It has been five days since I finished walking, and now I am home in Colorado. Saturday night I camped in Lubec, looking out at a river and an island in the distance. Sunday I crossed a bridge, stood in the middle with one foot on either side of a thin line and put my hands on a metal plaque. On the other side of the river I walked to the border station, said a few words with the agent behind the window and simply turned around. By the river I stopped to light my cigar in quiet celebration and no more than two minutes later a man came down from the station and asked me to leave, said that I was in Canada illegally. So I crossed the bridge again, checked in with the U.S. border station and walked half a mile or so to a restaurant where I got some breakfast. By noon I had my thumb in the air.
I hitched rides back down to Portland, got there at six or so the next evening, and then bought a bus ticket. Yesterday I got to Denver, hugged my dad in the station and we drove home.
This is not where anything ends, I guess. Not where it ends but begins once again. I take up the reigns of a different horse, point it in a different direction, but the road goes on and on, unending. There is never a destination, there is only living with purpose.
I know that I'm only remembering to thank a few:
Abe - Miami
Doug - Pompano Beach
Oliver and Leanne - Flagler Beach
Paul - Daytona
Ryan - Bluffton
Anthony and Jerome - Yemassee
Allan and Silvana Clark
Jeremy and the mens fellowship of the Holly Pentacostal Church
The library staff in Raeford
Chris -Wise
The DeLauder Household + Andrew - Baltimore
T.J. Everett - Avondale
Jenny - Oxford
The Hilton Garden Inn and Applebees - Kennett Square
Jessica, Mother, and co - Darling/Media
Don and Carol, Kathy and Fran
The Wheelers - Berwick
James, Cindy, Kalie - Thomaston
Steve and Judith - Bah Habaah
Jimmy - Steuben
Everybody at Soles4Souls that organized and supported the trip. Such a wonderful cause to get to be a part of.
My parents, the beginning and end
Friday, October 1, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Bar Harbor
I'm one hundred miles out, and riding on the tail end of my last planned stop - with my second cousin and his wife, Steve and Judith, at their home in Bar Harbor. Steve picked me up yesterday and I leave tomorrow, because I haven't allowed myself anymore time here, so close to the end. Today I saw got a great glimpse of Acadia National Park, and just finished a lobster dinner and wonderful evening with family that I'd never met. Morning reveals, truly, the final leg.
I walk because there is a coward inside me. He squirms at every corner, nags me when I have a tough choice to make; is the first part of me to squeal in pain, the last to get up and go in the morning, begrudgingly, and walk. He is the first to complain, the last to shut up and sing. If I let him he will take everything from me that is not nailed down, will suck like a Bissel at the edge of my dreams until they are cleaned up and tidy, logical and methodical and lifeless. If I let him he will squander away my soul. I walk because the coward must be fought, and driven out.
I walk because there is a coward inside me. He squirms at every corner, nags me when I have a tough choice to make; is the first part of me to squeal in pain, the last to get up and go in the morning, begrudgingly, and walk. He is the first to complain, the last to shut up and sing. If I let him he will take everything from me that is not nailed down, will suck like a Bissel at the edge of my dreams until they are cleaned up and tidy, logical and methodical and lifeless. If I let him he will squander away my soul. I walk because the coward must be fought, and driven out.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Thomaston
The end pulls me, drags me, has a fix on my location, is the smiling magnet that tugs on the lump of iron in my chest more and more with each day, as I grow closer. Too much longer and it will simply pick me up and reel me in through the air, and my walking will be done. I keep a photo of the border under my jacket-pillow and the image crawls up my ear and into my dreams as I sleep in the cold rain. I have a cigar in my pack, still dry and un-bent after all these miles, and it seems anxious, too, for what it knows is coming, and I need only whisper to it that we are through and it will surely self-combust in celebration.
I have left the Wheeler home behind but I have not yet shaken loose of Jay. Twice he has met me along the road as he drives north for his work and has taken me out to lunch.
Yesterday I was picked up by another contact, James, who brought me to his house in Thomaston. He and his daughter, Kalie, showed me around their property here, which reminds me more and more of home in Coaldale, with the garden and apple orchard, wood stove, dogs, and river. This morning I met Cindy, as well, wife and mother. She and James are both artists, as are many of my parents' friends at home and this, too, reminds me of Colorado. My stomache is still steaming from breakfast, now, and though the sky is still overcast after last night's rain and I don't exactly feel like leaving another warm house behind the magnet pulls strongly, and I must.
Fall is here. At my face the wind is cold, stroking the underside of the leaves in these forests and tickling them into changing the color of their skin. They wrile up in laughter, clutching their golden red bellies and squinting closed their eyes. Acorns drop in gusting waves, and I watch my head as I pass under thick trees or I am pelted. At night I have begun wearing my longsleeve underarmor, finally burrowing into the warmth of my sleeping bag after so many hot and humid nights.
I have left the Wheeler home behind but I have not yet shaken loose of Jay. Twice he has met me along the road as he drives north for his work and has taken me out to lunch.
Yesterday I was picked up by another contact, James, who brought me to his house in Thomaston. He and his daughter, Kalie, showed me around their property here, which reminds me more and more of home in Coaldale, with the garden and apple orchard, wood stove, dogs, and river. This morning I met Cindy, as well, wife and mother. She and James are both artists, as are many of my parents' friends at home and this, too, reminds me of Colorado. My stomache is still steaming from breakfast, now, and though the sky is still overcast after last night's rain and I don't exactly feel like leaving another warm house behind the magnet pulls strongly, and I must.
Fall is here. At my face the wind is cold, stroking the underside of the leaves in these forests and tickling them into changing the color of their skin. They wrile up in laughter, clutching their golden red bellies and squinting closed their eyes. Acorns drop in gusting waves, and I watch my head as I pass under thick trees or I am pelted. At night I have begun wearing my longsleeve underarmor, finally burrowing into the warmth of my sleeping bag after so many hot and humid nights.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Berwick. Maine
Don and Carol dropped me off Saturday below Boston, and I had a great walk through the city and surrounding locale. The commons and waterfront were swarming with people, as was the Charles River filled with small sailboats on a windy but sunlit afternoon. By evening I made it to Revere Beach, walking right along the sand, lights flickering on the bay. I camped by a highway turnoff, put my tent up just across from some houses and next to the road and slept well, undisturbed.
Sunday I walked through the towns of Lynn, Swampscott, Salem, and Beverly, where I met and chilled with a couple different groups of students from Montserrat College of Art, just back for the semester. Sitting up on a little hill in the trees, and nearby on the lawn of the commons, I felt nostalgic for my own college, my own college friends just starting their own semester back in Colorado. I'm not ready to go back to school, not ready to enroll again and try to stay focused, but I think maybe I'm ready to stay in one spot for a while, with people I know.
I camped for the night in Wenham, in a big park, rolled out near some playground equipment.
In the morning I walked through Ipswich, then Newburyport later in the day, and stayed the night on the edge of Salsbury, just shy of the New Hampshire border.
Tuesday was easily one of my favorite walking days of the trip. I met the ocean in Salsbury Beach, turned north and stayed nearby for nearly all of the day, sidewalk and water only separated by dunes or dark rock hidden under wigs of green. My neck grew stiff quickly, and I kept kicking the lip of the concrete or stepping on easily visible rocks because I was paying attention only to the waves, my head turned permanently to the right, the endless blue. Instead of feeling ready to go home Tuesday made me think of living here, in a little shack by the water, maybe working on a boat. I know that someday I will live by the ocean.
By ten oclock I made it to Portsmouth, and slept behind a truck stop. It started raining around six the next morning, and I hadn't bothered to prepare so I was forced to get up and pack quickly, then took refuge inside the truck stop with coffee until the rain let up. Back outside, the caffeine did nothing and I only wanted to sleep more, so I rolled out next to an Odd Fellows lodge, stretched my poncho over the deck rainling to ward off the intermittent sprinkles which continued for a couple of hours, and slept until eleven thirty.
Maybe two hours later, not having gotten far, I met Jay Wheeler, who I'd been in contact with, and he drove me into Berwick, Maine, to the Wheeler residence, where I remain now, as I write. Peg and Jay were good friends of my parents some twenty-odd years ago, before I was born, and they have welcomed me in with old stories and picture albums. Yesterday Jay drove me around, showed me the old farmhouse apartment where my parents used to live, the vet clinic where my mom got her first job out of school. He dropped me off at the historic Hamilton House and for a couple of hours I walked the trails nearby, along the river through Vaughan Woods, another old haunt of my folks. My parents tell me, talking on the phone, that they easily could have stayed here, worked here, raised me here, and I flirt aimlessly with notions of what it might have been like to grow in these woods, along these rivers. I question who I would have become, whether I would have ever walked, and if so, whether I would have walked through the forests in Colorado and imagined this life, then, asked these same questions. If there is another me, somewhere, traveling parallel, then perhaps that me began nearby to this place, in the summer of Maine. Here I look for traces of myself, my own footprints in the sand.
