While I awoke in West Virginia on Monday, I did so knowing that the day would actually be my last in Maryland and on the C&O Canal. After four full days, plus a bit of a fifth, this would bring my time on the towpath to an end. Despite some initial reticence, given the tedium I felt at times on Missouri’s Katy Trail, I thoroughly enjoyed the C&O, and left it wondering what the experience might be like in the late spring, with the trail’s campsite fountains in operation, and many more fellow travelers on the road. Part of me longed to break with the ADT and follow the C&O to its conclusion in Cumberland, but I ultimately stayed the course, bidding adieu to the canal 10 miles from Paw Paw, in the small town of Oldtown. I crossed the historic, private toll bridge (pedestrians are allowed to cross, “free as you are”) and, by God, I was in West Virginia for real.
The adjustment back to walking on paved roads with minimal shoulders and occasional traffic was complicated by the unseasonably warm weather. While 70 degrees would have felt blissful in Indiana last August, it made for my sweatiest walk thus far, and the heat emanating from the asphalt onto my waterproof shoes didn’t help. (For this leg of the trip alone am I wearing such footwear).
And then, suddenly, the shockingly reliable ADT waymarks had me turn right onto a minor paved road and the world changed. After nearly two full weeks of mostly flat walking, I was back in the hills, accelerating to a pace I’ve rarely held on this walk. My body exhilarated in the undulating terrain, my ears popping from the sudden change in altitude. I wouldn’t see a straight road or a flat road for the rest of the day, with one brief exception. At one point a groundhog stared me down, before finally bailing out when I was ten feet away. I think that means winter is over.
My primary goal today was to push hard for Fort Ashby. I got a late start, after enjoying breakfast and conversation with Dan, but from that point onward progress was steady. I strolled into town around 3pm and was struck by the layout, with shops and restaurants sprinkled around the “center” and most residences radiating outward from the town limits, like travelers drawn to a campfire, but still suspicious of the company. I grabbed a sandwich at Subway, realizing that the Veggie was $5.49 for a footlong, while a Cold Cut Combo was $4.99. So, pro tip: order the combo and ask them to hold the meat.
Leaving Fort Ashby, I didn’t know how far I would go. The ADT’s West Virginia state co-coordinator had advised me that there were a few trail angels along the way after town, but they didn’t want their personal information shared. They would keep an eye out and, if circumstances were right, they’d catch me and offer support. So, my head was on a swivel, even more than normal, constantly searching for a friendly face. After descending into Fort Ashby, I was on the climb once more, as thin clouds crept in and took the edge off the heat.
The miles and hours passed. I had inferred from the communication, which was intentionally vague, that I might encounter an angel in the next two or three miles. There might have been someone in that stretch, but if there was I missed the sign. I kept going. Another hour passed. Then another. It was now pushing 7pm and the sun had dipped behind the ridgeline to my right. Despite an abundance of no trespassing signs around me, I started to scope out possible stealth camping sites. One grove of trees looked particularly appealing, until I saw a group of 10 deer lurking within, depositing a day’s worth of ticks in that tall grass, I am sure. An open, green field to my left had some appeal, but without any cover I’d be certain to draw attention. There’s a funny transformation that happens, for me at least, as the days get later. In the morning, I’ll see an ideal campsite every 10 minutes. When the time comes to commit at night, though, I only find fault, as though my body refuses to yield the day.
On this day, at least, that was a blessing. Soon enough, a man in a truck pulled up alongside me and asked if we could chat just ahead, where the shoulder widened and he had space to get off the road. My heart skipped a beat and I hustled ahead, to catch him before any second thoughts could arise. L introduced himself and quickly I realized I had found the angel (well, half of the angel team) I was seeking. He made the invitation tentatively, as though he were imposing, offering the use of his guesthouse for the night–if, perhaps, I weren’t too wedded to the idea of roughing it. I contained my giddiness and accepted the invitation with appropriate gravitas. L loaded me into his truck and whisked me back a short distance to his home, a lovely A-frame, uphill from my road, and explained that his nephew had spotted me and alerted him. After showing me to the guesthouse, he invited me over for dinner when I was ready. After a quick shower, and a minute spent working a giggle-fit out of my system over my dumb luck, I strolled over and met J, the other half of this team, who was hard at work preparing the meal.
