The Illinois Eight: In Photos and Wandering Thought

I spent 8 days and one morning hiking through the state of Illinois, westbound along the American Discovery Trail, at the end of June.  As I hiked through Iowa in July, I took some time, often in park shelters, to reflect on that experience.  As I sit today in Nebraska, I am trying to find the internet and the time to upload what seems so long ago…

Day One:

June 17

Miles: 19.6

Photos:

The screaming, oh the screaming!  I’ve never known trees to scream so loud as in the northwestern Indiana-northeastern Illinois region.  I first noticed these screaming trees as I was walking into Center Point, Indiana midway through a marathon 40 mile day on June 16th and for the next couple days my ears would ring for hours on end amidst the scorching heat and draining humidity.  As I walked the bike path guiding my way through these early Illinois miles, I began to notice the source littering the paved surface.  They would land on my pack at every stop and bounce off my face in stride now and again.  They peaked my curiosity, screaming in flight, neon orange highlighting their wings along with fire red eyes.  Naturally I would need to capture a macro shot of these not so tiny (about an inch in length) little creatures, harmless enough they seem, though quite loud in numbers.  I would certainly zip my tent tight at night, having seen one too many horror movies featuring clouds of swarming little monsters, maybe not these, but good sense suggests caution…the Cicada.

My breaks often look a little different out here on the American Discovery Trail, a little less “glacier views,” a little more “lounging at a gas station.”  On this particular day, the weather proved especially draining, a scorching heat followed by 20 minutes of cold and driving rain followed by scorching heat and now suffocating humidity and, oh yeah, those screaming fucking trees.  A person could loose their mind, but a fresh gallon of fluid and electrolytes, my pad thrown down on the concrete slab of the old convenience store, now chipping way in tattered form and failing memory, goes a long way towards restoring faith and stride to an evening walk not yet finished.

As a photographer and an artist, a crisis therapist and a weird educator, my eye has always been drawn to detail and, especially, the tattered and the torn, the story told but rarely heard.  To sit exhausted, to feel broken and failing, in a place of common history (though distant our lives have been!), I find empowerment and strength, opportunity for restoration and “becoming.”  I don’t know your life; you don’t know mine.  We are, in most ways, ships passing in the night, yet today our story becomes one, becomes common and shared, tomorrow we return…to walk our separate paths.  Thank you for being here for me today.  My walk has been long, my feet sore and itching…again!

I rarely feel alone out here, the sun now set, my day come close, a shelter overhead.  I take a moment to dance, I take a moment to write, my dinner simmering at my feet, the chill in the air cooling and drying my sweat pricked skin.  You come into my life for just a moment, at precisely the moment I need you most.  You remind me, though I may at times feel lost, my home becomes this place, tonight forever, tomorrow again.

Day Two:

June 18

Miles: 23.4

Photos:

The bike path continues as I hop from town to town.  I find these stretches, at times peaceful, but often challenging, in that the scenery changes little, my camera rarely given opportunity to stretch and breath.  I can only photograph so many green leaves before I suffocate in the monotony of same followed by same.  The miles roll on past, Linkin Park driving my feet, the clock ticking, the sun tocking until at last your color graces my memory, your detail I cannot resist.

A long day concludes before I yet arrive, my pack now heavy, a burden I must carry into darkness, for tomorrow I will wake too far from the sustenance I need to sustain my faith and my feet, my course changing quickly from a trail paved and resource both frequent and plenty towards the inconsistency of a swampy canal towpath, the water dank, even when “potable,” smells of iron and rotten eggs, within minutes a murky greenish brown in my bottle.  I never pass on these moments, to sit and stare, to wonder and wander beyond my place.

Day Three:

June 19

Miles: 21.8

Photos:

The sun hits my face, not yet searing, in a place just distant enough to offer moments of free thought, or no thought at all, just sensory memory, neither too much nor too little, not yet and only for just a time, as the struggle always returns to overwhelm, but also set free the burden of comfort.  I welcome these moments; I equally welcome those to come, the ones that set my skin ablaze.

