Introduction

 Road trip.

For millions of college students, there are no sweeter words than these - Even "free pizza" pales in comparison. Whether it be from the boondocks to the big city or the big city to the middle of nowhere, everyone feels the pull of wanderlust - the lust for new places, new experiences - eventually.

August 3, 2001
I’m not an exhibitionist; I’m a storyteller. I’m not in search of fame; I’m in search of understanding. It’s been more than three years since I took this trip. I preface my stories to new acquaintances about the trip with the statement that, “It’s the best thing I’ve done in my life so far.”

I’m reliving these experiences as I tell them just as I hope that you, Reader, are living them through me for the first time. It’s taken several false starts to begin this journey again. It hurts because it makes me want to go again, and this sort of cutting loose and throwing yourself on the mercy of road grace is a scary thing no matter how many times you’ve done so and succeeded.

Virginia: First Steps -- Blisters

One afternoon in the autumn. of my senior year at UVA, my friend Jerrod came to my room and asked if I wanted to go on a road trip after we graduated. Did I ever. I immediately went out and bought a giant map of the United States. I gave each of my friends little arrows of different colors to designate the places they wanted to go on our trip. After winter break, we would sit down together and finalize our itinerary.

That didn't happen. Every one of my potential travel companions returned with the news that they wouldn't be able to do the trip. They had to concentrate on graduating, passing the remaining semester, finding a job in the "real world."

My problem was that I didn't feel that I'd experienced enough of the "real world" to settle in it yet. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my institutional education hadn’t prepared me for anything more than continued education. I felt gypped and I felt angry.
I was an English major -- granted, not the most practical of majors if you want real life experience. I spent four years sitting in front of a computer typing out papers and in classrooms listening to professors talk. I had been all over Europe, but never further West than Chicago. It was time to see my own country, and the more I thought about it, the more I decided that traveling by car would not be sufficient. After all, how different is watching the landscape pass by in a car than watching a movie of the same?

Still, I probably would have driven if I’d found a way to do so. I looked into the car courier services where you drive people's cars across the country for them but found none that suited me. I considered biking across, but I'd done long bike rides before and knew what a literal pain in the butt they could be. I like to walk. So . . .

Though I hadn’t done any backpacking since Girl Scouts in elementary school, hiking became more and more the only way to go. I did some research – something my English major had definitely prepared me for. The day I found the American Discovery Trail was the day I knew I'd do it. The ADT is a trail-in-progress that will eventually go from the East to the West coast. If someone else thought that hiking across the continent was possible enough to make a trail, I knew I could blaze my own.

Knowing that I was going to walk across the country was as much a fearful discovery as it was joyful. I did a lot of uncontrollable shivering. The first thing I did was e-mail everyone I knew with my plan, thus cementing my resolve to do so. The responses varied greatly. Friend Adam replied with a hundred, "Go for it go for it go for it"s and suggested that I take a gun.

Mom concluded, "Hypoglycemia. Will send more chocolate."

Dad affirmed, "You can do whatever you put your mind to. How can I help?"

I continued my research and started buying the things that eventually made up the list below. The day I spent $120 on a backpack was the day I knew there’d be no turning back. It was the biggest credit card purchase I’d ever made. I never spent money lightly; that buy cemented the deal. Three months later I kissed my family goodbye the night after graduation and went to stare at the monstrous pile of supplies on my unmade bed:
5 pairs nylon panties
1 pair Moving Comfort shorts
2 white T-shirts
5 pairs each Smartwool socks and liner socks
1 pair surgical scrub pants (for sleeping)
2 bandannas - 1 red, 1 white
Dark blue Poncho
Ugly but very functional beige hat
Blue-and-beige checked flannel shirt that got lost early -- I still miss it
Compass/thermometer key ring
Gerber (like a Swiss Army knife, only better)
~5 feet of parachute tape (like duct tape, only better) wrapped around the plastic bottle
Blue Kazoo sleeping bag
Therm-A-Rest Staytek Lite 3/4 Sleeping Pad
Whisperlite International stove with 2 bottles fuel
Kitchen matches
Maps -- trimmed and highlighted to show just the route I'd chosen
Eureka! Gossamer tent
Lowe Alpine Oxbow pack
Vasque Clarion hiking boots
2 Platypus water bags
32 oz. generic plastic water jug
~20 feet of parachute cord
Small bottle iodine tablets
Whistle
First Aid Kit: Band-Aids of all sizes, foot care of all types, 2 snap-cold packs, 2 Army-issue gauze packs
Bullfrog 36 SPF All-Day Waterproof Sunblock
Prescription glasses and sunglasses
Hard glasses case
Lip balm
Flashlight with extra batteries
$100 in traveler's checks
Credit card for emergencies
Nokia cell phone with leather case
Small spiral-bound notebook with electric blue cover 

