Wisconsin to Michigan
I am no longer amazed by goneness. Swimming between rows of delicious Michigan trees, I am only high on how far I am. Where I am is no longer important, I am far far and going farther into strange lands with nothing to expect, and the knowledge that I could go on forever. And the ones I love get closer, glowing within me. Michigan has welcomed me with its giant Great Lakes that look like seas, its Northern peninsula that looks like an island, its North so northern I expect to drive off the continent at any time. Michigan where the sun comes from. Where campsites are clean and expect you to pay $20 to spend the night, but where no one’s around to enforce the fee. Private showers and rows of white sinks ask me, what will you wash first? Your face your hands your teeth your clothes your dishes your eyes your hair?
A giant mullet adorned convenience store cashier talked about Highway 2, from where I have come: “They call it US Death; so many people get killed on it. They eat down by the lake then fall asleep at the wheel and kill themselves.”
I have finally built a lasting fire under my first stars of the trip, at a campsite too clean to find wood. It takes practice to live. It takes practice to be alive.