Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 8 - Part 4 - North Scituate, RI to West Greenwich, RI - The Hill

It was a pleasant enough walk out of Scituate. I passed over a bridge and through some very old winding streets until I reached The Hill.

It was after 12:00 pm by now and the clouds were rapidly moving over sun. The hill was exactly like Raymond had said it would be, but much, much worse. Had I known about just how long this inclined hike would drag on I would have searched out another route. But I was there and there wasn't any going back.

The Hill (which winds up a mountain) began with a teasing slight incline for about 1.5 miles. Then the angle headed up a few more degrees each 0.5 miles or so. That is the section that really took something out of me. It had to have dragged on for another 2 miles, maybe more.

As my walking stick clicked along the road, I began drifting... I focused on anything besides the strain I was undergoing.

The woods were filled with chipmunks, the ancient remains of giant Oak trees, stone walls and collapsed cattle pound walls, all kinds of rocks, different kinds of flowers... I always listening for the click, click, click of the stick. I know I'm too tired if I hear...click, click, click...scrape!

Finally, there was a relative leveling out. By relative I mean it was not an exponential rise anymore. I counted my footsteps as quarter beats. And then, I measured upon which footstep the click of my stick would fall. It turned out to be 5/4 time. On every fifth step, my stick would click. That figured out, I slowed down a bit so I could catch my breath, reducing the time signature to 4/4.

The woods that had been filled with chipmunks was long out of sight now. It was simply trees on either side of the road, and always the continuous climb. When I finally did reach the top I was thirsty and drank half of the Vitamin Water (having long since dispatched the Mt. Dew).

From Route 14A on, the area become more and more wild. The occasional yards held trailers and mobile homes, but it was mostly woods. One got the impression that the only thing this stretch of road was good for was trucking.

It had been 15 miles since I'd seen anything resembling a store. I finally reached a ghost-town like area with a bunch of closed stores. In that situation I speculated that if I could only take one of the side streets maybe I'd run into a grocery store. But, that was dangerous thinking, because it had gotten me lost in the past. I was really in need of something to drink, and then some fluid for over night and into the next morning.

Right before I had walked all the way through this strange and desolate town, I spied a soda machine in front of a closed business. It just so happened that I had way too much coinage anyway. I hobbled over to it and saw that it was on and working. No water, but hopefully there was something in the slots that advertised soda. I fed the machine quarters and chose an orange soda. And there it was! So I also bought two cans of Sprite, and two cans of orange soda. This was a lucky break...perhaps better than just luck.

The sun hadn't shone through the clouds since about 3:00 pm. And the days were shortening anyway; something I had to constantly remingd myself of. I was wearing down again and needed to find a nesting place. Distance-wise this hike had not been overly long for me, but of course the 10 mile effort to climb the Hill made me far more tired than if I'd walked 30 miles on a level highway.

The trees formed a corridor along this very busy road. There was a dirt shoulder, but it frequently would fall away over an edge sporting culverts and drain pipes. The sun was down now and I had reached the end of my strength for the day. I noticed that - as I shuffled along - the trees would be lined up along the road and then make their way up onto relatively low granite cliffs. Particularly, my side of the road was rich with these cliffs. I found one with what looked like natural stairs up its front. Intuitively, I knew that this was the one. This would be the sleeping place.

Rock cliffs are a challenge at night for sure. But this one was pretty steep and about 20 feet high. The sodas had no place to go in the backpack so I'd stuffed them in my vest and hoped for the best. One of them dropped out right at the top of the cliff. I wasn't gonna waste it, but I had to make sure that this was the right place before considering a climb back down.

It was a relatively flat area, covered in very soft moss. The stars were out so I didn't think there was chance for rain. I took off the pack and just sat for a moment assessing the spot. As I peerred into the woods beyond, to my right I saw the head of a driveway leading to a rather nice little stone ranch. To my left was a large stone house of several stories. I thought at the time that I might even be on their land. I'm still not sure if I was. But, I was through walking that day, and no matter what, this would have to do. I climbed down and grabbed the fallen soda, then back up again. It was much easier without the backpack.

At the top of my mossy bluff, I watched the traffic pass below me. The spot was situated in such a way that only when the small curve in the road straightened were headlights shining my position. I pulled out the little blue towel, laid it down on the moss, then rolled out the sleeping bag on top of it. It moss was very nice and cushioning, except for one piece of rock that ran laterally between my rib cage and hips. As long as I kept it there, I was able to turn over and sleep on either side.

West Greenwich Sleeping Place

Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 8 - Part 3 - North Scituate, RI - Mike Moulton and the Knights of the Stone Table

Now that I was able to really get organized and still have time before getting back on the road again, I paid attention to each detail, making sure things were dry, by packing each section tightly and efficiently as possible. It was on this day that I formulated the same order that I would keep my backpack in for the months to come. The only difference is that the sleeping bag's carry sack was tossed out about a month after leaving Rhode Island.

I was still feeling good and just shaking my head with amazement at how everything had gone that morning. I began to get a characteristically  intuitive feeling that I now accept as genuine: The "delays" and "mistakes" that I make are in fact ways for new opportunities to arrange themselves, essentially enriching the overall experience.

From a side entrance that I had missed seeing, came a motorcycle, suddenly. He pulled right up next to me and turned off his motor. He got off the bike and waved. We talked for a moment about what I was doing, and he introduced himself as Mike Moulton. He had short cropped hair, wore a long sleeve T-shirt and wraparound glasses. He was a character and had me laughing right away.

He listened carefully to my plan for getting into Connecticut through western Rhode Island, and we reflected on Raymond DiCarlo's ideas (please see the last post). Mike and his friends (two of whom were to arrive any second) had been on practically every road in the surrounding states, riding and exploring. He knew many different ways to go, and was trying to figure out the best one for me.