Your flight reminds me of my own—look close!—or you’ll miss me altogether, our image blurred, a mirage against the backdrop of clutter… “I was here!”

I turn a corner, unsuspecting, your curiosity and mine, this moment we share.  I’ll do my best to earn your trust…I only wish to pass by and through, this space has always been yours.  I am but a guest, always, if you’ll have me.

What a strange day, it seemed, a multitude in one!  I awoke that morning aside a swampy canal.  I bounced from State Park to State Park, the miles a crawl, the sun beat down, by afternoon…drained, 12.5 an eternity!  I stared at the map while sitting on my pack in a spot of shade along the dusty path—success!—a picnic shelter with water just ahead.  I stumbled to my refuge, dragging and panting, dropped my pack, filled my stomach with water and cooked a meal.  I placed my pad atop the picnic table, laid out flat and fell asleep…no one here but me! 

I awoke once more, the evening sun drawing low, 6:30 and nowhere near enough walked.  I filled my bottles once more, yawning and drowsy as I loaded my pack upon my shoulders to stumble on.  I found my energy in stride, the miles now moving fast and with ease, but as dusk set upon, the clouds began to descend…mosquito clouds that is.  I threw on my thick skinned rain coat, covered my neck, ears and face, then hurried my pace; but I could not ignore the beauty in this horribly stinky place, stopping foolishly now and again to capture a scene, though I would not regret, even as the itch of the night set in. 

I found my place and set my tent, huddled inside to escape the vampires of the night.  I cracked a bottle and plugged my nose, the stench of rotten egg, the once clear water now a greenish brown, a common theme with well water in these parts.  I drank anyway, as it has yet to make me sick and my thirst amidst the searing, humid heat has come to trump most other concern…the night drifts past, the day begins anew.

I came to you as darkness 

fell, 

the bugs swarming a cloud with every 

stop, 

to bite and suck a bloodlust 

thirst, 

I could not resist your beauty 

overwhelm.

You remind me I can.  You restore my strength and my faith, you the misplaced, the aberrant, defiant at every turn.  You belong not, yet here you are all the same, the weight of the world on your shoulders, a burden I know all too well, the aching pain, the stinging fury, each labored step, the pending fall…

We know we must.

Day Four:

June 20

Miles: 30.4

Photos:

Just as I remember you, murky and green like the water in my bottle, beautiful though in your own right…a town with assuredly clean water just a few miles ahead!  I hurry my pace to the rhythm of Linkin Park.  No sooner I enter, a woman approaches and asks if I’m “one of those cross country hikers.”  She had read some books written by a few, but had yet to encounter one of her own.  I was more than happy to be her “cross country hiker” that day.  She offered to fill my bottles, charge my phone and even cook me breakfast.  I would not decline, then set off once again to hike my hike another day.

And what a day it would be, my rhythm sluggish but sure.  My sun glasses fell apart, the handles or ear thingies (whatever you call them!) simply falling off at the hinge on a glaringly bright day.  I sat down in the afternoon, 13 miles walked, with a tub of ice cream (1.5 quart!) and submitted a claim on a “lifetime warranty against defects.”  The claim went smooth, a new pair sent.  I stumbled on, my blood now teaming with glucose and nothing to slow me down!  The clouds rolled in, the mosquitos returned, my pace never faltered.

I always seem to find you when most I need a lift.  My shoulders ache, my feet care not one mile more, but continue I must as here it cannot be, though here I am and so are you to share this moment, a passing in time, your heart as always, the strength I need…

Day Five:

June 21

Miles: 20.9

Photos:

I came to you for relief.  I see you’ve been through it too.  Do you think anyone cares…the story we have to tell?  I’m glad you were here this morning.  And I don’t mind the rough edges; I have those as well.  Clearly we could both use a break, what the professionals these days call “self care.”  But some wounds we just can’t heal ourselves, can we?  I think maybe we could be good for each other.  I’m pretty handy with a hammer and I know my way around a sheet of plywood.  The mosquitos have been eating me alive.  I spent the last few miles hiking while swatting at my shoulders with my hat just to keep them off.  I need to submit a story to one of those online hiking journals.  I have it written.  I spent the last couple late nights hiding in the back corner of McDonald’s with a milkshake and some fries.  They’ve become my mobile office lately, at least when I happen past one at the right time, you see, I can’t really write during the day.  There’s just too much noise in the world.  Sometimes I just need a break; I need to turn the volume down.  Night time works for me.  I can breathe.  I can hear myself again.  I can…you know, well, here I am. 