Suddenly, I realized that I was still wearing my graduation dress -- I couldn’t take that with me. I stripped the dress off, pulled on the shorts and T-shirt, and ran down to the parking lot with them. My extended family was thankfully still there trying to figure out how to fit the kids in on top of all my stuff. When they drove off, I straightened my T-shirt and realized that I had just tricked myself into the uniform I'd be wearing daily for who knew how long. As ready as I was to start this trip, parts of me apparently still needed coaxing.

Telling people that I'm doing this for no greater cause than that of self-enrichment usually just convinces them further that I am crazy. I looked into getting funding from a couple of the big-name brands on my gear, but the red tape involved in that seemed more hassle than it was worth. I feel a twinge of guilt every so often knowing that there are hundreds of social, political, and environmental causes that I could support with this undertaking. I have to believe that I am a worthy enough cause to walk for. Besides, people consider what I’m doing so dangerous that even the non-profits probably wouldn't touch me. After five months of doubtful, fearful, and cynical reactions, I've heard every con argument there is:
"If you do this, you will die."

"America is huge, and boring. You should go to Europe if you want to hike."

"If you really want a life experience, why don't you go into the Peace Corps?"

I've never considered myself much of a patriot, but the negative comments about America annoyed me more than I thought they would. I was bothered enough a couple of times to ask, “If America is so dangerous, why do you live here?”

The answer: “Well, it’s not as dangerous as other countries, but it is dangerous.”

Others pointed to the fact that I'd never hiked solo in my life. In my teen angst years, I developed a walking habit. When things at home and in my head got too bad, I went walking -- sometimes for six or seven hours at a time. I never got further than the local diner.
I had camped out only a few times, and always with friends or family.

I'd never been further west than Chicago -- last summer's experiment to see if I could make it on my own in the “real world.” I went to Chicago knowing one person, who helped me find an apartment to rent. I lived there for three months -- found a job, paid bills, got to know my way around. Battling the city wasn't easy, but at the end of the three months I knew that I could do it.

I've never been to the desert. I've never seen mountains more than 4,000 feet high.

I’m going.

"Well, you're going to bring a gun, aren't you?"

No. The only weapons I have are two weeks of intensive self-defense classes and a cell phone that I had yet to discover was useless in the places I’m most likely to need it. Tomorrow, I go.

May 18
This morning, I woke up at 7 AM – the third morning in a row that I've woken up at 7 AM. 7,7,7 -- I keep thinking about God, though I'm a devout Agnostic. My spiritual friend Keith said simply, "Confirmation."

At nine, the crew from "CBS Sunday Morning" arrived. The cameraman found me as I was walking back to my room and asked, "What are you doing?"

"I was just emptying my wastebasket."

"Um, could you do that again?"

"Ah, I don't think so."

Channel 29 News called to say that their news crew had been delayed. Would I mind waiting another half-hour before I left?

"I'm sorry," I said. "I've got twenty-six miles to cover today."

I wanted to make it clear from the start that I am not trying to get anyone's attention with this walk. However, word gets around when you've been hiking around campus for three months with a bright green backpack almost as big as you are. I've heard myself referred to as, "that pack girl."

