Welcome Back, Boots

What defines home?

Is home where you are, or where you go back to? Where you came from or where you feel most comfortable?

And can we have more than one?

These questions seem obvious--but sometimes the simplest musings can be the most noteworthy.

I have my home in Boston--where I'm from. My home in Charlottesville--most comfortable. And of course, that ever-lovin' trail--where I am.

The past week I could never forget.

Thursday: geared up and ready to re-enter as it were, the rain came down too hard so I went to the movies. And yet--a classic hiker move. Transitioning.

Friday: missing my raincoat and shivering in the wet, I walked not 20 minutes before I saw a poncho (and lefty) hanging from a tree. Don't even ask me if the trail provides. Jam sessions and trail pizza ensued.

Saturday: accidentally walked another marathon. I love it when that happens. Saw a bear, 3 bucks, a turtle, 2 rabbits, and a copperhead.

Sunday: hitched to a bar to watch the NBA Finals and hear live music. Night hiked in the midnight rain, where frustration turned to gratitude.

Monday: endured the lingering deluge 16 miles to a resort in the Shenandoahs--and yes, the woman at the front desk did eavesdrop on our quandary (to hike or not to hike?) and graciously offered us rides to her grandma's house for the night--we hiker trashed the town of Luray from top to bottom--thank you Grandma.

Tuesday: our soft-baked companion celebrated 30 years of age--we designed a 30-clue scavenger hunt along the trail, replete with pop-tart cakes, nude photos, and special surprises. Happy birthday, Pretzel.

Wednesday: threatened by rumors of an incoming storm, we not accidentally hiked 32 miles, and liked it.

Thursday: "thayurs a meeeeeen derecho comin' arr way!" No rain, no Maine--but winds like those could keep ya away.

Friday: got our raggedy asses whipper-snapped and trail-magicked up and down, side to side.

How did I find myself bopping my head to dance music at two AM this morning? Let's work backwards: for here, now, we find our hero, yours truly, and your humble narrator, sitting on the steps of our very own national gallery in the Capital, listening to Mozart's 21st in C, yeah, the fucking pinnacle of musical excellence, about to absorb some meaning and reflect upon life--that is what art does.

Tomorrow? Back to the trail to hike 42 miles in 24 hours, crossing 3 state borders into rocky-bottommed Pennsylvania.

Through camaraderie and suffocation, joy and ache, presence and distance--a world of dichotomy--this hiker has found a glimmer of balance in all this chaos--adventure, romance, comedy, EMOTION via the structure of a thin band of brown through green, blazed red, white, and blue, heading north by not-west--and feeling at home.

Self? : approval.