A Living Magazine - Tap Root: Day 8 - The One Way Trip

I woke and returned the van, then walked up to Starbucks where I had coffee and waited until about 12:00 pm. Then I walked down Congress Street to the Greyhound Station to catch a 1:00 pm bus to Lewiston.

The bus was quite late as is Greyhound's habit. And, the attendant at the station was quite negative. Looked like he had been working there a bit too long...

Portland Greyhound Station

My last day in the Portland area was like every other day that I'd hung out in the city. I honestly did not know when I would see it again. I certainly planned to return many times, but had no idea when the next time might be.

I got on the bus and was whisked off to Lewiston, via Brunswick. It didn't take long. I had a reservation to transfer to the Farmington Bus (Western Maine Transportation) but had a layover of an hour at the Lewiston bus station waiting for it... 

Saggy, The Wonder Pack resurrected for one last trip.

The Farmington bus was also quite late (about a half hour). When it arrived I boarded, paid my $6 and took a seat. Unfortunately, we waited another 15 minutes for a rider who never showed up. The day was dragging on and the hours were growing later. I'd wanted to be at the land by 5:00 pm in order to erect the tent before sunset.

It was about that time when we rolled into Wilton. Then instead of continuing on to Farmington, we took a right and dropped off two people. The driver was kind of a character, often talking to we remaining riders. This was an unusual route for her, so I (and another rider) used GPS to help her get back to Route 4.

At about 5:30 pm, we finally entered Farmington and the driver dropped me off at Walmart. I was about 5 miles from my land. It took quite a while for me to do what I needed to do there. First, I bought a pillow and pillow case, shoved it into Saggy's bottom pocket (where I used to put my sleeping bag during the Journeys). I'd also planned to buy a bike and ride the rest of the way to my property. I did this, but quickly learned that the whole way there was uphill. The bike was also not the best. It's gears became a bit tangled. I found myself getting off and pushing up the biggest hills, with the last, very steep hill up the mountain being ridiculously cumbersome. 

Soaked with sweat, over-tired from not sleeping well for the last two and a half weeks, irritated at the bike-burden I'd just dumped upon myself (and spent $125 on), and worried that I would not get the tent up by sundown, I finally got back on the bike to ride the last half mile down the dirt road and up the field to my land. As I dismounted the bike, I felt the left strap on Saggy break, causing the backpack to fall further down my right side. I had to laugh. This backpack that had carried everything I needed - twice - across the US had finally resigned its loyal service at exactly the right time. What a day.

I held my breath praying that my stuff - dropped off the day before - would still be there and intact. It was. The sun was quite low in the sky and I checked my watch. It was 7:00 pm. I had about 40 minutes to get the tent up. It came with no instructions, so I used the image on the bag to figure out how to get it up. It was definitely meant to be a two person job, as I would find nearly every task to be on this land in the weeks to come.

I did it though. The tent (without the fly--didn't look like rain would be coming that night) was up just as the orange rays of the sun disappeared. I was enormously exhausted but looking forward to be sleeping in peace on my own land. It was my first night there. I had that strange feeling of butterflies that I used to get when finding a sleep spot along my recent cross country Journeys.

I used the little air pump that my sister had given me to blow up the air mattress. Then I laid down the comforter and my new pillow. Settling in and feeling very comfortable, I lay awake for a short time, listening to a whippoorwill (whom I would hear each night in the next weeks). In the distance I also heard coyotes celebrating a kill in that ecstatic way they do, seeming to laugh hysterically the waxing moon light. I hadn't heard them for over a year.

As my consciousness faded I passed over America again in spirit, looking down on all of the places I had been; checking in on all of the people I had met and imagining them getting ready for bed. The last Journey before returning to Maine had been called "Homecoming." 

Then, after the brief final Journey up Maine's coast, barely surviving a heart attack and consequently spending the last 9 months in a dignity-destroying stasis of uncertainty, sleeping in a dirty attic (even my niece good-heartedly teased me about being an "attic uncle"), unable to work or get an apartment...feeling like a waste of human life, was I now "home"? I think I was. I think I am.

The Spark (essentially) said, "Yes, but the new wallk will be the hardest you have ever done. Then, you will finally sit back and feel the accomplishment." Or, maybe it was just me fictionally reassuring myself. It doesn't matter. The same process must lead to the same result. 

For the first time in weeks I slept through the whole night.


TASKS COMPLETED

* Assembled the tent.