It took some time to settle in to the reality of camping again last night– as it had been over two months since I’d last slept outdoors. Arriving to Big Sur’s Andrew Molera State Park after a most exhausting, 22ish-mile day of spectacular afternoon & evening walking, shortly before 9 PM, I suddenly remembered why I don’t like finding a camping spot after dark. (Still can feel a bit spooky if I’m not familiar with the area before the sun goes down. I’m sure I’ll continue to get over this through time.) 
After a couple of hours of picnic table top meditation, I felt at ease enough with my surroundings to enter the tent. I was in a fantastic place. Still, due to an abundance of environmental noises last night, I slept pretty lightly, often awakening with caution (OK, some fear) on my mind, remembering the presence of that heavy-breathing bear just outside my tiny lone tent in Myrtle Creek (I never did unzip the tent to look). 
When I emerged from the tent this morning, just after dawn, a half dozen deer were peacefully grazing just a car’s length away. I could hear the waves breaking onto the rocks of the unseen, nearby shore, and I felt oh-so satisfied with a very accomplished feeling of having resumed the momentum of comfort with sleeping in the wild, momentum that had been building up into November, my last time outdoors. In fact, my mind was immediately ready for more nights outdoors, as I know I have to get used to them before reaching the desert Southwest.

The 13th of December feels like the luckiest day of the month for me.
I awoke feeling utterly surrounded by swarms of friendly people. Peter and Jana took me in last night (we met via Couchsurfing.org), and as last night was planned as a very social evening for them, they invited me to accompany them to both parties they attended. The first was a “soup potluck,” or something of this sort, where a dozen or so people convened in a neighbor’s home, many bringing their delicious homemade soups as well as side condiments and written directions of what goes well with each soup bowl.
Attending the soup potluck was an introduction to their most merry and convivial community of Mission Springs: a former camp and conference center which dates back to 1926. Many of the quaint hillside cottages their have been converted to homes, and Peter and Jana spent years gutting and completely refurbishing their cottages– which is now nothing short of a true gem of a home. They have a noticeably rich rapport with their neighbors, which is surely reinforced through continuous contact.
After the soup potluck, we advanced out of Mission Springs to a large home where dozens of people were gathered for a white elephant gift exchange. Peter and Jana thoughtfully wrapped a third gift, which allowed me to participate. Of the 25 gifts, my opening of a heavy candle, ultimately to be “stolen” by someone after me, allowed me to follow Jana’s adroit advice and steal the Jamba Juice gift card! The gift exchange was preceded and later followed up by great conversations with pleasurable people. What a treat!
We returned later in the evening back home, and my accommodation was a super-cozy little guest room at the bottom of a steep outdoor staircase. As was the case with much of the rest of the house, the room was sparkling new. After a few minutes of meditation, and a steamy shower which set off the smoke detector, I snuggled into a peaceful, uplifting sleep.
Jana’s parents, Fred and Twila, were in town and had spent the night upstairs. We all got the chance to meet in the morning, and as other neighbors and family members also came into and out of the house, fun and lively conversations filled the morning hours up till our noon departure.
Peter & Jana had contacted friends and informed them of the Walk. Many were interested in hearing more about it, and a handful of them made time to join me on it today. We started at noon from the place I left off last night. Peter came, and so did his friend Ryan– a great guy with volumes of local info, history, and perspective alive in his mind. Both remained all the way to the heart of Santa Cruz. ( http://img238.yfrog.com/i/98565939.jpg/ ) Zack and Rachael, and their young kids Sophia and Jenison, each of whom had colored beautiful pictures for me, walked with me through Scotts Valley. Rachael and Sophia made it the farthest ( http://tweetreel.com/?6fhh3 ), bravely persevering through the rainiest portion of today, before Zack picked them up so they could resume with prior plans. Matt and Cassie, who were at last night’s soup potluck, joined shortly thereafter, and the five of us hoofed it the remaining miles down the Old Santa Cruz highway and into town. The hours on the road allowed for plenty of time to chat with everyone.
Ryan and Peter treated me to delicious Afghani food before we parted ways. What a great group of people they all are. A great deal of peace is to be found within the eyes of Peter and Jana– peace present in the smoothness of their voices as well. They and their fantastic friends’ synergistic effect collaborate to create one of the richest community vibes I’ve ever witnessed.
Tonight I sleep in the Santa Cruz home of Ian and Christine. A cute guest cottage has been made available for me for two nights. Very nice people who still own a home in Washington state, Ian and I surprisingly graduated from the same high school (he in 1991 and I in 1994; we never knew each other). I may or may not walk to Watsonville tomorrow.
I can smell the salty marine air, but have yet to see the rocky shorescapes in daylight, and look forward to doing so tomorrow, when I may or may not walk all 20 miles to Watsonville.
December 13th: the day the rains dried up, and I walked and talked with some of the most pleasant people in the world, again…

