Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 3 - South Boston, MA to Blue Hills Reservation, MA - Thirst and Rain

I woke when my 5:30 am watch alarm beeped. The sound outside the tarp tent was still there and even stronger. I quickly began the pack-up process that I would get quite used to. I was absolutely drenched. The inside of the tent was nearly raining with condensed sweat and breath. It was as wet on the inside as it was on the outside.

My fingers were so cold that I had a hard time squishing the sleeping bag back into it's little carrying sack. But somehow I got the job done. The sun wasn't even thinking of coming up yet. As I walked back up the hill I realized that the sound I'd heard was actually just the tide coming in, with its associated waves breaking over the hollow grass stems that grew around the rocks by the seaside. I laughed to myself at my irrational fear of dangerous animals. I'd learned another lesson.

The rain was ending, temporarily. I could feel the slightly drier change in the air. It was something like reaching the mainland after being lost at sea. This day would be less eventful, yet harder in some ways.

The first store I found, continuing down William T. Morrissey, was a 7 Eleven. I was a bit foggy about what town I was in. I was pretty sure that I was out of Boston proper. I went in and waited in line while six people in front of me each bought five or six scratch tickets. I can't comment very much on this, because my view might not be overly popular. I will say that there is a good reason why such games build up payoff amounts so quickly. You can reason out the rest.

The attendant - who got no thank yous from the folks in front of me and gave no thank yous to them - let me know I was indeed in Dorchester Center. I found this a little disappointing since I'd imagined myself way outside of Boston. I paid him with a handful of reserve change for a coffee - saying very clearly, "Thank You, Sir." 

He looked a bit confused as if something were terribly out of place and then replied hesitantly "...no problem." This seems to be the new way to show appreciation to the customers who buy things from your business. "No problem." Really? Is there some scenario where me putting my money in your hand would be a problem? From this point on, I am listening more carefully to how people relate to each other in financial exchanges and customer service. 

Outside, the rain was certainly letting up. There were bright clouds mixed in among the dark clouds. Maybe this is what they mean by "silver linings"? I took it as such.

I turned right and somehow reached Dorchester Avenue, then headed south using it to pass through Ashmont. I wound through the canyons of apartments and the webbing of intersecting streets--so many that it was hard to believe they could find names for them all, with a constant eye on my little compass. The idea was to always head south and west. It is important to restate just how significant the help of a compass (alone) can be...

Within an hour I was seeing more trees, less concrete and brick. I noticed that the houses began to increase in size. This isn't a racist or value statement, but only an observation: the number of white people driving around town increased. This could have been a scene in Cape Elizabeth, Falmouth Foreside, or Freeport, Maine. 

Nicely trimmed lawns and small rose gardens punctuated patches of woods and lush parks. Old mills stood along cement-bordered, tea-colored rives which flowed through the town. It was a truly refreshing change from the two days of miserable, urban jungle environments to which I had just been subjected.

I passed a sign that said "You are entering Milton Est. 1640" (now, there is a founding date I won't see out west!). My mother, commenting on my location, wrote an email saying...

"Milton is about 12 miles from where I grew up...South Weymouth. My Dad's middle name is Milton (not because of Milton, MA). When we first drove around that area, we would see signs saying  'Entering Milton'." Mom got a kick out of that and would say, 'Entering Milton, said the hypodermic.'"

I took Central Avenue which ran into Route 28 south and discovered that I was walking by the Milton Public Library. Finally, a free Wi-Fi oasis. That was where I wrote my first blog post here (Day 1). I spent a good four to five hours there recouping and writing. 

Very nice library if you ever have a chance to visit it. There was a large Children's Room, so large that I thought it was the main area and established myself there at the surprisingly short table. I was all set-up when the first mother entered with two kids on a leash and one baby in her arms. The running-around, screaming, crying and laughing was the final cue passing through my thick skull that I had camped at the "playground." So, I picked up all my various bit and pieces (being watched curiously by little eyes, and suspiciously by bigger parental ones) and moved to a nice soft chair and table by the windows in the Media Section.