Sunday I walked through the towns of Lynn, Swampscott, Salem, and Beverly, where I met and chilled with a couple different groups of students from Montserrat College of Art, just back for the semester. Sitting up on a little hill in the trees, and nearby on the lawn of the commons, I felt nostalgic for my own college, my own college friends just starting their own semester back in Colorado. I'm not ready to go back to school, not ready to enroll again and try to stay focused, but I think maybe I'm ready to stay in one spot for a while, with people I know.
I camped for the night in Wenham, in a big park, rolled out near some playground equipment.
In the morning I walked through Ipswich, then Newburyport later in the day, and stayed the night on the edge of Salsbury, just shy of the New Hampshire border.
Tuesday was easily one of my favorite walking days of the trip. I met the ocean in Salsbury Beach, turned north and stayed nearby for nearly all of the day, sidewalk and water only separated by dunes or dark rock hidden under wigs of green. My neck grew stiff quickly, and I kept kicking the lip of the concrete or stepping on easily visible rocks because I was paying attention only to the waves, my head turned permanently to the right, the endless blue. Instead of feeling ready to go home Tuesday made me think of living here, in a little shack by the water, maybe working on a boat. I know that someday I will live by the ocean.
By ten oclock I made it to Portsmouth, and slept behind a truck stop. It started raining around six the next morning, and I hadn't bothered to prepare so I was forced to get up and pack quickly, then took refuge inside the truck stop with coffee until the rain let up. Back outside, the caffeine did nothing and I only wanted to sleep more, so I rolled out next to an Odd Fellows lodge, stretched my poncho over the deck rainling to ward off the intermittent sprinkles which continued for a couple of hours, and slept until eleven thirty.
Maybe two hours later, not having gotten far, I met Jay Wheeler, who I'd been in contact with, and he drove me into Berwick, Maine, to the Wheeler residence, where I remain now, as I write. Peg and Jay were good friends of my parents some twenty-odd years ago, before I was born, and they have welcomed me in with old stories and picture albums. Yesterday Jay drove me around, showed me the old farmhouse apartment where my parents used to live, the vet clinic where my mom got her first job out of school. He dropped me off at the historic Hamilton House and for a couple of hours I walked the trails nearby, along the river through Vaughan Woods, another old haunt of my folks. My parents tell me, talking on the phone, that they easily could have stayed here, worked here, raised me here, and I flirt aimlessly with notions of what it might have been like to grow in these woods, along these rivers. I question who I would have become, whether I would have ever walked, and if so, whether I would have walked through the forests in Colorado and imagined this life, then, asked these same questions. If there is another me, somewhere, traveling parallel, then perhaps that me began nearby to this place, in the summer of Maine. Here I look for traces of myself, my own footprints in the sand.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Southboro Again
After Don and Carol dropped me off Wednesday night in Connecticut I walked seven or miles into the evening and set up camp off to the side of a grocery store. At five-thirty in the morning it started raining again, which I didn't think it was supposed to, but I stayed fairly dry in my tent at least, and by eight or so the storm moved on and I got up and packed my things. No more than an hour and a half or two hours into the day I made it to Westerly, Rhode Island, and wandered around for a little while along the water.
I walked fairly late into the day, not pulling over until eleven or so in the little town of Charlestown Beach. I put up my tent right in front of the post office, across from a bar and restaurant, and no sooner had I crawled inside and pulled off my shorts did the beam of a flashlight come shining on my rain flap and the burly voice of a police officer called me back outside. "Can you come out here sir? What are you doing on federal property? You're a laud of the post office. You can't camp here."
As always happens when I'm accosted by the police after setting up camp and then told to move, I get a little irritated. This time, of course, it's my fault, as I should have known to at least hide out behind the building instead of out front by the street. My irritation is usually, as it was this time, not directed at the police, who are simply doing their job and seem sympathetic when they've heard my story, but towards the people across the street at the restaurant who must have called me in. Why, I wonder, does anybody think that a guy with a backpack and a tent is such a danger, such a menace?
After they run my license to make sure I don't have any warrants the police tell me about a church only a mile or so up the road where they say I should be okay to stay for the night. They offer to give me a ride, even, but I turn them down and finish packing up my stuff. Backpack reloaded I start out towards the church, then decide as I go past the restaurant that I want to go in and maybe show whoever it was that called me in that I'm not such a threat. The first person I meet, the hostess, acts a little hostile, making me think that it was her. "Guess I'll sit at the bar," I say, because that's the only place with any people, and she says "Well, are you going to eat or drink or what?" eyeing me coldly. For a second I feel like heading straight back out, but I sit down anyway, order a bowl of chowder and make friends with the people near me. My story gets passed along a little bit, I think, and I feel a much better atmosphere by the time I leave and head down the street.
I find the church without any trouble and roll out under the stars, and sleep well, and nobody bothers me the next morning even though people are coming and going nearby while I'm still sleeping.
Sunday I walked through Providence and made it across the border into Massachusetts, and by Tuesday afternoon I was into Boston city limits and Don and Carol came and found me again, by the side of the road. I wasn't planning to stay more than one day with them this time, but the forecast says that Hurricane Earl could stir up some trouble in this area tomorrow, so I've decided to stay under a warm roof to see what happens and then get back on the road on Saturday.
I walked fairly late into the day, not pulling over until eleven or so in the little town of Charlestown Beach. I put up my tent right in front of the post office, across from a bar and restaurant, and no sooner had I crawled inside and pulled off my shorts did the beam of a flashlight come shining on my rain flap and the burly voice of a police officer called me back outside. "Can you come out here sir? What are you doing on federal property? You're a laud of the post office. You can't camp here."
As always happens when I'm accosted by the police after setting up camp and then told to move, I get a little irritated. This time, of course, it's my fault, as I should have known to at least hide out behind the building instead of out front by the street. My irritation is usually, as it was this time, not directed at the police, who are simply doing their job and seem sympathetic when they've heard my story, but towards the people across the street at the restaurant who must have called me in. Why, I wonder, does anybody think that a guy with a backpack and a tent is such a danger, such a menace?
After they run my license to make sure I don't have any warrants the police tell me about a church only a mile or so up the road where they say I should be okay to stay for the night. They offer to give me a ride, even, but I turn them down and finish packing up my stuff. Backpack reloaded I start out towards the church, then decide as I go past the restaurant that I want to go in and maybe show whoever it was that called me in that I'm not such a threat. The first person I meet, the hostess, acts a little hostile, making me think that it was her. "Guess I'll sit at the bar," I say, because that's the only place with any people, and she says "Well, are you going to eat or drink or what?" eyeing me coldly. For a second I feel like heading straight back out, but I sit down anyway, order a bowl of chowder and make friends with the people near me. My story gets passed along a little bit, I think, and I feel a much better atmosphere by the time I leave and head down the street.
I find the church without any trouble and roll out under the stars, and sleep well, and nobody bothers me the next morning even though people are coming and going nearby while I'm still sleeping.
Sunday I walked through Providence and made it across the border into Massachusetts, and by Tuesday afternoon I was into Boston city limits and Don and Carol came and found me again, by the side of the road. I wasn't planning to stay more than one day with them this time, but the forecast says that Hurricane Earl could stir up some trouble in this area tomorrow, so I've decided to stay under a warm roof to see what happens and then get back on the road on Saturday.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Southboro (sort of)
On my ninety-ninth day of walking I woke up in my tent, on the lawn of a Dunkin Donuts. At seven fifteen the manager came out to talk to me, telling me through the open door of my tent that I probably couldn't stay much longer. "That's route 1," he said, pointing at the highway nearby, "and it's after seven now so you won't be able to sleep any more." I didn't know exactly what he meant, but I got up anyway, brushed my teeth and went inside to get breakfast and wash up in the bathroom. Afterwards I packed up my tent and my pack and was walking by eight twenty, under cloudy skies.
I got a little turned around after a few miles of walking, in the small city of New London, because the highway joined with the interstate and I had to guess which way to go to follow it to where it would come out. Before I found the route again I climbed up some cool looking cliffs and took a break at the top, and met a man who was living nearby, his sleeping bag stretched out underneath some scrub oak, above and overlooking the town. Neither of us had much to say, but I felt a cordial warmth from him. He mumbled that I should stay nearby, said that the police wouldn't bother me and said that he would get us a bottle for the night, but I said that I had to keep moving.
After asking several other locals for directions, back in town, I got on the pedestrian path over the three quarters of a mile long Gold Star Memorial Bridge, and after weaving a little bit more on the other side of the inlet found my way back onto the highway. After an hour or so of more walking I spotted a restaurant called the 99, one of which I had never seen before, and figured that I had to check it out. The restaurant turned out to be the ninety-ninth 99, and for the ninety-ninth day I had fried shrimp, french fries, and cole slaw.
