. . . from the arched branches of a wild rose bush, a copper-colored can winked at me.

As the adoptive parent of a stretch of road, I employ two strategies. First, when possible while driving, if I see a cup, can, bottle, or sack cluttering the roadside, I park where the shoulder widens and run back to pick up the litter. Second, if time and weather permit, I hike along the road as it switches back and forth and down into the steep coves. On foot I find litter my eyes never see. Either way, unplanned adventures sometimes take me by surprise.

Early one afternoon, less than a mile from our cabin, I turned off Bullen Gap at Rosewood. Our mailbox is on the corner. On my left, ten yards up the one-lane road, from the arched branches of a wild rose bush, a copper-colored can winked at me. I stopped and shut off my motor. I hopped out and stared at the shiny object. Technically, it wasn’t within the boundaries of our adopted mile. Nevertheless, it was a place we pass every time we go anywhere, and it had been ignored since 1950, or so it seemed.

Taking a deep breath, I resolved to grope my way into the briar patch and get rid of the can.

Ultimately, I took possession of my target. But only after an hour and a half of tromping back and forth through bloodying blackberries and rose thorns, head-bumping low-hanging branches, and shin-skinning roots. Yes, all this to retrieve innumerable beer bottles, propane canisters, empty jars, aluminum cans, Styrofoam cups and clamshells, a window visor, a defunct 35-foot measuring tape, a nylon hiking boot, a jogging shoe, a child’s booster seat, a broken tea pot, a car’s headlamp, plastic beverage containers and margarine tubs.

These filled two large white trash bags. Stuffed them too full, let me add. The first one I set on a sheet of cellophane in the back seat. I hauled the second one around to the right side. Shards of glass tore holes in the bag. Putrid brown fluids sullied my upholstery. Off we hurried, the bags and I, to the road department’s dumpster.

The backseat bag I heaved over the seven-foot wall of the bin. The leaky one, however, hit the upper edge like a basketball bouncing off the rim.

The backseat bag I heaved over the seven-foot wall of the bin. The leaky one, however, hit the upper edge like a basketball bouncing off the rim. It crashed and splashed shattered glass around my ankles. Not having planned to delve into such an undertaking, I’d neglected to wear my work gloves among the prickles and thorns. My hands were bloodied. So I was sure to put them on while scooping up the broken glass and dividing the spilled mess into two fresh bags.

As for the muddy booster chair, I tossed it over the top without a bag. How old must the baby who once sat in it be by now?