At some point while I was traveling through West Virginia, I began to feel isolated and detached. Not in a sad way, but in a way that was familiar from taking on tasks that necessitate solitude—like writing. This trip is like that: a journey that I have to embark on, mostly alone, for reasons that are not yet entirely clear. Or maybe I’m romanticizing this experience because I’ve always wanted my own hero’s journey; an adventure to test my mettle and reveal my character.
The desolate landscape didn’t help and only served to remind me how far from the familiar I had traveled. Passing through long stretches of wood, interspersed with ramshackle cottages and no one in sight, made me feel like I was out of reach of a helping hand should I need it. I nervously eyed my cell phone at times feeling comforted only when I had at least two signal bars. Modernity!
I arrived late to the campground in Kentucky so it was dark when I pulled into my site. I heard campers somewhere in the distance but there was no one else in my immediate area. Ever the courageous man, I walked briskly into the night towards the bathrooms which were mercifully close by and well lit.
I slept in my car that night because it was the easy thing to do. A passing thunderstorm hours later pelted my car with rain, pushing me deeper into REM. I recalled a time in childhood when I made a sword out of scrap pieces of wood I found under the porch. This was the eighties when it was acceptable for children to wander from their parent’s watchful eye to explore their environment. Of course my parents didn’t know that I was crawling under the house, in the dirt, and around rusted nails–but they also never asked.
The wood came from pieces of an old fence and were perfectly suited to make a pointed blade and hilt. I used nails, wood glue, and a hammer that I found in my father’s shop to forge my weapon. I was so proud of my work and would wander the neighborhood, pretending to be a knight slaying imaginary dragons or, sometimes, just being He-Man. I love the eighties!
My sword disappeared sometime later when I was away on vacation. I assumed someone stole it but never properly investigated because this was before my Sherlock Holmes phase so I didn’t yet have the skills. I was heartbroken but, for some reason, never made another one.
I slept well that first night in Kentucky and, when I woke up, I no longer felt isolated or detached. Sometimes I forget that feelings—good or bad—don’t last forever. Solitude, it seems, is in my nature. Whether I’m facing down the threat of tetanus under a porch, writing for this blog, or exploring the country on a road trip. I’m still not sure about a hero’s journey but I definitely have an adventurer’s spirit.