From My Summer Journals - Day 10

Day 10
Saturday June 11th, 2011

The first light of the morning seeped through the curtains and filled the room with a soft glow. I stared at clinging white lint on the futon's black fabric. I closed my eyes and curled into a fleece blanket as I pulled it against my chin. I nuzzled it with the tip of my nose and smelled detergent. Again I opened my eyes and stared until the pieces of lint came into focus.

I yawned, stretched my back and rolled over. There was a single bar of light coming through the bottom of the curtained window; speckled dust passed through it, a million bright ambassadors of morning. My hiking pack lay upon the floor. My boots were next to the pack with a pair of socks on top of them. Underneath the blanket, I remembered I was already wearing my hiking clothes.

I yawned again, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and jumped out of bed onto my feet. Quickly I moved around the room folding the blanket, putting my boots on, and readying my pack. As I walked around, the Achilles tendon on my right foot creaked and stretched while it woke up with me. I sat down long enough to write a thank you note to Jun for letting me stay for the night.

Then I walked to Jun's room. Though the door was open, I lightly knocked and Jun woke up. Somehow I felt uncomfortable being there, even though he made dinner, gave me a place to sleep and a shower to use. While I descended the wooden stairs of Jun's second floor apartment, he waved goodbye from the doorway.

Maybe it was the early hours or my aching tendons, but the sidewalks that morning felt particularly coarse on my body. Each step sent a shock through my body, up from my foot to my knees, hips, chest, and shoulders until it tingled from my fingertips like a nervous jitter from drinking three cups of coffee, perhaps leaving a bitter taste upon my tongue.    

At the trail head, the old train station stood like a guard post of the year 1891. It was closed as I approached, not a soul in sight, yet I imagined ethereal men garnered in topcoats and striped trousers watching the seconds of a pocket watch tick by to the nervous twitch of a curled mustache, and women adorned in lace and tweed sat fashionably upright at a bench's edge supported by a corset accentuating their hourglass shapes.

I unstrapped my pack and swung it onto a bench; already sweat had damped my shirt underneath my shoulder straps and at the small of my back. Perhaps as a lady disapprovingly stared underneath her wide-brimmed hat as she caught a wiff of my hiker odour. I took a couple trail bars from my pack, ate one, and put the other in my waist pocket. I took a drink from a nearly empty canteen that I had forgotten to fill.

A solitary biker went by as I ate a honey oat trail bar. The trail was quiet when I heard the sound of trickling water. Across the tracks, there was a spring flowing down an embankment into a ditch along the railway. I wondered how odd it would look to bend down and fill my bottles from the stream as I looked up and down the path. I imagined myself caught unaware by a passing jogger as I crouched near the river. Would I jump up and run into the brush?

Carefully placing pack next to the path, I took my filter and bottles and crossed the railroad tracks to the stream.

I returned to my pack as a morning jogger went by. In my hands, water beaded on the surface of the cold metal bottles and then dripped to the pavement. I said a hello as she went by. She jogged off with her back to me as her calves tensed and relaxed in rhythm. I took some snacks out – pringles chips and a jar of peanut butter – and I lay down on the grass using my pack as a pillow.

While I reclined upon the grass, a deer came out of the brush. It poked it's hooves at the soil near the trail. I sat silently, unmoving. Slowly I moved an arm toward the side pocket of my pack, reaching for my camera. The metal zipper jingled and the deer looked up. A good distance off, the deer didn't startle and run. The deer watched me knowing it could quickly escape, perhaps posing for all of my photos. When three yellow birds with black wings swooped over in formation I quickly snapped several photos, hoping to capture that moment you gaze over in a magazine, yet the camera panned too fast and I merely captured a blur.

Soon I packed up and moved on. As I walked the chilled hours of the morning turned into hot midday hours. With a phone fully charged from Jun's, I called my parents to let them know I was alive and healthy. To let them know that I didn't wander off to disappear, and to let them know I was coming up on Cumberland, MD just in case something went wrong and they didn't hear from me. My father said he could hear the crunch of the gravel of the trail as I walked along. It was maybe half an hour before the shifting signal cut off our conversation.

I continued the trail to the crunch of my own footsteps, walking along, with occasional biker zooming past, head bent down, muscles tensed and working the peddles at full speed. From behind, I heard an approaching set of tires slow. I looked over my shoulders to see a woman riding a beach bicycle with the long handled bars and a front basket – wearing a casual blue dress with a flower print and tights.