At six or six thirty, having moved quite a bit more, I crossed a smaller bridge and spied a boardwalk heading off along the water, and decided to follow it for a ways. After two hundred yards or so the boardwalk ended at a small park, and I unloaded my pack and took the rest of the day off. Walking another path along the water, and then climbing over an old railroad bridge, I was about to jump in for a quick swim, but noticed, fortunately, that there were hundreds and hundreds of pale jellyfish drifting along just under the surface. Schools of some sort of small fish darted frantically among them, too, and I sat and watched them until dark.
For the night I stretched my poncho off of the back of the park bench, pounded stakes in the ground to make a decent shelter, and slept well until six thirty, when it started to rain fairly hard. I packed up early, getting soaked, and then followed the boardwalk back out to the road. Just a little ways farther I found a Lighthouse Bakery, and spent the next few hours drinking coffee and watching the weather channel, then called Don and Carol, who had told me the previous day that when it started raining I should have them come and get me.
In such manner I have been staying with the Hamelins for the last three days, sleeping in a bed and eating particularly well. The rain hasn't let up much since I've been here, but it's supposed to break up later today and give way to a nice rest of the week, so I'm getting packed up and later Don and Carol will drive me back to where they picked me up and I'll start walking again just a few miles from the Rhode Island border.
I got a little turned around after a few miles of walking, in the small city of New London, because the highway joined with the interstate and I had to guess which way to go to follow it to where it would come out. Before I found the route again I climbed up some cool looking cliffs and took a break at the top, and met a man who was living nearby, his sleeping bag stretched out underneath some scrub oak, above and overlooking the town. Neither of us had much to say, but I felt a cordial warmth from him. He mumbled that I should stay nearby, said that the police wouldn't bother me and said that he would get us a bottle for the night, but I said that I had to keep moving.
After asking several other locals for directions, back in town, I got on the pedestrian path over the three quarters of a mile long Gold Star Memorial Bridge, and after weaving a little bit more on the other side of the inlet found my way back onto the highway. After an hour or so of more walking I spotted a restaurant called the 99, one of which I had never seen before, and figured that I had to check it out. The restaurant turned out to be the ninety-ninth 99, and for the ninety-ninth day I had fried shrimp, french fries, and cole slaw.
At six or six thirty, having moved quite a bit more, I crossed a smaller bridge and spied a boardwalk heading off along the water, and decided to follow it for a ways. After two hundred yards or so the boardwalk ended at a small park, and I unloaded my pack and took the rest of the day off. Walking another path along the water, and then climbing over an old railroad bridge, I was about to jump in for a quick swim, but noticed, fortunately, that there were hundreds and hundreds of pale jellyfish drifting along just under the surface. Schools of some sort of small fish darted frantically among them, too, and I sat and watched them until dark.
For the night I stretched my poncho off of the back of the park bench, pounded stakes in the ground to make a decent shelter, and slept well until six thirty, when it started to rain fairly hard. I packed up early, getting soaked, and then followed the boardwalk back out to the road. Just a little ways farther I found a Lighthouse Bakery, and spent the next few hours drinking coffee and watching the weather channel, then called Don and Carol, who had told me the previous day that when it started raining I should have them come and get me.
In such manner I have been staying with the Hamelins for the last three days, sleeping in a bed and eating particularly well. The rain hasn't let up much since I've been here, but it's supposed to break up later today and give way to a nice rest of the week, so I'm getting packed up and later Don and Carol will drive me back to where they picked me up and I'll start walking again just a few miles from the Rhode Island border.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Westport
I'm in Connecticut now, after crossing the border on Sunday and being treated to an all night rain storm. I woke up yesterday morning with a gallon of water in the bottom of my tent and my sign weighing twice as much as the day before. But out of the cold looks of New Jersey and the blank faces of New York I'm finding Connecticut to have a bigger portion of friendly strangers, waving me through.
I didn't leave the big city until Saturday, and it felt wonderful to have NYC crossed off the list. The day was full of sun, of blue sky, and finally the heat took a break, and a cool wind blew down on me from the north. I felt the water to the east, saw the seabirds turning in the air and squawking above me, noticed fall on the street corners, in the fluttering of oak leaves straining to break away, color rushing to their faces and veins throbbing and purple in their effort and I heard, on that cool breeze coming down the evening streets of Mount Vernon and New Rochelle, the whispering of Maine. Like a lover it calls to me, now, as I dance up the coast, telling me that I'm close, that it waits patiently for my step, my barefoot caress.
I didn't leave the big city until Saturday, and it felt wonderful to have NYC crossed off the list. The day was full of sun, of blue sky, and finally the heat took a break, and a cool wind blew down on me from the north. I felt the water to the east, saw the seabirds turning in the air and squawking above me, noticed fall on the street corners, in the fluttering of oak leaves straining to break away, color rushing to their faces and veins throbbing and purple in their effort and I heard, on that cool breeze coming down the evening streets of Mount Vernon and New Rochelle, the whispering of Maine. Like a lover it calls to me, now, as I dance up the coast, telling me that I'm close, that it waits patiently for my step, my barefoot caress.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
NYC
Last Monday, walking down the road still in Pennsylvania, a mother and daughter stopped to talk with me, and gave me a bag of goodies and drinks. Maybe an hour later Jessica, the daughter, came back with a van and three of her friends, and they picked me up and took me into dinner where they treated me to dinner at the Tom Jones. Afterwards we drove to two houses in the country, where I met four or five other friends and chilled out into the evening. They dropped me off at a little park back on route and I fell asleep feeling, for the first time in a while, actually, very lonely. If I were able to let myself get attached to a place, to forget about the trip and my schedule, I think I would have spent more time in Pennsylvania.
As it was, I walked into Philladelphia the next day, through and past it the next, and was at the New Jersey line by Friday night, sleeping next to the river and crossing into Trenton in the morning.
Yesterday I made it into the big city, and spent most of my day twisting around the streets of Chinatown. In the incredible hubbub of a hot Tuesday I managed to get myself lost in the crowds, and seemingly wasn't even noticed in a city that certainly sees its fair share of crazy people. The sensation was pleasant, especially after leaving New Jersey, where I felt that most pairs of eyes looked at my bare feet and sweat caked clothes as if I were someone that wasn't particularly welcome on their street.
But I'm well showered now, and am washing clothes as I write, and am sleeping tonight, as I did last night, well taken care of.
This morning I walked to an interview at Fox News.
http://video.foxnews.com/v/4308581/walking-barefoot-for-charity/
As it was, I walked into Philladelphia the next day, through and past it the next, and was at the New Jersey line by Friday night, sleeping next to the river and crossing into Trenton in the morning.
Yesterday I made it into the big city, and spent most of my day twisting around the streets of Chinatown. In the incredible hubbub of a hot Tuesday I managed to get myself lost in the crowds, and seemingly wasn't even noticed in a city that certainly sees its fair share of crazy people. The sensation was pleasant, especially after leaving New Jersey, where I felt that most pairs of eyes looked at my bare feet and sweat caked clothes as if I were someone that wasn't particularly welcome on their street.
But I'm well showered now, and am washing clothes as I write, and am sleeping tonight, as I did last night, well taken care of.
This morning I walked to an interview at Fox News.
http://video.foxnews.com/v/4308581/walking-barefoot-for-charity/
Saturday, August 7, 2010
I'm Trying
Because ego confines:
Trust the world. Trust the world to the point when it takes everything, strips you of all that you called yours. Then, as it leaves and is laughing, open your arms and give it also your blessing. To trust the world is to act humbly. To trust it to utter ruin, to willingly sacrifice self and possession and name, is to be free.
Trust the world. Trust the world to the point when it takes everything, strips you of all that you called yours. Then, as it leaves and is laughing, open your arms and give it also your blessing. To trust the world is to act humbly. To trust it to utter ruin, to willingly sacrifice self and possession and name, is to be free.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Kennett Square
I couldn't break away from Baltimore, couldn't get fully enthused about leaving the mixture of sanctitude and incredible fun. It was, as Rachel would say, 'Ballin out a' control.' We went cliff diving, rock climbing, hiking and swimming, played some grand Monopoly, and I got a good taste of the Baltimore night life. Every night I came back to a bed, and the generousity of the Delauder family kept me hooked.
But I did get itchy feet, as the road would dictate, and I'm in Pennsylvania now, starting to rack up these smaller and more northern states. The forests are still green and thick but the sun doesn't burn here quite as hard, though the locals still say it's plenty hot.
Yesterday afternoon a man pulled over and yelled across the road about my sign, and cause, and trip. He said good luck and drove up the road, but quickly turned around to see if I had eaten and to let me know that I'd probably be walking right past his house in the next town up the road, and sure enough, as I got into Avondale I glanced across the street to see him waving me inside.
T.J. is an organizer, a political man with a lot of energy and contacts, and as he and his wife fed me dinner in their home we exchanged information, and looked at my planned route for a ways, and I could see, as they say, the gears turning in T.J.'s head. I was sent on my way with a bag full of powerade and snackables and a big bag of fried chicken.
