and they didn’t even listen to the radio once he stopped the car. He just got down to business. And this was not all right with Betty, although she was fine about jumping into the backseat with him. One night, she managed to slow him down, it was going well, and in fact she was becoming very hot and happy, when the car door opened and Norbert shot right out. He had been squeezed up against the door, his head pressed to the window as he labored away above. The door had unfortunately opened as he withdrew from her and thrust himself up between her breasts. He skidded off her body and flailed his way belly down onto the slick road. Betty thought the latch had popped by itself until someone outside said, “Could I have a minute of your time to tell you about the Lord’s plan for your soul?

It was at night,” I say. “What was?” “What happened. The car wreck. We were driving along the Storm King Highway.” “Where’s that?” “Oh, it’s one of the most scenic drives in the whole state,” I say, somewhat sarcastically. “Route 218. The road that connects West Point and Cornwall up in the Highlands on the west side of the Hudson River. It’s narrow and curvy and hangs off the cliffs on the side of Storm King Mountain. An extremely twisty two-lane road. With a lookout point and a picturesque stone wall to stop you from tumbling off into the river. Motorcycle guys love Route 218.” We stop moving forward and pause under a streetlamp. “But if you ask me, they shouldn’t let trucks use that road.” Cool Girl looks at me. “Go on, Jamie,” she says gently. And so I do. “Like I said, it was night. And it was raining. We’d gone to West Point to take the tour, have a picnic. It was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky until the tour was over, and then it started pouring. Guess we stayed too late. Me, my mom, my dad.” Now I bite back the tears. “My little sister. Jenny. You would’ve liked Jenny. She was always happy. Always laughing. “We were on a curve. All of a sudden, this truck comes around the side of the cliff. It’s halfway in our lane and fishtailing on account of the slick road. My dad slams on the brakes. Swerves right. We smash into a stone fence and bounce off it like we’re playing wall ball. The hood of our car slides under the truck, right in front of its rear tires—tires that are smoking and screaming and trying to stop spinning.” I see it all again. In slow motion. The detail never goes away. “They all died,” I finally say. “My mother, my father, my little sister. I was the lucky one. I was the only one who survived.

I would rather face the devil himself than that man,” Elizabeth said with a repressed shudder. “I daresay,” Lucinda agreed, clutching her umbrella with one hand and the side of the cart with her other. The nearer the time came, the more angry and confused Elizabeth became about this meeting. For the first four days of their journey, her tension had been greatly allayed by the scenic grandeur of Scotland with its rolling hills and deep valleys carpeted in bluebells and hawthorne. Now, however, as the hour of confronting him drew near, not even the sight of the mountains decked out in spring flowers or the bright blue lakes below could calm her mounting tension. “Furthermore, I cannot believe he has the slightest desire to see me.” “We shall soon find out.” In the hills above the high, winding track that passed for a road, a shepherd paused to gape at an old wooden wagon making its laborious way along the road below. “Lookee there, Will,” he told his brother. “Do you see what I see?” The brother looked down and gaped, his lips parting in a toothless grin of glee at the comical sight of two ladies-bonnets, gloves, and all-who were perched primly and precariously on the back of Sean MacLaesh’s haywagon, their backs ramrod-stiff, their feet sticking straight out beyond the wagon. “Don’t that beat all,” Will laughed, and high above the haywagon he swept off his cap in a mocking salute to the ladies. “I heered in the village Ian Thornton was acomin’ home. I’ll wager ‘e’s arrived, and them two are his fancy pieces, come to warm ‘is bed an’ see to ‘is needs.” Blessedly unaware of the conjecture taking place between the two spectators up in the hills, Miss Throckmorton-Jones brushed angrily and ineffectually at the coating of dust clinging to her black skirts. “I have never in all my life been subjected to such treatment!” she hissed furiously as the wagon they were riding in gave another violet, creaking lurch and her shoulder banged into Elizabeth’s. “You may depend on this-I shall give Mr. Ian Thornton a piece of my mind for inviting two gentlewomen to this godforsaken wilderness, and never even mentioning that a traveling baroche is too wide for the roads!” Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something soothing, but just then the wagon gave another teeth-jarring lurch, and she clutched at the wooden side. “From what little I know of him, Lucy,” she managed finally when the wagon righted, “he wouldn’t care in the least what we’ve been through. He’s rude and inconsiderate-and those are his good points-“ “Whoa there, whoa,” the farmer called out, sawing back on the swayback nags reins and bringing the wagon to a groaning stop. “That’s the Thornton place up there atop yon hill,” the farmer said, pointing.