Within a half hour the next guy, Bill Quinlan, showed up. And, shortly after that their third friend John P arrived. This was the meeting place for them. In fact, Mike was the one who told me their name for it: "Crazy Corners." We all introduced ourselves.

Mike took this shot for me...

These three guys stood out from a lot of other people who I've met in that they didn't call me "crazy." I'm sure they probably thought it, but they left me whatever shabby dignity they found me with.

Knights of the Stone Table

Left to Right: Mike Moulton, Bill Quinlan, and John  P. 

We relaxed before their bike tour, then they went to work discussing a route that would be best for me. Several different possible scenarios came up, but the same ideas that Raymond had offered seemed to keep gelling and being tweaked. As we will see in the next post, I would take their advice but somehow missed the Route 14A intersection--probably because it got dark by that point or because I didn't have glasses yet. But all of that was still to come. The basic idea was: Route 102 to 14A to 12 to 32, and South Norwich, Connecticut.

After a while they began to prepare for their own journey and I finished packing for mine. We said our goodbyes, and I felt a genuine appreciation for their help. Just before they left, Bill reached into his saddle bag and brought over a Vitamin Water for me. Now I had plenty to drink!

They were great guys who I could have hung out with anytime. It would be a real treat to come back and look them up; maybe meet again someday at Crazy Corners...




I finished organizing and packing my stuff...

After I was all loaded up, I took this video of the fireplace and Stone Table...

Crazy Corners left as it was found

I was on my way again. Inspired and Transformed, I walked with a new conviction and an even clearer focus. I crossed a bridge and passed through an old section of town with barns and stone walls, and then came the HILL.

Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 8 - Part 2 - North Scituate, RI - Raymond DiCarlo

The afterglow of the Transformation persisted for hours. Before it faded a Providence Water truck pulled in. I waved. The man inside rolled his window down and asked how I was doing. I told him I was happy to find this spot and how helpful it was for me to get reorganized. He reminded me to be careful and not roam too far out into the woods, because it was hunting season.

I didn't even know what town I was in, so I walked over to him and said, "I do have a question for you."

He was a big guy with the straight talking Rhode Island accent. He put the truck in park and asked, "What do ya need to know, my friend?"

I smiled and asked, "Where the hell am I?"

He smiled back and chuckled. He told me that I was still in Scituate. He asked me where I was headed and I told him my story and that I wanted to get into Connecticut without having to go too far south first.

He said, "Well, the most direct way is by taking Route 102 and heading west, then taking Route 14 across the border into Connecticut. But..." he continued with a bigger smile, "...I don't know if you want to deal with THAT hill," and pointed down the road to something beyond the horizon.

I told him I'd been through alot and that I could probably handle anything he could throw at me. Boy, would I find out how wrong I was!

He said, "I don't know, my friend... What happens is you start climbing and the hill isn't very steep. You begin to walk around a slow curve and the hill gets a little steeper. Then as you realize you walking up a long incline, you go around another curve and it seems to level off. But this is just a tease, because it slowly starts to go up again. This happens over and over again. You think you're at the top and there's just as much to still climb. By the time you actually do get to the top the ground will be like this..." he flattened his hand level to the ground, "...and you'll be like this..." he kept his hand level to the ground. "Yep, it's killer."

Raymond DiCarlo

We talked a little more. He was definitely interested in what I was doing. I repeated that I was happy to find the spot and joked that if I only had water it would be a perfect day. He told me he would have taken me over to Dunkin' Donuts, but he wasn't allowed to have other people in the truck. I asked him how far Dunkin' Donuts was from this spot and he said, "Oh about a mile." If I had only taken the other direction earlier in the day I would have found it and been able to get re-hydrated. But I never would have found Crazy Corners. Thankfully, one mile was nothing to walk for me. So I resolved to go there after I was packed up again.

I asked Raymond about his job. He said he patrols all the outlying areas of the Providence Water Reserve. This is the water that is filtered for the City of Providence to use. He said he'd been working for Providence Water for 14 years. He's married and lives nearby. 

He told me an interesting fact about Scituate (something I had briefly mentioned a couple posts back). There had been a  town that was moved to make the reservoir. Here is the history, expanded from what he told me...

The Scituate Reservoir is the largest inland body of water in the state of Rhode Island. It has an aggregate capacity of 39 billion US gallons (150,000,000 m³) and a surface area of 5.3 square miles (13.7 km²). It and its six tributary reservoirs—which make up a total surface area of 7.2 square miles (18.6 km²)—supply drinking water to more than 60 percent of the state population, including Providence. 

The surrounding drainage basin that provides water to the reservoir system covers an area of about 94 square miles (243.5 km²), which includes most of the town of Scituate and parts of Foster, Glocester, Johnston, and Cranston. The Scituate Reservoir is operated by Providence Water Supply Board.

[Snip] 

The creation of the reservoir flooded much of the town of Scituate, including the villages of Ashland, Kent, South Scituate, Richmond, and the western part of North Scituate. Other parts of town were destroyed as Providence acquired land surrounding the reservoir. In total, Providence acquired 23.1 square miles (59.8 km²) of land. Most residents of this area were forced to move out of Scituate and received compensation from the city for the property they lost. Some individuals such as businessman and farmer Arthur Steeresold hundreds of acres for the creation of the Reservoir.[1] 

Between 1920 and 1930, the town's population decreased by 24 percent to 2,292, the lowest number since the 1780s. 1,195 buildings were demolished, which included 375 homes, 233 barns, 7 schools, and 6 mills. The loss of 30 dairy farms limited agricultural activity in town. The Providence and Danielson Railroad, an electric railway line that carried farm produce, granite, and lumber to Providence, was abandoned due to the project. 26.4 miles (42.5 km) of new roads had to be built to make up for the 36 miles (58 km) of roads that were also abandoned. 