I walked leisurely for two hours, until close to ten thirty, and saw a place not far from the road behind some closed buildings that looked like a good place to camp out. I walked over, liked what I saw, felt tired and ready to stop, but decided to press a little bit farther. Not more than two minutes after getting back on the pavement, T.J. drove up, telling me that the Hilton hotel three miles up the road was waiting for me, as was the next Applebee's. He and a lady named Jenny, from the hotel, had quickly collaborated and arranged a suite for the night and another good meal, plus breakfast in the morning.
By the time I got close to the Hilton it was eleven thirty, and Jenny met me a block down the road and walked me to my room, then across the street where I found the Applebee's ready to take my order.
T.J. tells me that he's not done helping me out, telling me that he's lining up a "Ten day contingency," and though I don't know exactly what's in store I know that I'm not going to have to hunt for food in the near future. As well as the meals I've already had and the pack fillers from T.J.'s home, the night staff at the Hilton gave me three big Ziplock's full of things to munch on. My back will complain a little bit when I'm walking this morning, but it will be the only part of me.
I'm feeling so incredibly blessed that I want to walk forever. Though the thought of home still wets my tongue, and though I miss my friends and family in Colorado, I feel like the road is the place that I'm happiest, the place that I feel like I'm going somewhere and not simply spinning my wheels. One of the biggest dissatisfactions I've had with education is that it seems like it's always aimed at something far away in the distance, with little or no functional attachment to now, today. Here I find that regardless of the number of miles between me and Canada, there is a tangible truth in every step. I know where I'm at, not simply where I'm headed.
But I did get itchy feet, as the road would dictate, and I'm in Pennsylvania now, starting to rack up these smaller and more northern states. The forests are still green and thick but the sun doesn't burn here quite as hard, though the locals still say it's plenty hot.
Yesterday afternoon a man pulled over and yelled across the road about my sign, and cause, and trip. He said good luck and drove up the road, but quickly turned around to see if I had eaten and to let me know that I'd probably be walking right past his house in the next town up the road, and sure enough, as I got into Avondale I glanced across the street to see him waving me inside.
T.J. is an organizer, a political man with a lot of energy and contacts, and as he and his wife fed me dinner in their home we exchanged information, and looked at my planned route for a ways, and I could see, as they say, the gears turning in T.J.'s head. I was sent on my way with a bag full of powerade and snackables and a big bag of fried chicken.
I walked leisurely for two hours, until close to ten thirty, and saw a place not far from the road behind some closed buildings that looked like a good place to camp out. I walked over, liked what I saw, felt tired and ready to stop, but decided to press a little bit farther. Not more than two minutes after getting back on the pavement, T.J. drove up, telling me that the Hilton hotel three miles up the road was waiting for me, as was the next Applebee's. He and a lady named Jenny, from the hotel, had quickly collaborated and arranged a suite for the night and another good meal, plus breakfast in the morning.
By the time I got close to the Hilton it was eleven thirty, and Jenny met me a block down the road and walked me to my room, then across the street where I found the Applebee's ready to take my order.
T.J. tells me that he's not done helping me out, telling me that he's lining up a "Ten day contingency," and though I don't know exactly what's in store I know that I'm not going to have to hunt for food in the near future. As well as the meals I've already had and the pack fillers from T.J.'s home, the night staff at the Hilton gave me three big Ziplock's full of things to munch on. My back will complain a little bit when I'm walking this morning, but it will be the only part of me.
I'm feeling so incredibly blessed that I want to walk forever. Though the thought of home still wets my tongue, and though I miss my friends and family in Colorado, I feel like the road is the place that I'm happiest, the place that I feel like I'm going somewhere and not simply spinning my wheels. One of the biggest dissatisfactions I've had with education is that it seems like it's always aimed at something far away in the distance, with little or no functional attachment to now, today. Here I find that regardless of the number of miles between me and Canada, there is a tangible truth in every step. I know where I'm at, not simply where I'm headed.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Baltimore
I made it into the D.C. area on Friday, carrying a new sign that I picked up two days before. It's a big dry erase board, and I've made it say different things on and off but mostly it says 'GIVE SHOES.ORG,' and it's given me a new way of connecting with the cars that drive by all day. I had thought about getting a sign before but had always thought that it would be too much of a hassle, but now that I have one I'm enjoying it quite a bit.
Saturday I was supposed to meet up with Sondra Clark, Allan and Silvana's daughter and a S4S spokesperson, but I woke up feeling woosy and a little dizzy, and before I got to downtown I threw up next to the road, so I turned around and went back to my room. By evening I felt a little better, and Sunday morning seemed to have gotten over whatever it was, and I walked through most of the day.
I had been in contact for a few days with Rachel, a friend from college in Durango who lives in Baltimore, and as the timing would have it another friend from Durango, Cherie, had flown out to visit Rachel earlier in the eek. Sunday night they drove down and picked me up, and since then I've been staying here in Baltimore, finishing off a great few days of leisure and respite and meeting a lot of people. Yesterday we drove to Cunningham Falls State Park, and climbed up a waterfall and swam in the nearby lake. Today we went to the Baltimore Zoo and got a tour of the city and the bay.
Probably I'll be walking again tomorrow, and as always it will be hard to leave friends and a bed and roof behind.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Ladysmith
I didn't leave South Hill until Tuesday afternoon, and made only slow progress for a while, meaning that I had to walk late into the night. At some point, maybe around ten or ten thirty, still several miles out of the next town, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and looked over to see a fawn laying on its side in the middle of the opposite lane, kicking its legs. My first reaction was to turn my head away and keep walking, but twenty feet up the road I swung about and came back. The fawn, still splashed with spots, lay with its right eye swollen up badly, its head bruised and slightly bloody. I picked the poor thing up and it thrashed hard in my hands and cried out little neighs, and I laid it back down in the grass on the side of the road. I poured a little water in its mouth, then just stood there for a minute or two, quietly watching and unwantingly judging its chances. Without knowing anything else to do I walked away.
My feet have their good days and their bad days, their good and bad weeks. The heat, which yes, is back, doesn't help them but I find ways around it - walking in the ditch instead of on the pavement, or on the white line instead of the shoulder, or on the yellow line down the middle, even. Sometimes, too, I've gotten in the habit of pouring a little bit of water in the dirt and making mud, then stomping around in it until my feet are covered. No tactic helps for very long, because conditions change quickly, but together they get me through.
The insects have been bad in Virginia, so far. I have woken up on several mornings to find ants swarming inside seemingly every nook of my backpack, and I pour them out in cupfulls and dance around to keep from being bitten. Flying ones, too, harass me as I walk, and I've pulled close to two dozen ticks of of myself in the last ten days or so.
My feet have their good days and their bad days, their good and bad weeks. The heat, which yes, is back, doesn't help them but I find ways around it - walking in the ditch instead of on the pavement, or on the white line instead of the shoulder, or on the yellow line down the middle, even. Sometimes, too, I've gotten in the habit of pouring a little bit of water in the dirt and making mud, then stomping around in it until my feet are covered. No tactic helps for very long, because conditions change quickly, but together they get me through.
The insects have been bad in Virginia, so far. I have woken up on several mornings to find ants swarming inside seemingly every nook of my backpack, and I pour them out in cupfulls and dance around to keep from being bitten. Flying ones, too, harass me as I walk, and I've pulled close to two dozen ticks of of myself in the last ten days or so.
My spirits, I think, remain high on average, and the seperation that I described in my last post seems like an old and unneeded vice. Yes I'm talking to people every day and yes I enjoy interaction at every level. Of course I'd rather not have to scrounge for my daily social requirements, but I take what I can get.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
South Hill
I crossed into Virginia yesterday before noon, a boundary which sat roughly 910 miles into the trip and which I'm calling the halfway mark. To celebrate I crawled into the woods and changed into clean shorts, then strummed around on my new guitar. The guitar is extremely lightweight, picked up in Raleigh with the intention of making me miss the piano less.
The weather has been cooling down for me the last four or five days. The mornings here, in the rippling hills, still seemingly as densely forested as Georgia though not as wet, are cool and cloudy, and either break into the early afternoon into light sun or light rain. If it does get hot it doesn't do so until later in the day and gives me plenty of time to walk while it's cooler. I hope this trend lasts; I'm told that it won't.
I find that I grow less and less wanton in satisfying people and more and more so in satisfying the road. I have less desire seemingly everyday for contact, am less inclined to look for conversation in a grocery store or watch the faces the pass by in each car. I'm seeking less momentary interaction, growing tired of brief flashes of small talk, or the same exact questions lined up in the identical, neat row.
Certainly if I were a more social person I have little doubt that I'd be here. My driving engine when I'm walking, is built from the individualistic and the independent, and it runs better on the calm quiet of an empty road than the hum of a bar. Maybe it's needless to say, but I find that I want to move more slowly than most people, not rushing along with crowd. Because I'm stubborn sometimes that means total detachment, breaking completely away before I can find the pace that fits.