I looked up the a map for the area and saw that I should be heading to Route 1, via Route 28. Upon leaving, I found Route 28 again and began the march south. The road was very straight. I figured as long as I kept walking forward I should be able to reach Route 1 by late afternoon. Then, because not every merger is marked with a street sign, and Route numbers often have names, I accidentally took a right turn that was so gradual, I was sure it must still be Route 28. I was wrong. I discovered later that it was actually Hillside Street. I knew I was in trouble when the center line disappeared and the road grew very narrow. The word "Hill" in the name should have set off red flares as well. 

Thinking back I realized where I must have made my mistake. It was right across from a white mansion about a mile back. What I should have done, in hindsight, was retrace my steps and the connect back with Route 28. What I did do instead was look for a road heading east, assuming it would reconnect with Route 28 further down the line. When Chickatawbut Road appeared on the left, I took it. 

In no time at all I was climbing up, and up, and up a mountain. I kept thinking the angle would level off, but let out sighs of exasperation as I rounded corners only to see more climbing ahead. Furthermore, the compass began to point northeastward instead of just north. I was doubling back, but had gone too far (so I thought) to retrace.  

I had to keep stopping and resting on guardrails which were perfectly high enough to support the pack without taking it off. I was hurting a bit, especially my shoulders and feet, and wishing I had brought water with me. The sweat was soaking into my cap and dripping off the visor. One thing I noticed about Massachusetts drivers (at least in this part of the state) was that they seem to use the breakdown lane as a guide for their wheels--often having one side of the car on the outside of the line. At first I thought this was due to texting or something (and it may be in some cases?), but generally their eyes were on the road. I mention it because it seemed to be the norm that afternoon. I also noticed that afternoon was quickly becoming evening.

I was pretty sure that somehow I was on the wrong road and would have to find a spot on this mountain to camp until I reached a couple of signs that indicated Route 28 would soon emerge.

When I reached it I had ended up traveling another mile. When I carefully examined the situation later, I noticed that if I hadn't taken the wrong turn onto Hillside, it would have only been a thousand feet from the wrong turn to the outlet of Chickatawbut. I had indeed walked 10 times further than I'd needed to! 

After taking a right onto Route 28 and heading south again I began to notice signs for I-93 and Route 1 (my current destination). I passed a sign saying I had entered Quincy. The sun was down by the time I was now painfully reaching Route 1 and I-93. The sign was very confusing to me. Here it is from Google Street View...

I couldn't tell if the sign was saying that going straight would be south, or taking a right onto the interstate would go south (since it didn't, it went west). I just wanted to do whatever I could to get to Route 1.

It didn't register with me at the time, but everyone knows interstate highways do not allow walkers, bicycles, horse drawn carriages, etc... In the solid line of blinding headlights that approached me I saw up ahead that there was no alternative to getting on the highway, and I sure as hell wasn't going back. So, with illegal intentions, I used some of my last energy to cross the road, like a disabled, 200 pound, green-coated, wobbling chicken--to get to the other side. There, I found the on ramp to I-93/Route 1. I had become one of those guys I hates so much when I was driving along the interstate. The illegal walker.

In amongst the open-windowed, swearing, horn blasting rush hour drivers I practically dove over the guardrail and almost rolled down the embankment which was very steep and disappearing into a deep dark place that I couldn't even see and didn't want to imagine about what might lurk there. The rain had started again.

I pulled myself together and rested against the grass side of the guard rail and realized that I needed to get out of sight, in case a State Trooper were to drive by.

It was another one of those awful moments of physical distress that I was becoming used to. My feet felt like a sandy mixture of broken glass and metal filings ground into their bottoms and between the toes. The sweat was pouring over my eyes and face so much that I had to constantly wipe it. There was a thick mist mixed with sprinkling rain in every direction. With all this water in the air and squeezing out of my body, still my throat was dry and I could think of little else but just drinking. How could I spend a whole night without water? I tried to formulate a plan about how to move forward on the highway, when, suddenly, fantasies of cool, running water began to permeate my mind. I couldn't even help it. My will wasn't strong enough to stop this water-dreaming distraction.

