I returned from my trip a day earlier than I had planned. No problems or issues my last leg was to be a wet one and fatigue was beginning to become a bit of a distraction.

3200 miles in 10 days

11 states travelled. Some for no more than half an hour while others I drove through the fat parts of the hearts

North Carolina, Virginia, New York, New Hampshire, Maine, Rhode Island and Vermont I submerged myself as much as I could in the time I had. Just the tips of Maryland, West Virginia, New Jersey and I dipped into Pennsylvania to see some cousins I haven’t seen in decades.

Spent a few nights in the Adirondacks, got pulled over by a Smokey in New Bern who laughed at my aloofness, he had been behind me with his lights on for two miles. Once he realized I was caught up in the moment of trip euphoria and jamming to a song on the radio he smiled and gave me some tourist recs. I hiked a mighty mountain called the Ampersand that humbled my legs and soul, paddled in lake Raquette with a coffee in tow. Stood before Whiteside mountain area in Wilmington, NY that looked like a picture straight out of the Rockies. Walked around Lake Placid before the birds were singing and tried to feel the energy of that epic USA/Russian hockey showdown. One of my favorite Olympic moments.

Spent a day wandering Burlington, Vermont and rested my tired traveling ass on the beach of Lake Champlain. Spent the evening falling in love with the Moody Blues while their music sang me to sleep and had God brushed against my soul through their lyrics. Eyes filled with tears.

Dipped back south and toured Newport Rhode Island. Walked about 6 miles around town, ate some fresh seafood, stood by the church JFK got married in, touched a few yachts and stared in bewilderment at the beautiful homes in Bellevue.

Headed north to Maine and enjoyed my second ever lobster roll (my first one was in the same exact spot 6 years earlier. Sat on the same rock by the water and took each bite with deliberate delight. Went souvenir shopping in the village of Bar Harbor and walked back to my truck covered in pizza sauce as I ate two slices on my way down the village streets. Missed my Cadillac mountain sunrise because of permit cutoffs. Went for a stroll on sand beach instead at 5am and had the entire beach to myself for the first hour. I sat on the rocks and watched the tide roll. The next day I drove up to Millinocket that sits at the foot of the mighty Katahdin mountain, the last stop of the Appalachian trail if your heading north. Camped right outside of town, sketched some nature love and journaled in my notebook, acknowledged my ability to slow my life down just as I had requested myself to do 6 years prior.

And cried.

Maine was my last stop before I parted ways with my old company 6 years ago. It was the final nail into my peace. When I returned home I was unemployed 24 hours later. It would be the following day that I would pull out an order old notebook and write over and over again “you need to slow things down”

It took me all of that 6 years to realize what it really meant.

And here I am living that notebook passage.

My next morning in Maine I rode along Golden Road for about a quarter of the way, stopping to take pics of the sunrise over the wetlands. I sipped coffee next to a river most likely named after a moose.

Drove the backroads down to New Hampshire to visit Mount Washington and had a Hipcamp stay over where I was bit on the leg by one of their dogs. Made some momofuku with a side of ribeye and slept wrapped up in a glorious 42° cold mountain morning. A pea soup fog would deter me from climbing Washington.

Seemed like a blessing in disguise because it caused a detour to see some family.

Took a long drive out of my normal path and headed to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. The birthplace of my father. I had only been once before when I was 13. Before reaching Bethlehem I stopped in Easton to have lunch with an Instagram friend I’d never met in person. An 8th grade American history teacher, two sons, Greek wife and drives a Tacoma with a camper and RTT. How else would we meet on IG? Solid fellow, grounded but with a feral edge. If geography wasn’t such a factor I could see us sharing camping stories over a campfire on many occasions. I had mailed him a tent that fits over the camper door of a truck. I had no use for it once I sold my old setup so I mailed it to him. He insisted on paying but I didn’t give him an option. “If I’m up your way you can buy me a coffee”. He kept his word. He bought me lunch instead.

Bethlehem, although brief, was my final destination without an official itinerary. I hugged and chatted with cousins I barely knew because of geography and life’s trajectories. I shuffled through old photos of my dad as a child, pics of his first wife, the mother of two of my sisters, on a picnic blanket with my father lying beside her smiling. There are no photos of him and my mother embracing, sitting next to me act other or kissing. His first wife’s name was Martha. She passed right after my sister Kelley was born in the early 60s. I’ve always felt my father’s struggles even the ones before I was born. All of my photos of my dad are brief and limited. Usually of him standing by a B-17 or behind a bar. I got to see him holding his old dog I’d never heard about, pics of him with his dad, my two older sisters when they were just babies. One photo that looks like almost an exact replication of me and my daughter in the ocean.

I got to see my dad living his life for the first time.

Letters from POW camp, how he couldn’t wait for a cold glass of beer. He asks my grandfather to write his girlfriend, Mary Stover in Pittsburgh to let her know he’s alive and loves her.

“Don’t worry about me. All my love, ‘Ro

I saw my first photo of my dad’s mother. A few of my grandfather and my dad together. You could tell they were close. I don’t have any attachments to grandparents. I will never know what it’s like to be loved by either of my parent’s parents. They were long gone before me. This was my first experience seeing my grandparents together in a photo. My grandmother in a bathing suit, sitting on my grandfather’s lap, both holding a beer and a smile. She would pass by early in life also. Both fathers becoming widowers well before their time.

The photo filled me with emotions I cannot accurately describe. I carry all of this ancestral memory in my soul and I’m just now seeing some of their faces. I felt a click.

Maybe this was what my trip was all about.

I didn’t take this trip to ascend higher from some sort of mystical realm or state. My little light told me to take some time away from the distractions.

That’s all I did.

No internet, no social media, no news (probably my favorite part)

I took a flip phone with me but after a couple of days I got the hang of carrying my iPhone around without treating it like an appendage. No elitist mentality really, I still used my phone for navigation.

Zero itinerary, Old Forge, NY was my only plan.

The highway patrol gave me recs for paddling and hiking

A friend the day before suggested I try out Golden Road and I did. I sent a him a photo of my truck idling on the side of that particular road. Thanks for that Jim!

Campsites were drivebys or local recs. My first night I slept right next to river in Moose River Plains. I didn’t see a soul for 5 miles. I got the recommendation from a shop owner right outside of town.

Burlington, Vermont was just a chance of driving with no gps. I headed northeast on a compass point.

Rhode Island was a recommendation from a friend that lived there for some time.

Maine was on my itinerary but a region had not been named until the day before.

Bethlehem? Called me the whole fucking time I was out and about. It had to be done.

I spent a lot of time with myself. No moments of grabbing my phone for dopamine hits.

I wrote. Man I wrote a lot. I think this was another reason for my trip. To fully connect with writing. I took full advantage of it. I felt a whisper of “write more” as I melted to Moody Blues. That night is hard for me to describe so I think I’ll keep it to myself.

I found peace while struggling with my solitude. The wall you built to protect yourself gets torn down after a few days out of your comfort zone.

Am I reborn? It’s nothing like that. I think I started the forward motion of some long distance changes on a horizon I can’t see yet and a new pattern may emerge.

Will emerge I do say.

Back to life. Back to reality.

Maybe.

We shall see.