The weather has been cooling down for me the last four or five days. The mornings here, in the rippling hills, still seemingly as densely forested as Georgia though not as wet, are cool and cloudy, and either break into the early afternoon into light sun or light rain. If it does get hot it doesn't do so until later in the day and gives me plenty of time to walk while it's cooler. I hope this trend lasts; I'm told that it won't.
I find that I grow less and less wanton in satisfying people and more and more so in satisfying the road. I have less desire seemingly everyday for contact, am less inclined to look for conversation in a grocery store or watch the faces the pass by in each car. I'm seeking less momentary interaction, growing tired of brief flashes of small talk, or the same exact questions lined up in the identical, neat row.
Certainly if I were a more social person I have little doubt that I'd be here. My driving engine when I'm walking, is built from the individualistic and the independent, and it runs better on the calm quiet of an empty road than the hum of a bar. Maybe it's needless to say, but I find that I want to move more slowly than most people, not rushing along with crowd. Because I'm stubborn sometimes that means total detachment, breaking completely away before I can find the pace that fits.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Raleigh
Somebody a while back, in Georgia if I remember correctly, that North Carolina was going to be cooler. For a few days earlier in the week I indeed had a bit of respite from the sun, and I thought that whoever that person was might have been right. But now it's a hundred again, and not really scheduled to cool down, so oh well. The humidity, I think it's safe to say, has gone down some from Georgia.
Made it to Laurinburg the night of my last post, then stopped just before Raeford the next night and slept next to an old church. In town Thursday morning I found the library, and was treated to breakfast by the librarians. Also they had me dig through some books to find something that I liked. The second one that I pulled out was Seabiscuit, and though I haven't been doing as much reading lately as I was at the beginning of the trip, by the next afternoon I'd finished it, and left it at a closed library in Lillington Sunday morning, after spending the night in town.
Sunday afternoon I stopped to roll out my pad in the grass next to a Methodist church for a power nap, and didn't wake up until the pastor walked by and invited me to the church's 4th of July picnic across the street. So I got a big meal, met some nice people, and left by six. Not too much later, anxious kids started lighting up firecrackers, and all through the evening I walked to the sound of hisses and pops, and glowing bursts of crumbling night lit up above the treeline.
Sunday night I stayed outside another church in Fuquay-Varina, and then walked well into Raleigh by Monday night. Yesterday I didn't get far, and didn't even manage to find a library all day even though I was in the city the whole time. Took most of the day off, was interviewed by a local paper, and got myself a hotel for the night.
Made it to Laurinburg the night of my last post, then stopped just before Raeford the next night and slept next to an old church. In town Thursday morning I found the library, and was treated to breakfast by the librarians. Also they had me dig through some books to find something that I liked. The second one that I pulled out was Seabiscuit, and though I haven't been doing as much reading lately as I was at the beginning of the trip, by the next afternoon I'd finished it, and left it at a closed library in Lillington Sunday morning, after spending the night in town.
Sunday afternoon I stopped to roll out my pad in the grass next to a Methodist church for a power nap, and didn't wake up until the pastor walked by and invited me to the church's 4th of July picnic across the street. So I got a big meal, met some nice people, and left by six. Not too much later, anxious kids started lighting up firecrackers, and all through the evening I walked to the sound of hisses and pops, and glowing bursts of crumbling night lit up above the treeline.
Sunday night I stayed outside another church in Fuquay-Varina, and then walked well into Raleigh by Monday night. Yesterday I didn't get far, and didn't even manage to find a library all day even though I was in the city the whole time. Took most of the day off, was interviewed by a local paper, and got myself a hotel for the night.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Bennettsville
We didn't leave St. George until noon on Tuesday, already blazing hot, but we walked well all day and made our furthest stretch. A good twenty five miles on the day, and we put up the tent on the lawn next to a hair salon, after raiding a little hotel of about half of its ice.
In the morning we got a good breakfast before heading out of town, then crossed a long, closed to traffic bridge over Lake Marion. By one, sitting behind a gas station drinking sweet tea, the Clarks found us and got us to a hotel in Manning. Later in the day they shuttled us to Sumter, fifteen miles off the route, to find a new backpack for me, as the one I left home with had started, in the previous couple of days, to fall apart pretty badly. After finding a good one we ate dinner and then drove back to the hotel, and I spent the rest of the night tinkering with my new setup.
Thursday morning we met up with Tiffany (Soles4Souls Nashville connection from last trip), who is from the Manning area, at a school for the children of migrant workers. A good bunch of volunteers came to assist with the distribution, and it didn't take long to get all of the children a new pair of shoes.
And then, after a bunch of photographs and some hugs, Timothy and the Clarks got back aboard the S4S RV and headed for Columbia without me. Allan and Silvana dropped Timothy off at the airport on their way to Nashville, and Timothy got on a plane and was home before midnight.
His decision to leave had been brewing for a while, and though I won't pretend to understand exactly what he was feeling, I think that I can hit on the main focus by saying that Tim is a much more social guy than I, and being away from friends and family, regardless of where you're at or what you're doing, is difficult. Also, for being such a slow and deliberate thing walking is incredibly unstable and hard to predict. Each day is different, and there is no way to judge exactly what's going to happen - who we'll meet or where we'll sleep, what we'll eat. Stability is hard to come by out here, and that makes it hard to find a good rhythm.
So certainly I've been readjusting to being by myself, not having somebody to talk to out in the middle of the swamp, but things are going well.
Friday night, shy of the little town of Effingham the sky darkened quickly and I stopped to rest in front of a church before it started raining. Not long after sitting down under the awning a few cars and trucks drove up and parked behind the church, and a man named Jeremy came to the front door and invited me inside for dinner.
The men's fellowship of the church treated me with incredible generosity. After two plates of bog rice, sweet potato casserole, green beans and Cole slaw I told a little bit about my walk, and the organization, and Jeremy made a movement to give the night's offering straight to me. Everyone else agreed, and I was handed an envelope, and have been eating well ever since.
I spent the night at a smaller building behind the church, out of the weather, and some other men from the church arrived to do some work in the morning and filled my pack with crackers, peanuts, and candy bars.
Saturday night I spent in Florence, Sunday in Floyd, and last night I camped in a small park here in Bennettsville, where I met some cool guys and hung out for the evening. I should be across the border into North Carolina by tonight.
In the morning we got a good breakfast before heading out of town, then crossed a long, closed to traffic bridge over Lake Marion. By one, sitting behind a gas station drinking sweet tea, the Clarks found us and got us to a hotel in Manning. Later in the day they shuttled us to Sumter, fifteen miles off the route, to find a new backpack for me, as the one I left home with had started, in the previous couple of days, to fall apart pretty badly. After finding a good one we ate dinner and then drove back to the hotel, and I spent the rest of the night tinkering with my new setup.
Thursday morning we met up with Tiffany (Soles4Souls Nashville connection from last trip), who is from the Manning area, at a school for the children of migrant workers. A good bunch of volunteers came to assist with the distribution, and it didn't take long to get all of the children a new pair of shoes.
And then, after a bunch of photographs and some hugs, Timothy and the Clarks got back aboard the S4S RV and headed for Columbia without me. Allan and Silvana dropped Timothy off at the airport on their way to Nashville, and Timothy got on a plane and was home before midnight.
His decision to leave had been brewing for a while, and though I won't pretend to understand exactly what he was feeling, I think that I can hit on the main focus by saying that Tim is a much more social guy than I, and being away from friends and family, regardless of where you're at or what you're doing, is difficult. Also, for being such a slow and deliberate thing walking is incredibly unstable and hard to predict. Each day is different, and there is no way to judge exactly what's going to happen - who we'll meet or where we'll sleep, what we'll eat. Stability is hard to come by out here, and that makes it hard to find a good rhythm.
So certainly I've been readjusting to being by myself, not having somebody to talk to out in the middle of the swamp, but things are going well.
Friday night, shy of the little town of Effingham the sky darkened quickly and I stopped to rest in front of a church before it started raining. Not long after sitting down under the awning a few cars and trucks drove up and parked behind the church, and a man named Jeremy came to the front door and invited me inside for dinner.
The men's fellowship of the church treated me with incredible generosity. After two plates of bog rice, sweet potato casserole, green beans and Cole slaw I told a little bit about my walk, and the organization, and Jeremy made a movement to give the night's offering straight to me. Everyone else agreed, and I was handed an envelope, and have been eating well ever since.
I spent the night at a smaller building behind the church, out of the weather, and some other men from the church arrived to do some work in the morning and filled my pack with crackers, peanuts, and candy bars.
Saturday night I spent in Florence, Sunday in Floyd, and last night I camped in a small park here in Bennettsville, where I met some cool guys and hung out for the evening. I should be across the border into North Carolina by tonight.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
St. George
Thursday morning we gave away around 200 pairs of shoes at the Holy Spirit church in Savannah with the Clarks. The four of us went down to the waterfront for a little while afterwards, and then got lunch in a local Mexican place, before the RV dropped us off across the interstate bridge, on South Carolina soil. We walked to Hardeeville for the night and set up the tent not far from the hospital.
