It is time for a new journey West. I know a place right up near Puget sound that is the finest, most restful haunt a man could know. No bothers reside. None. One can pad about on pine needles, or sit out beneath the stars with a can of beer and not a thought to share. Make a fire, roast a bit of dinner. Sleep in the back seat of the truck, or lie beneath a thin sheet in goosedown bag -- no bed to share.

I like to share my bed. But with it comes a price. No man get's without giving. And it's not an adding game, so you can't go around picking score. Either you take off to the wood, or lie up amid the city. And no one wants the city alone.

So I think Seattle. Or Sinkyone. Or Missoula all the way out to Olympia. Depends on the trout.

I spent yesterday with a friend walking along 58th Street, right along central park. Wind cold and rain. We bought large cups of hot chocolate from a French cafe, and sat across from a statue of Robert Burns. I bet he knew how I feel. I bet he longed for a journey. 

It is not an escape; rather, it is a movement to surroundings which limit the suffering of the spirit. Who can look our modern landscape dead in the eyes and not suffer some slight wince? Have we not built ourselves out of our natural home?

Replenish or subside. I'm going camping, waking just past dawn to pull on cold blue jeans, wear my hat and find a walking stick to knock the spider webs from the path ahead.