Most people complied as they were forced to settle elsewhere, but some families were unwilling to part with the houses they had inhabited for generations. The Joslin family, which owned large mills in the doomed villages, fought a long legal battle, which they eventually lost. After moving out, the family built an opulent rural estate on Field Hill. The Knight family, while selling their property, set fire to their house as they were reluctant to leave. A few residents even committed suicide. [2] 

Source: Wikipedia

Raymond was very kind and gave me suggestions about how I might be able to get into Connecticut and then down to the coast. We said goodbye and he took off. About 5 minutes later, I was surprised to see him return. He stopped and called me over. I walked back up to the truck and he handed me this liter bottle of Mt. Dew...

Manna

Many things made my day, but that was above and beyond. Now I could take my time with the pack up, relax, enjoy the sun and begin to re-hydrate. The Blessing of discovering this little rest area was becoming manifest.

Nothing felt better then guzzling about half of that bottle. I also didn't have to go to Dunkin' Donuts now to buy anything else to drink. I could continue on directly down the road.

Raymond was the second guy I'd met and actually spent time talking to on this journey. Meeting him confirmed to me that it should be the people that come first in my reporting from now on. Rhode Island was a great, almost prophetic place, in that it showed me the pattern that would characterize the adventures to come as I headed south and west across the country.

And, even then, the day was not yet over... 

Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 8 - Part 1 - North Scituate, RI - The Transformation at Crazy Corners

When my eyes opened there was still a little time before the watch alarm beeped. I was tired and VERY thirsty by now.

I had nothing to wash my blood pressure pill down with so I chewed it up and simply swallowed the pieces as best I could.

I don't even really remember the pack up, but I must have gathered everything strewn around the area where I'd settled the night before. I wasn't missing anything.

I remembered what the nice guy at the service station had told me about the Dunkin Donuts up the road. I was supposed to get back on to Danielson Pike and head west until I could take my first right and walk up a hill. Naturally, I screwed the whole thing up, by coming to a fork that had no streets signs and choosing heads when I should have chosen tails.

But this would be a fortuitous choice indeed.

I made it to a road, still dark in the pre-sunrise, called, Rockland Road. This was a long and barren place, winding through marshes and beside sleepy houses where no lights were yet visible in the bedrooms of their occupants. After some time an orange glow began to fill the sky to my left. That good old reliable sun was coming up.

By then, the sounds of large diesel engines were filling the air. School buses. As I walked on and on, I'd hear them come up behind me, slow down for the pathetic traveler in the road, and then accelerate loudly as they passed me.

Whenever one would come from up ahead I could imagine the bus driver saying, "You see, kids! Do you see him? That is what will happen to you if you don't go to school and get an education!"

Oh, how I wish I could have defended myself. Cruel bus drivers, presuming...assuming. But it wasn't their fault. Everyone has preconceived, stereotypical views about other people, based only on the way they look, or the way they live. We are not what we appear to be. None of us are, unless we have already surrendered to being slammed into where we think society expects us to "belong."

I stopped at the swamp's edge after one of these buses rumbled by and took this picture of the impending sunrise. I don't know why, but the camera didn't do it much justice...

Sunrise over the wetlands of Rockland Road, Scituate, Rhode Island.

The frogs were going bananas in the early light. I guess they thought it was the same romantic color as evening--which I guess it is...with maybe a hint more bad breath involved.

I turned and ventured on, using my compass to comfort me. West. That was the only thing I needed to see. After several miles I glimpsed a clearing up ahead, with a complex number of roads crossing each other...

"Crazy Corners" Scituate, Rhode Island.

Rockland Road is the middle road coming in from the top left in the image above. And, just before it reaches that weird arrow-head intersection is the place of the Square Stone Table. Here's a better view...

The arrow marks the entrance and the circle surrounds the Stone Table.

The entrance that I came in from looks like this...

The Stone Table is seen in the very back of the center of the photo.

Google Street View.

This spot was my Stonehenge. Some great soul had erected these things that I might someday find them. Or, so I imagined. I walked in...

All of my stuff was jumbled up in the pack, hanging off by bungee cords, some wet, some dry, some to be thrown away. When I saw this one and only place to rest and reorganize, a very, VERY strange feeling came over me. I'm going to tell you about it, but there is no requirement for belief on your part, as there should be no requirement for proof on my part. Okay?

* * * * * * *

I saw, as it were, faces across the trees in the background. It was like an audience of happy and expectant children. The orange of the sky had turned brilliant yellow, and streamed down much as you see in the Google image above.

No traffic passed by as I entered this small sanctuary; this sacred place. There were no sounds made by human beings, only birds and the small creatures of the morning; rising, breathing, living, as they always do, always have, and always will...

I walked in and saw the heavy granite table. It was carefully placed on four large stones. It was evenly weighed out; stable as a concrete piling and close to perfectly level, with it's rough bumps and surface distortions adding a rough artistic beauty.

Many other stones were placed around the area, large and small. In the center was a stone fireplace. The ground was spotless, except for some wind-blown trash, which I (not seeing a trash can) picked up and put where others had courteously done the same--in the fire pit.

I knew this was my refuge. And the unseen companion who had not left my side, even since Boston's rainy vigil, seemed to smile at me from my left side. I could not seen him directly, but I felt the happiness he shone upon me in this place...from his invisible face.

Warm waves flowed up and down my spine. I removed the pack and respectfully laid it to the side of the table. All I wanted to do for a while is sit at one of its grand stools and simply breath.

