This was the 29th day of walking. It started like other hotel mornings do, with me trying to force down ~1500 calories’ worth of food from the breakfast buffet. I’ve sworn off the “real” scrambled eggs at this point, avoiding the cereal and pastries as well, unless I need some quick caloric filler. Fresh biscuits are common out here, so I load those with hard-boiled eggs, and then I make a waffle and pile on peanut butter and banana. Throw in a couple cups of yogurt and I do all right.
Extricating myself from Jefferson City was a pain; it’s a rarity on this kind of walk to cover the same ground twice, but I needed to backtrack a couple miles back over the Missouri River to regain the Katy, and this included a particularly painful square ramp that took me round and around… and around, in lieu of a simple staircase. I could whine on, but really it was fine. After a late start, in order to finish off some writing, I was back on the Katy by 8:30am and got moving.
————–
This was the first day of school. I looked at the schedule while sitting in the hotel lobby, mentally referencing back to it as I moved through the walk. At 10am my time, C&C (homeroom) started. I am officially, genuinely, really away.
And I am happy to be away. When I decided to go on leave, my motivation was clear and definite; in stark contrast to many choices I make, it was fully bereft of ambivalence. I needed to do something different, to challenge myself profoundly, to break the routine into which I’d found myself and stare spectacular potential for failure in the face. I craved adventure.
—————
The monotony is starting to grind me down a bit. I’ve done more than 100 miles on the Katy Trail now. Take any individual mile and it’s a pretty stroll; string them all together and it’s proof that you can indeed have too much of a good thing. It’s straight, it’s flat, and every mile feels the same. Little frogs launch themselves into the bushes. Turtles occasionally charge across the trail. Occasionally, a precocious racoon stares you down, clinging to the back of a tree. That sounds nice, doesn’t it? It is! But it’s a persistent, implacable niceness, the kind that makes one question his judgment, his lack of gratitude, and the sheer validity of his feelings.
I arrive in Hartsburg, where I had some hope of grabbing a bite. That hope is quickly dashed, as everything is closed. One man peacefully rests in his garden, enjoying a leisurely morning. The rest is empty.
I stare at the glossy Katy Trail brochure with a grin tinged with derision. It’s slick and lovely and clearly the work of passionate believers. A lot of love has been poured into this route; intellectually, I grasp that fully. In practice, though, there’s a gulf between what the brochure promises and what the average traveler is likely to encounter. And in this moment, I’m hard pressed to turn away from that gulf.
—————–
For the first time in my life, I walk and text, firing off emails to school. I think I might have spent 15 or 20 minutes doing this; looking up upon completion brought an odd cognitive flash, a sudden recognition that I hadn’t given the trail any consideration during the preceding hunting and pecking. Now I understand: this is why it sucks walking through cities.
It’s now first block at school. It’s an odd sensation, loving what you do and, in part as a consequence, feeling trapped by it. Resentment lurks in unsuspecting corners. Earlier in my career, I think it was easier to turn minor grievances into death sentences, manufacturing just causes for departure when I felt a hunger for something different. There was emotional immaturity in that, of course, but also the arrogance of one who doesn’t want to acknowledge any measure of vulnerability. When things aren’t working as well as you’d like, it’s a hell of a lot more convenient to plant responsibility for it elsewhere.
—————-
My plan had been to walk a shorter day today, stopping at Cooper’s Landing Campground, just after Easley. I was due, coming off of four longer days, and my poor mindset reinforced the necessity. The camp proves to be a lovely place for a break, with picnic benches in the shade, right alongside the surging Missouri, and cold coke to drink, but I equivocate over my sleeping plans–the place is definitely oriented more towards trailers
The last class of the day is underway. I’ve been saving something in reserve, and I realize in a flash that it’s time to break the glass. Towards the end of last school year, the students in my cohort wrote notes to me, in advance of my departure, and I’ve been holding off on reading them. The crumpled mass of wadded paper stubs is buried in a ziploc in my pack, but I wriggle it forth and gradually work through them.
While I can articulate a rational motivation for not reading these sooner, and it’s true and sincere, the accompanying reality is that I generally do my best to duck praise or acknowledgement. I don’t lack confidence by any means, but I thrive on doubt and have a Jordanesque streak when it comes to generating motivation; I fear complacency. And in my mind, I have a hard time disassociating praise from complacency, as though hearing good things might somehow dull my edge. It’s imprudent, but it’s deeply ingrained.
So reading through a big stack of these in one go is a lot, but gradually, with breaks in between, I work through each and every one.
—————
I walk on to Huntsdale, an extra seven miles. It’s beautiful. While temps reach 90 degrees today, the Katy provides abundant shade, with trees arching overhead and forming a leafy green tunnel. Large rock formations periodically tower above, bearing the marks of excavation work from the railroad’s formation. The walk is no effort; I can’t recall what felt so tedious before.
I often think about life through the lens of death–someday, when I’m lying on my deathbed (should I enjoy such a cliched end), and I look back on the life that I’ve lived, what will I regret? What will I be satisfied by, or proud of? In a number of ways, to this point, my life has defied convention–I’m not married and unconcerned, I have no progeny and am grateful, I’ve actively pursued one raise but otherwise don’t seek to climb the ladder. There’s a risk attached to that; convention is a large umbrella that provides generous shelter.
It’s tempting to instead frame my life according to the big, isolated things that I’ve pursued, with this walk right at the forefront of that. On a beautiful day in Portland, after all, one doesn’t remark on the sprawling Willamette Valley, but rather the splendor of Mt. Hood. It’s the peaks that stand out. Few are impressed by long and flat.
I am reminded by this stack of crumpled notes, though, that the valley is where we build our lives, where we stand side-by-side and walk in shared companionship, and where the relationships that define and nurture us gradually take shape.
I need this challenge and I am grateful for the opportunity, but the work of my life and my greatest pride remains in Portland.