With the cameras rolling, I hugged my friends Josh, Kate, Nicole, and Steve goodbye. Then I walked carefully down the steep Monroe Hill staircase without looking back.

Before I could celebrate my freedom too much, the Channel 29 News truck made their late appearance.

“I’m walking,” I said. “And I’m not going to stop.”

The cameraman took up the challenge with enthusiasm -- the newscaster walked beside me, and he paced slowly backwards in front of us all during the interview. I have no idea how they edited the “curb!” and “tree!” warnings that I couldn’t help giving. I was told later that the piece got 30 seconds at the end of the 5 o’clock news, which I guess answers that question.

When the news crew left, and as I reached the edge of town, I was suddenly overcome by a wave of euphoria so great that it nearly brought me to my knees. I was doing it! At that moment, every doubt and fear still hiding inside me fled – if only for the moment. What replaced it was a powerfully sure feeling that I was doing the right thing. The tears I hadn’t shed in leaving my friends came now as tears of joy and of relief. Tears – such a human thing – they are the soul’s way of overflowing, happy or sad.

I took my first pit stop in a building supply store at the fifteen-mile mark. In the parking lot, a bearded man in a shiny maroon truck pulled up and asked how far I’m going.

I said, "San Francisco."

Instead of laughing, the man looked me over and said that he’d heard about me on the radio last week. “Good luck to you,” he said.

I wonder how often that's going to happen. Rule #1: No hitchhiking. Until that first encounter, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to resist the temptation. Who knows, maybe I’ll cave later, but I figure that’s less likely if I make an official rule against it. This is my game, after all.

Lunch was a peanut butter and banana sandwich that I made from an abandoned banana that I found in the dorm kitchen this morning. Dessert was a giant slice of birthday sheet-cake with white icing and Keith’s name iced in blue, “So you can take a little of me with you.”

It's twenty-six miles from Charlottesville to Waynesboro. My dorm mate Christy Wood’s Aunt Vicky lives in Waynesboro. Since my route is so far from major roads, the mass e-mail I sent asking for contacts yielded only three places to stay all across the country. I may be pushing it by doing so many miles this first day, but, well, I do everything the hard way. If I wanted it easy, I’d be driving.

Only ten miles to go.

Later: Three months of planning and it never occurred to me to check out a topography map. At least three of those twenty-six miles were up and down a mountain.

Halfway up Mt. Afton, I stopped to chew on a sports bar and to contemplate my lack of foresight. Last week, I completed my self-directed training with a fifteen-mile hike up and back to one of my favorite professor's houses. I should've done a lot more of those, but the stresses of my last semester prevented it. I’d done three-hour practice hikes every day for three months and counted myself set. Now I’m wondering if it was enough. It will have to be.

When my friend Jacob showed up with a gallon jug of spring water and a smile, I could've kissed him. His arrival wasn’t planned – he just happened to be driving back to Charlottesville tonight – but to me, he was a gift from the gods.

So I made it. I'm too tired to be exuberant, but I’m definitely cheerful. Aunt Vicky fixed me up with a plate of fettuccini alfredo and some steamed carrots. Uncle Tom brought me home a large Arby's roast beef sandwich. I could have eaten twice the amount.

I took a hot shower that would’ve lasted all night if I'd been capable of standing that long. I’m sleeping on a bunk bed in the basement. I’m so exhausted, a bed of nails would be fine.
Have I mentioned that I’m tired? Good night.

May 19
The family cat woke me up at 4 AM by tapping its paw on my nose repeatedly. Aunt Vicky, who thought I'd like to see myself on the morning news, woke me again at 7 AM, but all I saw this morning was the foot-high stack of pancakes and pile of bacon that Vicky’d made for breakfast.

I have a blister on the baby toe of my right foot that's half as big as the toe itself. The bottom of my left big toe is one long blister. The backs of my ankles are bloody. Otherwise, I feel pretty good. I wrapped the worst parts in moleskin and carefully pulled on two layers of socks before donning my boots. It’s not good to fear your boots the second day out.