Here’s one for the memory book: I had to walk underneath a dangerously low-stretched power line today– twice! Santa Cruz almost never gets thunderstorms. But today was an exception– as I walked over 18 miles of skinny, narrow, often one-lane mountain roads between Los Gatos and Scotts Valley. The storms were strong enough to tip trees, and the power line I had to twice rush underneath on a steep, twisty, remote mountain road well out of cell phone range, was precariously holding up such a fallen tree.
Today was by far the wettest day of the walk: from the time Steffany dropped me off in Los Gatos, where I’d last left off, the rains were uncomfortably coming down. The sweetheart she is, Steffany offered me yet another night with her family– but after taking them up on the offer and canceling an otherwise late start yesterday, I was too determined to move full speed ahead today– despite the ominous forecast of thunderstorms and rain throughout the day.
Picking up a fast, free, fabulous bowl of soup on the way out of town (I love those spontaneous invitations the signs inspire), I continued on to the Los Gatos Creek Trail en route to my circuitous bypass of Highway 17. I had been prepared to walk up and over 17, but as locals seemed to be thoroughly disgusted with the idea, giving me an expression as if to say: “you’re putting mustard on ice cream!??–” I’d decided to re-route in accordance with their wisdom.
Even in the rain, those first couple of miles on the trail brought some die-hard joggers and bicyclists, determined to be out and about despite the elements. What a refreshing boost to witness!
As the trail concluded, I’d thought I’d be walking directly onto the Old Santa Cruz Hwy, as I’d figured to do on the map. But NO: unknowingly, I’d instead been guided the wrong way onto Alma Bridge Road, which ended up adding unnecessary miles to the day’s journey. It also guaranteed I’d not be arriving to Scotts Valley before dark.
Within a couple of hours, as heavy as it started coming down, often times horizontally, the rains ultimately soaked through my outdoor pants and into my shoes. I was wearing three layers of socks today, which helped. I placed a poncho over my rain jacket and despite this, the humidity was such that all dry layers within still ended up damp. For the first time, my glasses had fogged over and I had to walk without them for hours, which, given the fact that I’m so nearsighted that I’m legally required to wear them to drive, made for an interesting twist. (Should I investigate Fog-X for spectacles..?)
A couple of hours into the cycling storm surges, a donut hole of bright sky opened up, substantial enough to let the sun peak through, give the trees and me the gift of shadows on the ground, and most importantly, instill a high hope for a brighter conclusion to the several remaining hours of walking ahead. Within minutes, this donut hole had sealed with the same crappy filling that goes into your typical donut, as the dark storm clouds gloatingly smiled their way back into the picture. This time they’d bring some thunderous surprises with them.
Partly because I feel blessed for having experienced so much good weather so far; partly because so many good people assist me; partly because I know that tough times bring greater appreciation of everyday simply joys; partly because I believe perspectives can be shifted even in trying situations: I never once felt “unhappy” the entire day!
And as it has ended up, there has been so much to be happy for!
After nearly a month in mostly urban surroundings, I returned to nature today. I walked by huge redwood trees again, and just had to give one a happy-to-see-you-again hug. The punctuating respite of sunlight and occasional overcast calming were better than an alternative non-stop stream of water. I met a handful of cool people, who certainly perceived the seriousness of this walk on a day like today. At sunset, on my way down from the 2,000-ft climb up the pass, despite still be quite nearsighted without the glasses, I could see the brilliant color show of a distant sunset between breaking clouds. And perhaps most importantly: the whole time, I knew that if things ever became unbearable, I could make a call to Steffany or to Peter and Jana, who would be hosting me tonight, and I’m confident that either would come to my aid immediately. I also was warmed by the thought that the ultra-hospitable Peter & Jana were awaiting me, and ready to take me with them to a pair of local gatherings of friends in Scotts Valley.
The rains were at rest by sunset, having worked hard to soak the surrounding hillsides all day long. Arriving to the outer limit of Scotts Valley over an hour after dark, I received an off-the-road greeting from the most euphoniously energetic evening toad orchestra ever: I could feel their powerful little voices ribbeting right through me– so strongly that I had to stop, face them, remove my now-dry glasses, close my eyes and extend my arms into the air to absorb the full experience. Sounds weird; was awesome!
Peter and Jana coincidentally passed by me as I reached the main street of Scotts Valley. “Are you at the corner next to the gas station?” Jana asked me over the phone, to my surprise as she pinpointed my exact location. I met them across the street, and concluded the Walk for the evening, ready to return to that exact location for the continuation to Santa Cruz the following day…
Steep hills, soaking rains, splendid sunsets, precarious power lines, and musical amphibians– the day wasn’t an easy one– but I already look back on it with a big grin on my face!

