Pausing is hard. We want to keep moving. Pausing to scribble at the end of each day’s travel is helped if I have a good desk. This desk is in a side stream of the Smith River in northern California. We are a few days away from flying to Spain; to España and our many days afoot. In another distortion of time, we are one sleep away from donning the ‘packs for that first morning’s walk.
The celebration. The noise. The smiles and music and singing are enjoyed, but our minds are on the Pyrenees Mountains just beyond all the Basque music, singing, colors, and joy. As in so many strange campgrounds with a starting line awaiting in the morning, sleep is fitful, a bridge over the river Nive just a short walk down this stone-surfaced street in St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, France fills our mind.
We knew about running. Running was no stranger to our minds and feet. It was this walking with backpacks that brings concern. All our belongings were with us–our world was shrinking to one of essentials–something so familiar, yet, this time, so different, awaits.
Sunrise, tomorrow’s, with only the hum from a power line to send us up and into…
———-Run Gently Out There———-