Allow me to make a distinction between walking for pleasure and walking to get somewhere. Those are two separate propositions, although I do like it when a path is fun to walk and it can also get you where you need to go.
Most of this journey has been pretty fun so far. I’ve been fortunate to find some rail trails and some alternate routes that have kept me off the busiest roads. But make no mistake: though I’m happy to be out here, my aim is to get somewhere.
So, when I found out I could shave nine miles off the distance to Oneida by walking on roads instead of the Canalway Trail, I didn’t even have to think about it. The trail takes a wide bend to the north, following the Mohawk River and Pools Brook. But several roads cut straight across, and all I had to do is choose the route that seemed to draw the least amount of traffic.
‘Long about noon, I wondered if I’d made a mistake.
By then I’d cottoned on to the notion that there’s not much in the way of vacant land around these parts. Not much opportunity to duck out of sight for a moment. As one might wish to do if, for example, one had been hydrating oneself most conscientiously all morning. And as for potential campsites? Didn’t see a one. Began to think I’d be walking long into the night, past spacious lawns and well-kept houses, all the way to Syracuse.
At least on the Canalway Trail, I had some hope of finding a patch of unclaimed ground ample enough to lie down on. Even if it was on the grass right next to the trail.
Anyway, not seeing any pockets of woods I could escape into if need be, I suffered a momentary loss of faith. That moment of doubt soon resulted in a hotel reservation in Oneida, another 12 miles down the road. And of course, the closer I got to Oneida, the more the countryside began opening up. Potential campsites started appearing all over the place, and I commenced to wondering whether I’d just wasted a hundred bucks on a room I didn’t need.
Now go back and take another look at the photo at the top of this blog. It had been cloudy all day with widely scattered raindrops. The threat of rain kept hanging around, but I figured at the most, I’d catch a passing shower. Same thing happened yesterday and the day before. That’s why we bring rain gear.
Then I got a text from a friend warning me about a storm front headed my way. I waved it off, saying I’d be indoors in a couple of hours. He said “you don’t have a couple of hours.” I said thanks, but there wasn’t much I could do. This is a six-month-long hike. It stands to reason I’m gonna see some weather along the way. Might as well see how my gear holds up.
The leading edge of that storm front hit me like a cyclone. It ripped at my poncho and durn near threw me sideways into a ditch. Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. Raindrops pelted me like they’d been studying all their lives to be hailstones and were annoyed to find their dreams hadn’t quite crystallized.
But I held onto the corners of my poncho and kept walking. The violence of the leading edge gave way to strong winds and a soaking rain, but those didn’t last long, either. Soon it was just a persistent drizzle. Still, that was enough to create pools of standing water everywhere. The trees and bushes were dripping wet. Maybe that hundred bucks wasn’t wasted, after all.
Tomorrow I’ll reconnect with the Canalway Trail, and then we’ll see what happens. Maybe it’ll rain again. Or maybe all the good campsites will be overrun with poison ivy. Or maybe something fantastically good will happen. Who knows? But whatever comes, I’ll take it.
Sixteen days is not quite a tenth of the way across North America, by the route I’m taking. Bound to be a bunch more rainy days, and a bunch more sunny days, and a bunch more days that work both sides of the border. I’ll take ’em all. So long as I get where I’m going.
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