The world’s greatest travel secret could still be considered a secret due to the simple fact that not enough people are aware of it– and until a great word-of-mouth reference comes their way, many would have a hard time taking such a concept seriously. I didn’t take it seriously at first either, but after a couple of dozen excellent experiences of previously unknown people inviting me into their homes for an evening, to “couchsurf,” I find it to be one of the greatest projects on the planet!
Originally conceived by a Casey Fenton, the Couchsurfing Project has been open to the world for nearly six years. In 2000, Fenton purchased an inexpensive flight from Boston to Iceland. Rather than stay at a hotel, he randomly e-mailed 1,500 students from the University of Iceland, asking if he could stay with any of them. He received over 50 accepting offers. On his way home from Iceland, he began to develop the ideas that would underpin the Couchsurfing Project.
Couchsurfing.org became a public website in January of 2004, and after some slow initial growth, a 2006 crash and near dissolution of the site, the project is now stronger than ever and still growing rapidly, with over 1.5 million members participating throughout the world. Similar to social networking sites like Facebook, Couchsurfing invites anyone to create a profile, add pictures, and add detailed personal information. If you set your status to “Has couch,” you are potentially making your home available to a traveling Couchsurfer, who may find your profile by searching for users from the city you are registered in. My status during the Walk is “Traveling at the moment.” When hosts receive any inquiry from a traveler to “surf their couch” (or floor, or spare bedroom– whatever they specify as being available), they are under no obligation to open their home– or even to respond, for that matter. But if the traveler appears to be someone interesting enough to respond to, and perhaps invite, then the host may choose to contact the traveler back, and perhaps a brief homestay will be set up– always free of charge– and only for as long as the host wishes to make his/her home available. If the experience is a good one (I’d say there’s a 99% chance it will be), then both the host and the traveler are encouraged to leave positive references on each other’s profile pages– available for all the world to see– and a vital tool in the decision-making moment of whether or not to host someone or stay somewhere.
Is there the potential for danger in such a project..? Just like with anything else one may do in life: yes. I am aware of one reported rape, in the UK, via contacts made on Couchsurfing. And though any violent crime is tragic, if we’re to place this report in perspective, out of any community of 1.5 million people, one such event definitely undercuts typical violent-crime statistics within such a population. Using common sense will generally keep you from connecting with users who have highly incomplete profiles, give a bad vibe, or exhibit other unwelcoming signs.
So far, I’ve stayed with a couple of dozen Couchsurfing hosts– and I have nothing but positive feedback to give regarding the project. I’ve had almost exclusively outstanding experiences with each Couchsurfing homestay. Hosts invite me in, give me a nice place to sleep– be it a sofa, a mattress on the floor, or even a guest bedroom. Without ever once asking– they usually fix me dinner and breakfast as well, sometimes even giving me some healthy snacks for the road. Some go as far as providing me with items that help me with my walk. New friendships quickly form, and I continue to keep in contact with many of those who have hosted me– with the dream of going back and visiting all of these friends once again.
The people I’ve met via Couchsurfing.org have truly been a godsend– accounting for close to half of the homestays I’ve enjoyed so far. (12 weeks on the road– and I still count my nights outdoors on my fingers.) Nearly every populated community of several thousand or more has hosts who are willing to meet and allow selected travelers a place to stay– guaranteeing that during this entire Walk Across America– only in some of the more rural and remote areas will I occasionally not be certain of where I’ll be staying on a given night.
Today, Saturday, December 12, I will arrive at the Scott’s Valley home of the hospitable Couchsurfing hosts Peter and Jana Thomsen, who have offered to give me a ride from town to their off-the-route home, saving me unnecessary miles on foot. They’ve invited me to join them on a Christmas Party night; they’ve alerted local friends of my impending arrival, and some would like to walk a ways with me as I leave Sunday for Santa Cruz; I’m told that some neighborhood kids will join. One of their friends has even offered to make me some healthy snacks for the road. Ian has offered to host me in Santa Cruz, Sharon in Salinas, and Robert in Carmel…
It’s my hope that Couchsurfing.org, the world’s greatest travel secret, continues to blossom wildly, spreading far and wide, to all unfilled corners of the globe. (This is my effort to help expose it from its secrecy!) Far beyond being the hands-down most economical way to travel, your experience of the brightest side of people will quickly strengthen (or restore) your faith in humanity as you savor some of the world’s greatest and most personable hospitality from complete “strangers…”
I can’t wait till I have the chance to host!