The things is, I’m hiking all these miles and sometimes I just am where I am.  I really want to upload this thing and I’ve got a signal right now and I kind of need to eat breakfast too, but if I wait until the next town I won’t want to stop long enough, I’ll want to keep going, my mind will be stuck on the miles again.  But not now, right now all I can think about is this story and how I really want to submit it right this minute, but these bugs, these fucking bugs.  I can’t stop, I can’t sit, I can’t…I need to scream.  Can you help me?  I see you have a fireplace and there’s some wood left here too.  Can I start a fire?  I really just need some smoke to calm these things down…so I can think, so I can breath, so I can…

you know, just submit one fucking story!

Thank you!  You brought me peace in a moment of need…

submit!

Your shadow reminds me of my own, sometimes chasing, other times leading, now and again we walk side by side.  Your silhouette soothes my aching rhythm, I can’t but pause, your stillness in this moment, your motion when I look away for too long…I feel as if you know me.

You seem at home.  Can you feel my envy?  I’ve always been a wanderer, though for decades I locked my own cage…to set free, to fly, to return and know,

Can you feel my envy?

You remind me of my own history, the heart that beat long before I drew my first breathe.  Your labor courses in my veins, your melody the engine keeping time and driving each step I cannot account for, my expiry long overdue, yet here I am…

each day anew. 

This night drew long, as did the miles, another late evening in my mobile office (lately McDonald’s), charging and writing best I can on this tiny little phone that does not understand me as I need it to.  I need space to write; my fingers, my body, must stretch and dance, must move or my words fall flat—my mind—falls flat.

Now my feet fall flat, but walk I must, this urban space suits little my present need, but worry not, my map assures, just beyond I may find sleep…

Day Six:

June 22

Miles: 24.4

Photos:

I came into town to refill water, a little off trail but a necessary burden in this heat.  A car pulled up beside me: “there’s a storm coming, supposed to be bad, but there’s a park shelter right over there, no one will bother you.”  That night the rain drove down, pounding the roof above my head, the thunder deafening as I pulled my camera from its waterproof bag to film the moment, thankful not to be huddled in my tent along the canal that had been my journey mate these last few days, and a couple more yet to come.

I came upon you along my path, nearly beneath foot!  The same sun I sought to escape, the very same you found a treat.  So patient, still and calm…you held your pose, did not waver, a model of the highest esteem!

Walking along the Hennepin Canal in Illinois, and the I&M (Illinois and Michigan) before that, has been a throwback to my days in Maryland along the C&O (Chesapeake and Ohio) Canal back in April.  Those canal days were fraught with injury, illness and a beleaguered pace, but with space to camp freely I could stumble and fumble my way along, at times crawling in my tent by three in the afternoon, unable to manage much more.  My days in Illinois have sung a much different tune, bouncing between towns, campgrounds and state parks so often I have developed the habit of only supplying for a day or two.

I frequently enjoy ice cream and soda breaks before heading swiftly back out into what otherwise feels a fairly remote experience.  The spacing of towns, at times, can be quite stretched, but I no longer struggle to walk 30 or more miles in a day, allowing for a freer and lower stress hike.  Small towns have been largely supportive of a hiker stumbling out of what looks like months lost in the wilderness to shelter for the night, especially on these days when a storm is blowing in hot…a relief to know I can get there, a bigger relief to know I’ll have a place to lay my pad as the rain drives down bullets and the thunder shakes and reverberates beneath the roof above my head.