Aunt Vicky was eager for me to be on my way. Not because I'm a burden or she's busy, but because she's convinced that I'll be successful and wants to tell everyone that I stayed with the Carter family first.

On the way out of town, people driving to work honked and yelled that they’d seen me on the news. A woman jogger stopped to say hello, but not because of the broadcast. She asked me my trail name, thinking that I was through-hiking the Appalachian Trail. When I told her my real destination she shrugged and wished me luck. Hiking the Appalachian is every bit the feat that I’m undertaking; worse maybe – I’m pretty sure I’ll climb less mountains cross-country than a through-hiker will. It’s a completely different experience.

Waynesboro was a very hiker-friendly town – one of the few I'll pass through in which wearing a giant backpack didn’t get me odd looks.

I walked to the edge of Staunton. At the Augusta County library, I checked my e-mail for the first time and found a message from Kristin. My friend through high school and college wrote that she wished she'd said more in her goodbye and that she'll miss me.

The tone of finality in her note scared me a little. Everyone’s got the post-graduation jitters. Some people will say that this trip is an attempt to forestall the inevitable. Maybe. I'd rather be doing this than job hunting!

I wrote: “I'm going across the country for six months, not away forever.”

This first night on my own I stopped at the Welcome Center and ask for free places to stay instead of staking out my tent for the first time. They suggested the Valley Mission, a homeless shelter, so off I went.

The lady in charge of the Mission took a Polaroid and my fingerprints.

“All according to policy," she said, and handed me a bunch of paperwork:
Question: What is your occupation?

Answer: Currently, walking.

Question: Where was your last place of residence?

I wrote in Aunt Vicky’s address. I like my vagabond status.

That done, I was given clean sheets, escorted to a shared room at the end of the hall, and advised, "Dinner's at five, curfew's at nine."

I don't have any other shoes but my boots, so I walked around in sock feet. At dinner, a woman who called herself "the loudmouth" took me under her wing. She clued me in on the fact that the residents get to eat before the people coming off the street and urged me to grab the last piece of cake.

We had fish of undetermined origin, overcooked green beans, a roll with butter, fruit cocktail, a cheddar-stuffed potato, and sheet cake for dinner. We also each got a can of some generic soda the same color and taste as cinnamon chewing gum. Everyone complained about the fish, but I was too busy gobbling it all down to comment.

I thought about walking around town a bit, but my blisters convinced me otherwise. Instead, I sat in the television/playroom and helped one of the kids there put a puzzle together -- an endeavor complicated by her baby sister. The mother of both girls was busy helping the oldest of three with her homework.

Mom and Dad both called. They seemed cautiously assured by my progress. Mom’s words of comfort: “You know, blisters can kill you if they get infected.” Thanks Mom.
I hiked twelve miles today.

May 20
Breakfast – cold cereal with those little carton half-pints of whole milk– was served promptly at 7:30. The lady in charge woke me up at 6:00 so that I wouldn't miss it. I wondered why until the kitchen staff presented me with a gallon-sized Ziploc baggie containing eight individually foil-wrapped ham and cheese sandwiches and a foot-high stack of oatmeal cream pies.
My roommate asked a favor of me as I was packing. She said that a relative of hers, Ruby B. Sprouse, is buried at the cemetery in Craigsville. She wants me to find the grave and say hello for her.

The blisters are worse today. I limped eight miles and stopped in at a gas station called Pappy's Place in Buffalo Gap. I called Sara so that she could find me for our lunch date. Then I pulled off my socks and shoes to air my feet out during the wait.