I stopped and offered a greeting.

"I'm riding into Cumberland. It's not too often you see hikers on this trail. You seem like the kind of person worth talking to," she said.

"What are you up to in Cumberland?" I asked.

"Just going to visit some friends and hang out for Heritage Days. Are you staying in Cumberland?"

"I was thinking about it. I need to take a day off and give my ankle some rest. It's not used to carrying this weight or walking this much," I said as I unbuckled the waist off my pack and shifted the straps off my shoulders, setting the pack upon the ground.

"How far are you going. I mean, how long are you out for, a few days, a few weeks? Are you taking the trail all the way into Washington DC?" she asked.

"I'm not sure yet. I thought this might me a nice change for the summer. It would be nice to walk into DC, maybe see the sights. But I'd also like to keep going, maybe pick up the Appalachian Trail and keep heading south to Georgia," I said.

The woman smiled, "You're a long way from Georgia. Do you think you could make it there by the end of summer?"

"I would have to sit down and crunch some numbers. I think its possible, but I would really have to find my stride and put some miles on. I guess I'm just figuring things out as I go," I said.

She smiled.

"Do you want an apple?" she asked.

"I'd love an apple," I said.

In the front basket of the bike, she reached into a bag pulled out her cellphone and checked the time and then pulled out an apple and handed it to me.

I peeled the sticker off and bit into it. "Are you from around here?" I asked as I wiped a bit of juice from the corner of my mouth."

"I grew up in Cumberland. That's where my family lives. After I graduated from college, I got a job teaching back at an elementary in Frostberg," she said.

I rolled the sticker with my fingertips and put it in my back pocket.

"What do you teach?" I asked.

"4th grade."

"I expect your students love you," I said.

"Some days more than others," she said.

"Do you ride this trail often?" I asked.

"As often as I can. Which isn't too much lately. However, in a few weeks I'm taking a trip to Australia," she said.

"Oh?" I said.

"Yeah," she said with a smile. "I'm going for almost an entire month. I'm going to backpack around see the cities, walk some trails, crash on people's couches. Have you ever couch-surfed?" she asked.

"Like where you just crash on random people's couches? No, I haven't," I said.

"You should definitely look into it. It seems kind of weird, but you really meet the coolest people. Might be worth looking into if you're going to be out for a while," she said.

"Maybe I will. Hey, do you know where I might find camping around town?" I asked.

"How long are you going to be around here?" she asked.

"I thought I might take a day off. Rest my ankle," I said.

"You should get in touch with me when you're in Cumberland. We could hit the festival," she said.

The woman looked up the path. Then, she smiled and looked at me again. She rifled through her bag again and produced a scratch pad and pen.

"I'm Melissa. I don't think I mentioned my name," she said as she wrote down her phone number.

"Jake," I said.

She ripped the white piece of paper off and handed it to me.

"Call me tomorrow," she said.

"I definitely will," I said.

"I better get going. Im glad we bumped into each other," she said.

"I'm glad you took the time to stop and say hello. Most bikers zoom right by. If I'm lucky I might get a nod," I said.

"Maybe it's because you're tall. You look intimidating," she said with a smile.

"Maybe that's it," I said.

Melissa stood on the pedal and the bike slowly rolled forward. Watching her ride off, once Melissa made it a little ways past a Mulberry tree shedding its fruit onto the the sidewalk with dark purple splotches, she looked over her shoulder, smiled again, and gave a quick wave, before she slowly shrank into the distance and disappeared around a corner.

As I continued my hike, the path provided more attractions, and more joggers passed me by as an indication I was nearing town. I stopped to read a sign posted to a gated fence, that said "Bone Cavern," and talked about unearthed remains of varying mammals such as saber-toothed cats. I eyed the tall fence, and observed the collapsed entrance to see if it might be passable.

Then, I stepped off the trail into the woods and stashed my bag. While I rifled through it looking for a headlamp, I heard the whine of a small electric motor. Slowly I peeked through the trees over a small ridge and watched a woman power by in an electric wheelchair with a bright orange flag waving above as she went. She stopped in front of the fence as if guarding the entrance and stared at a majestic view of a valley on the other side of the path.

