Happy Hours
Eight years ago, my friend the Walker set out from Vancouver, Washington, the town where she was born, and headed east toward Bangor, Maine, on her Walk Across America. This past July, after 3,600 miles, she arrived, accompanied by 25 friends who joined her on the final day.
She did the walk in nine-day stints, roughly one a month from April through October. While she was on the road, she wrote about her adventures, and scores of readers kept up with her blog. I was among them, and read about her arrival. Her accomplishment had begun to feel like a shared endeavor, and I had hoped to be in the small group waiting at the end to celebrate with so many others who had followed and encouraged her as she advanced across the country, one segment at a time.
If you were in the vicinity of Bangor on July 19, you might have noticed a happy, boisterous group in mid-thigh-length white T-shirts painted with a life-size, bikini-clad body. That was a bit of silliness before the serious fun—the eating, the drinking, the stories. How many times, and in how many ways, did the Walker answer the inevitable question of what she had learned? In her blog, she wrote that the lesson was simple: Nothing makes her happier than walking across America. “The detail that you can only see when you go in slow motion is what I love.”
Some of those details of her days recurred regularly. One was the pleasure of looking forward to happy hour after a day of strenuous walking—but first, the celebratory beer waiting at her car at the end of each day’s mileage.
That beer used to come after 18 miles, about three o’clock in the afternoon. Over the course of her eight-year trek, her daily mileage had slowly been shrinking. Near the end, she purposefully planned easy 9.5-mile days, so she could glide into Bangor rather than stumble, too tired to celebrate. That meant she was often finishing her walk as early as 10 a.m. A beer at 10? It felt wrong. But turning down her post-walk beer felt wrong, too. What to do? Write about it. She did, and her friends commented, glad to join in yet again.
So the Walker was triumphant—but also saddened. No more milestones lay ahead, because the way was behind her.
In the past, when writing about the Walker, I have used the present tense to describe her plan and progress, her reactions along the way. I could write that she doesn’t think much of Ohio, loves state parks, listens to books on tape, knows the wisdom of having a tinkle tent, prefers DEET to bug bites. And, in the face of an annoyance like having no TV in her room on her last stint, she’s the kind to reflect that despite her irritation, it isn’t as if she’s missing any good news. Deadly floods in Texas, a wildfire that destroyed the North Rim Lodge at the Grand Canyon, and politics as usual.
On the first morning of that last stage, she met four unfriendly dogs. The two that caused the most consternation were a pair of big, drooling beasts that ran at her from their yard. She kept on walking, passing the house they’d come from. She thought they’d go away then, but they continued on her heels, harassing her. To her great surprise, one jumped up and bit her in the arm. Twice. Luckily, no blood, so no fear of rabies. In thousands of miles and hundreds of dog encounters on her walk, she had not been bitten. What if this incident had happened at the beginning of her walk? Would she have been in constant fear for thousands of miles? Would she, she wondered, have continued at all?
And that is how I’d sum up the tone of my friend’s blog, perfectly reflecting her attitude toward adventure: alert enough not to get hoodwinked, yet never suspicious; awake to dangers but never fearful; careful, ever curious, and always downplaying difficulties while finding the humor in almost every situation. Admirable.
She soldiered on. Soldiered on? No—nothing grim awaited her, no internal battles. Just a band of cheering friends ready to finish the walk and celebrate.
Now that she has accomplished her goal, however, I must write of what she did, and how she managed, not where she is and how she’s managing. Like the rest of her fans, I was eager to pivot to the future. Where to from here? What next? Before she left Bangor she struck out, walking the first hundred yards of the next adventure, which some wanted to name Back Across America, but which she dubbed the Westward Ho Tour—WHT. By whatever name, it would be the Walker, walking on. “What’s next?” “Walking.”
And then she dropped from my sights. Six months passed, and the New Year was a good excuse to check in with her. No, not much walking since Maine, I learned. One worn part needed replacement—a hip—with surgery scheduled for the end of January, and another tired component, her troublesome foot, would simply need time to heal before she could rev up for the next adventure.
When will she start, I wonder, and what will she learn? If it is nothing more than that she still loves the slow adventure and the chance encounter with her fellows along the way, that’s a grand thing. Will it be quite as satisfying the second time?
That is the question for all of us who for these many miles have seen some of America we’d otherwise have missed. Can it ever be as satisfying as the first, eye-opening time? Can it? Well, yes, it can be as good, is my guess. I’m staying tuned in to find out. Staying tuned. Ah! That lovely present continuous! To be in the moment! Those were fun days, these are going to be the same, with many happy hours!
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