Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 4 - Blue Hills Reservation, MA to Easton, MA - The Sun Returns

For some reason I was hanging out with a bunch of people in a lakeside cabin. We were drinking and there was a kind of sweet smell of smoke in the air. Someone mentioned that my dad was in the driveway. I was shocked. I thought she was kidding. I was pretty far from home and would never expect to see him out there. Then I heard a tiny chirping beep, beep, beep, beep...

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My watch alarm was sounding...

I opened my eyes and quickly remembered where I really was--on the grassy side of Route 93 at the edge of Quincy Massachusetts. I was wrapped up in the my wet sleeping bag and wedged inside the tarp like a black bean sauce in a burrito. It was awkwardly comfortable; warm, but with my skin damply stuck to the lycra-soft second skin of the bag. I just wanted to sleep another hour, but the stars were just beginning to bow and walk off the stage, in honor of our nearest star's rise.

It had been days since I'd seen a sky with no clouds and no rain. The peach colored hue far off in the east glowed in the cool dry air behind trees whose formerly night-silhouetted faces were just becoming visible again.

Almost simultaneously with this observation it seemed that the traffic up above on highway increased in volume. And, that sound - the whooshing, wind-like passing of multi-ton vehicles, the gritty tire noise on a roadway worn smooth by its passing...that constant breath of machine life that had become the soundtrack of this journey - reminded me it was time to get my own ass in gear.

Already there was the potential for drivers to see me down there. I knew that some bored child in the back seat of a BMW might see me; a strange creature emerging from my wrinkled green den, and tell her mother and father. From there, it was only a cellphone call to the police. This was unlikely, but possible.

I scrambled out of the tarp, pulled out the sleeping bag and assessed how much stuff I had lying around, and then the order in which it should be collected and contained. This has my least favorite part of these days. But I set to work, encouraged by the fact that there would be sunlight pouring down instead of rain that day.

I hadn't yet gotten a system down for packing, so I just threw things into the pack wherever I could, beginning to sweat again, with a touch of anxiety. The pack up seemed to go fairly smoothly. I grabbed my now indispensable and beloved walking stick, held it between my legs and strained to pull the pack up onto my back. Securing the chest bungee, the whole mess felt tight enough to stick together. The Bono glasses went on, turning the morning golden.

Now was the fun part: walking a long, steeply sloping and littered highway siding until I could get "off" at the next exit. I saw a sign for Ponkapoag Pond Park (gotta love New England lake names!), in one half mile. That should be a ten minute walk. In spite of my paranoia at being discovered by Massachusetts' finest and sweating down my three-day-wet shirt, under my winter jacket (which I'd regretfully chosen to wear for ease of carrying), I was chugging along like a prey animal and reached the exit in about 7 minutes flat.

It was a short walk up the exit onto Blue Hill River Road, headed west toward what I hoped would be civilization, in some form. I was very thirsty again.

When I reached a bend in the road I saw two older gents jogging toward me. I stopped them and asked if there was Dunkin Donuts or store nearby where I could get food and water. They graciously let me know I was going in the correct direction and that there was indeed a Dunkin Donuts slightly less than a mile up ahead.

It is funny what the mind does when the body desperately needs something like water or rest. It drifts. It can find ways to relieve nearly unbearable burdens. I will have quite a bit to say about this later on. But on this morning it was the Paul McCartney song "My Love" that looped in my head. My thoughts about thirst were diverted by its beautiful melody. I imagined myself singing it to some woman in the future or maybe the ghost of a girlfriend from a happier, younger past. And I wept a little bit as I walked.

When I saw Route 138 (a road I would come to enjoy walking down for the next two days) I was feeling the warm sunlight on the back of my neck and overjoyed to know that I would get a bit of a new start this morning. I would be able to dry out everything. The water that had soaked into all my stuff added even more weight and I would hopefully avoid mildew with a good morning dry-out. And, suddenly across the road, there was Dunkin Donuts; a place to regroup and contact the outside world.

My appreciation for Dunkin Donuts would grow with each passing day. The counter people were always courteous, let me use the WiFi as long as I needed and they had mini-breakfasts that were not heavy.

Now, I understand that people (myself included) try to avoid fast food when they can. Farm raised, free ranging meat, locally sourced vegetables, organic certification... It's all a wonderful development in our society. But in my particular case, Dunkin Donuts is a compromise in food quality that is equaled out by great service and all the technical capabilities of an office--with one in every town. The quality of the food is not that much of a compromise either. For me it works. Other hikers might want to go ten miles out of their way to preserve their healthful and idealized eating integrity. I just need internet, AC power, carbs, fat, protein and fiber...and...of course...ca...ca...caffeine!

At the table outside I began to open up Pandora's Backpack...

What a tangled, twisted, dripping-wet sack of sorry stuff. I was sure that something electronic had to have been ruined. Boston was a painful memory for me. I used to love Bean Town. Now, I was afraid that it's rainy indifference had gotten the last laugh. But, I was pleasantly surprised to find everything in working order.

I unrolled the sleeping bag, and the tarp (I can't call it a tent anymore--it doesn't deserve that kind of dignity). They commenced to steam off the accumulated moisture. I guzzled two 20 oz. cranberry juices in about 15 minutes, while getting online. I wish the juice companies would not do two things: (1) add ascorbic acid (Vitamin C) and (2) artificial sweeteners on TOP of high fructose or sugar. With ascorbic acid I am sensitive to it digestively, if you catch my loose drift, and for me at least, I despise the taste of artificial sweeteners--I'd rather have a less sweet tasting drink that only has sugar, thank you. Even V8 makes fruit juices ruined by sucralose or aspartame. Ha, ha! Rage against the machine!

