I sat out front of a coffee shop on an overcast day. I took
a sip from the cup in my hands. Bitter. I had tried to add some sugar but my
hands were trembling too much for me to land any in the cup. Ended up spilling
a bit of coffee down my hands. Off to my usual great start I suppose. I took
another sip. In through the nose, out through the mouth, you’re where you’re
supposed to be. Mantras are fine for show, but it’s rare if they have any blow.
Worth a shot now and then.
I spent the next two hours chatting with this beautiful girl
who laid out the wonders and excitement of South America. Treks through the
jungles, ruins long forgotten, camping on the icepacks in the mountains,
unexpected friendships. Food and music and people. I could see the colors and
the joy that the country has left imprinted in her eyes. She told me the
beginnings of her affair with the southern hemisphere, of how the office
lifestyle left her thirsting for more, and how two months turned to four turned
to eight. I could feel my jaw begin to slacken and my heart begin to thrum
against my ribcage. I was then and still am currently amazed at the amount of
work, patience, and confidence that allowed her put her footprints all over a
country for that long. Her voice carried such determination. Such power.
Our time ran out as the rain began to leak out of the sky.
We smiled and hugged, and parted ways. I looked over my shoulder as I stepped
into my car. “God damn,” I said in a short breath. I looped back to my
apartment and snagged the dog. We set off with the rainstorm filling our sails,
towards the eastern lands. The rain carried us all the way to the mountains,
and left us as we entered the first tunnel through the green hillsides. We came
out on the other side amidst a full blown torrential flood, the most potent
sections of the storms caught in this bowl between the hills. Rain and wind
battered our vessel, but trusty Doris stayed true to course, and led us through
the winding countryside.
I drove for hours despite the late start. Some things are
well worth the delay, and my mind chewed on the lands to the south. Scenarios
and possibilities flooded into being, harried by the demanding rain on the
windshield. How could someone? How could I? What’s gained? What’s lost? What’s
worth?
One of the beautiful parts of driving along in the foggy
paths through the middle Pennsylvania hills is that you have nothing but time,
time to turn things over in your head. Time to be brutally honest with
yourself. Fantasies and heartwarming back patting are the enemy. They occupy,
but do not achieve.
So we drove on, water spitting off of the rear tires and
headlights blazing a trail up and around and closer and closer to somewhere. I
wasn’t going to make it to my scheduled stop, but luckily there are campgrounds
dotting the landscape with after-dark check-in hours. We stop, I eat, and sleep
until the wee hours of the next morning.
I woke up to the absolute gray of eastern Pennsylvania. All the
way to Lehigh the visibility was low, like some monster of mist and water was
refusing to be pulled off of the lush landscape, its hooks set deep into the
flesh of the flooded valleys. I woke up too early, and we arrived in Lehigh too
soon.
Took a two hour detour to Scranton, battling the mists the whole way
until the car set along a downslope long enough to come crashing out of the
clouds like a pastel blue thunderbolt. We looped back after refueling, heading
ever up into the unknown.
We arrived back in Lehigh and caught our train. We chugged
along in the drizzle and the wind, watching the scenery roll by at a decent
pace. I watch with a broad smile as the passing attendants shower Eins with
affection. I remember my plans for a train ride where I can let my feet dangle
from the caboose or hop between cars as we hurtle over trestles and wind our
way through mountains or desert. There was a comforting way the steel horse
sways along its rails. It was easy to see how one could get addicted to this
method of locomotion.
We pulled into the station with the engine groaning to stop
us from overshooting the platform. Eins and I packed back into Doris and set
off ever eastward, not escaping the clouds until we were clear into New Jersey.
Toll roads set the funding back a bit, but we arrived at Brendan T Byrne right
on schedule. Got the hammock hung and it began to sprinkle right as I tried to
start making dinner. I retreated to cover and waited out the torrential storm,
reading and bullshitting around for a while.
Woke up early, headed to Camden and waited for the cemetery gates
to open. Saw Whitman’s house, went down by the harbor, dicked around. Drove
through Harleigh for a bit, tracking down the man’s grave. He’s tucked in the
western corner, near the pond. It’s a very stark mausoleum, nestled into a
hillside, and definitely not what you would picture the self-designed resting
place of possibly one of the cockiest writers to have lived. It was perfect.
Moved camp down to Wharton for two days. We found a trail to
hike in the Pine Barrens. Unfortunately, this is about the only one. Snuck off
into the woods on another roadside to find a ghost town. Only the foundation of
the grist mill remains. Plenty of ticks and brambles though. Said fuckit and
decided to see the ocean and I gassed it out to Long Beach just for a photo or
two. Life is strange when you’ve got nothing better to do.
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