A Trail of Many Junctions: Cincinnati Revisited

I stood at this junction once before, faced with a choice I had not yet made, simple enough, to go north or south as I would embark on a loop few have endeavored to close.  Having, for years now, studied the sciences of “knowing” and “self,” I applied reason and logic to the decision before me, that is, I closed my eyes so that I might see.  Some forty two years ago I was born with a neurophysiology that taps into the helix of motion, place and connection.  In other words, I “come to know” as a function of moving, located within a place, and connected to a history.  Ask me to answer your questions sitting still or dislodged from their origin and I’ll likely stammer, but walk with me through space and time for a moment and I’ll share with you a beautiful truth.

I stood at this junction once before, my eyes closed and my heart listening for the music of my future; I stood and I saw…

myself walking in humble stride; tattered of form, weathered, but strong and convicted, having clearly endured a good many lives lived of struggle, of resilience, of a path well worth the travel.  I saw myself walking toward me at this junction, from the depths of the southern route against the backdrop of a high contrast and greyscale sky, my choice certainly clear and well enough made…I turned and walked north.

At 11:03 in the morning of February the 13th, I walked once more those very same steps, “from the depths of the southern route,” to arrive where I have already been, a weary traveler in a place of history, my own for sure, but equally a history shared with those who have stepped before and those who will come to pass yet beyond.  

I can hardly resist the symmetry of my southern experience, having hiked out of Denver in November headlong into blizzard conditions as I climbed to 10,000 feet on the edge of the Colorado Rockies before beginning my descent into what would become the high plains of Kansas.  During my final days I would endure torrents, floods and mud sink holes as I traveled the winding course of another industrial river, the Ohio, to return to where I have already been.  

I covered a hundred miles in my final two days as my nervous and immune systems strained against the task, my determination to arrive powered by yet another single digit forecast and the overwhelming kindness of some cool people, some of whom, I had met by chance during my hike through the scraggly backwaters of southern Ohio during my westbound trek of the East last May.  I struggled against the chill in my bones as the rain and snow pelted my face and my gear.  I sheltered for a scant few hours each night on uncomfortable slopes hidden within the roadside jungle, guided by the tracks of the local deer community.  I triaged more than I slept, drying my soaked outer layers by the warmth of my glowing stove, cooking a quick quesadilla and funneling electrolytes back into my quivered and aching body.  I sat down three times indoors to recollect what I could, when I could.  I chanced the closure of roads and happened upon a missing bridge in the dark of a foggy night, visibility reduced to just beyond the reach of my arm as I fumbled with the wet screen of my phone to scout an alternative route with a single and frail bar.

I arrived at the junction in Elizabethtown, Ohio to the tune of two songs, Ólafur Arnalds and Arnór Dan’s “So Close,” as well as AC/DC’s “Back in Black.”  I dropped my pack in front of the trailhead sign and grabbed my camera to capture the moment.  As I kneeled to the ground at the intersection to setup my first shot, a car pulled to a stop and a man began to speak: “I thought you were waiting for someone to give you money and I was going to give you a twenty.”  I pointed to that large trailhead sign, “I just hiked 5,233 miles along that red line!”  He congratulated me and asked if I needed anything nevertheless.  I can’t imagine a better way to summarize my central-loop hike totaling some 3,709 miles, a complicated experience that left me both uplifted and reeling, equally longing for clean clothes (not hiking clothes!) and a shave, a return to the “normalcy” I typically loath, a reprieve from the “wellness checks” and charity, from defending my capacity to care for myself, from explaining, from…

I just wanted, for a moment, to be me; to dance as I write, to cry without the cover of my sunglasses, to write poetry without the worry of where I’d sleep, to escape the refraction of society onto my body, to just be me…

Not a hiker (thru, hitch or otherwise!)

Not a traveler

Not a vagabond

Not a hobo 

Not a photographer or a writer

Not in crisis

Not a criminal

Not a thief 

Not a trespasser

Not a helpless

Not a hopeless

Not an educator

Not a researcher

Not a therapist

Not…

To just be me!

My mind’s a flutter with all I’ve seen and experienced, the beauty I’ve witnessed, the people who have assured my faith and supported my stride without expectation or shame, without religion or doctrine (I’m genuinely happy for your belief and I hope you can be happy for mine!).  My journey, in many ways, has just begun; in many ways, began long before I put feet in the Atlantic and stepped forth onto a mapped and recognized trail.  

On March 26th, 2024 I walked out of the Atlantic and onto a trail I knew I could not complete with the resource in hand.  I stepped on faith and a belief in my capacity to transform and imagine beyond any obstacle.  I’ve made mistakes that have cost me money, I’ve walked through severe injury, I’ve woke to that feeling of a sick stomach with little choice but to walk forth, I’ve entered the flood waters, I’ve been swarmed by vampires, I’ve scrambled and climbed the sheer rock face to glimpse above where others stand below, I’ve feared for my next drink and carried long, carried heavy, I’ve entered the blizzard and swam through the torrent, I’ve sunk in the mud with no bottom, I’ve withstood a single degree and wind-chill gusts, I’ve worked for money and have been handed money, I’ve…

only just begun!

I’ve now completed 5,233 miles of the American Discovery Trail, leaving 1,567 in the West from Grand Junction, Colorado near the Utah state line.  My gear has reached a state of crisis.  My pad ruptured internally along Missouri’s Rock Island Spur just west of Windsor, but I managed to limp it along another 900 or so miles to arrive back in Cincinnati.  My pack has been abused from day one, but has served admirably, nevertheless in need of replacement.  I’ve already field repaired tent zippers, but need to shore up the job and patch a couple small holes and fabric runs along with some minor pole repair.  My clothes, of course, are done and as seasons change need adjustment anyway.  My waterproof bags have been stitched and glued, holding strong through a wet winter, but have reached their retirement age as well.  My sleeping quilt continues to serve, having only seen some failing on the elastic bands and plastic clips that strap around the pad, a minor nuisance of little impact with a bit of creativity.  My foam pad is thoroughly compressed, but continues to serve its functions quite adequately.

My feet have held up admirably to the task of the southern route despite pushing my shoes a bit further than I would have liked.  I can walk barefoot on hard floors, a joy I could not claim when I arrived in Grand Junction back in September, when I could hardly stand, let alone walk absent the constant coursing of adrenaline.   Nevertheless, they are a bit “glazed” and itching that perpetual state of healing itch.  They will enjoy some time to restore!  

And now comes that moment of declaration of intent for all that looms ahead.  Ever since I walked into Colorado back in August, having hiked every step from the Atlantic, I have felt a yearning yet to shake.  I’ve stood as high as 14,163 feet, deviating from the ADT just a bit to gaze upon that horizon.  I’ve followed the migration of birds along dying rivers and traveled the winding course of industrial giants.  I’ve walked the tracks of historical trails across Great and High plains, transitioned between geographic and ecological systems, human systems.  

My feet will touch both oceans, having walked every last step, before this journey completes.  It seems an odd thing for such an accomplishment to feel, in the slightest, incomplete.  Nevertheless, that yearning has grown stronger and I’ve come too far in the science of my own development to be confused about what that means.  I’ll be returning to Denver, departing on the 20th by train, where I will be working and preparing for next steps as I’ve decided my feet will touch both national borders as well, to the south and to the north along the Continental Divide.  I’ll flip flop from the top of Argentine Pass, where my trails converge and I’ve already stood twice now.  I’ll likely head south first, followed by a northern trek.  

The West will come, but not just yet…a four corner trek, the symmetry, I cannot resist!