In the morning, sitting across the street at the McDonald's gas station, we met Patrick, a crazy old guy who said he's riding his bike from Key West to D.C. He claims to know Obama because he's from Hawaii, shortly after claiming something about being a Kennedy relative. From the moment we met Patrick he never stopped talking, telling crazy stories and creating a plan to ride with us, as we walk, and be our public relations guy, or something.
As we started walking he tagged along for a while, weaving in and out of traffic on his bike and signaling for every single truck that went by to honk its horn.
"Do you see that?" he says. "Now all those truckers are going to get on their radios and tell each other that you're here. Word spreads quickly, that's the six oclock news. Do you see how that works?" He has a hunched back, wears a reflective vest on top of a flowery Hawaiian button up, has on a baseball cap that says deputy sheriff and is bald but has a fairly long, ivory beard. He leaves after a while, saying that he has to meet somebody or another somewhere or another, but promising to be back.
By the time we make it to the next town, Ridgeland, it's getting late in the afternoon, and before we've found made it to the first gas station a white van pulls over and Patrick, riding shotgun, hops out eagerly and loads us up in the back. The guy driving the van is younger, in his late thirties or so, and seems ready to help us out but already a little frazzled by Patrick. His name is Ryan and he drives us to the Piggly Wiggly, then to the Waffle House where we get some food, and lets us know fairly quickly that "That other dude scares me, for some reason. I'm about to try and lose him." The notion is good by us, as we've grown pretty tired of Patrick and his constant insane babbling about following us. "But you guys are welcome to crash at my place tonight," Ryan continues. "I've got a three bedroom place and it's just me staying there right now."
So we get back in the van and drive back to the Piggly Wiggly, where we, along with Patrick, unload our stuff and start walking. Only a block or so down Ryan parks his van at a bar, and we convince Patrick to stop for a bit and have a beer. He parks his bike and bags out front, and we throw our bags in the back of the van. After a while Ryan is ready to go, and we leave Patrick talking somebody's ear off at the bar.
Ryan, it turns out, lives in Bluffton, which is quite a ways backtracking and off the route. He lives in a gated community and has a house right on the golf course, and he feeds us brats and we watch the world cup. As the night progresses he drinks quite a bit and opens up, and as an ex-marine gunnery sergeant he has a lot on his chest. We get to bed late, him promising he'll be up by six to go to work and that he'll drop us off where we need to go.
By noon the next day we're still sitting on his couch, watching more of the world cup, and Ryan is still in his room sleeping. We let the Clarks know where we're at and they call a taxi and send it our way, and we get a ride up the road, back to our route.
Saturday we had a house to sleep in, as well, with some kids from Yemassee, then Sunday we got a hotel in Watersboro and slept last night behind a church in St. George.
In the morning, sitting across the street at the McDonald's gas station, we met Patrick, a crazy old guy who said he's riding his bike from Key West to D.C. He claims to know Obama because he's from Hawaii, shortly after claiming something about being a Kennedy relative. From the moment we met Patrick he never stopped talking, telling crazy stories and creating a plan to ride with us, as we walk, and be our public relations guy, or something.
As we started walking he tagged along for a while, weaving in and out of traffic on his bike and signaling for every single truck that went by to honk its horn.
"Do you see that?" he says. "Now all those truckers are going to get on their radios and tell each other that you're here. Word spreads quickly, that's the six oclock news. Do you see how that works?" He has a hunched back, wears a reflective vest on top of a flowery Hawaiian button up, has on a baseball cap that says deputy sheriff and is bald but has a fairly long, ivory beard. He leaves after a while, saying that he has to meet somebody or another somewhere or another, but promising to be back.
By the time we make it to the next town, Ridgeland, it's getting late in the afternoon, and before we've found made it to the first gas station a white van pulls over and Patrick, riding shotgun, hops out eagerly and loads us up in the back. The guy driving the van is younger, in his late thirties or so, and seems ready to help us out but already a little frazzled by Patrick. His name is Ryan and he drives us to the Piggly Wiggly, then to the Waffle House where we get some food, and lets us know fairly quickly that "That other dude scares me, for some reason. I'm about to try and lose him." The notion is good by us, as we've grown pretty tired of Patrick and his constant insane babbling about following us. "But you guys are welcome to crash at my place tonight," Ryan continues. "I've got a three bedroom place and it's just me staying there right now."
So we get back in the van and drive back to the Piggly Wiggly, where we, along with Patrick, unload our stuff and start walking. Only a block or so down Ryan parks his van at a bar, and we convince Patrick to stop for a bit and have a beer. He parks his bike and bags out front, and we throw our bags in the back of the van. After a while Ryan is ready to go, and we leave Patrick talking somebody's ear off at the bar.
Ryan, it turns out, lives in Bluffton, which is quite a ways backtracking and off the route. He lives in a gated community and has a house right on the golf course, and he feeds us brats and we watch the world cup. As the night progresses he drinks quite a bit and opens up, and as an ex-marine gunnery sergeant he has a lot on his chest. We get to bed late, him promising he'll be up by six to go to work and that he'll drop us off where we need to go.
By noon the next day we're still sitting on his couch, watching more of the world cup, and Ryan is still in his room sleeping. We let the Clarks know where we're at and they call a taxi and send it our way, and we get a ride up the road, back to our route.
Saturday we had a house to sleep in, as well, with some kids from Yemassee, then Sunday we got a hotel in Watersboro and slept last night behind a church in St. George.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Savannah
I first met Timothy Fleming in the Canon City bowling alley roughly three and a half years ago, and thought fairly quickly that we could be friends, something that I don't normally feel around people that I've just met. It wasn't until a year and a half later, though, that we met again, this time in a Trig class at Canon City high school, and then acting together in the fall play there. Bowling, it turned out, was the thing that we did most for a while, and we became better and better friends throughout the school year.
Last fall, while both of us were going to community college in Canon I lived with Timothy and his family, renting a room from them, and though I felt that this qualified us for knowing how to live with each other, this, of course, is the real test. Though partially I feel that this trip is a way of fleeing my other life, and though Timothy represents a large part of that other life, as yet I have been thankful that he is here. Timothy reminds me every day more or what remains intact at home, that doesn't change. For being such a slow and constant thing, walking is unpredictable. There is no way to judge what will happen on any specific day upon waking, no way to say whether that day will yeild wealth of joy or pain, and what a friend walking alongside represents is a glimmer of solidity, and certainty.
Georgia has been taking care of us pretty well, aside from the June heat. Though there is still a lot of initial hesitation toward us, and questioning looks, more than anything we're greeted with curiousity and smiles upon entering a gas station or a grocery store, and we're consistently given little gifts to help us along.
Walking a couple of miles out of the little town of Woodbine on Friday a man pulled over in a red truck and handed two cold bottles of Gatorade out his window, along with a Frisbee disc that I had been carrying, which had apparently fallen off my pack at some point. No more than two miles later a white truck pulled over, following us into the shade of the trees for a break, and a woman, who we presumed to be the man's wife, gave us two bottles of Powerade.
"Some more drinks for you," she said. "And remember, the south isn't very friendly."
Timothy turned 21 Sunday. We sat for a good majority of the day outside of a Piggly Wiggly, then walked in the evening and through the cool of the night until one thirty before setting up our tent by the road. The only real celebrating we managed was the smoking of cigars in the ditch at eleven thirty or twelve, and I can't help but knowing that Timothy could have had a better time if he had still been at home.
But the last couple of days have been nice. We're in the city now, taking a couple of days off from the crazy heat via the Clarks, who picked us up by the side of road in the middle of the hottest day yet. Tomorrow morning we have our second distribution, and then we'll be heading out again.
Last fall, while both of us were going to community college in Canon I lived with Timothy and his family, renting a room from them, and though I felt that this qualified us for knowing how to live with each other, this, of course, is the real test. Though partially I feel that this trip is a way of fleeing my other life, and though Timothy represents a large part of that other life, as yet I have been thankful that he is here. Timothy reminds me every day more or what remains intact at home, that doesn't change. For being such a slow and constant thing, walking is unpredictable. There is no way to judge what will happen on any specific day upon waking, no way to say whether that day will yeild wealth of joy or pain, and what a friend walking alongside represents is a glimmer of solidity, and certainty.
Georgia has been taking care of us pretty well, aside from the June heat. Though there is still a lot of initial hesitation toward us, and questioning looks, more than anything we're greeted with curiousity and smiles upon entering a gas station or a grocery store, and we're consistently given little gifts to help us along.
Walking a couple of miles out of the little town of Woodbine on Friday a man pulled over in a red truck and handed two cold bottles of Gatorade out his window, along with a Frisbee disc that I had been carrying, which had apparently fallen off my pack at some point. No more than two miles later a white truck pulled over, following us into the shade of the trees for a break, and a woman, who we presumed to be the man's wife, gave us two bottles of Powerade.
