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The road has been rode for millions of years. Every town has it.

Broadway.     Main.     Oak.     First. 

Something familiar.

Before that road
was a road,


maybe
a
hundred
and
fifty
or
two
hundred
years
ago,


it was something else.
It was the end of the trail.






It came from the next town. It led to the water’s edge. Settlers used it, when they came to the place and set down roots. And before them, the native people used it. For even longer.

For
thousands
and
thousands
of
years
they
used
it
every
day,
just like you.

The trail was the most direct path. The one that made sense.



For thousands of years,
beaten into the earth.




Native people followed the paths of those they hunted.

Because for
tens of thousand of years,
bison,
cottontail,
antelope,
coyotes
and
mastodon
used it.

Before them,


three-toed horses,
ground sloths,
bone-crushing dogs
and
hell pigs.


For millions of years, they all used it
for the same reason you do.





For as long as beings have lived and breathed this air on this land it’s been used.

Because it led to the water.

The river.

The lake.

The sea.

The road speaks to the riders.




“This is             the way.
                                       Life is             this way.

Hope is         this way.
What you want is     this way.
   
Follow                                                me.”

And they did.

We did.


We     still    do.





Forever.
      






Following the path laid before us, 
looking for what’s next.

Finding our way.
Making the path our own each day.


That’s what we do at Dean Donohoe.