A moment later, the station owner's daughter joined me on the curb. Beth is in fifth grade, soon to graduate to middle school. When I asked why she wasn’t in school today, she told me about how her mom and the principal are fighting – Mom's upset that the money she and the other parents raised in ice cream and picture sales only netted the computer lab five computers.
Beth and I talked for about an hour before Dad ("He's 63, he mostly sits around the house.") showed up to relieve Mom at the counter. Beth loves to read as much as I do. We have much in common, except that she has had way more boyfriends than I did at that age – seven.
Sara showed up about five minutes after Beth and her mom drove away. We took the tortilla wraps and berry smoothies she brought from C’ville into Pappy's Place.

"Don't you want to sit outside?" she asked.

“No thanks, I spend enough time outside as it is.”

Sara paused every so often in our casual lunch conversation to interject a “You're insane.”
Pappy himself was eavesdropping at the counter a few feet away. When he started asking questions, I asked if he would like one of the remaining six and half sandwiches in my pack. He declined but told me to take a big bottle of water on the house. When I tugged my socks on to go, he wished me luck. He looked worried, so I offered to send him a postcard further down the road. Once he was sure that I wasn't kidding, he gave me his address.

                                                                    * * *
I didn't know what a project I'd started when I offered to send that first postcard. I probably wouldn't have if I'd known that my holiday card list that year was going to be in the hundreds. The impulse was in part a need to prove that I wasn’t just another crazy passing through. Also, I wanted to connect with each of these people that I met in more ways than an hour or a day would allow. I wanted to repay the kindness. Also, I wanted to assure the grandfathers and the mothers that I wasn't going to end up "dead on the side of the road," as my own mother worried aloud so often. I haven't stayed in contact with most of these people since that last Christmas card, but I still remember them all.
                                                                    * * *
The road I'm on, Route 42, is tree-lined and cool in the shade. It would have been a lovely walk if my bum feet hadn't made every step painful. About two hours after leaving the gas station, I began scanning the woods for a place to spend my first night on the side of the road. Railroad tracks run paralleled the road and there were streams every quarter mile or so, but I didn't see anything promising. Then I saw a sign for the North Mountain Wildlife Management Area – a free camping ground! It wasn’t on my map. I'd have jumped for joy if I were physically capable of it. To celebrate, I replaced my sunhat with a bright red bandanna. My jubilance carried me three spirals up the mountain before I reexamined my map and determined that I must be on Elliot Knob, elevation 4,400 feet. It was 5:30. I had to find a place to camp before dark. This was not as easy as it sounds.

The problem with camping on mountains is that the ideal place for a tent is level ground and that’s not easily found on a mountainside. I bumbled around in the woods for half an hour before I settled on a ridge near the entrance. In doing so, I broke several camping rules: The site I chose looks as if it might be part of a drainage channel, so I’m praying that it doesn't rain. Also, I only walked about ten feet from my campsite to pee instead of the recommended minimum twenty-five. Full disclosure: I'm sure that if I'd felt the need, I would've done my business there too without digging a cat hole – my attempt to dig one with a stick failed miserably in the rocky soil.

My excuse for this misbehavior is biting flies -- hundreds of them! No sooner had I slipped my pack off than an air raid of pain-inflicting specks descended and began their bloody campaign. I've been taking garlic pills faithfully for a month now because someone told me that they repel blood-sucking bugs. Well, I must be the biggest fool on the planet because, to the flies, that garlic is just a marinade. I am girl flesh con aglio.

I quickly decided that putting up my tent for the first-time would-be adventure enough and I could save the first foray with the stove for another day. Fortunately, setting up the tent was as easy as the directions claimed it would be – snap the airplane-grade titanium poles together, slide them through the loops on the outside of the tent, and you’re done. I tossed my sleeping pad and bag into the tent, grabbed my water bottle, bag o' GORP, the flashlight, and this journal, and dove into the tent feet first.

I'm forgoing the usual night ritual of tooth brushing and changing. Instead, I've stripped to my undies, which is a difficult task since this is a bivy tent. Bivy is short for “bivouac,” meaning “tent,” but it might just as well mean “coffin.” It’s barely big enough for me to lie down with half a foot of space above and a few inches on either side of me. The sun is setting; I hope to wake when it rises feeling rested and with feet in better condition. Total miles today: thirteen.

