The last day on the Flint Hills Trail felt like a collection of scenes from a movie to me.
Scene 1: Allison and I are on the trail almost two hours before sunup. The trail runs alongside train tracks, and this is a very active line. In the hour we’re together 3 or 4 trains thunder by in the dark. The sky is full of crystalline stars in spring constellations. Once Allison is gone, headed back to the van, I am alone with the trains. Walking into the dawn, I cover what I think might be the most beautiful mile of the trail. The cotton candy sky over a sleeping farm and absolutely endless plains in all directions make me grateful to be.
Scene 2: The trail is blocked by a sign. “trail closed.” I begin to follow the detour across the open plains, no idea how far out of my way I’ll have to go. Later, an enormous dog the size of Tuttle from another adventure, thunders out of a yard and toward me. He decides I am not worth eating. Back on the trail, I have added 4 miles to my walk. The mileposts resume the countdown until the end. 20. I finish the Gnostic Gospels book.
Scene 3: I am walking down Main Street in Ottawa. We’d driven through this town a few days before, but it looks different now that I’ve walked to it. The Casey’s isn’t where I think it is going to be. They never are. I tell myself it’s fine if I don’t refill food or water here. I am teens of miles from the end, and I can do it dry if needed. Then I see the Corner Market, serving coffee, breakfast and drinks. Inside, I barely skip ordering a beer and instead get a huge coffee and an omelette sandwich. I leave the town munching my food and swilling coffee once again. A man in a greasy down jacket with a scraggly beard stops me. I can’t understand what he’s saying and he gives up trying.
Scene 4: Endless tree tunnel, and I am now tired. Around noon is usually the toughest time of the day for me. I decide to compose some thoughts to capture where I am, and what I am doing.
I pass a rusty, screaming, oil well in the forest. It screeches up, pauses for thirty seconds. Then it screeches down. The air smells like an oil field.
Scene 5: I emerge from the woods at the outskirts of Rantoul. Walking toward me on the path is a man with what appears to be a small horse beside him. As they get closer I see it’s a dog, the same breed Hagrid has in Harry Potter. I have already had one bad dog experience on this day. As I approach the man stops and holds the dog. I get the sense that he’s doing this more to make me feel better than out of any need. The dog is slavering, but he doesn’t seem to care about me much. I ask the man if I can ride the dog the rest of the way. He laughs and tells me I don’t have much to worry about. The man’s voice is marked by a deep Irish brogue. I must have looked completely dumbfounded, because I was. We talk for a few minutes, me telling him what’s at the western end of the trail, him telling me what lies ahead east. As we turn to go our separate ways, I pause and say “It’s good to have met you. I’m Joe.” He laughs again and says “I’m Brian.” A few moments after leaving Brian, I pass a man on a bike who nods and waves at me.
Scene 6: On the other side of Rantoul, there is an airplane graveyard by the side of the trail. I make my way through the underbrush for an unobstructed view of hundreds of airplanes in various stages of disassembly. I have found an airplane graveyard. I take photos and then continue on. The end is coming.
Scene 7: A few miles before the end of the trail, I put in both headphones and turn on music. I turn the music up until it’s all-encompassing, and I play a string of songs which at one time, prodded by Apple marketing, we called our “power songs.” I play every song I have ever had a religious experience on a trail while listening to. I dance and skip down the trail. I cry. With less than two miles to go, the trail ascends what is almost a hill, and it feels as if it is actually going to be downhill until the end. In fact, it is. I stop to take a photo with the 1 mile post. Seconds later, the guy I’d seen on the bike back in Rantoul pulls up alongside. He lives in Osawatamie, near the finish. He rides motorcycles too, and has recently spent a week in Chicago on vacation. At the sight of the finish, a proper arch bearing the name of the trail, he says goodbye. Allison and Eleanor are there with a beer and hugs. And then the trail is finished.