“Don’t I know you?” may be expected on the rare occasion that we don’t immediately line up a comprehensive memory to match a familiar face. Only now, I seem to never be finding the most polite way to actually ask the question, despite ironically being affected by feelings of familiarity on a regular basis.
Of the countless surprises that I never could have imagined before the walk began, I’m finding that as enlightening conversations take place with new faces every day, that more and more often, so many of these “new” people feel very familiar to me. Typically, when familiarity is felt with someone, your familiarity with them is often echoed back as they find familiarity with you as well, and if neither one can immediately recall from where, you can go about tracking down the connection together– figuring out when you both attended the same school, the time you were both invitees to the same party, or the people that you both jointly know.
If it weren’t for the fact that I can tell by so many of their faces that they’re clearly meeting me for the first time, I would be trying to track down the how-do-we-know-each-other connection with these “familiar” faces as well.
This phenomenon began in Canby, when I met Mike and Wilma. I had never met them, but both agreed to host me for the evening on my way through town (my first of many homestays via the Couchsurfing website). They arrived at my stopping point for the day to pick me up, and Mike emerged with a very warm, enthusiastic smile– as if he were seeing a good friend whom he hadn’t seen in years. (So, I guess this experience felt more like him recognizing me.) Little by little over the weeks, random others have felt familiar in a variety of ways, and then the sensation exploded into overdrive at the Green Festival, where I wore the WALKING ACROSS AMERICA signs, and a full family-reunion-sized flock of (new) familiar folks found me for conversations about the Walk. The Green Festival was when I really started to notice this phenomenon for what it is.
There could be various explanations for the familiarity of the new faces. Modern psychology may perhaps approach it with some insipid explanation like: “The trauma endured as a child combined with the acute physical and mental distress endured on a daily basis due to this aggressively abnormal transnational ambulatory undertaking has resulted in the irrational, unpredictable ability to discern familiar from unfamiliar, friend from foe, and brother from barfly…” or something. Those with their heads submerged into metaphysics texts might postulate that I’m simply running into people with whom I already associate with daily in parallel worlds– perhaps on the planet Heberton. Some Eastern religions may tell me that I used to polish their shoes in 16th century Macedonia. I have no clue who is right, or why– but just as I find myself overcome at times with the beauty of a rugged landscapes, cloudscapes, plants and wildlife without being well versed in geology, meteorology, or biology, I simply enjoy these beautiful, magical daily encounters for the excellent experiences that they are…
Despite any amount of planning for the pilgrimage, I’m finding the beauty of the completely unexpected presenting itself to me every day…

I figured it would be fun to share one of the many random positive experiences that come about of the days on the road. I received this message late yesterday, as I was making my way through Menlo Park and on to Palo Alto:
Just saw you make your way past the Starbucks in Menlo Park, CA. The entire shop immediately visited enjoythewalk.org (blame our cushy lives in temperate CA weather and the sudden cold snap for our not joining you).
You’ve got about 12 caffeine-fueled folks cheering you on. Enjoy the walk, and keep spreading your awesome message!
– Andrew (& Starbucks patrons)
MY RESPONSE:
It’s great to hear from you Andrew– thanks for writing!!
Admittedly, especially when I’m out on those long rural stretches, every last passing car-horn honk of support is helpful. I receive messages like yours on my phone, and when moments get particularly rough (rarely), these words are very uplifting…
Take Care & Best Wishes,

George

“There are tree spirits watching over you,” a psychic from India, Bhavana, recently revealed to me, as she told me that meeting me has helped to rekindle her reading abilities. I met Bhavana at the Green Festival. After spending a day and a half indoors and away from the sunshine, I’d decided to take Giuseppe, whom I’d met inside, up on his offer for tea, served fresh from his Free Tea Party short bus parked just outside the San Francisco Concourse, home to this year’s Green Festival.