Mist gently rose and dissipated, in slow meandering wisps. The roads disappeared. And I was in another kind of reality; deep within some medieval forest, before the advent of time itself.

I had been so anxious; so bent down with stress and uncertainty. I was an old man, being made new. My thirst was forgotten for the time being. I had this place to rest and completely take all of my stuff apart, separate it, dry it, and repack it. I could take as long as I wanted. My inner voice said, This is your day. You will be filled. You will be recharged. Remember it when you feel weak. I clearly heard this voice from the Light--from the Spark...

I'm not above being skeptical myself about such potentially thirst-driven and weary delusions. But hey! It was good enough for me. I gladly accepted this message with an open heart and would soon explore it with an opened mind. Two roaches of the non-living kind were tucked into a crevasse on the table top. I consumed them as one should in such circumstances. 

And, indeed, my mind was opened...

I saw white sand and a salt water beach. A warm breeze blew through my hair and down my back, though my shirt. It had been so long...

In this beach vision the sun rose behind me. I was facing west...the end of the longest journey in my life. I had no idea what it meant, but could surmise that maybe it was California.

I pictured myself walking on a road, smooth and black. But instead of moving forward, each step was pulling the entire earth under and behind me like a planet-sized treadmill, just as fast as I would walk. In this way, did the earth rotate below my feet, and according to my stride. I knew I was a disheveled, frumpy and weather-worn traveler. I was the least of all men. But the ground below me was subject to my gate. How could this be? It didn't matter to me at the time. And, why still doesn't matter to me. I don't care about revelations and prophecies. I only care about the immediate moment and why it might be the most important thing in the Universe.

After some time the vision and feeling faded. My personal transformation had run its course. I was no longer what I had been. I am no longer what I was. With my devotion to the road, all of my experience has found liberation from the fetters of preconception and human bias. With my single-minded desire to simply act, back at North Station in Boston, I had broken out of the bonds of a lifetime of disappointment. For this one moment I had entirely become immune to disappointment. I knew that I would occasionally fall back, falter and doubt. But, this was the experience I would be able to revisit and recharge myself with, just as the voice had promised.

For a few minutes I simply sat and wept tears of joy.

* * * * * * *

When I was reasonably back in touch with the everyday world, I felt a huge smile on my face and threw myself into unpacking and re-organizing my stuff. Here are some of the pictures of that...

As I reworked things, cleaned them, dried them out and generally enjoyed the morning, I thought to myself, This day would be absolutely perfect if I only had something to drink; something to wash away this thirst...

Just then, a white truck that said "Providence Water" drove in. It was Raymond DiCarlo, whom I will profile in the next post. 

That meeting ended with him leaving and then unexpectedly coming back with a liter Mt. Dew for me. So it did indeed end up being a perfect day. And, though perfection may be a goal in itself, it is not a limit. It can still be added to. When I met the Knights of the Stone Table, additional happiness was found. They will also be profiled after Raymond.

I said some time ago at Facebook that I was going to try wear my soul on the outside. We are usually told that the body houses the soul. But, such need not be the case. The soul (in my opinion, now) should house the body instead. At the very least I will seek to have it house mine.

So I relate the story above with the naked innocence and trusting, wide-eyed expectation of a child who has been reborn...as such. That is what is required for the soul to begin its migration from the inside to the outside.

The fact that hundreds of people may read this (some of them with malice in mind) will be a real test to my battered-destroyed-and-rebuilt ego (and I say "ego" in the clinical, Freudian sense; not the meme-driven, stereotypical sense of selfishness that the word usually connotes).

I ask that you only consider that this experience was real to ME. And, in the weeks and months to come, I hope you can remember what drives me by recalling this unusual and transformative event in this journey. There need be no actual, provable fact in order for there to be Real truth. And, this is all True, in that exact sense.

This was the day that I knew I would finish my journey - eventually - and might actually pull a wave of social optimism behind me that I have never seen before. 

For, those who can believe without seeing and love without restriction, may also be the ones who finally get the chance to observe what they have only yet believed, and feel their own LOVE unfold and wash over this very land...maybe someday, even across the whole world.

Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 7 - Johnston, RI to North Scituate, RI - Ghosts of War

This sleeping spot had been great. There was a stone wall that ran between me and the woods. The leaves were very soft and the roadway was far enough away that I was not very visible. I'd finally fallen asleep at about 3:30 am.

The watch alarm beeped at 5:30 am. I turned it off and fell back asleep for another two hours. By that time the sky was bright and the blue of the sleeping bag was obvious. I also saw that one of the exits from the interstate was funneling traffic onto Route 6A right across from me. So a steady line of cars were able to see me if they actually tried to look.

I wasn't as tired as I thought I'd be. The pack up went well. I kicked my way through the leaves and sticks, back onto Route 6A, which then ended and turned into Route 6, heading west.

I was getting used to looking for sleeping spots even in the morning. More unintentional training. It became a habit, one that would hone itself into a full blown talent in the next few days.

There were lots of pretty lakes and ponds, rivers and old stone walls. The Revolutionary War images that came to me while in Massachusetts, began to turn into Civil War scenes here in Rhode Island. I could picture New England soldiers marching southward, proud but scared. In my imagination the road dissolved and the trees were replaced by fields and much older trees. Power lines turned into the occasional telegraph wire.

The men - or rather the ghosts of the men - had shiny metal buttons, new blue caps, muskets, newly fashioned rifles, and they towed behind them a newly developed weapon: the machine gun.

Gatling Rapid Fire Gun, c.a. 1862.

Courtesy of the National Park Service.

