Woog's World / Motoring along the Merritt

Fairfield County boasts one of the most despised roads in all America: I-95.

It's also home to one of the most beloved: the Merritt Parkway.

The differences are as stark as their names. One is an interstate: rough, ugly, clogged with trucks, buses and drivers who view speed limits, lane markings and signage as suggestions -- impediments, even -- rather than laws.

The other is, most definitely, a "park"way. Lined with flowers and trees, there's not a commercial vehicle in sight. It's lovely, undulating, meandering. Sure, it attracts kamikaze drivers too, but surrounded by trees and flowers you're more apt to let them fly by, less inclined to start playing a game of chicken.

Not to get all Taoist here, but I-95 and the Merritt Parkway represent the yin and yang of vehicular experiences.

Built in the 1930s, when "motoring" was an actual hobby, the Merritt seems as natural a part of Fairfield County life as the Sound or Stew's. But -- unlike those two icons -- the parkway didn't just develop organically. Its design took tremendous thought. Even the dogwoods and mountain laurels are there for a reason.

When I-95 was built, it blasted through whatever was in its way: rocks, ridges, entire neighborhoods. The Merritt's engineers and landscape architects took a different approach: they wanted the 37.5-mile road to take advantage of the geology God, or the Ice Age, put there. It works with its environment, not against it. (To a point, of course: the reason the Merritt twists so often in Greenwich has nothing to do with topography. Those turns were the only way to get around back country estates.)

Landscape architect Thayer Chase planted trees in clumps -- not rows -- to make them seem more natural. He chose native species to provide spring blossoms, summer shade and fall color. Early motorists actually stopped by the roadside, to picnic and stroll.

They probably admired the concrete bridges too -- all 69 of them. Each was designed differently -- all by George Dunkelberger -- with hand carvings by local artists. Some have been replaced -- ah, progress! -- but enough winged creatures, wreaths and whatnot remain to make the Merritt an Art Deco lover's dream.

Dunkelberger's tollbooths were special, too. Resembling log cabins, they were just whimsical enough to make stopping every several miles bearable. They were removed in the 1980s, but one is still on exhibit at Boothe Memorial Park in Stratford. Now retired, it's free.

Even the exit signs were designed with nature in mind. They were wooden, with jagged edges. (That also made them lethal, when struck. They live on today, though, in the form of those goofy-looking metal signs with painted-on arrows in Greenwich.)

The Merritt has developed a cult following. It's spawned at least two books and one documentary film. It's on the National Register of Historic Places, and is celebrated with its own nonprofit conservancy and website.

The Merritt is not perfect. Thayer Chase's plantings have grown enormously -- trees do that -- and in the last few years have developed a nasty habit of falling on unsuspecting motorists. Still, many folks who have not been struck by them still love the trees. A former Department of Transportation commissioner (and Westport resident) said, "Whenever you cut one branch, you're inundated with phone calls."

And the setting attracts wildlife like deer, who commit suicide in frightening numbers on the parkway. You see plenty of things on I-95, but trees and animals are not two of them.

Let's hope the Merritt does not go the way of its interstate cousin. Last month, the parkway was named to the National Trust for Historic Preservation's list of America's 11 Most Endangered Historic Places. Between crumbling and rusting bridges, intrusions into the right-of-way and other 21st century realities, the Merritt has become the vehicular version of the Abolokopatrika Madagascar Frog.

But before the Merritt Parkway becomes a memory -- and I'm betting that won't happen in our lifetimes -- here are answers to two questions that everyone asks.

Why is there no Exit 43, between Westport and Fairfield? That's NIMBYism, 1930s-style: Residents of Greenfield Hill refused to allow an off-ramp in their back yard. (For the same reason, Westport residents opposed construction of a "spur" all the way south to Sherwood Island State Park. When I-95 was built in the 1950s, the exit connected neatly with Sherwood Island. Westporters of that era shared the same fear as those from the '30s: Hordes of New Yorkers would spill off the roads, and wreak havoc on our small suburban town.)

Who was Merritt, anyway? Schuyler Merritt was a four-term congressman from Stamford who championed construction of the road, and helped acquire the land. He had help from Wilbur Cross, who at age 22 had been principal of Staples High School, and in his 70s, had become governor of Connecticut. He was rewarded when an extension of the road -- from Milford to Meriden -- was named in his honor. Too bad: The Wilbur Cross Parkway is nowhere near as pretty as the Merritt.

(All of the land, by the way, was bought on the open market. A scandal, involving a Darien real estate broker who traded information about prospective purchases in return for paybacks, caused the state to overpay for some property. Still, the total cost of the parkway was just $22.7 million, on the low end of the original cost estimate of $20million to $30 million. And the Merritt was not, as many people think, a WPA project; it was funded entirely by the State of Connecticut.

But my favorite Merritt Parkway story concerns John Lennon, of all people. When he wanted to just think, the former Beatle rented a car and drove up the Merritt, then back to New York. He said the parkway gave him "peace."

Imagine.

Dan Woog is a Westport writer. Want more Woog? Read more from him during the week at www.westport-news.com. His personal blog is www.danwoog06880.com; his e-mail is dwoog@optonline.net.