Giuseppe gave me a simple seat above the sidewalk as I arrived to the tea bus, and after a couple of sips into his chamomile delight, Bhavana suddenly appeared and took a seat across from me. As had been the case with what had seemed to be the majority of “new” people I’d met and talked to at the Green Festival, Bhavana seemed familiar to me– despite the fact that I’d never met her before the tea bus. We easily struck up a conversation that extended on and on as we must have spent at least an hour seated across from one another.

I’m not sure exactly who or what has been watching over me– if anyone/anything– but given the wealth of outstanding daily experiences I’ve encountered over the course of the two months I’ve spent walking from Washington State to San Francisco, a story of guidance, protection, and love from above is easy to believe.

I walked across the Golden Gate Bridge on Sunday, November 22, 2009– two months after leaving Vancouver, Washington– having hiked some 750 miles from point VW to point GG.

Every day of the way I’ve met and talked to extraordinary people. (People that I may have considered “ordinary” at some other time in life are all extraordinary now.) I often feel that compared to where I was in life six years ago, a month’s worth of quality-of-life richness from then is topped with a single day’s adventure journey now.

People have been showing their brightest and best sides, fully restoring my once-questioned hope and faith in the good-nature potential of humanity. In the nine weeks between my Day 1 departure and my crossing of the Golden Gate Bridge, I’ve spent only a week in my tent. I’ve otherwise been given shelter, and usually food, by countless kindhearted souls who are willing to help me make this pilgrimage an all-sides success. Also, without ever once asking, more people than I can keep track of have stuffed cash contributions into my pockets to help see that all of my various needs are taken care of. They know this is by no means a fundraising walk, and even after only talking to me for a minute or two, they still wish to somehow take part in helping me out. I resisted the cash at first, but having found that many people I’m meeting honestly want to feel like they’re contributing to the effort, and knowing what it’s like to contribute to such “causes” myself, I’ve decided to allow it. Consequently, having tallied my small budget after arriving here to San Francisco, I’ve found that even after purchasing plenty of food, signs, reflective gear, and other necessary equipment along the way, I haven’t lost a dollar of my budget over the course of the entire nine weeks– I’m pretty much exactly at a break-even status with my Day 1 budget. I’m still prepared to bankrupt myself (if need be) to see this walk through– but what a blessing to find that food, shelter, and other assistance has helped propel me forward– despite not having set up any such link from the website.

The extraordinary people I’m meeting and places I’m seeing are experiences I couldn’t imagine having missed out on. As is the case when we make any challenging new change in life– be it committing to getting in better shape, moving on from a destructive atmosphere, or working toward a new personal goal– when we walk the path it doesn’t take long before we just have to take a quick glimpse back and quickly feel an enormous rush of gratitude to ourselves for listening to that golden voice of intuition within, answering the calling, and moving forward.

Life on the road is full of surprises– sometimes a new adventure around every turn, it seems. Many of these surprises sneak up on you like the unexpected smell of the most delicious pie in a nearby oven. Getting soaked in a sudden rainstorm isn’t one of the highlights– but I’ve been learning to laugh through the pain of the hard times as well, as I learn to understand their role in the greater scheme.

The hard times offer not only lessons and opportunities for growth, but they bring a much greater sense of general optimism and gratitude after you make it through them. For example, I remember a stinky night’s stay indoors a few towns back. I knew I wasn’t enthusiastic enough about the place I where I was invited to stay. So, I simply stepped outside into the cold, dark night for a few minutes, remembered the colder nights crammed into the little bivy tent, and felt so much more appreciative when I returned to the warm, cozy hosting home for the evening. And what a great night’s sleep came of it!