"One of the first successful machine guns was the Gatling, with its revolving barrels. Later, this concept was superseded by belt-fed, high-speed, single-barrel weapons. Recently, however, machine guns like the Vulcan and mini-guns have returned to the revolving principle of the Gatling."

National Park Service

Humanity was quickly perfecting the art of dealing death. The American Civil War was the transition period between the tactics and weaponry of the Colonial Period and what would become the horrific firepower and weapons of mass destruction that would characterize the two World Wars to follow.

Along with new weapons, came the widespread use of morphine for the first time in a major war. It had been isolated from the Papaver somniferum plant (the opium poppy) 60 years before, in 1804. But, its real potential for pain relief in hospitals and thence in battlefield hospitals came with the invention of the hypodermic needle in 1852, just before the Southern Rebellion.

Whatever you may think about the reputation of opiates in modern times, nothing brought more relief to wounded soldiers in the Civil War and the subsequent wars that would soon follow than did morphine delivered by injection. The poppy plant has gotten a bad rap because of human behavior, the irresponsible marketing of Big Pharma, and the subsequent over-reach of governments to control it...and blame it--an inanimate object. I thought - on this day - what a cop-out it is to demonize things, when it is their users (we) who make them destructive. The same could be said for guns.

The day was cool, but not overly so. As I passed along the leaf-littered banks of Moswansicut Pond, I noticed that there were fences on both sides of the road with yellow signs warning against trespassing. The lakes and pond of that area are the major reservoirs and sources of water for the city of Providence. It was obvious that a great deal of work had gone into preserving the land; some of which - though looking like it was in its original natural state - had been painstakingly built up with the redirection of water and the intentional demolition of old dams. This great project sometimes forced entire towns to be moved, with their land flooded over.

It fascinates me to no end to learn of the major historical disruptions to people's lives as these events become so faded with the passing of time that they are all but forgotten today. Older generations lose their passion for fighting against unfair social policies in proportion to their subsequent replacement by newer generations. The Scituate, Rhode Island river diversion was one of those disruptions. I would only learn the details of this story the next day when I met my second friend in Rhode Island, Raymond DiCarlo, a Providence Water worker, whom I will profile in the next post. For a detailed account of one related drama that took place almost a hundred years ago, I refer you to the article, Scituate Reservoir: A Story of Sacrifice, by Robert L. Smith.

I wanted to get into Connecticut, but not too far north of the coast.  I was afraid of going too far west and not being able to find a south-running route, once over the state line. The last thing I wanted was to end up in the Hartford area--another big city.

So I decided to leave Route 6 and head south down Elmdale Road. I continued straight to Danielson Pike. There were signs to North Scituate. Figuring there would probably be a more major road through that town, I turned and hiked east; a direction I always dreaded seeing the compass point towards. I had the feeling there were stores ahead. I was hungry and needed someplace like Dunkin Donuts with Wi-Fi to touch base with my friends on Facebook and examine Google Maps.

I passed by the State Police Barracks just as a crew-cut officer passed by me in his jogging gear, running toward the gate of the building. Next to meet my gaze on the left was the State of Rhode Island: State Police Museum. Must have been an interesting place, but not interesting enough to sway me from finding lunch and internet service.

Then I saw a strange structure called the "Horseshoe Dam," which was built to allow natural overflow during flooding, to keep that end of Scituate Reservoir at a certain level...

The Horseshoe Dam, North Scituate, Rhode Island.

I was walking into the heart of the little village of North Scituate, part of Scituate proper. It was a sweet little New England town that looked as though it had been peeled off a Norman Rockwell calendar, pushed on the z-axis to become 3D, and then sprinkled with sunshine and flower pots.

The 'Old Congregational Church' North Scituate, Rhode Island.

When I got to the corner of Danielson Pike and Route 116, I did a good look-over. Nope. No Dunkin Donuts. I supposed it would not belong in such an old fashioned village.

The pack was really bearing down on my shoulders. The sun was way past its zenith and I had to begin thinking about finding a place to spend the night. I was a bit frustrated with myself for once again falling off the beaten path (Route 6). However, as I would learn the next day, there truly is a Reason for everything.

Not knowing where to start, I headed to a service station called, Scituate Auto Center at the intersection of Danielson Pike and Route 116. There, behind the counter was a very helpful gentleman. He directed me to the cafe across the street for free WiFi. He also offered directions and options for heading southwest toward Connecticut on my travels the next day. I wish I had gotten his name. Maybe I will when this blog is finally turned into a book.

After removing the pack to rest for a moment, I strapped it back on and headed across to the Robin's Nest Cafe and Bakery...
                                                                                                   

Google Street View image.

Now, despite this little cafe being internet friendly (even having an outlet outside), I could not seem to find a website for it at the time to direct you. Regardless, it did the trick.

The man behind the counter was (I thought) the spitting image of Anthony Bourdain - one of my culinary and travel heroes, and host of such great shows as "No Reservations" - and he had the same kind of personality. They were just closing and he offered an egg, cheese and sausage frittata and a slice of pizza for free. He also offered to let me sit outside and use the Wi-Fi for as long as I wanted that evening. This was the Rhode Island attitude that I was beginning to truly appreciate. So far, I'd noticed that these folks give with no expectation of receiving anything back. And, they were not the type of people who pulled punches. They were just energetic, hardworking, life-lovers.

I sat outside eating my pizza as it grew dark. I did what I needed to do online and worked until the chill in the air reminded me that it was time to build my nightly nest...somewhere.

I had earlier decided that if no better option presented itself, I would sneak onto some part of the fenced reserve. One of the secrets to finding sleeping places that I was learning was that (counter-intuitively) I am least likely to be discovered if I do things in plain sight, but that people would never guess; in ways that they would also never expect. So, as Iwallked west back along Danielson Pike, I saw a dark, unfenced area in the trees, just diagonally across from the State Police Barracks. The little voice gave an affirmation and across the field I ran when no cars were in sight.

