I’ve been thinking a lot these past two days about how the structure of the day shapes the experience. Obviously, a long walk shapes the day very differently than a short one; there’s potentially more room for lingering, exploring side streets, and easing the pace with the latter. The day’s destination might play a bigger impact, though. When I have a hotel waiting for me, I’m often inclined to push harder, hoping to maximize the time lounging in A/C on a comfy bed. The added consequence is that I’m far more antisocial on those afternoons. It’s for that reason that I’ll try to push myself to go write in a coffee shop, a McDonald’s, or the hotel lobby–just to be in the presence of other people and thus open to possibilities. But still, the rest time is important. On the flipside, when my plan is to free camp, in some out-of-the-way spot somewhere on the trail, it can play out in a couple of different ways. Sometimes, it incentivizes lingering. Since I likely won’t be able to set up my bivy until dusk, I have extra hours to play with, and it’s good to portion those out over the course of the day, as opposed to needing to burn four hours at the end of the walk. Other times, though, it goads me into walking extra far, in order to have a shorter walk the following day–especially since there’s a decent chance that I’ll be in a hotel room for that.
It may mean, then, that the best structure for a day’s walk is when I’m planning to camp in a town at an established campground. Again, there’s a reason not to rush it–I tend to go stir crazy with more than a couple hours in a bare bones campground at the end of a long day’s walk. On the flipside, though, the social aspect carries through all the way to the end, especially right now, since people are still enjoying summer vacation (though schools are beginning to reconvene).
That has been the case on each of the past two days, and that structure–combined with the kindness of the people I’ve encountered–has made for a thoroughly enjoyable and convivial experience, even if the walking itself hasn’t been great.
I had spent the last night in Lincoln near the airport, so the road out of town had only intermittent sidewalks and plenty of traffic, but I departed early and transitioned onto dirt tracks before too much suffering. In time, I transitioned back onto the highway, as it offered a more direct approach to Valparaiso, my first stopping point. I was walking with a clear purpose, as I had plans to meet a group from the University of Nebraska-Kearney there–two students and a Camino-veteran professor–who would be joining me for the next leg. Predictably, then, I arrived even earlier than needed, rolling into town at noon, an hour in advance of our rendezvous.
In a typical mid-walk stop, especially before mid-afternoon, I can hear the clock ticking in the back of my head as soon as I sit down. Every minute spent sitting in comfort equates to a minute walking in the hottest part of the day. Rest is essential, of course, but there’s a big picture, and I’m often guilty of privileging the latter.
Today, however, I couldn’t. So I plopped down in the mini-mart, bought a cold drink and a bag of hot popcorn, and soaked in the setting. Nothing profound or even noteworthy happened. I watched two women stock the shelves, taking satisfaction in how early they were able to complete the task. An older man ate a slow and silent lunch behind me. A few girls popped in to buy ice cream. It’s amazing, though, how long a bag of popcorn can occupy you, though, when you take it one kernel at a time. And even once it was gone, I still had time to stroll the town, check out the Main Street, chat with the park gardening crew, and refill my water bottles at the trailhead. It was surprisingly relaxing.
And then, right on schedule, the UNK folks were there–remarkable given that they had 2.5 hours of driving to make it there. Brad, the professor, had reached out to me a couple months earlier in response to the podcast, and I was astonished to hear from someone smack dab in the middle of Nebraska, right on the ADT. That quickly veered to disappointment when I learned he would be gone when I pass through Kearney, due to a study abroad program he was leading, but this became a great middle ground, with him bringing two of the students on his pilgrimage program out to join me for seven miles.
While they were there to ask me about pilgrimage, this was a golden opportunity for me to ask about Kearney and Nebraska. I learned one important detail right away–Kearney rhymes with Barney. Huh. I was most interested, though, to talk about vacation–and specifically where, in their view, Nebraskans tend to go on vacation. Most of what came up was within the state. The sand hills. Valentine (everyone I talk to encourages me to go to Valentine). Ultimately, though, it seems like the primary destination is whichever lake is closest. If they want to spice things up, they might go two or three lakes over. I met a couple at Macedonia that was spending the weekend at the campground in their RV, despite living just ten miles away. I’m sure, of course, that class plays a part in this as much as geography, but these are pretty palatial RVs that I’m seeing in the campgrounds. Most of these people have resources. It’s a choice, a priority.
I bid farewell to the UNK crew seven miles down the trail, leaving me solo once more for the final approach to Brainard. I moseyed my way to town, still urgency-free, knowing that I’d find a place to crash in town once I arrived, and that I had more than enough hours to make it happen.
“I sure hope they get it on soon!” A man on a cluttered porch shouted to me as I entered Brainard, catching me off guard. “I’m sorry, what?” “The power! The power has been off for a while now, but there’s a crew working down the road.” If the power outage in Omaha brought a certain edginess–to me, in particular, but also to all of the people, packed together in a sweaty stew for their fourth day–in Brainard, this much shorter outage was almost ideal. House after house, people were outside and chatty, and I was the one-man parade.
Still, I was uneasy when I crossed the threshold into the Husker II Bar, finding a cavernous, windowless room with eight silhouettes perched high in the middle. As their eyes were all well-adjusted to the gloom, I must have been a sight, walking five feet into the room and freezing flat on my feet, trying to make sense of the scene. “Well, you look like you’ve come quite a way!” The bartender breaks the ice, and soon after I’m bellied up to the bar and sipping a glass of ice water.
