In a sense, I have been waiting for this day for more than four months, the point at which my grand year of walking would continue. After a 500-mile prelude in Spain over the summer, I spent 65 days in August-October walking the “southern route” of the American Discovery Trail between Cincinnati and Denver, covering nearly 2000 miles. Even that, however, pales in comparison to what lies before me now: a full coast-to-coast walk, from Cape Henlopen, Delaware, to my home in Portland, Oregon, and then onward to the Pacific. All told, that should span around 4000 miles, first following the American Discovery Trail to Nebraska, and then branching onto the historic Oregon Trail. The first US walk was the longest hike of my life to that point; now, I’ll double it.
In another sense, though, I haven’t been waiting for this day at all. For as discontented and unsettled as I was 15 months ago, when I determined that I would pursue this pseudo-sabbatical, I have been largely at peace ever since the decision was made. As much as I was looking forward to that first hike–and, indeed, as pleased as I am at this moment to have an even greater walk in front of me–I have not had a single day over these last four-plus months when I wanted to reject the status quo for life on the trail. I have been thoroughly, unflappably, content. I have missed teaching regularly, but I’ve had every other best part of my job, along with the bandwidth to pursue all kinds of other projects that have been fulfilling. Truth be told, I haven’t walked that much–certainly not what I would typically do in advance of a long trek.
My circumstances are distinct from the “typical” person walking the ADT. It’s unusual to have this kind of time. The majority of walkers are retired or in a transitional stage in life, following the end of a career, or a relationship, or an educational pursuit. They rarely have the luxury of putting a job on hold that they know will be waiting for them–or what might be perceived as the anti-luxury of remaining connected to it while on the road. In their pre-departure writings, they often sound rapturous. Their lives, in those moments, are singularly oriented towards what’s ahead.
As I have moved through these last weeks and days, I have been asked time and time again, “Are you excited?” Or, more presumptuously, I have had others declare: “you must be so excited.” On the contrary, I have felt little of that, caught up as I have been in tying up loose ends, in spotting oversights, in walking through my different responsibilities over the next six months and laying whatever foundation can be laid, in trying to catch a last moment with a lot of different people. Often when people travel, they become aware of the price paid only at the end, when they face their bank account with a mixture of horror and whatever. In this case, though, I am cognizant of the many prices paid right now–the time that I lose with the people in my life who are important to me, some of whom will be moving on next year.
The excitement will come. It will come, I hope, when I set foot in the Atlantic Ocean tomorrow afternoon. For tonight, though, my mind is focused on loss.