I entered the woods, which was fully open, level and well appointed with a thick layer of leaves. The one thing I had not done, or rather, failed to do in time, was buy something to drink. The saltiness of the pizza was taking its revenge, and after a day of walking and sweating I was utterly parched. It was only the beginning of the night.

My mind instantly went into water-fantasyland as it had back on the night of my Massachusetts Interstate 93 experience near Blue Hills Reservation. I turned my attention to finding a place for rolling out the sleeping bag.

Suddenly, I heard very heavy foot falls out in the darkness just behind me. There were a serious of faster rustles and snorts in other directions too. This was before I'd learned more about the kinds of large animals I would run into and their real behaviors.

For the first time on this journey I reverted back to a more primitive form of anxiety. I even took a picture of the forest void to detect any eyes, or other animal forms that might be lurking. But this is all I saw...

Something's out there...?

I put down the little towel I use to rest my head on when I sleep, but I was hesitant to pull out the sleeping bag until I felt more comfortable in that place. Under normal, well-hydrated, circumstances I don't believe I would have been anxious at all. But the distractions of my thirst had made me hyper-vigilant. I sat up most of the night staring into the blackness, with my ears carefully examining each sound. It should have been a comfortable and restful night. Instead it was another of the long nights I would endure. 

By about 2:30 am, something inside me said, Well, if something bad was going to happen it would have, so get some sleep. I complied and pulled out my sleeping bag, climbed into it and immediately fell into unconsciousness, not waking until the beep of my watch toned in at 5:30 am. I had little idea that my first great spiritual transformation and the answers to my many inner questions about why I was doing what I was doing, and what it was all for, would shortly be answered - in large part - in the light of the next morning...

The Scituate Sleeping Place.

Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 6 - Dighton, MA to Johnston, RI - Paul Rianna

This would prove to be a good day and it marks a new direction for this blog. Whenever I meet new people as I did on this occasion I will title the post after them.

* * * * * * *

Things were getting easier as I passed southward through Massachusetts. My feet were acclimating to the weight of my pack and the weight of myself. My shoulders were less and less sore each day. My back was getting stronger. It was good that I had done so much long distance walking in my life back in Maine. I knew how to deal with the psychology--the monotony of the these treks.

Also, I was more confident about relying on my stick's compass for navigation. When I'd first started out I had trouble trusting it, because of its size. Sometimes I would be facing the sun at noon (which meant I was facing south) and the compass would read north. But a few gentle taps of the stick on the ground would send it to the correct reading. There is a little bubble in it which I thought at first was just a manufacturing defect. But, I realized that it was actually a level indicator. When the bubble was resting directly in the middle of dial I knew the stick was straight up and down. Consequently, if the dial stuck on the edge of its well, I would notice, loosen it and that would adjust to read correctly.

Good old Route 44 was becoming as familiar as Route 138 had been. Because I didn't have a cellphone or GPS, I had to rely on my sketchy memory of the towns I'd seen when online with the Google Maps mental images to gauge just how close I was to Rhode Island. This kind of memory was rarely reliable. It did, though, usually serve to trigger the image of the map for me whenever I saw signs upon entering new towns. I'd see the name of a town on a sign and suddenly the map image would also appear in my mind.

Certain things made me laugh as walked along. The signs that store owners came up with to attract customers were a never-ending source of amusement. Today there was "The Adult Toy Store on Route 44!" and "Not getting enough grease? Stop in for Bubba's 'Famous Bacon Burger'!"

The sun seemed to zip across the sky while I walked. In the mornings and evenings time moves much faster than it does at midday. The hours from 12:00 pm to about 3:00 pm always drags by. I guess it is like that for me even in my non-journeying life, but I didn't identify the phenomenon until now.

Just after about 3:00 pm I came over a hill, around a bend and there it was this sign...

The first sign that told me I wasn't in Massachusetts anymore.

I stopped and stared at it for a moment. A strange feeling came over me, like a vision but purely mental: I will complete this journey. There was something about having walked through my first state that meant it was possible to do it in any state. I wasn't deluded enough to think that some states would take perhaps weeks. The states will get a LOT bigger. My friend Frank in New Mexico wrote in an email that it made him laugh to read my stories of going from state to state in New England, "LOL  I forget how small the states are back there.  My concepts are so western.  lol  I have never been to Maine, VT, RI, NY and all that."

I was famished. The first of the PayPal contributions had finally come in that day, and I was ready to have a big meal. All the quintessential stores and restaurants of the big city edges began to emerge into view. The beeping and jostling for position increased among the drivers as I watched the rush hour take hold. 

I had wanted to go directly to Connecticut. But, I had no choice once I headed south out of Boston. I didn't know what to expect from Rhode Island. The last time I was there was when I toured with a band in college. But that was on the coast only. And, I never really did get to meet any people.

A mini mall centered around Stop & Shop had ten businesses in it, and since it was the first place I saw, I read the sign carefully. The word "Buffet" stuck out. My stomach can lend a hyperfocus to my eyes when it wants to.

The New Buffet - a Chinese place which looked about a decade old - was wedged into a small door space. But upon entering it, the blue-lit interior expanded out into a sea of empty tables. It was your very typical, industrial Chinese buffet, and then some... 

On the walls were mural-sized pictures of Chinese places, back lit with some of the lights missing. There were two women speaking Mandarin, one of them seemed very hyper, maybe upset? The other mostly sat and nodded interjecting her own comments every now and then. Though there were only two other parties at tables in far flung locations, it took a good five minutes for the excited woman to walk over and ask if I wanted a seat.

