Chuck And Hannah

A few days in Stanley. Down time. When I got to Stanley I needed a washing. A rest. All supplies were down, internal and ex. The Salmon river, minerial springs with their natural roadside soaking rock tubs are behind me now. With four cars passing every hour it wasn't being too brave to shuck clothes and fall into the steaming water with the modest smell of sulfer and hot earth; roadside or not I was a regular
Outside a motor home pulling a pick-up and a Harley-Davidson Chuck flags me in for a brew. Conversation moves easy between two men traveling on a wing and no time piece. Meals shared become days of camp in the heart of a town that's rolled up it's carpet in exchange for snow creeping down from the Sawtooths. One store has a 40% sale on gear before its windows are soaped till spring. Chuck won't let me hem and haw over a pair boots still priced on the high side of the mountain for this long haul walker. I won't let Chuck rescue me from heals worn through even though the truck tire retreads less than preformed. "Alright," smiles Chuck as he takes command of the box of boots,"You promise to send me a signed copy of your book as soon as it hits the shelf and I get you the boots?" I think it is a question. I release the box and think about this being the first time I bank on a future after the walk.
Chuck and I are easy on eating up the days. Hannah, Chuck's dog and myself become locals...okay, we wander the streets and pause for this crossroad for three days. We are both divorced from wives, from homes we knew and trees we planted. Both beginning anew. Both ending all that was. Without words we both know after all these roads the pause is as important as the steps. In an hour we'll shake hands and I'll talk a loud good-bye to Hannah who can't really hear. I'll lean down into her black and graying shepard coat and again listen to good-bye.