It was nice to touch base with my friends on Facebook and my mother and sister who had sent messages wondering if I was okay.

After an hour of reorganizing, drying and rehydrating, three guys a little older than I was walked over and sat at the table next to me. They talked loudly and made fun of each other. I couldn't help but hear the conversation.

One guy told about how his wife, whom he'd been fighting with, had gone to the police in revenge for something he had said and (supposedly) claimed that he'd raped her in her sleep. The police asked if they were married, to which she replied in the affirmative. He said the officer then told her that it isn't considered rape if they are married. I have no idea what the laws are in this regard, so I simply am relating the story as I heard it. Apparently, she continued complaining and they reluctantly went to his house to speak with him.

He told this story like it was a common thing; like buying the morning paper. His friends were a bit more quiet than they had been, as if they weren't quite sure how to react. And I, being the 3,000 pound, hiking-gorilla-stranger in the room, made the whole thing all the more more awkward for them, I think.

The guy went on. "So I told the cops that we hadn't been conscious during sex for the last five years anyway! Of course we did it while she was asleep. She's always asleep. When else would we do it? It was just sex and it was normal for us." The guy to his right - a big, overweight dude with a beard and a very long ponytail - chuckled. The raping perp repeated parts of the story in different ways until the other guy obliged by laughing nervously too.

Then the big guy using the opportunity to change the subject said, "So...are we heading up to the Blue Hills today?" I realized by checking Google that that is the forested mountain I had climbed up the previous afternoon. "We could just HIKE around..." I felt the eyes turn to me, but I didn't look over. "I've got my steel toed work boots on but as long as we park at the top and Joey drives the jeep down to the parking lot at the bottom it'll be an easy, downhill HIKE." The three laughed and sipped on their coffees. "OR," he continued, "...we could spend the night. All we need is...let's see...a TARP, a BACKPACK... and a..."

I looked over and laughed, "You can have 'em if you want?" they all smiled and we talked for a while. They were all from the area, but the big guy said he had some Maine genes in his family tree. By the time they were leaving I had all my stuff organized and re-packed. We parted ways and I began the next leg, walking south along Route 138.

Iwallked down that road into a town called Easton. The sun was going down by then. I was exhausted and sat on a small granite block outside Buddy's Union Villa--a local bar. I noticed that the ball field to its side, accessible by its parking lot, had extensive woods behind it.

The bar was hopping. The obligatory pickups were peeling in and out of the parking lot. My plan for nesting was hatched then and there. As with each place I'd slept in the two nights before, I knew that it was the right place. I have been having a little intuition with this sleeping routine that seems to flow in from my future decisions. After a small rest and a study of the frequency of customers going in and out, I saw my chance to quietly walk around, through the parking lot and down behind the ball field...

It was perfect for the night. The ground was soft and the location was well away from the field. I tried something new, since it wasn't raining. I used only my towel on the ground and slept with no tent or tarp outside in the open in just my sleeping bag. It saved me from having to deal with the tarp in the morning and I watched the stars twinkle as I drifted off to sleep at around 8:30 pm. Around 12:45 am, voices woke me from my slumber. I strained at first to gauge just how far away they were. I figured it was about 30 yards. I discerned three separate voices: two men and a woman all in their twenties. You can sometimes tell how old people are by the number of times they use the word, "like." The woman was giggling and then occasionally coughing. Then one of the men would cough too. They were obviously smoking a joint.

I listened to stories about their lives. She talked over and over again about her mother being a perfectionist and expecting her to be perfect. The guys talked about different drugs they had tried. Today there are designer psychedelics that I guarantee most of you have never heard about. One guy was obsessed with this subject. The other guy spoke at length about how helpful testers are; the ones who give free substance tests to see if festival goers are getting what they pay for when they illicitly buy MDMA ("Ecstasy" or "Molly"). He said that most powders (like 90%) being sold as MDMA (a relatively safe substance, back in the day) are actually so-called "bath salts" (often, "...methylenedioxypyrovalerone (MDPV), although other stimulants may be present, such as mephedrone and pyrovalerone; [it] is of the phenethylamine class and is structurally similar to cathinone, an alkaloid found in the khat plant..." with a reputation for overdose and even death). Do the test on a tiny sample and if the solution turns purple it is MDMA. If it turns yellow, it's bath salts.

A great documentary on the subject of testing substances at festivals.

As they got stoned I could tell the woman was flirting with one of the guys. Men can tell these things. After some time of this cat and mouse, they all left and I fell back asleep. I sank into a deep unconsciousness, but right before being woken by my watch alarm again I had a most disturbing dream...

Easton Sleep Spot.
Unfortunately this is also where my Samsung Galaxy Android is still resting to this day.

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I want to thank all of the people who have supported this blog and my efforts to report on real Americans as I travel across this land. Something about this project seems to have taken hold in people's minds, not just those who have read the blog but also those who I meet along this seemingly endless trail. I just have to express again how much it means to me that people are following along and actually care about my efforts. I think we are in for one of the most interesting journeys in a long time.