May 21
"Every day a new hardship, every day a new adventure." That's my new motto.
I woke up twice last night. The first time, there were flashes of white light all around and everything was quiet except for the crickets. I thought the flashes were lightening bugs, so I went back to sleep. I woke up again when rain hit my face. Oh boy, time to find out if I'm in a drainage area. I leapt out of the tent with my flashlight, yanked down the rain flaps, and shoved my pack in the tent after a quick check for bugs. A cricket and two daddy long-leg spiders got in. I'm ordinarily scream-and-cringe afraid of spiders, but I just grabbed these guys by their namesakes and tossed them into the drizzle.

It was 5:30. I wanted to go back to sleep, but couldn't, so I watched the mist outside the tent wall brighten for an hour before I stirred. Everything was damp; I shoved it in the pack anyway. I didn't bother with the moleskin this morning, just headed down the mountain.

The morning air was warm but not yet humid. I stepped gingerly down the mountain, anticipating blister pain, but there wasn't any. My feet felt fine! After two days of torture I was finally able to walk without limping. I felt so relieved that I hopped up and down. I hooted into the forest and grinned 'til my face hurt.

Half a mile after where I'd turned off, I came to a clearing. On either side of the road, dark green plants grew in waist-high rows that trailed into the distance. A whitewashed farmhouse, tiny in the distance, sat snug at the base of a mountain still veiled in mist. I stared and stared, watching the sun burn away the mist and the green get greener still.

Just outside Craigsville, a maroon minivan pulled onto the shoulder ahead of me. A woman jumped out and smiled.

“Okay,” she said. “You've piqued my curiosity. Where are you walking to?”

Penny P. Plemmons is a reporter for the Augusta County paper. She also owns the Cast-A-Line Trout Farm with her husband Bryan. She asked if she could take me to her house for an interview and to rest my feet awhile. It sounded like a more than fair trade to me, so we arranged for her to pick me up in Craigsville.

Nicole and I had arranged to meet for lunch today, so I called her first and gave her Penny's number. Nicole was bringing me my belated graduation present. At first, she wanted to get me a radio headset, which seemed like a good idea before I started walking. Then I walked a few days and realized that I wouldn't be able to hear cars coming while wearing a headset. That, and the weight of the batteries became a concern – even two AAs are something to consider when you're carrying everything on your back. After spending that day at the mission with no shoes but my boots, I asked if she wouldn’t mind getting me some Teva sandals instead. I needed camp shoes on my feet more than music in my air.

Back at Penny's, I rested. I'd been so busy taking things one painful step at a time for so long that I'd forgotten what rest was – and it's only my third day.

I would be a lucky girl if the country were full of Penny P. Plemmonses. The first thing she did after giving me a quick tour of the farm was to ask if I needed any laundry done. She lent me a soft robe to cover up while she threw my dirty things in the washer, then she pointed me to a giant claw-foot tub for a long, hot shower. Just when I thought that I couldn’t take any more kindness, Penny sat me down at the kitchen table with a big slab of still-warm coffee cake. My jaw dropped in amazement. She dismissed my stunned appreciation by saying that she’d baked the cake for her son's fifth-grade teacher who was coming for a home visit today.
Yes, people like this really do exist in the world.

After our interview, Penny left me in her office to check my e-mail while she took care of some trout-related business. I was proud to report myself in such good hands to Mom and Dad.
When Nicole showed up, Penny did an encore of her tour and I got to tell Nicole all the things I'd learned about trout farming. Trout beds are large concrete troughs. The troughs are terraced so that the fresh water that flows into the one at the top of the hill flows into the trough below it and so on. That way, the water gets constantly aerated. The youngest fish are in the highest trough, with the beautiful full-grown rainbow trout in the lowest. The Plemmonses use burial vaults for their troughs – so resourceful, these farmers.

