Notes from the Field: Along the Buckeye Trail Towards Cincinnati
Border Crossings and New Beginnings
I crossed the bridge from Parkersburg, West Virginia into Belpree, Ohio late in the evening as the sun was setting. I knew camping might be a tad sketchy that night, but I had a package to pick up at the post office in Belpre, a package that would begin to restore some life to a walk that had become a bit too defined by the necessities of survival and merely getting through. By the time I crossed that bridge, I had already walked the entire state of West Virginia on airplane mode, chasing power outlets into the night after suffering some equipment damage in a sudden flash flood in Maryland. I had replacements, I had warranties, I had insurance, but these things take time and I am walking across a country and a continent after all. I made adjustments, I adapted, and maybe I even gained the opportunity to expand my diversity of experience out here.
Nevertheless, when I crossed that bridge into Belpre late in the evening, I was definitely looking forward to the first of two packages I would receive early in Ohio, this one containing a small battery pack and my warranty replaced portable solar panel. The second I would pick up several days later in Glouster, Ohio containing my insurance repaired camera and a new macro lens. On this night, though, I sat down in a Wendy’s, near the post office I would need to walk into first thing in the morning, to enjoy a baked potato and a frosty while charging my cell phone and pondering, a bit, my future out here on the long road. I would write down some of those ponderings later that night from within the tent I pitched under a shelter at a soccer complex in town, adjacent the post office I was so eager to arrive at, office hours seemed of little concern on a hike where I already spend precious little time planning out my daily destinations (I’m more of a “figure it out in flight” sort of pilot):
Tonight I can’t seem to sleep, so I may as well write a bit. For all of West Virginia I couldn’t do this, write on a whim. I’ve had no battery backup and my maps are on my phone, so I’ve been flying on airplane mode and chasing outdoor outlets. For long stretches, when I knew I had no turns to make, I’d just leave my phone off, occasionally revive it to take a picture, but my heart hasn’t been there either, my phone only ever intended to be a snapshot camera, never a primary. It just doesn’t have the artistry, it’s only a phone, a jack of all but master of none.
I’ve missed my camera and lens. I’ve missed being able to write the moment the words dance in my mind. This walk has never been about the miles or the pace or the accomplishment. It’s always been about the story. I was asked recently if I’d go back to my job afterwards. I laughed a bit, stumbled a bit…
I don’t have a job to go back to.
I’m writing my future with each step. I’ve been doing this for a while. I’ve turned my life into research. Out here people are surprised when I mention even one of my credentials, and I never divulge the whole CV. I’m used to that by now. I don’t act like I’m supposed to, but I’m convinced there’s a path beyond the path that has always been.
Where any of it leads, I don’t know. That’s the point, to walk the pitch black tunnel on faith, to step without assurance but step with strength. Tonight I sat in Wendy’s eating a baked potato and a chocolate frosty while charging my phone up from 10 percent yet again. I stared in the reflection of the window before me, the darkness outside illuminating the contrast from within. I sat, my pack at my side, the dank and stank of the last couple very wet days steaming off me. I could see two older gentlemen in conversation behind me. My mind flashed, as it often does, to my future (and equally my past, I’m not one for linear time). I’ll sit here again, I’ve sat here before, the cold winter howling, my tracks laid in snow, to write a story, to share a moment…
The dank and stank of a struggle worth fighting for.
(Posted to Instagram on May 6, 2024 at around 4am)
I also reflected a bit on “milestones,” having just crossed into my fourth state of this walk so far, the Buckeye state of Ohio, the one that would see me conclude an even bigger milestone yet, the end of the eastern leg of the American Discovery Trail, three much longer sections yet in my future:
Today I hit another one of those little milestones, a bit delayed due to some unavoidables and some logistical necessities, but here I am in another state, the end of the eastern section of the ADT now within sight. A fork in the road awaits, just outside Cincinnati, but for now many more of those little moments, like eating dinner in a train tunnel to escape the driving rain last night, the moments that matter, the little this and thats which fill the canvas of a story far more important than crossing artificial borders, though nevertheless it feels satisfying to lay here tonight just across the river from all those moments walked, a trail traversed through struggle and perseverance; a past, a present and a future buzzing about me as I hope to wonder myself to sleep…
To then walk some more.
