Footloose in America: Dixie to New England (53 page)

But not there, not then, in that rain.

Right there, right then, I knew why.

CHAPTER 22

M
AINE

“S
O TELL ME
B
UD, WHY
the coast of Maine?”

The first time we met John Littlefield was in the Adirondacks–a few days after our retreat at Camp Santanoni. Back then, I heard his voice before seeing his face–a video camera was in the way. Now, in the parking lot of the Yankee Clipper Motel in New Hampshire, John was behind the camera again.

“I’ve never been there before, and I’d like to live by the Atlantic Ocean for a while.”

John said, “But it gets real cold in Maine. And winter isn’t that far off.”

He was short, had brown hair streaked with silver that was combed back from his face. John had the presence of a real-estate salesman, but he was a retired airline pilot who produced documentary films. His company, Logan Productions, was based in Montgomery, Texas. He was working on another project in the Adirondacks when we first met him.

A week before we got to Tamworth, when I checked my email, I had one from John, and he wanted to do a film about us. In the email he asked, “Could I walk a day or two with you?”

John and his assistant arrived early on September 25
^th
. The air was fresh from the rinsing it got the past couple days, and it was the first morning in over a week that the sky was cloudless. It was crisp enough to begin the day with long sleeves and a sweater, but all of us had shorts on. You could tell that it was going to get that warm. It would be a great day for walking and perfect for filming.

Moving around me, with the camera to his face, John squatted, stooped and stretched to get different shots, as he said, “Just be yourself. Act like I’m not here.”

–Just
try
being natural as someone with a camera is scurrying around you.–

“So this is a big day for you, eh Bud? Today you walk into Maine. Right?”

Strapping the harness onto Della, I looked into the camera and said, “Yes it is.”

John pulled the camera from his face. “I’m a Mainer. I grew up on the coast.”

He was the first person to tell us about the history of Maine. “The first white settlements were on the islands off the coast. Inland, the woods were too wild.”

Back in the 1970s, before I walked across the country with the pack pony, I considered exploring northwestern Maine on foot. It astounded me that in New England there was such a vast area with no towns, no paved roads and only a few dirt ones. On the map, it looked like just mountains, rivers and lakes–the kind of place I’d like to see.

I read everything I could find about the area and soon figured out why it was so desolate. In the winter it gets thirty below with snow roof-top-high in some places. Then, in the spring, biting black flies and huge mosquitoes rule the forest. Mosquitoes lay their eggs in still water, and black flies lay them in running water. So they’ve got you standing or flowing. Sometimes, black flies will swarm a moose to where it goes crazy and runs itself to death. People who venture into the woods have to cover themselves with netting to keep from getting bit up.

Then there were the bears. Black bears can be found all over New England, but their population was densest in Maine. I read a story about the state sending a team of sharpshooters in to thin them out. The bears ravaged their camp and sent the hunters fleeing for their lives.

I wanted to have an adventure–but not that kind. So in the 1970s I played it safe and just walked across the continent and half way back, with a pack pony and a dog.

Thirty years later, I was finally walking into Maine with a cameraman in my face who said, “And you’re going to let me walk with you–right?”

“Yes. You’ll be the first person to spend a day walking with us.”

“Great! Let’s do it!”

John gave the camera to his assistant, Joyce, with instructs on what kind of shots he wanted. Then, after she drove off in his Lexus, we four hit the road. It was an eleven mile day, and John walked nine of them. He was in the cart when we got to the state line.

It had no billboard, monument or fancy welcome center. Just a simple blue sign with white letters that read, “State Line Maine.”

The second town we came to in Maine was Bridgton–population 2,500. Bridgton was about twenty miles into the state. It’s situated between two natural lakes with several streams running through the heart of town. We spent Saturday and Sunday nights in a small park at Highland Lake on the northwest side of Bridgton. Sunday afternoon we had lots of folks stop to visit. Around 3 p.m. eight people were in our camp when a man in his late forties walked up and stood silently behind the group.

A couple of the people had just bought some of my poetry books, and one of them asked if I would read them a poem. After I finished “Fantasy to Reality,” the man behind the crowd applauded with the rest. And like some of the others, he too had tears. But somehow I got the feeling his weren’t generated by the poem.

The hair on both his head and face was curly and sandy brown. His beard framed a smile, but I sensed sadness when he shook my hand and introduced himself as Bruce Gehly. “I live in Ossipee, New Hampshire, and read about you in the paper.