Hanging above each trough is a feeder – a funnel filled with trout food. A thin stick hangs down from the funnel into the center of the trout tanks. To feed, the trout bump up against the stick to knock food loose from above.

I didn't realize that fish were that smart, but Penny says that they soon learn by trial and error that string equals food. Baby trout, called fingerlings, must be fed every hour. It takes over a year for them to reach full size. Penny and Ryan sell their trout live; someone else does the messy processing work. Looking down into the casks was like finding a leprechaun's stash of gold and rainbows.

When Nicole arrived, I had to say goodbye to Penny. We were on a mission to find a gravestone. Across the street from the pay phone where I called her was a graveyard several acres large. We hiked up the hill and ate our bag lunches under a shade tree before beginning the search.

The graveyard was immense; we found some Sprouses, but no Ruby B. The gardener watched us awhile and then asked for whom we were looking. He said that we could find another cemetery across from the prison. We got directions.

The Augusta Correctional Center is Virginia's state prison. It's a maximum-security prison and looks it. Steep rock cliffs flank either side of the road for most of the way there. Aluminum hangars crowd the road even more before you reach the large, glass-enclosed tower that overlooks the main facility. We kept expecting someone to stop and question us, but no one approached. In fact, we couldn't see anyone anywhere. The place was as quiet as a cemetery, but we didn't see any cemeteries or guards anywhere, just solid walls of gleaming razor wire surrounding a large brick building. We were doing a fine job of scaring ourselves without company. One glance around, and Nicole took the first U-turn opportunity and covered our retreating tracks with a dust cloud.

Back at the pay phone, Nicole and I said our good-byes. She was the last scheduled visitor from Charlottesville, and if it hadn’t been for the late hour our farewells would’ve lasted another hour. It was four o'clock. Goshen, the next town, was still seven miles away.

I walked into Goshen at sunset. When I discovered that there were no Welcome Centers and only one church, which looked closed for good, I began to worry. People sitting on their porches watched me pass by with some interest, but I couldn't bring myself to ask any of them for a place to stay. One woman collected her children and closed her door when she saw me coming, then stood behind her lace curtains and watched me pass.

I halted at the edge of town by a slimmed-down version of a mini-mall – a laundromat, bar, and convenience store. A man coming out of the laundromat saw me and approached. He asked if I needed a ride somewhere. I told him that I was looking for a church or some place to pitch my tent. He looked me over in a way that made me shrink a little and said, "You know, I've got an extra bed up at my place . . . How old are you?"

I quickly declined his offer and continued walking. He drove back up the road to collect his laundry and then came back to ask again.

"I'll find a place," I said. "I always do."

“Always” -- I didn't tell him that I'd only been doing this for three days. As the mountain road got steeper and the chances of finding a flat spot declined, I got desperate.

The next road I came to had a chain across it with a "No Trespassing. Violators Will be Shot" sign. I hopped the chain, skidded down the gravel road, and pitched my tent behind some pine trees on the most stable ground I could find. The earth here is boggy. Frogs are croaking nearby. I can still see the car headlights passing by on the hill above, so I'm shielding my flashlight as much as possible while I write this. Paranoia strikes deep in the heart of this interloper, but I don't see as I have any choice. Today's mileage: seventeen.

May 22
If you're bad-ass and you know it clap your hands (clap, clap)! I hiked twenty-one miles and Warm Springs Mountain (2,950 feet) today. Why I chose to make the two longest hikes the days I also climbed over mountains is beyond me, but darn it, I did it. The view from the mountaintop was worth it. I tried to take a picture, but how do you take a picture when the view extends 360 degrees; and how do you capture that feeling? You don't. Some things must be experienced first-hand.

I am now in Warm Springs at the Warm Springs Inn. A German couple own the inn. They let me put my tent on the little strip of land parallel to the inn. It's separated by a stream of fresh spring water, the source of which is about fifteen feet from my tent door.
The lady owner asked, “Won't you be scared?”

I laughed and said, “Not a chance.”

