[x_section style=”margin: 0px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 45px 0px 45px 0px; “][x_row inner_container=”true” marginless_columns=”false” bg_color=”” style=”margin: 0px auto 0px auto; padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px; “][x_column bg_color=”” type=”1/1″ style=”padding: 0px 0px 0px 0px; “][x_text]Awaking to the hollow pitter patter of rain falling on the saturated roof, I peek one eye open, feel around checking if things inside are still somewhat dry. Rolling over, I give Baylor a squeeze, Morning pupperoni. He leaps to attention, forever stoked to start a new day and fill his belly with breakfast.
Crawling out of the tent I do my best to minimize mud coverage, look around the abandoned horse camp. Rain fading to a light mist I happily begin the morning routine. Maybe we’ll get a bit of dry riding today, Bay, I say looking to my right. He wags his tail unconcerned. Busily sniffs out stories left behind from horses and campers of the past.
Removing the tarp from Rufio, I spread it on the ground, pile damp gear onto its wet surface. Accept the fact that nothing will ever dry out as it gets setup soaking and packed up dripping. It would be an interesting social experiment to see how many consistent days of riding and camping in this weather it would take to break a person. With these warmer temps, I predict I could stay optimistic for quite some time. Luckily, though, no such test is needed. We’ve promise of a dry, weatherproof house to stay in tonight. With that in mind, I take little care with packing. Just shove wet gear into the saddle bags with unconcerned about mildew or cross-contamination.
Brushing my teeth, I examine the welcome board and its faded forest map. Note that we’re only a few miles from the lakeshore. Might as well check it out while the rain holds off.
Morning lake stroll complete, we load up. I take one last look at the phone map. Pick a route and repeat the upcoming highways and towns. 109, 49, Concord. 109, 49, Concord. Perhaps not the most efficient way to navigate, but I like it. Like that it serves as both a mini memory test and mechanism to force myself into the moment – no zoning out or I’ll miss the signs and turn offs.
Afternoon approaching I’m overcome with a desire to find some fried okra. For reasons I don’t completely understand, my great Grandma Lucile infused our Colorado family with all sorts of southernly desires. No family function was complete without gallons of sweet tea and crocks of baked beans. Whether we arrived at the crack of dawn or middle of the night, she was sure to have a table full of airy buns and achingly sweet divinity awaiting. Heaps of buttery mashed potatoes and golden fried squash, chicken and okra kept the flowing band of aunts, uncles, cousins and passerby’s fed and loved. I’ve a hankering for some old-fashioned comfort food.
Okra dreams fulfilled, I make Baylor’s day sharing leftovers. Wave goodbye to newfound BBQ friends. Chanting a new set of routes and towns, I remember that dark comes early these days, check the time. Better not dawdle.
Bright gray skies keep the rain at bay, do their best to bring a bit of cheer to the muted day. We roll through small towns and farmlands. Wave at children running amok at recess, give a head nod to men in beat up pick up trucks. Spotting a picturesque field, I turn around. I simply must spend a moment surrounded by the last of the autumn colors, fully enjoy the giant round bales dotting the landscape. Pulling up to the grassy edge, I pick a spot. Turn off the pavement, cruise a moment, dip down, come to a sudden halt in a grassy, muddy hidden ditch.
Baylor looks at me with alarm. Don’t worry, bud, I’ll get us out. He raises an incredulous eyebrow remembering the mud incident. Yeah, yeah maybe I should’ve learned my lesson then, I tell him.
I push, but nothing happens. Pull with the same outcome. Examine the way the rear tire is thoroughly in the ditchy crevasse. If I can just change that angle a bit, seems we’ll be able to get some traction. Grateful for the rear luggage frame, I do some deep squat reps. Add in a bit of momentum and heave the rear tire free. Pull it out of the ditch and align the rig more parallel to the dip. We’re back in the game. I momentarily consider abandoning the field. Wonder if we should just give up on the idea. But we’ve come this far, may as well follow through. Enjoy the moment and snap a picture.
Back on the road, we race the inevitable arrival of nightfall. Cruise through charming towns and pretty places without stopping, making mental notes for an eventual return.
Nearing Fairview, I can’t wait to arrive. Want nothing more than to be rent-a-family for the next few days. Think how excited I am to be off the road, settled with community.
Smiling, I chuckle at what fickle creatures we are. For I know that after only a short while, I’ll be just as excited to get back on the road. It’s a seemingly endless internal battle between being rooted and wandering. Connected and free-floating. Loving this moment and feeling stoked for what is to come. Cherishing the now and building the future.
I don’t know where the answer lies. Imagine I’ll never actually settle into one side or the other. Perhaps it’s just as Casare Pavese said,
You need a village, if only for the pleasure of leaving it. A village means that you are not alone, knowing that in the people, the trees, the earth, there is something that belongs to you, waiting for you when you are not there.
Walking in the house, I hug Joyce and Rick. Laugh as Baylor prances about in anticipation, sits pretty as Joyce opens a new box of cookies for him. I truly could not ask for a better place to call home tonight, a more lovely and kind village to join and leave.
Baylor gobbles another cookie, grins. He couldn’t agree more.
143 days down. Many to come.
[/x_text][/x_column][/x_row][/x_section]