Crossing the Susquehanna

I woke up next to the tidal waters of the Bush River. I felt indigenous, one with the land and free but the ghost of John Smith still sailed on those waters here four hundred and ten years later. His landing, explorations, and the resulting exploitation resulted in a fragmented and owned land, a realm that said this piece of ground upon which I rested and prayed was closed, that presence between dusk and dawn was a trespass subject to prosecution. There's no rest allowed on the king's land but the free live freely so I coffeed, packed, prayed, and rode on.

I was still on US 40 approaching Aberdeen, Havre de Gras, and the Susquehanna River. I turned at the bike route to the state park on the river, riding through a wealthy colonist's collection of fancy houses where the road into the neighborhood states, "no trespassing" yet the East Coast Greenway, which I'd last seen in Savannah, led right through it and I, self propelled upon this path, earned free passage.

Past the enclave, the route entered the park into a thick forest and the road dropped steeply to the river. A group of three young women beckoned to me. "Are you traveling across country?" they asked.

I laughed in response and said, "around the world." They wanted my story then and I shared with them how to step toward freedom. They were empowered and my day was brightened. It was as if they lit their wicks from the flame of my light and as one now we shone much brighter than before.
There were many day cyclists and most greeted me with a wave, some cheering me on. The road led to a path that followed the river and I rode slowly relishing this relief from the sound and exhaust of the infernal combustion powered transportation malady that normally roars past me.

I saw a couple on the trail ahead of me walking together holding hands. They strolled peacefully and only let go to let others pass them, then they would touch again and stroll on. They still hadn't seen me so I stopped and dug a peace and love sticker from my bags that I would give them as I rode passed. I thanked them for loving. I said that it deserved a gift.

I met an older post war German at the end of the trail. She joined me at the table where I rested. She knew my message with no need for words. She saw it in my eyes and I saw it in hers. She offered me an orange but I already had one and got it out. We peeled our skins off together then. Bare to the world, the juices dripped.

My German friend left me with a small apple, her desire to assist me in my journey strong, my acceptance of the gift a great joy to her. I rode on then and up the first of several steep hills that I climbed that day. I rose to above the dam on the Susquehanna, descended to cross it, then turned for a further descent on the other side of the river.

A pack of about twenty motorcyclists passed me before I reached my corner and each raised an arm, their forefingers and pinkies extended in love and respect. I turned east at the Octotoro River and within a half mile was hailed by two boys, nine and eleven years old perhaps, who were perched on a large boulder on the far side of the wide river.

"Would you like a fish?" they hollered.

I replied, "I love fish. What kind is it?" and they held up a large trout. I asked, "How will you get it to me?"

They replied, "We'll throw it." but it was much too far and I hollered back that they should build a fire, spit it, and eat it themselves.

There was an old bridge there and its ramparts were covered in graffiti but no gang symbols or frustrations of disempowerment but rather a peace sign, a raised fist of liberation, and a simple phrase, "love yourself." I thought that I had perhaps been transported to Vermont but it was indeed still Maryland, a very different Maryland indeed but still the last southern state.

The land and the people were both very different east of the river. I was still south of the Mason - Dixon line but in a region that had been under the influence of Penn since 1702. There were Quaker meeting houses and smiling happy people in many of the yards. There was a man and woman working away at a pile of earth and between them and me their four year old daughter working equally hard with a functional toy hoe on her own dirt piles. There was a ponytailed young man who I met as he walked down his lane. We smiled and he gave me directions that I already had, the asking of simply an excuse for civility.

I passed by Colora which was colored with orchards blooming pink and filling the valley. I rested at Rising Sun by the red brick meeting house that had been in continuous use since 1708. I stopped at a bar and had a very strong beer. I met two boys there, one riding a BMX bike who I taunted saying that I could outride him even fully loaded and smoking. And it was true.

I got to my friend's house before dark and shortly left with him to help install security cameras at the zoo where he volunteers. We worked in the giraffe house which though clean smelled overpoweringly of giraffe piss. Jimmy the giraffe watched us work and perked up his ears whenever we spoke.

I posted this as it was happening and recently revised it. Posting my revisions so I can compare:

By morning the tidal waters were at the shore and I woke up in reverie at their murmur. I was one with the land and a free human but the ghost of John Smith still sailed on those waters four hundred and ten years later. His landing, explorations, and the resulting exploitation resulted in a fragmented and owned land, a realm that said this piece of ground upon which I rested and prayed was closed and that presence between dusk and dawn was a trespass subject to prosecution. There's no rest allowed on the king's land but the free live freely so I drank coffee, packed, prayed, and rode on.

