Song of the Open Road Hums Through Madison

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose....
—Walt Whitman, "Song of the Open Road," from Leaves of Grass, 9th edition, 1891

Two itinerant travelers made their way through Madison today, neither quoting Whitman but both providing plenty to ponder. I'll give one traveler, the Meadowlark Project's Jerry Nagel, some attention in a later post.

For now, let me give some press to a hitchhiker I met on Highway 34 this morning. Yes, a hitchhiker, one of those guys they make the scary movies and campfire stories about.

Having left my car at the shop to get new tires (and they convinced us to buy the extra-spendy tires just two years ago because of how much longer they'd last—oops!), I was biking home when up ahead I saw a pedestrian heading west. I caught up with a middle-aged man with a healthy mullet of gray hair. He wore a t-shirt, denim shorts, and cushy blue flip-flops. On each shoulder he carried a duffel bag, the straps crossed over his chest and back. Under his right arm, he also carried a pair of heavy brown work boots. He wasn't dawdling, waiting for a ride. He wasn't even holding out his thumb to the cars and trucks that passed. He walked with a confident, fresh morning stride, back straight, eyes up and bright, legs ready to take on the whole state if they had to.

"How far you walking?" I called from behind.

"Rapid City!" he said as I rolled up alongside him. He smiled, not minding a little company, even if that company—a skinny guy in a straw hat on a bike—couldn't exactly speed his trip west.

I coasted alongside for a couple minutes, then found myself interested enough to hop off and walk with this fellow for a half-mile or so, from Prairie Village to somewhere alongside the golf course. (This is the sort of conversation to which traveling by bike and foot lend themselves; zooming across the prairie in an air-conditioned glass and metal box has its advantages, but it takes away the chance for connection with the land and the people moving at human speeds across it.)

Here's his story: he's 51, from Iowa, got laid off from work six months ago. He graduated his last kids from high school this year. (I considered asking if he'd also graduated his wife, but left him room to decide what details to share.) A buddy of his said there's work in Rapid City, so he decided to go. On foot. From Des Moines.

I think he said he's been on the road for two weeks. He's lost 21 pounds since he left. He's avoiding the Interstates. He learned in Minnesota that the Interstates are the only place the highway patrol there really enforces the state law against soliciting rides from the roadside. He's been looking for free or cheap campgrounds, sleeping in his tent most of the time. He spent the night for free in the city park in Egan, then worked a couple days and earned enough that he could treat himself to a night in the Madison Super 8 (he thus maybe looked extra fresh and bright this morning with some free shampoo adding sheen to that impressive gray hair).

You air that serves me with breath to speak!
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape!
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!
I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me.

He has no schedule; he'd just like to get to the Hills maybe before the Sturgis rally, maybe find some temporary work related to that before settling into something long-term. If he catches a ride, great; if he doesn't, he just keeps walking. He had just one day when no one stopped to pick him up; that day he covered 31 miles (he should call the company that made his flip-flops and get some corporate sponsorship). He had nothing but good things to say about the folks he's met along the way. An older couple picked him up because they were all worried he'd suffer in the summer heat. The police have regularly stopped to ask for ID, make sure he's not on the lam, but since he's "not wanted," he doesn't sweat it, and the cops haven't given him a really hard time yet. (Funny, though—I didn't know I needed a license to walk.)

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv'd in the open air, and all free poems also,
I think I could stop here myself and do miracles,
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me,
I think whoever I see must be happy.

We chatted about the weather—he says Iowa is plenty wet, and he's surprised at how dry and brown things look up here. I thought we were doing pretty well; the crops are shooting skyward, but lawns are turning brown and the country roads are plenty dusty. We chatted about the terrain—his greatest concern: hills, which matter oh-so-much more when you get out of your car and tackle gravity with your own muscles. We chatted about towns and routes—I warned him that past Wessington Springs, towns are few and far between, and 34 from Pierre to Sturgis is absolute no-man's land, at least on foot.

I said his buddy should be right—there ought to be plenty of jobs in the Hills. "There's work everywhere," the hiker said, "if you look for it." He said if he doesn't like Rapid City, he can just keep going; a friend of his lives in Oregon and said it's beautiful out there too. The hiker said he's been all over, but he hasn't seen either the Hills or the Pacific Northwest, so whichever place he chooses, he'll be seeing new sights.

Allons! the road is before us!
It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well—be not detain'd!

Our culture of fear makes adventures like this increasingly rare. "Give a ride to a stranger? Accept a ride from a stranger? Heavens no! We might get mugged!" Not many people would separate themselves from the protection of their homes, their social networks, their health insurance policies, their cell phones, and launch themselves afoot, a tiny speck on the vast prairie. Not many people can divest themselves of all but a couple small bags of possessions—a change of clothes, a tent, and a pocket less than full of greenbacks. Not many people can set themselves loose upon the world with no schedule or detailed plan but just a confidence that they'll be able to find work when they get there, wherever "there" finally turns out to be.

Yet this man is doing so, and he still had a smile on his face this morning. Each day he makes no clearly heroic deeds or even, as far as I know, any free poems, just one step after another. He hopes for help but knows he can get there on his own if he has to. He will work when he must, earn what he needs, and keep going. Fear cannot serve him on this trip, so he meets the sunshine, the pavement, and his prospects with a steady eye, a firm step, and a readiness to do what must be done to get himself further down the road.

This man is not setting an example for everyone to follow. As I recall my roadside chat and reread Whitman tonight, alongside the exuberance wrought of sunshine, freedom, and physical exertion, I find the counterbalancing tension of leaving the ties of family and community behind. We can't all throw on a backpack and roam the world, not for our entire lives. Someone has to stay behind to mind the store, tend the crops, and raise the kids. A society where everyone hits the road is a society where industry grinds to a halt. Only a small minority ever will so completely abandon the connections of community and travel the open road, and even those people will, for the most part, travel a relatively short time, until they find something worth sticking around for. The seeking that underlies such vagabondery is a great pursuit, and for those willing to undertake it, our society should always leave room.

Allons! yet take warning!
He traveling with me needs the best blood, thews, endurance,
None may come to the trial till he or she bring courage and health,
Come not here if you have already spent the best of yourself,
Only those may come who come in sweet and determin'd bodies,
No diseas'd person, no rum-drinker or venereal taint is permitted here.

I didn't ask for his name; his travels are his business. If he is trying to get away from something—not necessarily the law, but maybe a life back home that no longer fits, that isn't healthy, who knows?—I hope my posting won't ruin that plan. I have no reason to think ill of this man, and thus can only wish him flat roads and sturdy flip-flops.

Somewhere between here and Rapid City tonight, that man lies sleeping, probably in his tent, maybe in a small town campground, maybe out in a shelterbelt, out of sight of the highway. I hear rain's coming, though not too much. If you see him tomorrow morning—long gray mullet, two bags, sturdy workman's build getting slimmer yet stronger by the day—don't worry! He's not a mugger. At least he didn't try mugging me for my billfold or the jug of milk in my pannier. He's no desperado; he can earn his keep without harming others. He's just a working man off to see the world while he has the chance.