Though I always try to line up my nightly accommodations in advance, most often via the Couchsurfing website, I frequently am unable to succeed in finding a host when entering a more sparsely populated area. Consequently, there have been many days where I’ve hit the road on a paved path through many sticks, and been absolutely unaware of where exactly I’ll be spending the night. Such a scenario was a bit intimidating to me at first. But, with a determined, see-it-through attitude, I’ve made it through some initially “questionable” scenarios, and have learned to simply approach such days with optimism, trusting that “something will work out…” even if that means that I’m finding a hidden patch of ground amidst the vineyards for the night (my latest “almost-scenario,” the day I reached Cloverdale). There are fun stories to report from many such days so far (Junction City, Rice Hill, Myrtle Creek, Oregon I-5 Exit 82 rest area, Crescent City, Stafford, Redway/Garberville, Laytonville, Willits, and Cloverdale…), most of which are stories I have yet to catch up on…

It will take a few days before I really start making serious progress south of the Bay Area. Though the body is eager to hit the road, intuition tells me to stay calm: give the feet a bit more rest first. I trusted intuition’s advice when it directed me to rest my injured left foot the month before the walk began, and despite the body’s urgings at the time to continue to push forward with training, listening to the golden voice within paid off super well. That voice is again telling me to take it easy and rest up for a few days. Despite leisure walking here on the east side of the Bay, where I’m currently resting, it’s been nearly a week since I last made progress on my actual route south, and my body (feet) feels sooo much better with this rest. After a few more days, it will be time to hit the road again.

I look forward to the road ahead. I’m carrying a lighter load in the backpack, traveling for now without the camping gear, which I’ve left with a fabulous friend (Erin) back in Santa Rosa. I’ll make it all the way to about Santa Cruz before I have to reload the gear for the continued hike south, to LA.

While the realm of that which I don’t know is still much greater than that which I do know, I’ll soon be pushing forward again on this pilgrimage– welcoming the companionship and assistance of the sun, the wind, the water, the trees, and the countless extraordinary souls I’ve been encountering along the way. I don’t know what all to expect as I proceed south toward LA, but I face the road ahead with optimism and enthusiasm– confident that whatever comes of this next chapter– inspiration will spread, and I too will learn and grow in the process.

As Powell’s is the biggest bookstore in the country, I know that I sometimes only need to wander in there, poke around a bit, and walk out with the right book– quite often a title I’d never heard of before walking in. Such was the case when I was seeking messages for the soulful traveler.
I spent hours checking out books in the travel writing section, the Americana section, and many of the aisles between the two before deciding on the one I wanted: The Art of Pilgrimage, by Phil Cousineau. I saw multiple used copies for sale alongside the new, giving me a first clue that this was a widely-read, still popular classic. And though I know that I’m not to judge a book by its cover, I must say that I did find Cousineau’s jacket appealing. Quickly perusing the table of contents, and hopping around every few seconds to randomly selected sections of all chapters, I could feel The Art of Pilgrimage calling me to its pages. I selected one of the used copies to carry home with me– as used not only halves the price– it adds character!
The Art of Pilgrimage entered my life just weeks before the Walk began, and I ended up not even finding time to read the forward of the book before leaving. That said, I still carried the book with me. By the time I’d made it to Salem, and still had yet to break into it, I made the painfully difficult decision to simply leave it behind, with family– as I could tell that I wouldn’t be finding the proper time/mood occasion to be diving into it anytime soon.
I decided I’d simply look for it in libraries and bookstores along the way– reading a chapter or even just a few pages at a time, progressing unpredictably through the book as I made progress into my pilgrimage. I’ve thought about the book many times since; I’ve looked for it in a number of libraries and bookstores, when time has afforded me, yet no one has had it– till yesterday.
Yesterday I awoke in Berkeley for the first time, guest at the home of long-time friends from Vancouver, Josh and Miranda. Josh & Miranda dropped me off yesterday afternoon in Central Alameda, per my request to not be driven all the way back to my aunt’s place (I needed to get some walking in!). It took us about a half mile to find the perfect place to the side of the road to drop me off, and isn’t it funny how coincidences work, I found myself only a block away from the yet-to-be-searched-for Alameda library– which I walked right into on my way back to Park Street– the main city thoroughfare.
Immediately searching for The Art of Pilgrimage, I finally found it! The Alameda Library is the first place so far this trip that I’d found it!! I can’t even describe how thrilled I was…
Sniffing it out by call number and opening up to the forward, I found myself amazed to read that the forward of the book came from the same place I began my day: Berkeley!
As I began to soak up the richness of just the opening score of pages (I only made it through the forward and the author’s introduction yesterday), I began getting a taste of why I’d selected this book, and why it has been on my mind from the beginning of the trip– despite having officially read none of it.
I’m headed back to the library tonight, to continue into chapter 1: The Calling. Have answered a calling to begin my current pilgrimage, you can only imagine my optimism toward what I’m about to read…