For a few minutes, I’m the center of attention, fielding questions about my walk thus far, and laughing about the apparent lack of power across the state of Nebraska. And then, the conversation drifts back to more familiar ground. One woman talks about finding a perfectly-good whiteboard by the dumpster behind the public school; an older man seizes onto this opportunity to complain about government waste. The bartender says the power outage is just further evidence that they should install wind turbines. Attention swings back around–”where are you planning to sleep tonight?” “I’m hoping it might be possible to camp in a park somewhere in town. Do you think people would be ok with it?” Heads nod all around the room, and one man quickly jumps in to talk me through the different parks in town, along with their relative virtues. As a non-drinker who has always lived in cities, the small town bar is little more to me than a fictional conceit–a setting that exists only in novels and television shows. But on this afternoon, I can see the virtue of the gathering place, as different locals cycle in and out, grabbing a drink, chatting or just listening quietly, and then heading home for dinner. It’s an environment I wouldn’t always have the patience to absorb in the manner required, allowing the minutes to melt away with no particular purpose in mind, but on this day the magic is on display. And right when my stomach growls, the power listens, springing back to life.
I set up shop under the shelter in the main park in the center of town. I have power and a picnic bench, plus a toilet on the opposite side. A little wifi wouldn’t hurt, but you can’t have everything. There are also, however, children. The main playground is adjacent to the shelter. One dad is pushing his children hard on the swings, so hard that the son is alternating between ecstasy and terror. (The daughter, meanwhile, is fully composed.) Three other girls run onto the giant slide soon after. How does one project “I am not a predator” vibes? I give it my best shot, waiting in particular to unroll the bivy until the kids are long gone, and dusk well established.
My last thought as I drift off to sleep–reveling in the shockingly cool temperatures that have made the bivy comfortable for the first time yet on this trip–is how smoothly the whole day went. And then, I hear the elevated voices. It’s dark. I glance at my phone; it’s 11:15pm. There’s an agitated woman out there, talking about the person walking across the country. A man tells her to calm down, that she’s going to cause someone to call the police. I hear footsteps. “Anyone sleeping over here?” A man’s voice. “Yes, I’m here,” I mumble, while unzipping the bivy. “A woman over there is concerned that you’re sleeping out here in the cold,” he said, “and she wanted you to know that there’s a room available for you if you’d like it.” Even groggy, I maintain enough self-control to stifle a rueful laugh–the offer of a room would have been lovely at 7pm; it’s more disruptive than anything at this hour–and instead stay focused on the generosity behind the gesture. I demur, noting that I’m snug and well, that the cold is no issue, and that I have an early departure coming… in five hours. The man wishes me well, and seems relieved to be able to put the whole issue to bed. As for me, sleep eventually returns.
The following morning, I departed Brainard in pitch black conditions, heading due west on a gravel road, scuffing my feet along the small rocks. It’s not a great day of walking, as I returned to the highway just as traffic awoke. It’s never terrible, of course–this is rural Nebraska, after all–but there’s no shade, not much diversity of scenery, and enough cars to make peeing a pain. The early departure was driven not so much by the day’s distance but rather the 16 miles standing between me and the first town, Rising City. Once I cleared that hurdle, though, it became a much more enjoyable itinerary, with three other towns–Shelby, Osceola, and Stromsburg–spread out along the way. Rising City and Shelby both had mini-marts with indoor seating, and once again I found myself in conversation with local folks about the walk. Outside the Casey’s in Osceola, a man joined me for ten minutes–once again singing the praises of Valentine. Over the course of the day, three different people offered me rides, going out of their way to take care of me, if it was needed. At the Mexican restaurant in Stromsburg (apologies to the Swede Capital of Nebraska, but I’ll take Mexican food first every time), where I had my now Official Dinner of veggie fajitas, the wait staff–family members, I learned–were excited to talk about Oregon and their old home of Humboldt, California.
Stromsburg’s biggest virtue is its public campground, open to anyone on a donation-based model. A handful of RVs were distributed around the far sides, but the giant shelter, with a dozen different picnic tables and toilets, was entirely neglected and quickly became my home for the night.
I’ve had days with better walking. I’ve had days with conversations that I know will have direct relevance to whatever I write about this trip; I’m not sold that was the case with these two days. I’ve certainly had more comfortable days. But I don’t know that I’ve had a stretch where I felt so connected to the people I was passing by, or as welcome.
At one point in our walk together, Brad asked me what I thought about the idea of “Camino magic,” in which uncanny coincidences or moments of serendipity arise for pilgrims on the Camino. As one example of this, a student in the first group I led on the Camino had spent the whole day bemoaning how much he missed music. And then, out of nowhere, a car pulled up outside the window of our albergue, playing a song by his favorite band. He leaned out the window and hailed the driver, who popped the CD out and tossed it up to my student. What are the odds? Magical, right?
Ever the skeptic, I poured water on the notion, arguing instead that Camino magic exists because we open ourselves to the possibility. Stripped of routine, of busyness, of all of the distractions that hound our daily lives, and operating in a healthy and often happy manner, we see the world differently. Looking back on these two days in Stromsburg, I realized that while Nebraskans ultimately deserve the bulk of the credit for being friendly and hospitable, the structure of these days, too, opened the door to a little magic seeping in.
