Carrying enough food in my panniers to keep me satisfied was one of the biggest logistical challenges of my trips. Somewhere in the swamps of Georgia, far from any store, I realized I was carrying only a can of Dinty Moore stew and a handful of sugar substitute packets. Hunger enveloped me to the point that I squatted caveman style and ate the stew cold as soon as I had enough of the can pried open to scoop it out. And the sugarlike substance made a fine dessert. I'm not exactly proud of these memories, but they help me understand how the survivors of shipwrecks and plane crashes resort to certain culinary taboos.
Hunger is a powerful thing.
But the fellowship that accompanied many of the meals over the course of my travels was often stronger. You just can't beat the beauty of that concept. Then, as if to prove, no, to celebrate this truth, they sang some of their stories. The stars crowded the heavens, the desert stood still, and, as the fire burned, I really heard the world for the first time. Back in this hemisphere, I remember savoring Hershey bars and glasses of wine drunk from camp cups at a picnic table in Yosemite.