She sat me in a booth, and a very friendly waitress immediately appeared and asked what I wanted to drink. I ordered a Coke and asked if there were free refills, being fifteen-miles tired and glistening with sweat. She said "yes," and placed a plate in front of me.

There is something kind of pathetic - no...maybe just depressing - about buffets like this. They are feedlots for people. Their purpose was entirely to make money. Both sides - service and customer - know well that, unlike a really classy place where atmosphere is an important component to eating out, the human aspect of the Chinese buffet is simply a secondary requirement to getting their mutually exclusive jobs done in a rather mechanical way. Food is cooked and if not eaten it is tossed out by the ton. Wasting food has always bothered me, but I've grown to accept it.

Two very young, probably lower income (though I don't want to presume) families came in as I walked to the pile up a plate. They were obviously visiting this place as a special occasion for their young kids. It was like something they had planned well ahead of time. Or, maybe I am creating a pretext that didn't really exist. Regardless, the kids were beyond excited. They were well-behaved and listened to their parents while containing their glee. It was nice to have a bit of spirit flow into the nearly-vacant, auditorium-sized space.

The food was average to somewhat lower than average in quality. Some things were cold, others that should have been liquid had the tiniest hint of a dry skin growing over them. They had "sushi," but upon closer inspection, it turned out to be the kind you order from California, rather than California rolls--with "fish legs" as a main ingredient, or imitation crab meat that won't go bad for three weeks. I skipped it.

I just wanted to eat and it was nice to have something different from cold sandwiches and Dunkin Donuts breakfasts. I went up for seconds and finally had my fill. I sucked down a Sprite and then a large water. The bill was under ten dollars, which isn't bad at all. Perhaps they accidentally charged me the lunch rate instead of dinner? 

When I was ready for the bill, my fortune cookie came. And, not missing the possibility for an auspicious opportunity to occur, I cracked it and found this...

Profundity, for $9.95.

I found myself actually caring what it meant. Am I now succeeding where I had failed before? Will I soon fail but rise up with an ever greater scheme? The possibilities were endless; as they should be when fortune cookie writing is considered. I still have that little fortune. We can play with what it meant when all of this traveling is over.

I stood up and looked down at my ever-present companion, the backpack. It seemed to smile back at me, sheepishly, innocently, like a fat pet that I can't give away, but I am also chained to carry its lazy ass around. I sighed heavily, knowing that I would soon suffer the "Chinese hangover." They did not have WiFi at the restaurant but I was smart enough (for once) to make several screenshots of the maps on Google to examine at a time like this. Providence was intimidating, but somehow compared to Boston it shrank slightly in its ability to overawe me.

I picked up the fat, smiling pet and strained to throw it over my shoulders. I strapped it up, grabbed my faithful walking stick, and headed out into the now darkening night.

The plan was to follow Route 44 across the Providence River and then find a route across the city. Almost immediately upon walking toward the bridge I noticed that I wasn't on Route 44 anymore. I also noticed that the bridge was not connected to the road I was on. Shit! That same old feeling that I was getting used to, of being lost and having to work out a way of becoming "found" again, sank in.

I found myself walking under the bridge at a 90 degree direction (along the river bank) to flow of traffic above. When I emerged on the other side, I saw a steep grassy embankment that ran up to what turned out to be Route 1A, the smaller bridge I'd seen in the map. I took it as a sign that maybe I could get myself out of this current situation.

There was a bike lane that ran along the edge of the bridge and I walked along it to the other side, where I took the exit and checked my compass. I adjusted my direction west and walked down a small unlit road, called Waterman Street, until I saw a Whole Foods Market in all its over-priced glory, shining like a beacon of stuffy, fads-gone-by self importance.

But, how could I criticize? I was happy as hell to find it. Out of all grocery stores it was sure to have Wi-Fi and I would be able to form a Plan B and Plan C.

I was quite tired by then. It had been a good 20 miles since I'd walked out of my last sleeping place. I was beginning to feel the effects of my Chinese over-indulgence, as I felt and heard digested food pour from one side of me to the other. "Ughhh..." I said out loud.

So, first came a trip to the bathroom and then feeling much better, thank you, I bought a 1.5 liter Black Currant Juice (God knows why--instead of water); spending almost as much on it as my bowel-twisting Chinese feast. I downed the bottle, because I had sweat out all that I'd had to drink at the buffet. I pulled the laptop out of my pet-pack and fired it up outside on one of the wrought iron tables. I got a signal right away and talked to some of you through Facebook that night, while examining maps of the city.

Trendy men in shorts and Eddie Bauer jackets walked by from the parking lot. And, every woman was over five feet nine inches, had perky straight hair and skinny jeans or more often black stretch pants on their highly toned legs. Everyone walked with confidence and ease over obstacles without missing a beat, while texting, flicking their hair back and forth and generally looking beautiful in every way. The stretch pant thing itself was ubiquitous down here in Southern New England. It looks good and seems comfortable. But its prevalence was almost like a way to become part of a cloned fashion army. I caught myself people-watching instead of researching routes and shook my head before diving back into Google Maps.

The way was relative clear, or so it seemed. The strategy was to find Route 6A, which led out of the west side of town, eventually joining its mother, Route 6, into a more suburban area where I might actually find a place to sleep.

Reluctantly, and with a teeth-grinding amount of effort I pulled the backpack on again. It felt unbearably heavy, the way it always does when I first put it on. The only comfort I could muster was the psychological expectation that eventually I would get used to it, as I always do.

I walked west and - once again - bared off onto the wrong street. I walked for about two miles and then realized I was way off. These are the times when I begin to get too frustrated. Such a long day, with so many miles already underfoot, and here I stood in another city, lost, as lost as a sleepy child could be in a dark and potentially dangerous forest of concrete and glass.