I've even got company: A woman who lives across the road brought her greyhound puppy Woody over and tied him to the picnic table nearby while she goes to work. He's obviously used to a lot of attention, because he keeps nosing my hand and whimpering. This makes it difficult to write, but I don't mind. I’m overjoyed to have such a friendly companion for the evening.

One cool thing about walking: I get to read all those historical markers along the road that people whip past in their cars. I've read about many of the battles that happened on Virginia soil. The names and dates escape me, but the significance of all that bloodshed and honor defended does not.

May 23
It was drizzling when I woke up at seven, so I lied in the tent and thought about the two ladies I met the night before. They were running a race to raise money for the Lung Cancer Association. They asked me what cause I was walking to support.

I answered, “For myself.” Then I wondered again why I hadn't hooked up with a charity to do this; it certainly would've made things easier in some ways. I did look at a few charities at about the same time I was looking for sponsors. Fortunately, there aren't any untreatable diseases in my family or my circle of friends. It seemed unfair to randomly choose a “good cause.” There are too many worthy causes in the world for me to fight for all of them. Plus, the tone of my whole adventure would change if its purpose were fundraising.

No, the only way for me to make this journey was for me. How many other times in our lives do we get to be so selfish than during these transition times? Presumably, after this walk I'll have to get a real job, settle down, and do some good for the world (or for Capitalism if it’s like most other “real jobs”). Honestly, I believe I am doing good for the world right now. When I make it across (no ifs here), I’ll be able to tell all those people who claimed that the world’s just too dangerous to do what I did that – thank goodness – they’re wrong. I have faith in the universe. Also, I can’t think of a better way to become well-rounded than by traveling. Enough excuses ...

Nine AM and it's still drizzling. This time, I remembered to put the rain flaps down so I can just enjoy the sound instead of having to leap out of my warm sleeping bag and fix them.
The innkeeper came out to ask if I would like some breakfast.

“Just four dollars and twenty cents,” he said, but as soon as I started to dig through my hip pack for the cash, he said, “Oh, don't worry about it. Just come sit and I'll get you some breakfast.”

After German pancakes with thick maple syrup, toast with homemade jam, coffee, and fresh-squeezed orange juice, I carried my dishes to the kitchen and thanked the innkeeper profusely. He ushered me into the front hallway, to a closet full of coats left by past customers, and started trying them on me. A bright blue Cubs jacket pleased him best. He insisted that I take it.

“You stay warm, now,” he said.

In no hurry to leave this oasis of hospitality, I walked across the street to the Jefferson Pools and shelled out a well spent twelve dollars to take a swim in the bubbly blue water. It was like swimming in warm Alka-Seltzer. I could have floated there all day, especially since it had been drizzling all morning.

But no, I put my boots back on and kept walking. Mom sent me a care package by way of General Delivery, so I picked that up at the Warm Springs post office. The package contained beef jerky, rice cakes, lots of vitamins, and the beginning of an article she’s writing about me for the local paper. Then I stopped by the library to check my e-mail. The librarian and I talked a while and she gave me juice and crackers. Finally, I packed up my stuff and headed west.
Later: “Service me!” I screamed – at my useless cell phone. It was several hours later, dark was falling fast, and I was walking down the west side of Back Creek Mountain (2,445 feet). The lady who offered me a warm bed for the night was waiting for my call; I was nowhere near a pay phone. The already familiar dread crept around in my brain. I did not want to spend another night wondering if I'd wake up to the sound of buckshot on my tent.

Fortunately, I found an alternative. At the bottom of the mountain, I found the Blowing Springs Recreation Area. It’s got a camping area where you can pitch a tent or an RV for six dollars per lot and it’s only half full tonight. Setting up camp took about five minutes; I put the tent up and rummaged through my pack for cooking implements and utensils. Then I made my first attempt at using a camp stove successfully and had a joyous Ramen dinner. I hiked thirteen miles today. Tomorrow, I’ll take my first steps in West Virginia.