Uneventful Day

Yesterday, Dad banged out the most difficult section of the route from Yorkville, Illinois to Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He put in twenty miles, and instead of falling asleep, he’s reading some John Sanford fiction right now. Pretty amazing.

Other than that it was a pretty uneventful day. During one of his rest stops, a lady named Margie stopped beside us on a country road near Brooklyn, IL and asked us if we were there to clean out the forest. It wasn’t quite as unusual as being asked if we were prospectors on the outskirts of Cleveland, but it was close. If I’d been thinking more quickly, I would have asked what it paid. I’m pretty sure she thought it needed to be done, and it is entirely possible we were being offered a job.

Little Horse and a Donkey - Lee Center, IL

Other than that, the day was filled with corn, soybeans, two horses, a gravel road, a misplaced wallet (subsequently located, thankfully), a handful of goats, and a couple of donkeys. I did learn that the only real difference between a donkey and a burro is the domestication status of the animal. Donkeys are domestic animals and burros are wild.

It was a good day. Dad will be back out on the road tomorrow, and I’ll be struggling with the A/C, cold drinks, speedy travel, and the other burdens of driving the water wagon. 

Hope you all had a great hump day. The weekend is right around the corner!

The Gift of Fog

Foggy Sunrise - Yorkville, IL

Sunrise this morning revealed a thick layer of fog that had settled down amongst the fields of soybeans and corn. We packed up the truck and headed west toward the diner that Dad, of course, had identified as our target of opportunity for breakfast.

After we’d ordered our omelets, we sat across from each other and sipped our coffees. We were the only ones in the diner, and the mood was subdued.

“What are you thinking?”

It’s the question I try to ask when I’m sitting across from someone who looks like they might be troubled. In the past I might ask what was wrong, but I’ve learned that the phrasing of that question assumes too much. Better to let folks get around to what might be troubling them in their own time.

After the question, we talked about what we’d learned and experienced over the last five months, how those things had impacted our lives and our thinking, and how we were reacting to this last part of the journey in the context of everything that’s happened so far.

One of the things that I’ve learned along the way is that Dad and I both have different ways of thinking about the various aspects of the walking experience. It seems that the actual physical act of walking is something that brings me a greater sense of fulfillment than it does for my partner.  For Dad, it seems as if the walking itself mostly provides the framework for the social interactions that have crossed our path along the way.

Walking by yourself has its own set of challenges, and you no longer have the benefit of someone around you to break into your own thoughts and feelings. You’re stuck with yourself whether you like it or not. You get used to it, but it took me a few days to really get find ease with myself when I was walking alone. It’s during these times that having a friendly stranger to talk to is particularly helpful.  For the last couple of days, those interactions have been few and far between.

We finished up breakfast and made our way to Dad’s jumping off point. The fog had taken on what I’ve heard described in the past as the characteristics of pea soup. I dropped Dad off, and as he marched westward. I took the truck and drove along his route to see just how much the visibility had been reduced.

The situation didn’t look promising. As I drove down the highway at ten miles under the posted speed limit, I started counting the seconds it took for me to overtake stationary objects like mailboxes and street signs. One-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, one-thousand-four, one-thousand-five, one-thousand-six….

I drove for about a mile.  Five to ten seconds from when I spotted the fog shrouded object on the side of the road till the time I passed it as I drove through the fog.  The shoulders were narrow, and there was no room for error.

“Too dangerous,” I thought as I made my way back to Dad. He was making his way through Paw Paw, IL on the relative safety of sidewalks.

“What do you think about this fog?”

This time, I didn’t give him a chance to respond.

“I don’t like it. Drivers can’t see you in time to react, and not everyone has their lights on so you can see them. I think we ought to wait for it to lift a little before pressing on.”

Dad agreed and we grabbed a convenience store coffee and sat down near the small granite Veterans’ Memorial at the Lion’s Park in Paw Paw, IL.  Just as we settled in, a bright and cheery woman greeted us and asked if we knew any of the names on the Memorial. We admitted our ignorance and owned up to our out of town status.

The conversation evolved, and before we knew what had happened, we’d spent the better part of an hour sharing tall tales of the ups and downs of our adventures and our lives. 

After a thoroughly enjoyable conversation, the thick fog remained. It had been joined by thunder and lightning. As we said our goodbyes, the sky opened up and a driving rain crashed down through the fog. We’d managed just over a mile worth of forward progress, but, as we called it a day, I knew for a fact that we’d all gotten just what we needed out of the trail today.

Driving the Water Wagon

Now that Dad and I have switched roles, and I’m the one driving the water wagon and he’s the one drinking the water, I’ve been asked how it feels to be in the logistics support role. 

I understand it’s bad form to quote yourself, but I’m going to do it anyway. In response to this question, I replied, “It’s a helluva lot easier than walking. I like the A/C and the cold drinks. I like the food, and if I don’t like the food I can drive until I find something I do like. My feet don’t hurt, and covering twenty miles in the truck doesn’t tire me out nearly as much as covering the same distance with bipedal locomotion.”

Still, I think I understand what the person was asking. I do miss being on the road moving slowly, but over the last couple of days it’s given me the opportunity to reflect on a few of the lessons that I’ve learned over the last several months.

When you’re walking, you really can get immersed in the environment in a way that driving just doesn’t replicate. The sounds, smells, and feel of what’s going on around you come alive in ways that I miss when I’m safely encased in my climate controlled metal bubble. On the other hand, the long distance walking has made me much more aware of many things I would have missed in the past while driving. The internal combustion engine has also given me mobility to explore that just wasn’t possible on foot.

Today, I’d parked the truck in our next designated logistics support point. Dad was still about forty minutes away, so I turned off the ignition, rolled down the windows and just sat in the relative silence for a few moments. I say relative silence because it didn’t take too long for me to notice that an airplane was buzzing overhead somewhere in the immediate area. 