"Some more drinks for you," she said. "And remember, the south isn't very friendly."
Timothy turned 21 Sunday. We sat for a good majority of the day outside of a Piggly Wiggly, then walked in the evening and through the cool of the night until one thirty before setting up our tent by the road. The only real celebrating we managed was the smoking of cigars in the ditch at eleven thirty or twelve, and I can't help but knowing that Timothy could have had a better time if he had still been at home.
But the last couple of days have been nice. We're in the city now, taking a couple of days off from the crazy heat via the Clarks, who picked us up by the side of road in the middle of the hottest day yet. Tomorrow morning we have our second distribution, and then we'll be heading out again.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Kingsland, GA
Timothy got here Sunday in the late afternoon, dropped off by aunt, uncle, and cousin from near Pensacola. Two blocks up the road they picked us up again and took us out to eat, and then back on the route we walked into downtown Jacksonville. The first place we tried to sleep for the night was on some sort of deck with a roof at a community college, and though it didn't seem like there was anybody around, we were woken up around one or so by a couple of security officers, saying that we had to leave. So we packed up our stuff and wandered in circles for a bit, then found another spot outside Jacksonville's huge Baptist church and went to sleep again. At three thirty a security guard found us and simply yelled "Alright, time to wake up!" before walking away with his flashlight, examing shrubs and the like. We waited a little bit, and it didn't seem like he was coming back so we simply went back to sleep. At five thirty he found us again and yelled "Hey, I'm not going to ask you again! You need to leave!" A few blocks away we found a condemned building with a big porch, and slept there until seven thirty when a police car showed up, called to duty by some friendly neighbor or another. The deputy ran our id's and then drove us back to the downtown library. All in all it wasn't a good night for Timothy's first on the road.
Tuesday we met the Clarks, Allan and Silvana, who drive the Soles4Souls motor home around the country. They picked us up at noon and took us to lunch, then we drove to our first distribution and gave away shoes to foster children and families throughout the afternoon. In the evening, after driving to the beach and eating dinner, they put us up in a hotel for the night, and got us back on our route north of Jacksonville yesterday morning. The Clarks have been in the big blue motor home for a year and a half, and will be giving us support along the way as we go through distribution cities. They are both wonderfully energetic about what they do, and we look forward to meeting up with them again in Savannah.
Last night we crossed into Georgia, after 400 miles of Florida coast, and put up our tent on a grassy corner. Things have certainly changed, now that Timothy is here, and I think there will be a transition period for both of us, but for the most part it's a good change, as far as I'm concerned.
Tuesday we met the Clarks, Allan and Silvana, who drive the Soles4Souls motor home around the country. They picked us up at noon and took us to lunch, then we drove to our first distribution and gave away shoes to foster children and families throughout the afternoon. In the evening, after driving to the beach and eating dinner, they put us up in a hotel for the night, and got us back on our route north of Jacksonville yesterday morning. The Clarks have been in the big blue motor home for a year and a half, and will be giving us support along the way as we go through distribution cities. They are both wonderfully energetic about what they do, and we look forward to meeting up with them again in Savannah.
Last night we crossed into Georgia, after 400 miles of Florida coast, and put up our tent on a grassy corner. Things have certainly changed, now that Timothy is here, and I think there will be a transition period for both of us, but for the most part it's a good change, as far as I'm concerned.
Friday, June 4, 2010
St. Augustine
I can see why people come to Florida. For one, though I've been to the ocean a few times, on and off, until now I've never really spent much time near it, and the longer that I do the more I enjoy it. A lot of my route, for the past few days especially, on highway A1A, is essentially right on the water, with nothing in between the road and the beach, and around noon, when the sun really starts to bake, it's a welcome relief to jot over and splash around for a while. The inland river is close by, too, now, and last night I camped in the dunes near its inlet.
Certainly people have been taking care of me. Sunday, after staying the night in my tent, by the road, I walked a few miles before stopping by a church a little before noon, where I found myself invited to a pot-luck lunch. Later in the day, in the town of New Smyrna Beach, a family saw me walking down the street and called me over. I was fed another meal, and given the offer to stay for the night, but I decided to walk another few miles before turning in behind a church.
Tuesday, after visiting the library in the morning, I was picked up by an older guy name Paul, a retired New York school teacher who took me to his boat club. I took a shower and then we got on his boat and rode around the waterway for an hour before getting lunch at a place just off the dock. Afterwards, Paul took me back to the corner where he picked me and sent me on my way with a hug.
And Wednesday night, walking down the highway a little beyond Flagler Beach, I was called over by a couple named Oliver and Leanne, and their baby daughter Trinity. They seem to be fellow adventuring spirits, and they fed me dinner and supplied me with the fourth book of the trip, as I'd just finished reading my last.
So yes, I'm finding plenty of people who go out of their way to make my day, and I feel strong, and I'm walking well. Timothy comes over Sunday, and I'm looking forward to it immensely.
Certainly people have been taking care of me. Sunday, after staying the night in my tent, by the road, I walked a few miles before stopping by a church a little before noon, where I found myself invited to a pot-luck lunch. Later in the day, in the town of New Smyrna Beach, a family saw me walking down the street and called me over. I was fed another meal, and given the offer to stay for the night, but I decided to walk another few miles before turning in behind a church.
Tuesday, after visiting the library in the morning, I was picked up by an older guy name Paul, a retired New York school teacher who took me to his boat club. I took a shower and then we got on his boat and rode around the waterway for an hour before getting lunch at a place just off the dock. Afterwards, Paul took me back to the corner where he picked me and sent me on my way with a hug.
And Wednesday night, walking down the highway a little beyond Flagler Beach, I was called over by a couple named Oliver and Leanne, and their baby daughter Trinity. They seem to be fellow adventuring spirits, and they fed me dinner and supplied me with the fourth book of the trip, as I'd just finished reading my last.
So yes, I'm finding plenty of people who go out of their way to make my day, and I feel strong, and I'm walking well. Timothy comes over Sunday, and I'm looking forward to it immensely.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Titusville
I think I'm getting used to the heat somewhat, and I've been making good time the last few days. It helps that I've walking fairly close to the inner coast, now, as well, so that when I want to I can jot over to cool my feet for a while in the middle of the day, and the breeze that comes in off of the water keeps me reasonably cool as well. I've only slept on the beach once so far, and actually felt chilled at night for the first time since leaving home.
My feet are doing pretty well, finally starting to heal up nicely from their blisterings. I cut one of my toes on a piece of glass two days ago and had to wrap it up, but it's feeling good now.
Was sleeping in the grass, in some shade under a big tree under a cloudless afternoon, maybe four days ago, and woke up to find a sprite and some walnut fudge in the shade of the tree next door, a little ways away from my feet. I looked around, of course, for the party who'd left them, but found the roadway empty as far as I could see. So I reveled some in the aura of my unexpected treat, scanning each passing car thereafter for some sort of sign. I pictured, though I realized it probably wouldn't be the case, that whoever it was might come past again for another look, to see their gift being enjoyed, and what a wonderful feeling it was to gaze in the window of every passing car and wonder if that face was of the secret santa. Each stranger had the potential, then, to be an unknown friend and small protector. More than just a sweet snack I was given the anonymous gift of feeling watched over by an unseen eye, and indeed I felt the physical lethargy of being cared for, as if my head was being given a tingling, electric massage by a godly hand. Do you ever feel that, when someone cares for you? So impossibly content that your brain feels numb from it, that you keep your limbs deadly still for fear of breaking the invisible, humming, stroking, bond? The first time I remember feeling the wave of it I was in first grade, sitting on the couch by the bookshelf next to Niki Witzel and she was reading aloud. I've felt it on and off over the years, and have never been able to characterize it, in the same way that I'm failing now to do so. If you've felt it, I suppose, then maybe you know what I'm saying, and if you haven't, then there isn't much I can do to describe it better. The science is probably that my brain is releasing some chemicals in a certain way or another, and though I've never been spiritual enough to give another view my trust, I still like to picture, when I feel such, that I'm feeling the caress of something more mysterious than chemicals. I watched the faces in the passing cars, then, for something more like the face of an angel, watching back. Does that seem silly, to use the 'a' word after a small incident involving Sprite and fudge?
I don't know what I feel, I guess. But certainly the road reminds me to be careful in my cynicism, to be accessible to change and open to wonder.
Anyway, sometimes a gift is more than a gift.
My feet are doing pretty well, finally starting to heal up nicely from their blisterings. I cut one of my toes on a piece of glass two days ago and had to wrap it up, but it's feeling good now.
