Date: 2018-04-25
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Miles today: 0.0

When I was a little boy growing up in Maryland, I didn¢t want to go on family vacations. I had my routine and saw no value in upsetting it. When I was finally forced into the backseat of the car, I would turn around backwards and look through the rear window. (This was before cars had seatbelts.) I was more interested in where we had been than where we were going. Only after nothing looked familiar would I turn around and be curious about our destination, actually more fearful than curious. This personality quirk has prepared me well for life in Vermont, where change is never greeted with open arms and is only grudgingly accepted after a proper period of mourning for the old. Decisions in my city of Burlington are made with glacial speed, and I mean glacial before climate change accelerated their movement. Three years of meetings lead to a decision. Following protests or the threat of a lawsuit, the rounds of meetings recommence. It¢s a speed that suits my character well. The eventual outcome is often superior to the interim decision, and it has resulted in a good measure of historic preservation for the city¢s architecture and open spaces.  In the days immediately before leaving to start my thru-hike, I find myself taking great pleasure in the rituals of my life here. I will miss seeing the great murders of crows flying out to the composting plant in the morning and returning to the city at night. I will miss walking down to the Y and seeing familiar faces. I will miss the four others who regularly frequent morning prayer at the Episcopal Cathedral. And I will certainly miss my husband Tom who is rock steady in all things, especially in his love for me. My day here is largely filled with meaningless rituals that collectively imbue my life with meaning. I suspect that it is this way for most people, except that most people pretend that the rituals themselves are of cosmic significance. I¢m not much different from Dylan Thomas¢ Welsh shepherds who make ritual observances to the moon to protect their flocks, because they would be damn¢ fools if they didn¢t.  Leaving home still has me looking backwards. I prefer a pace of travel that lets me make a gradual transition between places, but it¢s about 500 miles from Burlington to Washington. That¢s under two hours by plane, nine hours by car, 13 hours by train, 15 hours by bus, 50 hours by bicycle, or 163 hours by foot. The bus costs slightly less than flying, but really, is that the way I want to start my hike? Amtrak¢s schedules just don¢t work well unless I want to spend a night in Washington, D.C. So flying it will be. I¢ve never enjoyed flying, even when I flew often enough to gain Medallion Status on Delta and frequent upgrades to first-class. I always find it disconcerting to enter a metal tube, subject myself to noise and weird lighting, and disembark disoriented in a totally different place. Except for the destination, it reminds me of enduring an MRI. As miserable as it is, flying will get me to Washington and I¢ll take the Metro to Union Station, check my pack, and be ready for the museums on the Mall to open at 10AM.  It¢s apparition without wizardry. Then I¢ll board the Amtrak Capital Limited to Harpers Ferry at 4:05PM.  Yesterday, I bought food for the first four days of my hike except for flour tortillas that I¢ll pick up tomorrow. I¢ll spend time today going through my checklist twice, packing my gear and making a list of last minute things to bring, like my cellphone charger and house key. I should feel excited, but Ken being Ken, I feel wistful.