Abandoned Roads, Part IX

After the shower, I dress in the hospital scrubs——maroon pants and a blue shirt.  When I hand the basket of my dirty clothes to a staff member, I am finally able to smell the stench I accumulated in a week.  Since all of my socks are being cleaned, I have no choice but to walk around barefoot and wait until my laundry is finished. 

I sit on a rocking chair on the front porch and call my mother and my aunt to tell them I am leaving the trail.  My mother is relieved that she will no longer have to worry about me in the wild, and my aunt is surprised at my decision.  I do not want this moment to be emotional.  

I explain that I merely went for a walk and got bored.  If I went for a walk in my neighborhood and walked two miles before turning around, I would not be disappointed in myself.  I would only be disappointed if I had planned on a walk but never left the house.  

I went for a walk in the woods and hiked nearly a hundred miles and decided I had enough.  Many other hikers will go much farther, but there is no benefit in measuring myself against strangers.  I could’ve gone much farther, too, but nothing useful will come from this type of thinking.

“I realized I am just a man in the wilderness,” I say to my aunt.  “Surrounded by trees.”

My family is supportive, and then they ask me questions like:  What are you going to do now?  And I say, I have no idea, but I will figure something out.  I conclude my phone calls and sit still and savor the fact that I am not moving.  This agenda-less, destination-less existence is blissful rather than frightening.  Every moment seems like an opportunity ripening.  I am not bound by the path in front of me. I can go anywhere. 

A skinny female hiker sits in the rocking chair next to me and cradles a cup of coffee.  She is from New Hampshire and hopes to reach her home state.  She is out her to challenge herself and see how far she can go.  I do not tell her that I abandoned my dreams of hiking to Maine because I do not want to discourage her.  I ask her what she thinks about when she is hiking by herself in the woods. 

“Mostly about why I am out here,” she says.

She asks me the same thing, and I tell her that I mostly think about my girlfriend, my family, my favorite movies, and what I am doing on this trail of dirt.  Over the past few days I have had so much time to confront my thoughts and I finally realized something.

“We all have this image of ourselves summiting Katahdin, whether it’s on the trail or it’s in real life,” I say.  “We all have these dreams that we strive for, and we do all we can to get to the places we want to be.”

I imagine my future and base my success on how closely my reality aligns with the fantasies I’ve created.  More often than not this strategy leaves me frustrated.  I become so attached to the results I have in mind that I have difficulty accepting an alternative outcome.

“But the destination does not matter.  When you reach Katahdin, then what do you do?”

She laughs and says she has not thought of this.

“You will find another destination to cling to.”

I am content with having goals, and I can only temporarily shake the habit of consuming my progress until the future becomes the present.  For now, I see myself as I am:  sitting on a rocking chair wearing hospital scrubs that do not belong to me.  When my high school guidance counselor asked me where I would like to see myself in five years, I never imagined myself in such a ridiculous scenario, but I am happy and at peace. 

“How far are you hiking?” she asks me.

“I think I’ve hiked as far as I need to,” I say.

“Now what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to visit a friend.”

She tells me there is free coffee in the kitchen, and I get up and pour myself a cup, drink it, and then wash the mug.  The female hiker sits on a couch in the living room next to the French teacher who has just arrived.  Before I leave the main building, I notice the French teacher is rubbing the female hiker’s feet.  These people are generous and full of love, and I would have enjoyed basking in their company and hearing their stories, but I don’t want to miss my ride.

When my clothes are ready, I dress into my hiking outfit and take the shuttle into town where I meet a taxi driver who drives me twenty miles to the nearest rental car company.  I climb into the driver’s seat of a compact car and ignite the engine.  I open up GoogleMaps on my phone and type in my destination.  There are three routes available, and I choose the fastest one.  The GPS tells me I will arrive in eight hours, so I step on the gas. 

I get stuck in traffic in Atlanta, but I try to be patient even though there is someone waiting for me and I would like to see her sooner rather than later.  My progress is out of my control.  I am motionless on an eight-lane highway surrounded by frustrated commuters honking their horns.  A semi blocks my view of the signs overhead.  The cars in front of me inch forward, and I change lanes several times because I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be.  The highway is about to split into two.  All I can do is pick a road and hope I’m heading the right way.