You caught my eye, the industriousness of your design reminding me of my own struggle, on this walk certainly, but also in the labor that drives me beyond the confines of what has simply been given, that is, the presets we are born to fulfill.  The hodge podge of which you were born reminds me I need not, more resource, but a willingness to imagine what can become out of what already lies readily about me.

You’re a shed.  But a canvas too!  Here I am hot, tired, running a bit low on water with a good many miles to go as I wander along an old canal towpath; your energy amplifies my own.  Your unmasked aging, a beauty beyond words—a relief!—as I seem to be aging quickly myself along this trail, the constant exposure taking a well marked toll.  Maybe I too can transform…as art!

Day Seven:

June 23

Miles: 29.1

Photos:

My future lie beyond, such beauty at times it seems I can only imagine, yet here you are as I pass along on this, another fading day…

Day Eight:

June 24

Miles: 26.7

Photos:

What challenge lie ahead!  For now a moment’s peace beyond the labor I choose, a breath-a sigh, to ponder and struggle—breathe deep!—today you shall arrive…

As always, to walk another day.

I’ve come so far, a story told in every crack and wrinkle, a labor of faith to build and forge, to struggle towards love and life, to breathe free and fresh air…the dank and stank surround me often.

The unseen moments out here move me in ways the milestones never could, though by all accounts a rather big one looms ahead.  Tonight I’ll arrive, tomorrow I’ll walk again.  The cycle returns each day, as monuments come and go, these moments are with me always,

my strength.

Being on the Mississippi, arriving here on foot, my stay has been short and mostly in motion…yet the expanse of this place, the enormity of what it symbolizes, the struggle and perseverance has been especially visceral lately, the beating sun, the bloodsucking monsters, my filth stained clothes, the stinging and pricking of my salt saturated skin, the chills and the constant assault on my nervous system, I just want to scream FUUUCCCKKKK, yet here I am…

Here I am!! (Posted to Instagram, June 26)

The Atlantic to the Mississippi on foot, my life on my back.  The beauty of the moment overwhelms.  I’m filthy.  My feet are going through their nightly trauma release shutdown.  I don’t really have a place to sleep.  This is the life I’m living.

The beauty of the moment overwhelms. (Posted to Instagram, June 24)

Your industry, your continuity, your complexity brings me to my knees.  I want to cry, but I’m too tired.  I’m sorry for all that’s been done to you, but you’re here…my God!, you’re here.

I don’t really know how they do it.  They’ve been experiencing daily trauma for 91 consecutive days now.  My favorite is when they turn purple, I’m like, “this is it, they’re going to amputate.” I’m losing track of the last time I DIDN’T think about my feet.  Back in West Virginia, along the rail trail, an older gentleman biker stopped and talked to me about my trek.  He said, “take care of those legs and feet,” then he paused (no doubt he saw my face), and continued, “that’s it isn’t, the feet?” We shared a difficult laugh.

At the end of every day we go through the same routine.  For about two hours, once the last step has been tracked and recorded in my gps log, total shutdown occurs (this is the purple time…sometimes). During this period I can’t stand or walk (if I must I can force it, but…). They pulse, vibrate, throb and itch.  I massage, scratch, apply compression and assure the softest nest I can.  I remove my socks so all can breathe.

After 3-4 hours, the crisis abates, almost in an instant.  I call this the recovery period.  I can now stand and walk, but mostly by this time I’m sleeping.  They feel stiff and sore, but no longer throbbing and pulsing, just…tired.  By the time I’m packing for the next day’s hike, all has been restored.  My first steps out of the tent are a bit stiff of course, but in the movings about they loosen up and we stride off with renewed energy and strength…

all to live through it one more time… (Posted to Instagram, June 25 around 1am)

Current Update:

I made it through Iowa, 540 miles, in a little over three weeks.  I’m currently trekking trough Nebraska on my way to Colorado, averaging about 30 miles a day over the last week and finding very little time to just sit and write.  It won’t be long now and I’ll be sitting in Denver, at yet another fork, and making the decision long ago made…

To go the wrong way, from westbound to eastbound for a time!