TREADING LIGHTLY IN A SUSPICIOUS SOCIETY
It never occurred to me, honestly. When I said I wanted to meet America, one handshake at a time, I envisioned a sunburst and moonbeam world where no one would find it strange, an old man wanting to be friends. How could that gold-star intention be misunderstood?
But I am a man, in a world of quite a few men, some of whom are womanizers, some of whom are sexual deviates, and some of whom are not to be trusted any further than you can throw them. Worse yet, I’m driving around in a converted bus, which looks a bit weird to begin with, like a living cliché, “hello little girl, would you like some candy in my bus?”
I see myself as a kindly old guy just trying to bridge gaps by saying hello and embracing conversation; I just didn’t realize that, to a few, I might seem a bit more sinister or questionable or not quite angelic, someone to be cautious of, someone to keep at a distance.
It’s understandable and it is sad.
I became aware of this recently, texting a woman I’ve known, online, for over a decade, someone I consider a writing peer, and friend. In one text I gave her my email, suggesting it might be easier to share “conversations” in emails rather than text messages, for me much easier since I find texting to be rather difficult with the small keys on the phone. I sensed, almost immediately, a chill settle over our conversation. I didn’t understand it at first, but upon reflection I suspect she thought I was coming on to her, trying to become more than friends.
As the kids say, my bad for being clueless.
So, now I’m a bit wiser in the ways of communication. My intentions may seem obvious to me, but that does not mean they are obvious to others. Which really could be a lesson for us all, don’t you think? Especially online, where the nuances of conversation are impossible to recognize.
“Still, a man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest.”
SO FRIGGIN’ EASY TO FALL INTO THE OLD TRAPS
One day and we leave. I’ve been here, in my friend’s driveway, for eighteen days. It is comfortable. I have very few decisions to make, sitting here. I have power. I have a water source. I have a free place to park. In exchange, I do chores around the yard which were sorely needed, give my friend a ride on errands, the usual domestic stuff.
It is exactly as I remembered it, this suburban trap, safe and easy and so very recognizable, like a favorite blanket on a cold winter’s night.
I need to get the hell out of here and be a bit uncomfortable. I don’t know about you, but discomfort forces me to grow, and that is a good thing. Discomfort teaches me about humility, and makes me greatly appreciate the things I have, rather than crying over the things I don’t have.
BACK ON TRAIL
It took us about a day and a half to make it down to Ashland, Oregon, just a bit south of there, where Bev, Shawn, and Toby Dog resumed the PCT somewhere around Mile Marker something something. I wasn’t paying much attention to numbers, truthfully; I was into the landscape and the mind-boggling beauty, and my brain switched into holy cow mode and all other thoughts were lost.
Just for the record, the Rogue River and Umpqua River are dazzling.
Almost immediately we reconnected with three hikers we first met back in March. Weird how that happens. Almost three months and just short of 2,000 miles separating our little group from their little group, and the first day back and we see them.
So, one of those three fell recently, and broke her arm in three places, slamming it on an unforgiving boulder along the trail. She went to the emergency room, of course, had it x-rayed, had her arm placed in a cast, and she then immediately went back out on trail.
The trail will introduce you to some hard, strong, determined people. Broken arm in three places, back out on the trail within two days, still talking about making it to Canada.
I’m proud to know her.
I know the mosquitoes are horrendous in Oregon this time of year; I am reminded of that whenever I read a blog by some hiker or watch a video of a thru-hiker. And I know the heat can be unrelenting. Again, I am reminded often of that as well. Having said that, I think returning to the trail, on meds, with a broken arm, takes courage to a whole new level, and makes complaining about mosquitoes and the heat seem a bit silly, you know?
I’m not sure if Toby is going to make it on the trail. The temperatures are rising into the triple digits in the next few days, and it is my guess that he’s just not going to hold up under those conditions. If not, I’ll pamper him in the bus while Bev and Shawn continue on.
And, if the heat continues, I will be heading to the coast. I don’t do triple digits. Simple as that, and Maggie has no desire to experience them. It is much cooler on the coast, and Bev would like to try the rest of the hike without her own personal resupply bus, so it is a strong possibility that I will enjoy the beaches and 60s while Bev and Shawn sweat off a few pounds.
And that is exactly how it has all played out. Toby made it eighteen miles and then silently said No Mas! I met them at a trailhead, took them to Ashland for the night, took Bev and Shawn back to the trail this morning, and I am now pampering my brave dog Toby, who deserves a rest.
Tomorrow, me and the two dogs will head to Coos Bay, Oregon, on the ocean, about thirty degrees cooler.
Something strange has happened on this return trip to the trail. Don’t get me wrong, I love traveling in Puddle Walker, every bit as much as I did four months ago; however, the allure of the trail is missing this time around. I was having such a wonderful time before, doing the angel thing, seeing new people, making new friends, all caught up in the excitement of it all, but that all changed when we returned home, and hiking groups scattered to the wind, so that now, upon return, I don’t feel any of that old magic. If I decide to go to the coast, and abandon the trail angel gig, I will be fine with that decision. If it’s not fun, and if Bev doesn’t need me to help her, there really is no reason for me to follow the trail. And if Bev does need me, I will only be about two hours away.
Again, I will reassess tomorrow, so stay tuned. But Good Golly, Miss Molly, 65 degrees on the coast sounds like heaven right about now.
NONSENSE…..someone asked me on YouTube why we called the bus Puddle Walker. They said the name made no sense. I laugh every single time I think about that comment. Makes no sense? DUH! That was the whole point and besides, who cares if the name makes sense or not?
Well, one person does, obviously!
I mentioned in an earlier post that I am working hard to just allow life to come to me. I don’t have to force the issue daily. I don’t need to make meticulous plans. It’s okay to be spontaneous.
And so it was today. I had no sooner arrived at a rest area just outside of Tillamook, Oregon, 68 blessed degrees, thank you very much, when I got a text from my previously-mentioned best friend, who informed me that he slipped on wet grass this morning, fell down, broke his leg, and will be operated on later this afternoon.
That put he and his wife in a predicament, because she works full-time and, truthfully, needs some help caring for him, caring for her job, and caring for the house.
Enter Bill, Stage Left.
I am heading back to Olympia tomorrow to lend my assistance at their house, in the driveway once again. He and his wife need me much more than Bev does. In fact, she really doesn’t need my assistance at all. Bev is fully capable of completing Oregon and Washington without me lifting a finger in aid.
So there you go; this letting life flow really works, and I’m glad I am able to help my buddy, who would do the same for me in a heartbeat.
I just hope he’s ready for the invasion of Maggie AND Toby!
Hey, Rolly, thanks for stopping by and taking the time to share that story about your Rolly’s Royce. I love it, and I love the message. I was straddling the fence about keeping this bus, or getting something a little smaller, but you know what? This bus is the perfect extension of my personality. Keep it I will!
bill
Hi Bill… so much of society has changed over the past years, we are divided and it is not looking like it will change anytime soon.
I laugh when the question of Puddle Walker comes into play and your response. Good on you there is no need to explain and enduring name for you wheels.
I am reminded several years ago when I had converted an old 12 passenger van into my get away vehicle. Its name was “Rolly’s Royce” as to me it was an amazing rig. It had all I needed and took me places I should not have been. It was a dream machine in my eyes and was fully equipped to tackle any challenge.
Money was an issue and one day I stopped in a gravel pit and the Royce went from blue to black in a few hours.