I lay in the leaves using my pack as a headrest while I stared up through the trees and listened for her motor to start back up and take her down the path again. After I heard the cushioned steps of a few joggers go by, I peeked again over the ridge to see the woman still sitting in the wheelchair. I waited and rested as a small throng of mosquitoes crept out of the woods and started to swarm me. Calmly I pushed them away as they hovered above my handed and landed to bite again. Inevitably, I decided to move on and maybe come back another time.

I stood up and put on my pack. As I descended the small hill out of the forest, I stopped see the woman sleeping in her chair as I stepped onto the trail and continued. Not too far from the bone cavern, there was a plaque telling the history of the Lover's Leap on the bluffs above the Cumberland Valley. I eyed the cliffs past the river and past the highway. I read the story of a young Native princess who fell in love with a white man. Their love forbidden by her father, the chief, the young princess couldn't dream of a life lived without her lover. Hand in hand, the couple walked to the top of the lover's leap and jumped off the cliffs together.

Looking at the cliff's in the distance, across the river valley, underneath a lush forest, the cliff's cleaved above all. My spirit for adventure called me to them just to see the view, but I couldn't conceive how I might find my way to the top of them. Content to walk my own path, I continued down the trail into Cumberland.

The very next thing to tug at my strings was the wafting smell of barbecue carried on the breeze from half a mile out of town. The trail tamed itself. Forest and bramble thickets gave way to plants herded by fences and mulch. Old chapel spires climbed out of the trees into the horizon. I discovered the source of the smell, a restaurant across the river. I continued past it wanting to get settled for the day before I explored the town.

Soon mulched flower beds became potted plants. Concrete overpasses and an aqueduct corralled the the trail along the river and then across it as I followed the path downtown.

A festival in full swing, I didn't feel too odd carrying my pack through town as hungry city-folk reverted to primal stages scarfing down hot dogs and various meats on a stick. As I followed the path past a train marked "Cumberland Railroad" packed with a tourists and children with heads out the open windows, I came to the town's station.

In front of the old building, cast into the ground, a metal plate demarcated the end of my first trail, The Great Allegheny Passage, mile 0. Heading out of town, I would be starting another journey altogether.

I went into the station, asked a park guide for a suitable place to camp and discovered the local YMCA allowed camping for a suitable fee.

However, before I ventured into town I stopped at a picnic table for an afternoon meal. I ate peanut butter and tortillas, grinning as a looming grey sky opened to a slight drizzle that sent the festival-goers jogging for the nearest car or shelter.

In the mist of the rain, I packed up my food and walked into the town.

Tucked away in the backyard of the city, the Y turned out to be a wonderful place to camp for the night. I paid my ten dollars which gave me use of the tent site, showers and full use of the facility. Not in the mood to pass up such a bargain, I pitched my tent, then found a pair of swim trunks in the lost and found. I lounged around the heated pool. The warm water, melted the aches out my legs. After ten days on the trail,  a night spent on trim soft lawn, feeling clean and rested would be comparable to staying at the choicest of hotels.

To make the night more perfect, I had company at my campsite. A woman and her ten year old son. Though they weren't fully accustomed to "roughin' it." From the back of her flatbed, she unpacked coolers full of food and a multi-roomed tent, complete with cots to sleep on. By the end of the night she would tell me, she loved to camp when she had the time, but it was a bit too much work setting up.

The woman worked for Meals on Wheels. She thought Heritage Days would be the right opportunity to take her son out for the weekend. They spent the day walking the trail and bird-watching, which her son was quite adept at.

"I saw a flock of yellow birds today with black wings. What might those be," I asked.

"You mean Goldfinches," he said, almost as if I was stupid.

"Would you like to join us for dinner? We have venison bologna, chips, and soda," the woman asked.

I gratefully accepted as I was encouraged to stuff myself beyond my stomach's capacity.

Contently fed, clean and in good spirit, I ended the day in the realization of life fully lived.

What is Comfort Really?

I'm fifteen miles outside of Pittsburgh. It's my first night on the trail, and I'm trying to sleep under a bridge. Already on edge, each car passing overhead wakes me as it's tires sing across the pavement.

A couple weeks later, I'm hiking down a canal towpath. Festering out of damp woods and stagnant water, mosquitos cloud the air; they greet me with sharp pricks against every inch of available skin. I'm sweaty. I stink. I itch unbearably as I clench my fists against my hips. I wonder at what point do I cross the edge, say I can't take another sleepless night, and leave my journey to go back home.

