I'll be BACK... (I AM BACK!)

Three hundred fifty-eight days
eighteen thousand two hundred thirty-one miles later…

I have returned…

Tonight, I sleep in my own room. My very own room.

(Check back in a week or two for a final blog entry -- OK, maybe not till the end of the month...)

And the hunter, home from the hill

The wild and windy night
that the rain washed away
Has left a pool of tears
crying for the day
Why leave me standing here?
Let me know the way

Many times I've been alone
and many times I've cried
Anyway you'll never know
the many ways I've tried

And still they lead me back
to the long and winding road
You left me standing here
a long, long time ago
Don't leave me waiting here,
lead me to you door
        -- Paul McCartney, 1969

A journey of 18,000 miles ends with a short drive north on Highway 99.

Tomorrow, I will take my time packing for the last time. I’ll take my two suitcases and backpack to the Saturn in a single trip – as I have dozens of times over the past 51 weeks; and I’ll pile them in the back seat. I’ve opened the trunk only occasionally as nearly all that I need resides in the three portable containers.

I suspect that the miles will flash by as I continue experiencing the mixed feelings that began when I arrived in California a few weeks ago: in some ways, I really don’t want this trip to end.

It has been a wonderful experience, it has been transformational. I will never regret this time spent on the road – alone, but communing with more individuals than during any other period of my life.

As I return to Merced, I know that I am now a person with whom others enjoy spending time. I am an entertaining and engaging companion at the dinner table. I am able to speak to groups of people and capture their attention and interest.

Though most of my character flaws remain intact, I believe I’ve become more adept in avoiding pitfalls and – while not sacrificing my principles – I am able to engage in friendly interaction that is not competitive or confrontational.

When I land in Merced, I will immediately begin my next adventure – a physical transformation into a more healthy and fit state. Having just completed an extended journey will, I believe, improve my chances of success. I intend to make steady progress over an extended period – probably about two years.

And, at the end of this new trip, I hope to “arrive” at a different kind of destination: I hope to become comfortable inside my own skin and to rediscover a high level of endurance, mobility and strength. It’s an exciting prospect and I am motivated.

Tomorrow, then will mark the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

I may not be making many more entries in this Wandering Dave blog. I hope to write one or more articles for publication elsewhere and will likely focus my creative energies in that direction.

Ev'ry stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one-man band.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
        -- Paul Simon, 1965

And I was there

“It was amazing,” the college student cum journalist was emoting about a road trip he and a few buddies had taken out into the desert. “I never knew there were that many stars.”

Young journalists who write columns or “thought pieces” often fall into a syndrome I call “…and I was there.” They report incidents that occur for the first time in their lives but which tend not to be particularly amazing to older folks.

The novelty of such events is quickly lost as years go by and I suspect most readers experience ho-hum reactions to wide-eyed descriptions of firsts that aren’t news to them.

“There was no traffic. Like, I mean absolutely NO TRAFFIC. We parked the car and I lay on my back, right … in the MIDDLE … of the road! It was awesome to discover that there are roads where practically no cars go by late at night.”

Listening to a travel report on public radio this morning, it occurred to me that such accounts lend themselves to the same kind of naïveté – an innocent, inexperienced sort of response that’s at least 80 percent amazement.

By gilding the lilies, travel writers sometimes tend to eliminate mosquitoes or other negatives. The beauty of desert landscapes described without mention of heat, blowing sand and a level of discomfort that is literally life threatening without artificial shelter (have you considered that it’s called Death Valley for a reason?)

The idea of writing some sort of traditional travelogue about my trip never felt like a good one. I tend to be more interested in ideas and events than in places or vistas. Maybe the requirement that one overlook some negatives in order to present positives more –well, more positively – keeps me from embracing this genre.

In any event, I probably haven’t shared enough of the sense of awe that I’ve actually experienced along the way when encountering natural beauty. I can’t imagine anyone driving 18,000 miles of American highways without gaining an appreciation for the vastness and majesty of the land.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about the 3.5 million square miles is that, even in the 21st century, one can still lie on their back in the middle of most of the 4 million miles of streets, roads and highways late at night without being disturbed by traffic.