I drive  northwest from the Crystal City,  out past the pet resort,  on the road General Hull hacked through the swamp to the Maumee Rapids two hundred years ago. Nowadays the road flees arrow straight through dry corn fields, a chalk sky as still as the landscape itself, vanishing to a horizon punctuated by the spidery fingers of cell towers and pylons. Dark copses of trees and blank houses wait for winter.   I am looking for the Devil’s Hole. I’ve heard the name for years and often wondered. What is it? Where is it? Who first called it the Devil’s Hole and why? Is it an actual place or a figment of some unknown author’s imagination, a story written now in the wind and the silences? All I know is that I heard somewhere that the county highway department has stopped worrying about the disappearing road signs—college kids looking for dorm decorations most likely. Best surrender to the invisible.   Other than this, my knowledge is as two-dimensional as the map on my phone. I drive into t