THE WALK BOOK: An Epic

The things I carried (pages 8-9 of 222)

Strive, in plain speech, with words that are straightforward, honest, and well-placed, to make your phrases sonorous and entertaining, and have them portray, as much as you can and as far as it is possible, your intention, making your ideas clear without complicating or obscuring them.

—DON QUIXOTE

His original purpose: to record, day after day, his experiences on a voyage whose monotony and uselessness were, perhaps, alleviated by his work as a chronicler.

—ALVARO MUTIS

I HAD a backpacking backpack, a parka. I came up on a pair of low-top Merrill hiking shoes from Aaron, he’d just gotten a new pair. I got a base-layer compression outfit, two underwears and sock liners, an undershirt that I’d wear daytimes and let dry out at night. I had a -15 °C sleeping bag. I got a one-man single-layer bivy tent, super light. A tarp. I assembled a first aid kit, band aids, Neosporin, Ibuprofen, in a Ziploc. Baby wipes. These waterproof green swishy pants I found at the thrift store, I’d alternate between those and soccer shorts. A hat. A beanie. Shades. A marathon-runner tank top. A fleece hoodless sweater that would double, when folded neatly, as a pillow. A single-burner stove that screwed directly onto a butane tank—I couldn’t find the right fuel, but would, once on the road. A compact camping pot that would double as a bowl. A camping spork. I’d make grocery pit stops every couple days. I’d just carb-load, eat pop tarts, peanut butter, sammies, I’d burn it all off anyway. Sunscreen. A Kindle (books too heavy). A voice/lecture recorder; a notebook; a pen. And my 15-inch MacBook, wrapped in multiple Ziplocs. No smartphone, just my Samsung brick phone. Phone charger. A 52-state atlas, Pennsylvania’s page torn out and folded up and tucked, also in a Ziploc, along with my voice recorder, tobacco, and a lighter, in my fanny pack. A battery-powered headlamp. A knife.

*

It was a week later, on a cold but sunny Thursday, that I set out. All week, Sophie had seemed amused, like she didn’t really think I was gonna; I’d delayed some already. Maybe she was relieved when I finally left. The moment I was about to, her whole demeanor changed. Her face went crumpled, and she started looking away from me, like she didn’t want me to see. Sophie, I said, holding her. I could feel her silently shaking. That was when it hit me, how alone I’d be, what a shit show sleeping out each night would be, how much I’d been relying on her, staying with her.

Seeing that, I started shaking, too.

And we just stood there a sec, both silently shaking, both leaking out of our faces.

She might’ve said Why, or Do you really have to.

I tried to project confidence, to smile and stay light.

But seeing how she looked—warding me off, like she just wanted to get this over with, like she was dissociating in order to—it started all over again. The shaking, the stalling.

It was time to move.

I said, “I love you,” or “It’s gonna be all good,” or something, turned and walked down 45th, across Pine, towards the SEPTA station but past it. Angling diagonal to Baltimore Ave. Past the outer edges of West Philly, all those townships. Till I got too tired to keep crying and all there was left to do was walk.

Portions of this book originally appeared in the PARIS REVIEW.