16 Days and Leaving. Thermopolis

Checking in on a scale I see that I have gained eleven pounds in the two weeks and two days that I have been in Thermopolis. This is better than a thick wallet. This is far better than the full food sack I prepare for loading into my cart for leaving. My weight has stablized since the winter Rocky Mountains, but putting on weight while walking days into weeks into years is next to impossible. My hope is always to pack on a few extra pounds to soften the cut of my belt on bone. I pat the very humble roundness of my stomach, see in the mirror how my frame has put on a healthy bulk, and smile. One hundred and seventy three pounds at six foot. It'll do. I am ready for the northern rockies. I have come to know an exhausted man is brother to a coward. So is a man worn too thin. With every knife sharpened, new Samburu spear housed in a sheath, and bear spray is set in a holster on my hip as the first line of defense. I cut, sew, hone and discard as if it is the first day, and I have never walked before. The warmth of countless new friends in Thermopolis has made my pack put on some girth of its own. Tomorrow Jessica Monday from the local paper will photograph my leaving. As day becomes evening I know the inner truth that I will be re-packing a few miles up the road in a patch of desert where there is no wall clock or watch to pressure the speed of sorting. Now my hands move too fast. All I accomplish though is losing the right sock while searching for the left; speed reading books I fell in love with when weight wasn't a consideration, and saying good-bye to people I have come to love knowing I will see them in hours and cut myself again. Leaving is harder than walking.

New shingles bronze the roof of the Higgins home. Even with the stainless steel buckets of our conversation that allowed Ron and myself to milk three hours of labor into half a day of work day after day, trips for coffee and more drip edge to trim the roof, or a run for more rolls of tar paper, the roof is finished. The two layers of old shingles are carted away, My yes to help Ron in the end meant yes with no regrets whatsoever. For the first time in my life I was sad to see a mountain of shingles cover the black sky of new tar paper, and the ladder return to the hooks in the barn. It was last Sunday that Pastor Ron Higgins talked to the congregation about my leaving, called me forward for a united prayer for my safety on the road north, and Ron was moved to tears as his mind brought him to my eminent exodus. We live in a hard time for men to be men. We are afraid to love, and not to. And we are petrified to show love to another male? This is delicate set of razors to handle even with callus skin, if it is ever to be considered at all. A strike on the back or a hard grip of the hand held for that extra moment.....but love. It was a day ago that Ron stepped forward and requested a hug from me. I would not write this except that I am afraid that nobody would, so I make note. It was not a hug and then quick steps around the body of another , or a turn to leave after that uncomfortable silence. There was comfort in our embrace, an embrace before the coming day of good-bye, warmth of his cheek against mine knowing that we care dearly for one another without an eye on gain or show, seconds passed and I knew I was being healed just as if I was receiving an i.v. push of all the strength I would need to carry forward, a healing of all the unease that I had collected in these years of miles, in a life of no father and lost brother. Ron was saying that I mattered. For the first time in my life I was listening to myself becoming a man and we were only breathing.
More good-byes wait. A woman named Lisa three roads away, or a ten minute walk ( unless you miss a road at one a.m. as I did once...then it is an hour), has drawn close to me, and I to her. We talk about my leaving like two kids moving a sharp knife quickly between our fingers that rest on a pine board. One slip and....cut. Lisa works in the hospital. My leaving comes out sounding like surgery where everybody gets cut and healing is one long slow song we all move our feet to though nobody wants to dance. Nights out for dinners I dreamed of while walking have all passed into fresh memory. We sip wine at her dining room table while we chew elk, stitch leather for a new sheath I'll carry, and keep looking up at one another at the same time with weak smiles spent of words. "This is what I wanted," I whisper to myself. "To walk, experience other peoples lives, love........" A six year old has no flare for endings when he dreams. As much as I am saddened at the thought of my journey coming to its end, I am saddened tonight to see my shoes leaning by the door.