“Don’t get too caught up in dates or deadlines and end up hurrying through the walk. Take time to experience the country and the people in it and enjoy yourself. Be open to the experiences that may put you behind schedule but be exactly what you set out for in the first place.”
These are the words of Skip Potts, who began walking across America a year before I did, from Boston. Having finished his walk in June of this year, Skip is now making a documentary about people who have walked long distances. He caught up with me in Eugene, and after interviewing me, he passed on those words of wisdom… which have been on my mind ever since.
“By walking across America, you must really be getting a chance to see the country…” are words I‘ve heard many times. In one respect, they are certainly true. I could have driven the 750 miles I’ve walked from Vancouver, WA, to San Francisco within two long days– and seen still seen many beautiful sights along the way– but instead I spent two months walking the distance. And by walking these 750 miles, I’ve seen slices of the Pacific NW from many perspectives I would have otherwise never experienced. That said, I also feel that in many ways, the Walk has been going by fast. Within just the first few days of walking, I’d begun seeing many parts of Oregon that were always within an hour’s driving distance, but that I’d never known existed– for example, the Canby Ferry, which crosses a pretty and peaceful portion of the Willamette Riverevery few minutes, running along a cable extended above the water, is something I’d never heard of before the Walk brought me to it.
The blisters that grounded me for days in Roseburg came to be a blessing in disguise, as I ended up not only learning more about greater Roseburg from Paul Singleton and family, who hosted me, but also finding it to be a very fun and fascinating experience to simply spend some days with Paul and his seven kids. Staying with Scott, a second Roseburg host, only further enriched the local adventure before the feet were ready to continue on. Had it not been for those debilitating blisters in Roseburg, I would have simply arrived one evening and left the next morning– without truly taking any time to experience either the people or the place– a common case for me as I’ve made my way south.
The story of a richer, greater experience repeatedly became the case as my progress slowed while passing through Canyonville, the California border, Leggett, Ukiah, the Green Festival, etc.
Having crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, I’m now allowing several days for my feet to feel as ready as the rest of my body to push on further. Due to a “Go! Go! Go!” attitude, I wasn’t really noticing the accumulating foot pain. However, when I quickly kicked my feet away from the therapeutic hands of Lindsay, a licensed massage therapist in Ukiah, we both could tell that my feet were in need of healing time. I had well over a hundred miles to walk before reaching San Francisco from Ukiah– and plans for some extended rest and recuperation days in the Bay Area began forming immediately.
So, here I sit in the Bay Area, at my Aunt Ellen’s apartment in Alameda (an island accessible from Oakland). I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge last Sunday (11/22), continued walking to the southern end of SF the following day, and I’ve been here at my aunt’s ever since. And once again, as I get to know Ellen much better than I’ve ever known her, I find that spending time in destinations along the way is an unfathomably valuable investment.
My feet are still sore, but they feel noticeably better than they did on the day I last walked the route (I’ve walked a good few miles in Alameda since; it‘s hard to slow down completely).
I’ll likely remain here in the Bay Area for at least another week, spending time with Ellen as well as visiting many other friends who have given me a variety of invitations to spend time with them. Ultra-sore feet can be a source of frustration, especially when this beautiful sunny weather makes for the best days on the road. But I’ve been learning to see my status–whatever it may be– as a blessing: through thick and thin, incredibly great things have been happening since the Walk began, often unexpectedly, and I’m simply to appreciate and make the best of this stationary experience and opportunity while it lasts. So far, the Bay stay has proven itself necessary, valuable, refreshing, and fun– and I have at least another week to go here.
This brings me to the overall timing of the trip: Skip’s sage words advised me not to get caught up in dates or deadlines, and nearly two months later, I feel I have a much better understanding of just what he was telling me, and why. So, in heeding Skip’s advice, I hereby am no longer committing myself to reaching the White House on exactly Friday, June 18, 2010. I’m also going to re-adjust the aim of my pace to an average of between 20km and 20m daily– a more universal message to a world almost exclusively on the metric system. Though I’m sure to walk many more 20-mile days, a 20km pace will definitely allow me more time to experience and inspire–my stated goal– as I cross this great nation.
I may reach the White House in 365 days– or perhaps in 400 days. To be honest, the exact date of my arrival isn’t a major concern to me right now. Intuition is clearly guiding me toward prioritizing the experiencing and inspiring of America (in any little way I can) over racing to reach a self-imposed deadline. Allowing for more time as I cross this country on foot will surely allow me to do a much fuller job of practicing what I preach– namely: ENJOY THE WALK!