A month later, it's dark out as I walk alone through the woods. I shine my the light of my small flashlight on trees that all look the same; I'm looking for white blazes that mark the trail. As I turn each corner, I pray that I haven't lost my way.

I lay upon a spire of a rock, unmoving throughout the night; if I roll to my left, it's 80 feet to the boulders below; if I roll to my right, a mere 40 feet into a sharp crack between the rocks. And yet, despite the discomfort, I'm sleeping in a clearing on top of a mountain. Even the darkest recesses of space are speckled with a thousand stars.

Another night, I lay upon a rock that slopes down to the cliff's edge. Each time I shift throughout the night, I slide down a little farther. I am uncomfortable, yet I'm content as I stay up and talk to a hiker named Mystic. We contemplate the complexities of life and the universe as we watch the constellations move across the sky.

The air is quiet. I'm walking on a foggy morning through a forest of gnarled misshaped oak trees. Water drips from the crooks of bent limbs. As a drop strikes the top of my head and coldly crawls down my neck, I stop walking just for a moment. I take a chill and shudder. Goose pimples prickle upon my skin. I close my eyes. The air smells crisp, metallic. I listen for a sound, any sound at all. And then I wonder, when was the last time it was completely quiet? And then I realize, perhaps for the first time in my life, I am exactly where I belong.

As my journey comes to an end, it's 30 miles from the trail to the nearest town. I walk the highway hitching rides from passing strangers. It takes three different rides, from three different locals, to get there. Each time I get into a car, I nervously put my life in a stranger's hands, and each time I get out, I step down from the car having made a new friend.

Hiking has a way of pushing you beyond the limits of comfort. On the trail you accept that you don't have clean clothes, a comfortable bed, an unlimited supply of water at the turn of a knob. You accept the burden of a more difficult lifestyle, because you realize you misdefined comfort all along.

Comfort isn't all of the conveniences that we've accepted as part of civilized life. If I slept in a plush bed of my own making, then I'd toss and turn all night while I merely dreamed of the stars. I'm off the trail, in a new city, in a new apartment, each day becoming more restless. I'm restless because, after walking a thousand miles through wilderness, I now realize that 700 square feet to stretch out in doesn't create comfort, it creates convenience. Comfort doesn't come from the fridge, the television, or the hot water heater.

Comfort is a dramatic realization of contentment. With who we are. With where we're at. Comfort is walking the trail on foggy morning, and even though I shiver against the cold, I smile. For the first time in my life, I feel my soul. It tells me I am exactly where I belong.

From My Summer Journals - Day 9

Friday June 10th, 2011
I slept uneasy. After the thunderstorm passed and after the winds died down, heavy drops of water lingered and fell from trees. I was unaccustomed to stealth camping. I didn't know whose land I was on or what was around me. The inconsistent sound of water smacking on leaves made me edgy.

My thoughts slowly calmed. The pack underneath my head almost felt comfortable. Then a drop of water smacked a leaf, in a just a way that sounded like an animal approaching. Senses alert and fully awake, I listened. Calm, comfort, half-asleep, awake, I kept cycling through these stages.

Each time I awoke, I wondered if I had slept at all. I spent the entire night half in thought, half in a dream. As I lay inside a damp sleeping bag, tired and hungry, I waited for the morning to come, every hour wanting to pack up and walk into the night. At the first second, of the first minute, of the first hour, of first light I crawled out of my tent into the damp woods. I packed up my gear and tent with sluggish movement. Then, I walked through the undergrowth and almost stumbled back onto the trail.

There was a cold moisture suspended in the air; it pressed down on me, made my movements slow and achy; it settled out onto the leaves. I stopped to watch the dewdrops gather on white oak leaves. I stopped to face snapping turtles who crawled out to share the trail. I stopped to see the sun creep over the farthest hillside. A drop of moisture fell onto my eye and made light sparkle. I blinked, shuddered, and a chill shot up my arms. I walked just to keep warm, as I hugged my arms close against my chest.

A couple hours later, probably around 7am (but I didn't know for sure), I stopped at a picnic table to have breakfast. I ate bagels with peanut butter and raisins. A brave little rabbit jumped out of the weeds. He stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air. I sat motionless while he jumped around the grass. Somewhere far away from me, someone sat at the breakfast table drinking Columbian coffee, reading yesterday's events in the daily review, while a loved one passed by immersed in a morning routine.