The only semi-rational thought I had was to simply walk forward. My dwindling faith somehow was still strong enough to intuitively signal that relief simply had to be up ahead. Keep walking... I seemed to say to myself...

The twelve inch grass, otherwise fragrant artemisia plants, dead and dying sumacs, unseen ruts and trash, mixed with old discarded construction signs and their twisted wooden support frames. The state itself should have to pay a fine for littering, after the detritus of their construction work is dumped over the bank. Some of it was actually located under their no littering warning signs! The steep bank would occasionally disappear completely as chasms would reach out of the darkness right up to the edge of the road seemingly dropping off into nowhere. I was tripping over all of these things, jumping over the chasms and losing my will to go on.

Water, waterfalls, wells with buckets, Poland Spring bottled water factories, lakes and rain catchment systems, clear drinking glasses fogged over with cold drops of condensation left on picnic table during warm summer days... All of these things flashed more and more frequently into my mind. I even began to hear running water. With that, I stopped adjacent to the first left-running exit on the highway and just stood there.

Wait! It wasn't an audio mirage! There really was a river flowing next to me, to my right; far below in that awful darkness. I slipped and slid down partway toward the magnificent sound. It grew louder. Amazingly, I reached a large and flat area of soft grass. And, I could finally see the object of my desire. It was a river, lazily running over large white chunks of rock. I knew that its source could be anything - from a clear mountain spring to being filtered through a factory leaching heavy metals - but I had to drink from it. There was no longer a choice. I was going to pass out. 

The pack came off, the walking stick was thrown to the ground and I shoe-skied the ten feet down to the river's edge. Falling to my knees on a rock, I scooped up a small amount and put it in my mouth without swallowing, just to taste it. It wasn't perfect. There was that lake-like taste of sweat hardwood leaves, dissolved as a tea-like brew. I made the decision to imbibe and simply deal with the possible health consequences later. I practically dunked my whole face into it and sucked like leach, swallowing whole mouthfuls of the brew. It was sublime, cold, filling the parched cracks of my thirst. I stopped, sat up and closed my eyes, just enjoying the feeling. Then, like one of those "drinking birds" I went in again, and again, and again. If I was going to catch some kind of beaver-borne disease I was at least going to be fully satiated first!  

When I had my fill, I fell back on my ass and looked straight up at the swirling sky above as tiny drops hit my face and rolled over and under my head. Never had I experienced thirst like that before. I was again soaked to the bone. For a moment outside of time, I had ceased being human and had become...water, itself. After some time in this wet ecstasy, I rolled over on my side, then stood up and climbed back to my waiting backpack.

I freed the tarp-tent from its bungee constraints, at the same time unzipping the compartment that held the sleeping bag, pulling it out in one motion. There was no "setting up" a tent. There was only a climbing into the sleeping bag and then squirming into the baglike tarp. I checked my watch and saw that it was about 7:30 pm. 

I was quite thankful that the air wasn't too cold (about 45° F). Just like a wet suit, water can be a warming element, as long as it is held close to the body without exposure to air. And that's exactly what I had; a wet suit-sleeping bag, inside a wet tarp. 

I had the sudden and distinct impression of what it must be like to be one of those pieces of trash thrown out the window of a passing car, or maybe by a passing society on the highway of history; inanimate, alone and left to rot. If I died right then it would take weeks or longer to find me. Nobody would know which way I had chosen to go. And people would never assume that I would walk along the interstate highway. I mean, to do that is just crazy thinking, right? 

As I drifted off to sleep I heard a tiny whisper. It was more like the distant resonation of a vibration reflected back to me from the stunted pattern of my own breathing. Behind the warm, brown curtain of my closed eyes and the fading song through my closing ears...it said... "I AM here."

Blue Hills Reservation Sleep Spot

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Thanks again for following my adventure. The many contributions (both monetary and moral) to this project have given me great strength. Together WE are finding a New Way.

Something tells me it is the greatest time in history to be Alive!