I finally got booted off the freeway. Walking from the south end of Petaluma to Novato, I entered 101, where I walked against traffic down the freeway. At first, all was fine– it was the normal not-the-most-pleasurable freeway walking experience, filled with the smog and cacophony of countless cars whizzing by at high speed. But just after 2pm, as northbound traffic out of San Francisco began to thicken, I found myself walking on the shoulder, against three lanes of slow-moving vehicles. As the minutes progressed, the vehicles were only moving at parking lot speed, and then everything became a lot more fun than it ever has been along the freeway. Amidst the boredom of their daily commute home, drivers were noticing me, with large numbers of them honking and waving to the man with the WALKING ACROSS AMERICA signs. Of all the different surfaces I’ve walked (neighborhood streets, central city arterials, highways, freeways, and occasionally a bike bath or train tracks), the freeway has always been the least hospitable in people terms. But the traffic jam turned it into the most hospitable of all roadside experiences. I did get a couple of angry gestures from not-so-happy male motorists, but there were many hundreds of honks and waves of support to compare to the tiny handful of hecklers.
I would come to learn that the small handful of hecklers also called the police on me. After I’d made into the Novato city limits via the freeway, and was almost to the first exit, a California Highway Patrol car suddenly emerged from the then parking lot of three northbound 101 lanes. Barreling toward me, I could tell that I was about to have my first “run-in” with California police. As he swiftly closed in to my position, he had his door open for the last hundred or so feet of path to me– the way cops approach a situation when they’re ready to jump out and “take care of business.” “Chip” (I’ll call him; I didn’t get his first name) stopped and hopped up out of his patrol car, approaching me with a look of determination on his face. I immediately grabbed one of the handy photo ID business cards I carry (thanks Brian!), ready to introduce myself and explain what I’m doing.
“I don’t want to know what your cause is” were roughly his opening words– I don’t remember the words as exactly as I remembered his irritated introductory mood. “We’re getting calls about you– 911 calls– you’re backing up the whole freeway!” he tells me, as he gestures to the endless swarm of cars lined up behind him.
“I caused this!!???” I never would have guessed such a thing. I’d figured it was simply rush-hour traffic coming out of San Francisco. But then I noticed that as I was walking against traffic, cars in front of me were slow; once past me, they were moving much more quickly. It amazes me what a simply man with a sign on the side of a busy road can accomplish.
“You can’t walk on the freeway,” Chip tells me, as a scintilla of curiosity begins to emerge from him: “where did you start?”
“I began in Washington State. I’m walking across America to Washington, DC– all the way to the White House. I’m coming south through California as winter approaches, and I can’t be caught in Minnesota in the dead of winter.”
“Really!?” By now, Chip’s opening mood of irritation seems to have almost completely faded. Having recognized that I’ve alread made it this far on foot, he now appears to be rather impressed. Still a law enforcement officer though, he warns me that by walking on the freeway, another officer may cite me. (He obviously wasn’t about to exercise his power to do so :^)
“Where are you going tonight?”
“I’m being hosted tonight in the Bel Marin Keys. People are hosting me in many communities along the way. Tomorrow I’ll be in San Rafael. I really didn’t want to break any laws, and I apologize for this. What’s the best way for me to (legally) get from here to the Bel Marin Keys?”
Chip’s demeanor quickly transitioned to thoughtful as he started explaining what he felt would be the quickest, safest, best– and legal– way for me to reach the Bel Marin Keys.
“Good Luck to You! I wish you well!”
Though I’ve spoken to many cops along the way, the situation is typically that I see them parked along the roadside; I approach them, introduce myself and what I’m doing, and they’ve only ever been helpful to me. The angry 911 calls and then subsequent wait through a parking lot to find me obviously brought Chip to me with a different mentality. Still– I’d consider it a positive ending to what started out as an unsure beginning. There was another way to reach Novato from Petaluma, off the freeway, but it would have added many more miles, and I was hoping not to have avoided it. I did avoid it, and now won’t need the freeway again as I make my way into San Francisco.
Good Times!