US 40 crosses the Susquehanna River at Havre de Gras but the bridge only allows bicycle traffic during certain hours of the weekend. On every other day, bikers have to wind north through Susquehanna River State Park. The route to the state park passed through a wealthy colonist's collection of fancy houses where the road into the neighborhood states, "No Trespassing." I was on the East Coast Greenway though and it led right through the neighborhood.

A thick forest began past the enclave and the road dropped steeply to the river. There was a trailhead along the way and three young women there beckoned to me. "Are you traveling across the country?" they asked.

I laughed in response and said, "Around the world."

The women wanted my story then and I shared with them how to step toward freedom, that’s how I put it in my notes. My instructions were simple and only described what I had done. The short story is that the brain is a fantastic tool for accomplishing purpose but that without purpose, it’s known to offer distractions. As I explained the techniques I had used to find meaning, we all lit up. It was like we were candles coming to life with the strike of a match. Burning as one now, we shone much brighter than before. Remember that my bag said, “Be glorified,” and this simple meeting of open hearts was much of what I meant by it.

There were many day cyclists out and most greeted me with a wave, some cheering me on. The road led to a path that followed the river and I went along slowly relishing this relief from the sound and exhaust of the infernal combustion powered transportation malady that normally roared past me. I don’t mean to sound harsh but if the nature here by the river was a reasonable baseline for life on the planet, the mad mass of traffic normal to 21st century life is even worse than I’ve described.

Here there was peace though, peace and love. A couple ahead of me on the trail were walking together holding hands. They strolled peacefully and only let go to let others pass them, then they would touch again and amble on. They still hadn't seen me so I stopped and dug a peace and love sticker from my bags. As I rode past, I thanked them for loving and said that it deserved a gift.

An older German woman joined me at the table where I rested at the end of the trail. She knew my message with no need for words, seeing it in my eyes as I saw it in hers. She offered me an orange but I already had one and got it out. We peeled the skins off together then and, bare to the world, the juices dripped. My German friend left me with a small apple, her desire to assist me in my journey strong and my acceptance of the gift a great joy to her.

I rode on then and up the first of several steep hills that I would climb that day. I rose to above the dam on the Susquehanna, descended to cross it, then turned for a further descent on the other side of the river.

A pack of about twenty motorcyclists passed me before I reached my corner and each raised an arm, their forefingers and pinkies extended in love and respect. I turned east at the Octotoro River and within a half mile was hailed by two boys, nine and eleven years old perhaps, who were perched on a large boulder on the far side of the wide river.

"Would you like a fish?" they hollered.

I replied, "I love fish. What kind is it?" and they held up a large trout. I asked, "How will you get it to me?"

They replied, "We'll throw it." but it was much too far and I hollered back that they should build a fire, spit it, and eat it themselves.

There was an old bridge there and its ramparts were covered in graffiti. There was a peace sign, a raised fist of liberation, and a simple phrase, "Love yourself." I thought that I had perhaps been transported to Vermont but it was indeed still Maryland, a very different Maryland indeed but still the last southern state.

The land and the people were both very different east of the river though. I was still south of the Mason - Dixon line but in a region that had been under the influence of William Penn since 1702. There were Quaker meeting houses and smiling happy people in many of the yards. There was a man and woman working away at a pile of earth and between us their four year old daughter worked equally hard with a functional toy hoe on her own dirt piles. There was a ponytailed young man who I met as he walked down his lane. We smiled and he gave me directions that I already had, the asking of simply an excuse for civility.

Colora was colored with orchards blooming pink and filling the valley. I rested at Rising Sun by the red brick meeting house that had been in continuous use since 1708. Somewhere I stopped at a bar next to the highway and had a very strong beer then met two boys in the parking lot. One was riding a BMX bike and he couldn’t wrap his mind around how much weight was on my bike. I teased him, challenging him to a race. I said that I could outride him even fully loaded and smoking. We raced and it was true. We all laughed together.

That was my last stop before Rebecca’s place. With her husband and three teenage daughters, she had a place I could stay while I fixed my bike. Rebecca and I met at a rainbow gathering in the mid eighties and wherever she lived, it had always been a home to me, Takoma Park mostly. I went there twice a year in the eighties. I arrived just before dark, early enough for her husband to show me the ducks, he kept pet ducks. Rebecca wasn’t home from work yet so he asked me if I’d to come to the zoo with him. He was an IT technician and had a set of security cameras to install.

The giraffe house was clean but smelled overpoweringly of giraffe piss. We were working from a balcony which surrounded the room. Imagine being in a big stinky box, eye level to a giraffe. The giraffe was named Jimmy and he watched us as we worked, perking up his ears whenever we spoke. It was after dark though and the lights were dim. Jimmy might have been asleep on his feet.