When this kind of desperate situation begins to fully dawn on me, I simply stumble into survival mode. It is born of the realization that there are no options left but to get out of the trouble I'm in...and nothing can stop me. I believe that if I broke my leg at such a time I would still crawl, dragging my limp appendage, until I could emerge from the Minotaur's maze.

I once saw a movie - can't remember the title - where the main character said, "Once your limited options are gone, then ALL options become available." This was something like that. I resolved to conquer the situation no matter what. After resting on a short but wide concrete wall for about ten minutes, allowing it to hold the weight of the pack. I stood up and started walking again.

Near a women's clinic in god-knows what part of the city I found a woman outside waiting for a ride. She was very kind looking, so I stopped and asked her how to get over to Route 6A. She said she didn't know but that I definitely shouldn't go "that" way, and pointed to a darker part well west of where we were.

We both looked at each other and nodded with psychic agreement. She said, "I'm black and I won't even go there." I must have furrowed my brow a bit, because she laughed and disarmed the awkwardness by patting me on the shoulder. I thanked her and began again, as if in self-forced marching in the opposite direction that she had warned about.

Finally I found a dorm on the Brown University Campus and sat at a wooden table out in front. What appeared to be a group of freshman girls arrived on a campus bus. They giggled and teased each other, screaming in delight and obviously slightly drunk. I was able to hitch onto the dorm's WiFi (which means I'd had to disassemble my bungee web and take the pack apart in order to pull out the laptop).

I checked the satellite images on Google and found the right bridge over I95. I packed up again, pulled on the backpack again, and began walking quickly, with an earnest determination. Not really feeling the strain of it all anymore, flooded by adrenaline, I made good progress out of the largest part of the city.

I walked past people and they occasionally stared, but it was not as pervasive as the attention I had received in Massachusetts. People kept to themselves. I passed through some very rough areas of town, before stopping at an all night Cumberland Farms in the Federal Hill section of town.

There, a nice older woman - the manager I think? - told me how to connect with Route 6A. "You have to walk up a really steep hill. At the top you will see an intersection with a busy road. THAT is Route 6A. Take a right onto it. Further down you will find an all night Shell Station where you will be able to rest and use the bathroom." I was stunned that she would be so concerned about how I was doing. But I thanked her nonetheless, as graciously as I possibly could, and returned to my trail of sweat.

I got to the hill and climbed, and climbed, and climbed. The neighborhood grew more prosperous as I passed through it. Finally, when I couldn't take another step upward I reached the top. There it was, the grand intersection prophesied by my Cumberland Farm guru, and the traffic flowed like high-beamed honey just beyond the Route 6A (also known as Hartford Avenue) sign. I smiled.

I began to falter. I was just physically giving out. My mind would have kept going until the end of the world, but my body was not able to take commands anymore. I sat down on a large boulder by the side of the road in what I would later learn was the town of Johnston. I panted and dripped sweat from the visor of my Maine cap. The pack weight was temporarily held up by the back of the boulder. I saw that there was a string of brighter lights ahead, up the road. I heard a sound behind me, a door opening. I slowed turned to see the silhouette of a man standing, smoking in the doorway and watching me calmly. I said, "How ya doin'?"

He replied with a "...good...good."

Perceiving that I might be on his property, I offered, "I'm just hiking through and need a rest."

He said, "No problem at all. Do you want a coffee or something."

I thought this a strange thing to ask, since it was about 2:00 am. "No, I think I'll get back to the road. I appreciate your offer very much though. Thank you."

He said, "Sounds good."

I got up and felt a bit better. It wasn't long at all until I saw the fabled Shell Station (1396 Hartford Avenue, Johnston). I crossed the road and dragged my pathetic self inside.

There, alone, working hard and energetically, filling coffee machines, cleaning the bathroom, then writing on a piece of paper behind the counter--as if twenty customers were passing through the store, was Paul Rianna, Jr.

PAUL RIANNA, JR.

Paul Rianna working his night shift at the Shell Station in Johnston, RI

My meeting with Paul is where this story changes. He is the first of the growing number of people - my new friends - whom I would meet and actually talk to.

I told him what I was doing, and he was the first person not to call me crazy. He didn't fawn or seem surprised. In fact it was as if nothing would surprise him. I asked how long he'd been working there. I believe he said eleven years (and I will adjust that if I find out differently, because we are now Facebook friends). He has a girlfriend and lives in the area. Paul works a lot--six days a week.

As we spoke he generously offered me a free coffee, this time I accepted the offer of coffee, despite the late hour. A few guys came in and he seemed to know each one--as regulars. He helped them efficiently and sent them on their way, satisfied.

When I realized I still had to find a place to sleep I pulled on my pack and bowed out, very happy that my Real mission had begun in earnest.

People. That is what this adventure was going to be about: Real people living their lives in 21st Century America. I want to get a taste of what they do and what they think. But mostly I want to present them to the world, because they deserve to be known.

Plenty of celebrities, pop stars, supermodels, politicians and corporate CEO's have been highlighted in the media. Now, it was time for the people who actually run the country to be seen. And, there would be plenty more to come.

Rhode Island was a great place to start. I met many people who were kind, plain spoken, intelligent, hard working there.

When I left the shell station I continued up the road a-ways until I found a sleeping place for the night...

I rested in peace that night; exhausted beyond what I've ever known--having walked slightly over 35 miles, but filled with satisfaction and hope for my project. The next days would bring new aspects to the development of this effort, and, on one particular day, a true transformation within myself, and a confirmation that what I was attempting might someday have real importance.

The Johnston Sleeping Place