Howl of the Woods

May 1

Departure morning began with pizza. Two slices of Andolini's. Jenifer headed off for work and stated her goodbyes and Wesley, too, left riding with her telling me, “Goodbye and good luck.” The three past years unaccounted for here, spent in between trips – it's been a strange time. Joey remained having convinced Jenifer to allow him to ride her bicycle with me for a while.

I put the final touches on my packed bags and readied everything, tallied everything, secured, and inventoried everything. I hauled my bike down the front stairs of the building, rolling it slowly with both hands on the breaks, releasing just enough tension to allow it to slide. Wesley got home and we all shared a few more words. The man living beneath us, sitting in his lawn chair under the balcony as he always did in peaceful repose, saw my spectacle bicycle and asked me what was up? I explained to him what I hoped for my journey and he wished all of good luck. Wesley and I hugged and then I hopped on my bike, feeling the first effect of its weight beneath me. Joey fell in beside and we set off through the afternoon neighborhoods.

In familiarity we followed those same paths I'd traveled repeatedly before, leading us out from the jungle of houses and buildings and into where the road leads with trees running off its sides to the hidden horizon. Cars were few and peace was bountiful. So we rode until we stopped at a dock on a riverside and Joey decided it was time for him to return. Neither of us could think of much to say, but then again neither of us is much of a talker. So we parted our ways and I went a bit farther on.

Rode off into Monck's Corner and found my way onto the Highway 6. Everything was in the shade with the sky overcast in a whiteness, some little cumulus clouds scuddling about beneath the blanket. I rode on until the fronts of my feet were feeling raw and roamed around the lake accesses to Lake Marion searching for a camp spot, finding a discreet forest next to a campground.

Pulled my bike in and set up my tent on the leafy carpet for the first night's bed.

May 2

Overslept in the morning. I'd forgotten how easy it is to sleep when you're worn and free. Twelve hours of sleep seems nearly necessary now. It's never quite undisturbed with the rustling of nighttime gatherers digging around with their little paws, but it's sound nonetheless.

I rode ceaselessly all morning with no grand events – the only landmarks being a church at the top of each hill telling God's story with a catchy sentence on a sign. I was hoping to finally arrive at Congaree National Park, having tried to go on my last trip and changing direction instead. I rode on for hours trying to find the place by map and, after crossing 3 bridges clogged with logging semis barreling down, I encountered the sign pointing east designating “Congaree 5 miles”. So I turned down the road and rode, rode, rode until put face to face with the harshly declarative double-sided black arrow yellow sign proclaiming the roads end. Failed again. Somehow the place has evaded me. I'll be bidding my farewell with apologies to South Carolina for having missed its treasure.

Somehow the roads had befuddled me. Now I was off course. All those little roads, there but never represented now meant more to me than any of the ink on my map. Down the road I eventually encountered a small town which placed me as a marker on the map, but not on a road. So I kept riding and eventually settled at camping on a hillside obscured from traffic by a line of trees (just a little ways from the county detention center). I was worn again and had gone farther than intended. But now I had a clear view of the sun as it fell behind the trees and the clouds rotating through rainbow shades against the fading blue matte, and I had a bowl full of hot rice to fill me up and make me all forms of content. When the night had come on full I could see to the north yellow lights ascending from the horizon – evidence of Columbia.

May 3

Woke up late again, today draped in dew. Went back to the road after gathering all my things together and continued along. I realized I was on one of the highways shown on my map as leading straight into Columbia and so soon enough the repeating commercial building blocks began stacking up. The college football stadium showed in the distance and grew ever closer as I crept along the white line at the side of the lane. Passed through the periphery and into the core of the city – now residence and commerce instead of industry. I found a donut shop and indulged to my hunger with a coffee and donut. Simple pleasures in food have already become monumental. I have sworn to myself that I will not spend money, though, and will restrict myself to only ramen, rice, and vitamins. This was merely an initiation gift to myself and will not set a pattern. You see this promise laid out in writing here! I make it to you and myself. The longer I can contain my money the longer I can travel and fulfill the exploratory longing.

The day's goal was to end in Saluda. This was the rendezvous where Justin would be waiting. He is my friend and will accompany me throughout the journey. The day before this he had left from his home in Greenville to arrive there when I would. So my route went west through the hills when I'd escaped the bounds of Columbia. As a footnote I must say, retrospectively at least, Columbia was strangely simple to navigate. Cities have never proved a pleasant experience and here I was happily undeterred. So, Columbia, I thank you for your relative simplicity.

A string of highway rose with steep hills following every slope. My appreciation for my bicycle's weight was fully realized now. Climbing a hill feels as if stone wheels are rolling beneath you. However, it is a tool to my benefit, and instrument, an implement, a needle to sew me into the fabric of nature, a pen to write me into the land and as I'm drawn into synchronicity with what lies about me I can have no spite.

There was heat in the hills when no shade was thrown by the clouds. From deep within the forest an incessant siren rose and pierced that air and eventually I realized its source. Every tree had been given a voice – the collective howl of the forest was emitted in consonance from the multiple mouths of a swarm of cicadas. Every inch of the woods called out in celebration of life, making its presence both heard and felt. Once in thirteen years they emerge from the ground and cry out the words of their cycle and all must behold them and their presence. Strewn about the ground were their carcasses, ready and willing to decay and invigorate the soil and the cornucopia of inert life within, while strewn about the air were their bodies, wings humming as they searched out one another. The constant tone has followed me to where I sit now and I expect it to continue.

Arriving in Saluda I met with Justin at the library and we roamed around the town a bit and settled to a tried and true camping spot just outside of town (this being my fourth pass through the town). Camp was set up while the cicadas floated about the barren field. We got down to talking and making dinner and a solid dark blue wall began approaching from the north, waves of lightning rippling through its layers high above. Justin somehow got a little sick (apparently too much seasoning in his ramen) having coughing fits at intervals. I set to typing. After we'd spread our rain covers on our tents and settled in to sleep the rain began pattering around us and over us. It worked its way through the night, the solid cloud above shedding itself in increments. By when the sun had returned the cloud had either passed or been dispersed into the cool spread of the morning air.

May 4

The day heated up as early afternoon came on and we passed now through the slow-rising hills. Shoulders were filled with flowering dandelions, little suns with stems lowered to the grass, and the shoulders sloped down into arms of forests, reaching and groping in all outward directions. Everything was peaceful.

It's hard to see now from the first days what I expect from this journey. To see beauty I suppose in its simplest and most pure forms. Here I'll stop. I shouldn't struggle into depth trying to distinguish what I hope to accomplish, but allow it to distill on its own. Cloudy water left to sit naturally clears.