Was sleeping in the grass, in some shade under a big tree under a cloudless afternoon, maybe four days ago, and woke up to find a sprite and some walnut fudge in the shade of the tree next door, a little ways away from my feet. I looked around, of course, for the party who'd left them, but found the roadway empty as far as I could see. So I reveled some in the aura of my unexpected treat, scanning each passing car thereafter for some sort of sign. I pictured, though I realized it probably wouldn't be the case, that whoever it was might come past again for another look, to see their gift being enjoyed, and what a wonderful feeling it was to gaze in the window of every passing car and wonder if that face was of the secret santa. Each stranger had the potential, then, to be an unknown friend and small protector. More than just a sweet snack I was given the anonymous gift of feeling watched over by an unseen eye, and indeed I felt the physical lethargy of being cared for, as if my head was being given a tingling, electric massage by a godly hand. Do you ever feel that, when someone cares for you? So impossibly content that your brain feels numb from it, that you keep your limbs deadly still for fear of breaking the invisible, humming, stroking, bond? The first time I remember feeling the wave of it I was in first grade, sitting on the couch by the bookshelf next to Niki Witzel and she was reading aloud. I've felt it on and off over the years, and have never been able to characterize it, in the same way that I'm failing now to do so. If you've felt it, I suppose, then maybe you know what I'm saying, and if you haven't, then there isn't much I can do to describe it better. The science is probably that my brain is releasing some chemicals in a certain way or another, and though I've never been spiritual enough to give another view my trust, I still like to picture, when I feel such, that I'm feeling the caress of something more mysterious than chemicals. I watched the faces in the passing cars, then, for something more like the face of an angel, watching back. Does that seem silly, to use the 'a' word after a small incident involving Sprite and fudge?
I don't know what I feel, I guess. But certainly the road reminds me to be careful in my cynicism, to be accessible to change and open to wonder.
Anyway, sometimes a gift is more than a gift.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Vero Beach
Man there are some interesting people down here in Florida. That is to say, there are interesting people everywhere but in Florida they seem to swarm, like somebody's taken a stick and swirled it around in the crazy people hive. Maybe it's the heat that does it, I don't know. More than anything, I guess, it's just that there are a lot of homeless, and most of them are eager to claim me as one of their own. One man had just gotten his weekly allowance from the Salvation Army and was eager to buy me a sandwich. "You's gotta eats whatcha can, brother," he said with a big grin, laying it down at my feet as I read a book by headlamp in the muggy evening. I ate it, yes, though I'm pretty sure he needed it more than me, because it seemed to make him happy to help me out. When everyday is a struggle to fend for yourself, I guess, sometimes it feels good to feel that you can still lend somebody else a hand, too, as if you're not quite at the bottom of the rung. Hospitality is hit and miss with the sun burnt men who carry around plastic bags filled with their clothes, but mostly lately I've been looked upon with pity.
How I view myself is hit and miss, as well, anymore. I still understand where it is that I come from, still remember home and my comfortable life clearly, but every day that I'm shunned more and more by rich white women in Bentleys and embraced more and more by the haphazard and the toothless I question where I really fit in. Homeless, perhaps, is a state of mind as much as it is anything else.
On a different note, the sprinklers, my old nemesi, have caught up with me. Saturday night, spread out on the grass in front of a library, I awoke abruptly to the terrifying sound, and within seconds was drenched with cold water. I dragged my sleeping bag and my pack to the sidewalk and angrily set up again where I thought it was safe, only to be reminded, half an hour later, that sometimes sidewalks are sprinkled more heavily than the grass. Now I know for sure that the trip is fully underway.
Sorry if I seem a little downtrodden. My spirits are good, I swear, it's just that I'm still struggling to acclimate to this new course of direction. But I'm still waving at cars, still singing my marching songs loudly as I go down the road. No regrets that I'm here, none at all.
How I view myself is hit and miss, as well, anymore. I still understand where it is that I come from, still remember home and my comfortable life clearly, but every day that I'm shunned more and more by rich white women in Bentleys and embraced more and more by the haphazard and the toothless I question where I really fit in. Homeless, perhaps, is a state of mind as much as it is anything else.
On a different note, the sprinklers, my old nemesi, have caught up with me. Saturday night, spread out on the grass in front of a library, I awoke abruptly to the terrifying sound, and within seconds was drenched with cold water. I dragged my sleeping bag and my pack to the sidewalk and angrily set up again where I thought it was safe, only to be reminded, half an hour later, that sometimes sidewalks are sprinkled more heavily than the grass. Now I know for sure that the trip is fully underway.
Sorry if I seem a little downtrodden. My spirits are good, I swear, it's just that I'm still struggling to acclimate to this new course of direction. But I'm still waving at cars, still singing my marching songs loudly as I go down the road. No regrets that I'm here, none at all.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Boynton Beach
How quickly I remember, how quickly I forget. In the blazing Florida sun, the sticky heat, blisters stinging, I glare and I mutter viciously. And then a small thing will happen, a certain song will come on my mp3 player, say, or a pretty girl will smile cautiously at a stoplight, and suddenly I will understand, again, briefly, why it is that I'm here, in the sun, and a smile will creep back across my face, spread quickly until I can't contain it and it explodes in delicious laughter all over the sidewalk.
Though I haven't been making very good miles, to this point, as I'm still whipping myself into shape, there have been no major setbacks nor unexpected delays, and the signposts go by.
Two nights ago, after filling up my water bottle at a McDonald's and heading out the door, I was accosted by a man sitting nearby. After a bit of conversation about my trip he offered that I could stay at his house for the night, and so I threw my pack in the back of his Jeep. At Doug's house I showered and shaved and then he and I sat on the deck and talked into the night, fish splashing about in the still canal that runs alongside, a small breeze toying with the palm trees, not a quarter of a mile from the ocean. As Doug, a Yakima, Washington native, talked about politics and economics and told stories about his life I basked in the moment, sitting quietly and wondering where else in the world there existed such peace and ease, such tranquility. And then, because there is always balance, Doug talked about all of the hurricanes that have passed over the very spot, all of the times he's had to quickly differentiate between what is needed and what is expendable, stashing his car with the former, and flee the violent wind, the angry rain, the pulsing sea.
Doug reminded me, by letting me into his home and sharing his words, that nothing exists without change. Comfort, tranquility, joy: they are mindsets, constantly in flux. A song or a smile can remind us of them, and pain and toil can make us forget. My problem is that I forget more than I remember - every day that I spend surrounded by comfort, by friends and family and shelter and good food I lose track of their worth. My goal, then, is to change that.
Though I haven't been making very good miles, to this point, as I'm still whipping myself into shape, there have been no major setbacks nor unexpected delays, and the signposts go by.
Two nights ago, after filling up my water bottle at a McDonald's and heading out the door, I was accosted by a man sitting nearby. After a bit of conversation about my trip he offered that I could stay at his house for the night, and so I threw my pack in the back of his Jeep. At Doug's house I showered and shaved and then he and I sat on the deck and talked into the night, fish splashing about in the still canal that runs alongside, a small breeze toying with the palm trees, not a quarter of a mile from the ocean. As Doug, a Yakima, Washington native, talked about politics and economics and told stories about his life I basked in the moment, sitting quietly and wondering where else in the world there existed such peace and ease, such tranquility. And then, because there is always balance, Doug talked about all of the hurricanes that have passed over the very spot, all of the times he's had to quickly differentiate between what is needed and what is expendable, stashing his car with the former, and flee the violent wind, the angry rain, the pulsing sea.
Doug reminded me, by letting me into his home and sharing his words, that nothing exists without change. Comfort, tranquility, joy: they are mindsets, constantly in flux. A song or a smile can remind us of them, and pain and toil can make us forget. My problem is that I forget more than I remember - every day that I spend surrounded by comfort, by friends and family and shelter and good food I lose track of their worth. My goal, then, is to change that.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Day One, South Miami
There is something about walking - I don't know what it is - that has drawn me back. For a long time I've felt the itch in my skin, heard the quiet taunt of an open map or the nagging whisper of a backpack in a store window. And now finally I'm here, on the road again.
Yesterday I flew from Colorado to Fort Lauderdale and was picked up by an awesome guy named Abe, who took me out to dinner and then drove to Homestead, essentially the southernmost town in Florida. I walked five or six miles last night, and slept behind a tire store. The plan is this: I'm going to walk pretty much straight up the coast all the way to Lubek, Maine, and touch the Canadian border. I'm by myself right now, but in a little less than three weeks my best friend, Timothy Fleming, will be flying out himself and joining me. And once again I'm walking in collaboration with Soles4Souls (see left).
Today I've walked into South Miami, and though my feet are already blistering I'm happy to be here, happy to finally be doing what I've been planning for what seems like a long time.
Yesterday I flew from Colorado to Fort Lauderdale and was picked up by an awesome guy named Abe, who took me out to dinner and then drove to Homestead, essentially the southernmost town in Florida. I walked five or six miles last night, and slept behind a tire store. The plan is this: I'm going to walk pretty much straight up the coast all the way to Lubek, Maine, and touch the Canadian border. I'm by myself right now, but in a little less than three weeks my best friend, Timothy Fleming, will be flying out himself and joining me. And once again I'm walking in collaboration with Soles4Souls (see left).
Today I've walked into South Miami, and though my feet are already blistering I'm happy to be here, happy to finally be doing what I've been planning for what seems like a long time.
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