On Thanksgiving Day last year, I drove the full length of Devil's  Hole Road to see what I could find.  In truth I was looking for the Hole, or at least evidence that some sort of a portal once existed in this part of the otherwise unremarkably flat and vacant landscape. But I couldn't find it. I'm still not fully attuned to the voices of the landscape. Sometimes they whisper in a tongue that's unintelligible. Other times all I hear is the traffic.  What I did find is a place in which all context and interrelationship has been stripped away. Open  fields  flat as the sea , cloudscapes, all motion stilled and far off.   A swamp drained and denatured and that exists largely in name only. A past that's as muted as the colors of a late afternoon in late November. If there are clues about the Hole in this topography, they are gridded to almost nothing. Roads slice straight through bioregions and habitats, cutting through the sinews and tendons of the land. There's