While the others walked away, he shoved his hands into his pockets and said, “Actually, I’ve been looking for you for the past two days.”

“Really?”

“After I read the story, I had to find you.” He pulled a gray book, the size of my poetry book, out of his back pocket and handed it to me. “You’re living my dream.”

Ride The Gypsy Moon
was the title. On the cover was a pencil drawing of a man on the front of a gypsy wagon driving a pair of horses. In the bottom right corner were the words, “A poetic journey by Bruce Gehly.” When I looked back up at him, the smile didn’t seem quite so sad. I asked, “Is this your poetry?”

“I used to sell those when I was on the road.”

Patricia yanked the book out of my hands as she said, “No kidding?”

“In 1996 I hitched a pair of Shire horses to a gypsy wagon that I built, then took off to travel around the country selling those poetry books.” His hands were in his pockets again, and he was rocking back on his heels. “Like I said, you’re living my dream. I had to find you.”

I was astounded. “Where did you go?”

“I started in the fall, and headed south. Figured I’d spend the winter wandering around Florida. But I started hitting snow before I even got to the Hudson River. So I stopped and had everything trucked to Jacksonville, Florida. Figured I’d follow the coast down to the Keys.”

Bruce stopped rocking on his heels, and turned his face toward Highland Lake as he said, “Five miles out of Jacksonville, a woman rammed into the back of the wagon.”

Patricia gasped. “Oh, no!”

He turned toward my wife, and in a matter-of-fact tone said, “The wagon was destroyed and both horses got hurt. Eventually I had to put one of them down. I got banged up some, but not too bad.”

Obviously he had told this story many times, and it was as if telling it again was emboldening him. Bruce folded his arms across his chest and said, “The woman was drunk, had no license and no insurance.”

In unison, Patricia and I both said, “No!”

My wife had put on a pot of coffee just before Bruce showed up. He accepted her offer of a cup, and sat on Della’s water bucket as he explained some of the details. Tears were in his eyes when he concluded with, “But
the worst part was what it did to my soul. It’s like something inside me died.”

Bruce pulled a bandana out of his pocket, and wiped his eyes. “Sorry. It still hurts.”

Right then Patricia and I were both fighting tears. For several moments none of us said anything. He was the one who broke the silence. “That’s why I had to come find you. I thought being around someone living my dream might help me heal.”

That night in the tent, Patricia said, “It really makes you think. Doesn’t it?”

“What’s that?”

“The thing with Bruce and his horses. Something like that could happen to us.”

We had talked many times about the possibility of someone running into us. The discussion always ended with me saying, “I could get run over just walking down the street back home. We’ve all got to die sometime. I’d rather do it living my dream.”

A couple miles east of Lewiston, we set up camp in a large open field. Dark was descending on us as we staked down the tent. We had just finished erecting it when dusk let loose with a deluge. The rain was too heavy to get out the stove for a cooked meal, so we had cheese and crackers for dinner that night.

“Do you hear that?” Patricia was shaking me out of slumber

Yawning I said, “Hear what?”

“On the tent. Listen.”

I snuggled deeper into my bed. “It’s raining.”

“No it’s not. That’s ice! Listen.”

She was right. It wasn’t raining. I grabbed the flashlight, opened the tent door and shined it at the cart. Everything was covered with sleet, and it was steadily coming down.

“Bud, this is not good. It’s the fourth of October, and already it’s sleeting.”

“So?”

“We’re in Maine. Winter could happen at any time.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“I don’t want to still be on the road in the winter!” Panic was in my wife’s voice. “Can you imagine what this tent would be like during a blizzard?”

“Patricia, you’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. I don’t want to be on the road in the winter any more than you do. Yes, this tent would be a disaster in the snow. It’s not much in the rain.”

When she spoke, each word was more frantic than the one before it. “That’s for sure! And I’m telling you–”

“Patricia, stop right there! That’s enough!” I paused and lowered my voice. “Baby, I am on your side. Remember? When we get to Belfast, we’ll start looking for a place to stop. You still want to go to the coast, don’t you?”

Her voice was soft. “Yes.”

“Good. Now I have faith that when we get to the coast we’re going to find the right situation. But we have to get there first. Give me a kiss, and let’s go back to sleep.”