WhiteCrow Walking

My solo walk across America began in Maine. I walked for nearly 3 years carrying a backpack and facing countless dangers, as well as met wonderful people I could have never made it without. From bullets to bears I moved through mountains of snow and across burning desert country. The end result will be a book, and the fruition of a childhood dream. This is a blog from the field with rough stories about my steps along the way.

07 September 2008

Leaves Coloring Water

Summer months in the Berkshires have passed by with pages written, then re-written as I reside in my '48 Airstream with living easier than I can remember it ever being. The young, and age weakened maples already garnish reflecting ponds with red flames that will soon engulf trees and water in canopies of fire. The F-150 pick-up I left behind during the walk has become wormwood waiting on a grave, promising to take me nowhere; so I put dollars away and watch local driveways for a clunker to purchase that can ferry the Airstream and myself west before winter tucks me into New England without safe wayfaring options being again available until spring thaw arrives, and my convictions to travel undoubtedly weaken.
These are simple peaceful times of predictable pleasures; coffee sipped while proof reading chapters in the coolness of morning, watching wild turkey and deer nudge apples outside my windows, and meeting the few friends that still reside in the area to share fires and popping clams on grills until evening becomes early morning and hardwood ash...and of course I am delightfully reunited with the delicious sound of rain on the airstream roof chanting me through night of sleep. It is a good time to take stock of blessings, and consider each sip of cedar with renewed gratitude as I size up tumble worn sweaters that begin to take on an autumn appeal I couldn't imagine feeling weeks ago. In my small silver longhouse everything that decorates the walls has a list of stories that come down to me as I write and prepare for walks (and on those rare occasions that I linger between being awake and approaching the blank canvas of sleep. New walks begin to murmuring in my ears when it is late and all else is silent, and I am most vulnerable to suggestion. America is still talking to me about winter farm houses twinkling across three fields, and weaving steps under the smell of laundry on a drying line. Although I thought my wayfaring lust would be silently content by now a voice I can hear inside my head is whispering "There is so much more I need to show you. Is this what you walked over eight thousand miles to find? You are resting Jesse. Writing,...and resting, just as do the birds that align their thoughts toward migration. It is good to heal your feet and get some of the words out of your head so you can forget and remember. Just don't forget that you have found your voice, your calling, and your voice is in the leaving."