I finished my breakfast alone and returned to the trail. Soon I passed the Eastern Continental Divide, the highest point along the trail. I was changing watersheds; to my back the streams, creeks and rivers all drained into the Gulf of Mexico; to my front they all drained into the Chesapeake Bay. I wished I could be that water, simply flowing downhill to its destination, never having to think where it was going.

The animals that morning – turtles, rabbits, a deer in the trees – I stopped to watch them and say hello, to wonder what they were doing. I heard an occasional car in the distance. I even saw a truck as I crossed a road. I stopped to watch, to see the man driving off. I wondered what he was doing, where he was going.

"Big Savage 1911," that's what the concrete face said as I approached the tunnel. I imagined myself an explorer discovering a limestone cavern, hesitating as I neared the entrance. Quietly I stepped into the passage. Within the dim tunnel, I passed underneath the intermittent glow of overhead lights; my shadows stretched and shorted at my feet and along the walls. A speck of light in the distance grew in approach of the far entrance. A small silhouette broke the far side light, too far away for me to distinguish an outline. I heard voices of a man and woman echoing off the walls and growing louder. I could hear their tires gripping the wet pavement with a steady hum. I nodded a silent hello as the two of them passed. They were the first people I saw that day.

When I emerged from the Savage Mountain Tunnel, I first noticed the afternoon heat, but that thought was quickly forgotten. A patch of trees opened to a clearing. I could see the forested valley and a patchwork of farms in the distance. With slow steps, I approached a wooden bench and let my pack drop to the ground. A hot breeze ruffled my shirt. I squinted against the bright afternoon sun. I sat down and gazed into the distance.

The young couple had turned around. They came back through the tunnel and stopped to rest at a picnic table behind me. I picked up my gear and moved on.

Not far down the mountain, there was a posted demarcation of the Mason - Dixon line, the border between Pennsylvania and Maryland. A couple older guys stood with their bikes leaning against the yellow posts. They talked and listed to radio. I put my pack down, set my camera on top of it, and set a timer to take a picture of myself at the Maryland border. I was tired with a sweat soaked shirt and unkempt hair, but none of that mattered when I smiled for the picture.

Then as I moved past the two guys, one of them said, "Would have been happy to take that for ya."

"I appreciate it. You couldn't decide which state to take a break in?" I said.

One of the guys had a streak of sweat going down his blue synthetic shirt to belly that was just one size too big. He smiled when he said, "This hill won't look like much as you go down it. It's tougher as you come up. You have it easy, the direction you're going."

"It's probably twenty degrees cooler up in the tunnel," I said.

"Oh, I'm sure of it," the man in the blue shirt said.

The other guy was wearing cargo shorts and white walk-a-thon shirt. He said, "We should have brought some cold beers up with us."

"Now you're thinking," the guy in the blue shirt said. "Say do you have any beer in that pack?"

I smiled when I said, "Not on this trip."

Continuing my walk, I passed many people walking or riding up the mountain from a nearby town.

When I saw something red in the grass, I took a closer look and discovered wild strawberries ripe for the picking. I set my back down and ate several of them without thinking, the sweet juice coating my parched tongue and lips. They were the size of raspberries, but their small size just concentrated their sweetness. Too delicious to pass up, I unclipped my cooking pot from my pack. With red stained fingers, I filled the pot with ripe strawberries – eating an occasional berry before the full harvest.

Seeing me crouched over, a biker slowed enough to say, "Hey, are you alright?"

"Yeah dude, strawberries! You should stop to have some."

He rode away without another word.

"Your loss," I said to myself.

Once my pan was full, I thought about turning my strawberries into something like a syrup or adding them to oatmeal. Instead I ate them by the handful. When I moved on, there was a spring down the hill, I filtered some water and drank it. The taste of strawberries lingered on my tongue as I gulped down cold crisp water. Once I was thoroughly gorged on strawberries and spring water, I continued hiking downhill.

Just down the path from the berries and the spring, I heard a low grumble, and something heavy crashed in the forest, faintly sounding like someone with a chainsaw. I walked a hundred more yards and a twig snapped next to me. I stopped in my tracks to listen. Then, I heard unmistakable sounds: heavy breathing and loud huff; there was a bear next to me, hidden behind the brush. Oddly, my first thought was I hope it's not angry that I ate its strawberries. Then, the bear huffed again, probably a confirmation of my thought. I continued walking.