(Posted to Instagram on May 5, 2024 close to midnight)
The Path Winds On
And walk some more I have, through beautiful farmland; swampy, steep, and winding single track; downpours and thunderstorms, as I make my way to Cincinnati and the end of the eastern leg of the American Discovery Trail. I’ve met some kind people along the way, from the Cowens who offered dinner to a stranger camped out across from their house (and a good many stories too, like a flash of lightning that once struck the lake I was camped next to sending thousands of fish sky high into the air), a farmer who was so impressed with the “ambitious“ nature of my endeavor that he offered some money to buy my next dinner, a tradesman who passed along a cold bottle of water and some conversation (along with an offer to stitch up any gear if needed), Tim who gave me a camper to sleep in well also cooking an all you can eat dinner on demand in front of me as I ate (“if you leave here hungry, it’s your fault…all you have to do is ask”), Pat who bought me five “well used books” (my BuyMeaCoffee page), and so many well wishes and “safe travels“ that I’m bound to forget a few as I write while walking down the road tonight.
Ohio has also marked the end to my month long struggle with rather severe tendinitis in both my heels, a struggle that began in Maryland ahead of DC and continued through the whole of West Virginia as I tackled the muddy and rocky highlands. Ohh the fond memories. There were the days I could only but shuffle my feet for hours and miles on end and the mornings where getting out of my tent was a fun game of “can I stand up and achieve a balance without crashing back into my tent, never mind carrying a loaded pack all day long?” There were the frequent breaks to massage my heels so I could walk a couple more miles, the hours of aching and throbbing in my tent at night to find equilibrium just before getting up and walking some more, and those days where you just can’t stop soon enough because there ain’t no place to sleep. These days I walk in stride from morning ‘till night, the stopping more or less of my choosing. Sure my feet still get sore a bit, but it’s that normal kind of sore where you rest a bit and right back to it.
The biggest change in Ohio, however, has been the return of my camera (damaged by water in Maryland and sent out for insurance repairs), which has restored music to my walk and my life. Words are once again dancing in my mind and I am no longer bound by the miles left to walk or the outlet I have yet to find,
“he says to himself as he sits in a Walmart trying to put some charge on a couple batteries ahead of a 4-5 day stretch of cloudy days and little to no opportunity for resupply, beyond those unexpected encounters with generous and supportive people.”
Well, we do the best we can out here don’t we?
“He says with a grin, ready to walk on, struggle on, live on…”
But folks, if we’re gonna live (and live we fuck well shall!), let’s live well and free,
and always together!
Thank you Ohio, thank you my readers, and thanks to all the thoughtful comments here. I see you. Your words move mountains…and quite certainly my legs!
***Update
Since writing this several days ago, I’ve had little to no Internet, certainly not enough for uploading anything. It definitely hasn’t been a boring time. The Buckeye Trail has been constantly swamped by frequent downpours, causing flooded and muddy trails and waste high water crossings. My shoes have been soaked through for a solid week, wet socks on every morning, wet socks off every evening. My water filter got clogged and developed a tear a few days ago, complicating water access. I’ll have a new one in a few days, but in the meantime it’s been a little more challenging as I’ve had to carry extra water through some long stretches with no spigots or stores.
Yesterday and today the sun came out, but that hasn’t been the joy it might seem. The soaked and muddy trails are now a humid Petri dish of bacterial and viral death, along with the stinging nettles, mosquitoes, and the sudden surge of ticks. Just the other day I looked down briefly to find my legs were swarming with dozens and dozens climbing up and around my shoes as I walked through the tall grass of an overgrown trail. The conditions have led to a little bit of a G.I. sickness the last couple days that feels more like a fluid and electrolyte imbalance than anything else. Symptoms have been mild and manageable thus far.
Through it all I’ve also had the pleasure of walking through some beautiful caves, past gorgeous little waterfalls, and serene views. A few days back I spent the entire morning photographing in one such little space, not the tourist area of Hocking Hills State Park, but a more out of the way little place, the kind of place you have to trudge through flooded trails and cross swollen creeks to fully access and experience the complex nature that these places have to offer.
So much more to come, the struggle and the beauty walking hand-in-hand, a freedom that can’t be bought but earned and forged through the labor we dare to risk.
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Comments 1
Thank you for all the beautiful words and pictures. So glad to know you are safe and well. Sending you love and hugs.