Scenic Route Someone was always leaving and never coming back. The wooden houses wait like old wives along this road; they are everywhere, abandoned, leaning, turning gray. Someone always traded the lonely beauty of hemlock and stony lakeshore for survival, packed up his life and drove off to the city. In the yards the apple trees keep hanging on, but the fruit grows smaller year by year...

The fact is that all roads lead to Rome. Eventually, regardless of what you choose to do, you will end up having the experiences you came here for. You may have spiritual amnesia and find yourself getting lost again and again, but your soul is always right there next to you, waiting for you to wake up and pay attention to what it has to tell you. It will make sure you have the experiences it wants you to have, even when you’re taking every back road and “wrong” turn. Trust it! When you add your light to the sum of Light and co-create wholeheartedly, mindfully, and respectfully in community with others, you are doing what you came here to do. You will be on the right road even if it seems you are taking the long way and wasting time. If you think about it, why wouldn’t you take the scenic route rather than the highway? Are you in a rush to get somewhere? What’s the destination? Get rid of the mentality that you are going “to” some specific place on the map—trying to create some specific situation that will allow you to be happy ever after. Life will always change, and you will always be in motion. So the scenic route is a back road—not the most direct, fastest way to what you think you want to experience. Guess what? You can experience joy, abundance—whatever you seek—wherever you are. And your soul may want something more: the experience of opening your heart and your eyes in compassion. You may have to take a back road to have that experience because you probably don’t have “develop deeper understanding of people who frustrate me” and “experience the bittersweetness of life” on your small self’s list of goals to accomplish. Remember, your soul takes winding paths to get the experiences it wants to have. It is working with Spirit to co-create a reality your small self might not be conscious of—although

I believe that Mormon would have us understand that the path to the Savior is more circuitous and scenic than one might expect. In 3–4 Nephi, coming to Christ is what happens when the disciple focuses on other things. We make progress on the road not by speeding as quickly and efficiently as we can to our destination but by stopping to help others who have broken down along the way and by taking detours to search for those who are lost or stranded...Mormon’s focus on other-centeredness and outward-orientation invites the disciple to see salvation less as a goal that can be sought out for its own sake and more as a byproduct of trying to love and serve others. It is the accumulation of small and simple things made great by God.

A LITTLE AFTER FIVE, he went out to the Lexus SUV that he drove outside the Cities, and took off for Wisconsin. He was not in a mood for the scenic tour, so he went straight up I-35 to Highway 8, then east through Chisago City and Lindstrom and past Center City to Taylors Falls, then across the St. Croix into Wisconsin, north on Highway 82, off on River Road and finally, down a dirt lane lined with beech and oak trees to a redwood house perched on a bluff over the river. The front door was propped open with a river rock. The governor was sitting on a four-season porch, already closed in for the winter, that looked over the river valley. When Lucas banged on the screen door, he called, “Straight through to the porch. Get a beer out of the kitchen, or make yourself a drink.

A vocation today is more often like a road trip, with no set course or destination. All you have are the combined limits and opportunities of the car you are driving, the gas in your tank, and the many roads unrolling before you that will lead to innumerable places exciting and new. Of course, you may end up taking a roundabout course to get somewhere, but what makes the road trip worthwhile may be the very time spent on the scenic route. So ease off the gas pedal a bit and take some time to choose your soundtrack. Stop for photos at the lookouts.

Ascending and descending hills and mountains is an absolute joy on a motorcycle, not only for the roller coaster type feeling you experience, but also because of the way scenic views unfold before you as you crest a hilltop or mountain peak.