We spent the next 2.5 hours at table, having a wide-ranging conversation. They were both retired teachers, so we talked shop for a bit, and I learned a little about their nephew’s work on the neighboring farm. L made one pitch–given that their cattle are grass-fed, shouldn’t they be viewed as vegetarian food as well?–but it was with tongue at least partially in cheek. Eventually, the conversation circled around to South Africa, which they had visited fairly recently, and which I am always more than happy to discuss for hours.
The timing was apropos. I had spent the morning listening to Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals, and was reminded once again of Abraham Lincoln’s rare magnanimity and graciousness, and the conversation reinforced for me just how much Lincoln and Mandela, two former lawyers, share. While one led a government and the other opposed it, both prosecuted a war in service to a higher cause, both paid significant prices along the way, and both ultimately espoused a remarkably reconciliatory message, one with which vengeance would hold no truck.
Both men leveraged their authority and charisma to spread this orientation. Imprisoned in Robben Island, Mandela organized schools and instructed his men to not entertain thoughts of payback, to only look towards a South African future that included all of its people as equal members. Lincoln ordered his generals to get southern soldiers back to their farms as soon as combat ceased, letting them take their horses and guns as appropriate, with no punitive measures taken. He exhorted northern civilians to look ahead eagerly to full reintegration. They didn’t just harbor values; they sought to exert influence widely, to reshape the world around them in accordance with those values.
We are living in a moment of deep polarization–not unprecedented, of course, but alarming nonetheless. It’s easy to get caught up in the moment. I find myself wondering, though, what the US will look like should Biden defeat Trump this fall (and should Trump willingly move aside). Will that be an opening to move forward, to re-moderate America and back away from the brink, or will Democrats crave an opportunity for payback? Is reconciliation even desirable in the short-term? Such initiatives didn’t take place in South Africa until substantial political transformations were enacted; does a re-balancing need to occur in the USA before any shred of magnanimity can be displayed?
I don’t have clarity on any of that, but what certainly stands out to me in this–perhaps unfairly–is Lincoln and Mandela’s greatest shared failing, in the realm of economic justice. (Admittedly, Lincoln was robbed of the opportunity to pursue this.) 40 acres and a mule never came, while South Africa today is the most unequal country in the world.
West Virginia, meanwhile, has the fourth highest poverty rate in the USA. As I walked through the foothills, I passed houses in great disrepair, with vehicles and furniture piled up outside. L and J told me about farms left unmanaged, overgrown with brush. As Monday gave way to Tuesday, and I arrived in the town of Keyser, I saw beautiful old brick houses, their age showing through their crumbling facades, and stately, 100-year old homes with crumbling paint and shaky porches. And almost exclusively, I have seen Trump signs along the way (though I am assured there is a Biden sign somewhere around here).
Reconciliation and economic justice are challenging initiatives to achieve simultaneously, especially in America where the latter is likely to yield howls of “Socialism!” from the people most in need of it. When the former occurs in lieu of the latter, though, it’s little more than a chimerical sugar buzz, a rush of good feeling followed by a lengthy hangover that no one can shake off. Our divisions will only continue to fester and grow if we fail to create conditions in which all Americans have a viable path to a successful life.
At 7pm on Monday night, I thought I was alone, that I was on my own, that I would have to make the best of it. Instead, I had a soft bed, a toasty room, a washer and dryer to clean my clothes, a hot dinner (complete with warm cookies and cold ice cream), and outstanding company. One night (and morning) as the beneficiary of generous charity reminded me of how often we fail to care for one another, and how profound the impact of such gestures can be.