My tired and lonely morning had turned around completely after I passed through the Savage Mountain Tunnel. I walked downhill into town happy and energetic. I was excited to write in my journal and relive the days events.

When I came to the town of Frostburg, it was only afternoon, but I was ready to camp. The past couple hours had been eventful enough for a week's worth of hiking. I went to the bulletin on the side of the trail and looked it over for campsites. At the same trailhead there was a guy about my age and an older gentleman with him.

"Hey do you know how to get to the campsite from here?" I asked.

The younger guy said, "Yeah you just follow the hill up this road and it's around the bend." The he looked me over and said, "But, if you're looking for a place to stay, you can crash on my couch if you want."

"That would be awesome. You really don't mind?" I said.

"Yeah, its no problem. I don't live very far from here. I have a futon you can sleep on. And I'm sure you want a shower," the young guy said.

"I'm Jake," I said.

"Jun," he said.

Together we walked up the hill. I learned the other guy was a friend of Jun's that just came to town to visit for a day. Jun, on the other hand worked nearby. Jun finished a degree and worked in the town of Frostburg. He was close to my age and was very involved with athletics. In fact, he did marathons and triathlons.

When we arrived at the apartment, Jun said, "I can show you the place quickly and then I have to step out to do some work. I won't be gone long, but I'll give you the spare key in case you need to go out."

The first thing I noticed in the apartment was all of the artwork on the walls.

"Did you paint these? They're excellent," I said.

It seemed like Jun was involved in a little bit of everything. From the looks of his apartment he played music too. He also had an exercise bike in the living room. And several bikes and spare parts in the hallway.

"You fix your own bikes?"

"I can do most things. I've learned the bike shops around you will overcharge for repairs that are simple to do yourself."

Jun showed me the futon I would be sleeping on and gave me a fresh towel. We exchanged phone numbers and Jun stepped out. I took a quick shower. Then, I got ready and decided I'd go grab some groceries. I didn't make it far down the sidewalk before Jun called telling me that his time at work didn't run very long. He offered to give me a ride to the grocery store.

So we went and I grabbed groceries. I offered to buy Jun dinner because I couldn't think of any other way to repay his kindness. He accepted, but we went back to his apartment first.

At the apartment, while Jun got some things settled, I went into the spare bedroom with the futon and plugged my camera and phone into charge. I sent a couple texts and looked through pictures on my camera. I closed my eyes and leaned back thinking it was going to be a very comfortable night of rest.

Then, a couple of hours later, I woke up with the camera in my hand. I sprung off of the futon and walked into the living room. Jun was exercising on the bike in the living room.

"I don't know how I fell asleep. You should have woken me up. Do you still want to go out for dinner?" I asked.

"You needed the rest. I made some pasta and tofu with beef broth. It's on the stove, help yourself," he said.

I went into the kitchen and stared at the food on the stove. I was overwhelmed by Jun's kindness. I thought buying dinner would allow me to repay him, but I slept through it. I found the plates and helped myself to what was on the stove.

"Jun, I really don't know how I'm going to repay you for all of this," I said.

"Hey don't worry about it," he said.

I ate in the living room while Jun exercised on the bike. We talked about athletics at first, I told Jun about how my achilles grew more painful each day, and he told me that I probably needed to take a day off and rest. He told me exactly what I needed to know about fitness when I needed to hear it. Then, I started talking about the trail and how I was content to end my journey that day if I had to. I think I almost convinced him to go out hiking with me.

Jun then told me how he tries to do bike races and marathons all over the country, even the world. Jun told me, "I'll even make a game out of paying my utility bills. I always shut lights off when I'm not in the room and unplug unused appliances just to keep my bills as cheap as possible. That I way I can afford the plane ticket to leave the country. When I go, I make myself sandwiches to eat. I might eat out for one meal. But I'll keep my expenses as cheap as possible because it's worth buying a plane ticket to somewhere like Australia, just to be there and see it for yourself."

Jun told me he tries to couch surf when he takes trips, so he lets people crash at his place whenever possible. By the end of the night, I felt like Jun and I had a similar philosophy.

Doing something like traveling to a foreign country or two months of backpacking, it's all about the experience of going somewhere new. Finding ways to make home life more comfortable, buying new things, eating elaborate meals, they seem like shallow experiences when compared to standing on mountains, eating wild strawberries, or making new friends.