Every road is really two roads with different riding experiences and distinctive scenic views when you travel it in opposite directions...It’s up to you to decide whether you want to spend your time looking at the limited rear view mirror image of things that are already behind you, or if you want to look out over the handlebars and the great road unfolding before you.

Interestingly, he hadn’t taken I-40 for most of the trip, preferring smaller state roads, like the Oak Ridge Highway. I’d been told it was a scenic drive on the Oak Ridge Highway between Oliver Springs and Knoxville. I’d also been told there were historic Cherokee caverns just before Karns which were decorated with lights and displays around Christmastime. Beyond Knoxville, I’d never driven on the Oak Ridge Highway, though I’d always wanted to see the caverns. When my family drove any significant distance—like to Nashville—we stuck to the large freeways, and ventured out only during daylight hours, never at night. Roscoe was approaching Solway now, and I watched as he took the exit for the Pellissippi Parkway. This route made sense if he didn’t want to drive through Knoxville. Assuming he didn’t make any detours, he’d be in Green Valley in about an hour.

The trail continues west toward the Continental Divide. Cross FS Rd 427 at mile 4.4 (10,161) and Deadman Creek on a bridge at mile 4.5 (10,164). At mile 5.0 (10,180) cross a small stream and continue on the trail as it turns left. Gain a saddle and pass through a Forest Service gate at mile 5.2 (10,262). Cross Jefferson Lake Road at mile 5.9 (10,014) and Jefferson Creek at mile 6.0 (9,975). At mile 6.1 (9,986) there is an intersection. Take a right on the West Jefferson Trail for 0.1 mile, then go left at the fork at mile 6.2 (9,983). From here, the climb to Georgia Pass begins. At mile 7.8 (10,699), the CT intersects the Michigan Creek Trail. Stay to the right. After the trail leaves a subalpine fir forest and emerges above tree line, pass the Jefferson Creek Trail on the right at mile 11.7 (11,667) and cross a jeep road at mile 12.1 (11,838). Be aware of changing weather patterns when above tree line. Reach the top of Georgia Pass and the Continental Divide at mile 12.3 (11,874). Descend in a northerly direction. Reach Glacier Creek Road at mile 12.5 (11,798). This is the point where users first encounter the Continental Divide National Scenic Trail, which comes in from the north. The CT and CDNST are co-located for the next 314 miles (including along the CT Collegiate West) and into Segment 24 where the two trails diverge. Cross the road and descend on single-track as it turns right. After entering the trees, cross an ATV trail at mile 15.4 (11,135). Keep descending, passing a pond,

Beyond the Destination: Experiencing the Magic of Indian Highways Highways in India are more than routes; they are the veins of a nation on the move. Among them, India’s best highway infrastructure stands out, providing a seamless journey marked by beauty and precision. As I embarked on my trip, the first thing I noticed was the flawless design of the road. The surface was impeccably smooth, ensuring a drive free of bumps and jerks. The wide lanes accommodated vehicles of all sizes, creating a balanced and organized traffic flow. Safety measures like guardrails and clear signage at every interval showcased the meticulous planning behind this marvel. The scenic beauty alongside these highways is breathtaking. On either side, fields stretch endlessly, occasionally broken by quaint villages or dense forests. The rising and setting sun casts a golden glow on the landscape, making the drive feel almost poetic. What’s impressive is the way these highways integrate natural beauty with cutting-edge infrastructure. The rest areas deserve special mention. Designed to cater to every traveler’s needs, they include clean restrooms, food courts, and even small shopping kiosks. These facilities make long journeys comfortable and stress-free. Additionally, the toll plazas are so well-organized that they feel like part of the smooth highway experience. Architectural features like overpasses and bridges are more than functional structures; they’re landmarks. Each is built with a focus on durability and design, serving as a reminder of India’s infrastructural brilliance. India’s highways are not just roads; they are experiences. They’re where the journey becomes as fulfilling as the destination. Driving on them is a celebration of progress, blending engineering excellence with the natural charm of India’s diverse landscapes.