The sound wasn’t the standard steady thrum of a single engine propeller driven aircraft passing overhead on a cross country flight. It was more like the sound you’d hear at an airshow where the grizzled old pilot in a biplane is pushing the aircraft into loops and rolls and low passes. As I glanced to the north and the south, I was pretty sure I was hearing the work of an Air Tractor. Yep. That’s a real thing. Air Tractor is actually the brand name of the series of the most popular “crop dusting” aircraft in service. They really do look just like the protagonis of the animated film “Planes.”

The airplane would buzz low and steady for a brief run of time, and then I could hear the engine RPMs ramp up and a doppler shift would tell me the craft was pulling some non-trivial Gs in its turn back toward the field it was working. Still, I couldn’t catch a glimpse of the plane in action.

Dad showed up, and I served up the drinks and offered some food. He dropped his pack and sat on the back of the tailgate for a while before striking off again on his walk to the west. He looked pretty sweaty and hot. We’d agreed to meet about two hours up the road, and I knew what I had to do.

Though I’d ambled past more Air Tractors on the ground than I’d care to count, I’d still not seen one in action. I was going to go find it, and the mobility of the water wagon was going to be my enabler.

I located the plane’s approximate location acoustically, and I headed a little to the west and a little to the north. The sounds grew louder as the plane continued to work the fields, and then all of a sudden it broke out low over the corn field to my left. Her wheels seemed to brush the tops of the corn tassels with the lightest of touch as she screamed down the length of the field. 

Air Tractor at Work - Rollo, IL

Guided by a steady hand and a spirit not born of fear, the pilot skirted just above the tops of the corn stalks delivering death from above to the aphids below. It was an incredible display of aviation.

I miss the long plod along the shoulder, but driving the water wagon has its own set of advantages.

Looking Back East

After yesterday’s thirty mile sprint very nearly ended with a dehydration bonk, I woke up early this morning to pack up the tent and hit the road to knock out the next twenty mile segment.  

An early start would, I hoped, allow an early finish when the day was a little cooler.  Also, I was stealth camping in a spot far to visible from the side of the road to allow it to endure the illumination of the light of day.

Packing the tent up in the dark was not my favorite experience of the journey, but once I had it all broken down and stuffed away, I glanced over my left shoulder and witnessed the blush of dawn creeping up over the eastern horizon.

Sunrise - Paw Paw, IL

This morning’s sunrise was a beauty, and shortly after taking this shot, I grabbed a final round of red Powerade, ate a convenience store Italian sandwich, and hit the road.

It all worked out, although I walked for literally miles today on what the county creatively calls an unimproved township road without seeing a single car. I’d just call it gravel, but the limited car encounters were nice. I’m fifty miles into a pretty tough seventy mile, three-day stretch, and I’m hoping to wrap that all up tomorrow.

Until then, enjoy the sunrise whether you see it here or get up and watch it unfold in real time.

The Road to Paw Paw

The road stretched out to the west like a black glimmering snake laid out to the horizon. I made it back to farm country, but the fields are getting bigger and the towns are getting smaller and farther apart.

Back in Farm Country - This Corn is Looking Pretty Good - Rollo, IL

Fortunately, at about the nine mile mark, I had the opportunity to hydrate with some assertiveness and fill my water bottles for the fifteen miles to go. I’m gonna call it cameling up.

It almost wasn’t enough. This sun peaked at one and stared down on the open fields. As the air heated up in the south, it was drawn in by a line of thunderstorms off to the north.  Like the Santa Ana wind that rides down the coastal mountain ranges of California from the Mojave Desert and blows hot and dry out to sea, these southern winds whipped past me, pushing my pack around. For about five hours they seemed to suck every last molecule of moisture from my body.

By the time I reached my planned destination, I was down to about twenty ounces of water and still had another six miles tomorrow morning before I could find reliable resupply. I couldn’t spend the night there.

I plopped down my pack in the dust of the baseball bleachers and looked around a bit frantically for a hose bib on one of the buildings. Nothing that I could see. I did a slow three-sixty taking in my surroundings.  Just off to my left I spied an old stone water fountain.

“There’s no way that thing still worksl.”

As I thought the words, my feet were moving in the direction of potential liquid salvation. I glanced down into the rusty drain bowl. Water. The drain wasn’t working, and there was water in the bowl. I reached up and pushed the button. Water arched from the nozzle. Warm at first, but pretty quickly taking on cool dampness that slid down my throat and slaked my growing thirst.

I sat down on the bleachers and looked at the map.

“I’m still not staying here.”

Five and a half miles to the next town with a convenience store. Powerade.  Red Powerade. That’s what I wanted. It’s funny because I’ve never really been a great fan of Powerade, but in that moment I could almost taste it.

I sat for a little and ate a couple of handfuls of gorp. I went back to the fountain and filled one of my bottles. I cameled up again.

Five and a half miles later, I opened the cooler at the convenience store. Red Powerade. I grabbed one and sat outside on the sidewalk and sucked it down. Glorious. Ignoring the sign warning of prosecution for loitering, I sat for another ten minutes.

I left my pack on the walk and headed back into the store. Another red Powerade. In this case, there was no thought in my mind of too much of a good thing.

It was a good day. Once again, someone extended themselves by offering a ride. I told my story and politely declined. Another person offered me a ten dollar bill. I told him, “Thank you, but you should give it to your church or someone who needs it much more than I do.” He nodded knowingly and put the bill back in his wallet.

Just when I thought I was going to have to make a dry thirsty march, the trail provided. That’s the way things have been working out on this journey, and I’m grateful that’s the way it’s been.