Jen found a copy of "The Man Who Walked Through Time" by Colin Fletcher somewhere back in Wisconsin last summer. We moved it out here, and it was sitting on our book shelf. Vee was going through our library last week when he was out here, and took On The Road for his train ride to Seattle, and plane ride back to the midwest. I was reminded of how Kerouac, London and Abbey's words used to be the mantle on which I rested my head every night, instilling a wanderlust in me that never really went away.
I think it was when I was around 19 that I read Fletcher's "Thousand Mile Summer". I started reading today, and instantly his words had an offhand familiarity, like catching up with an old friend by the fire:
"...A world in which the things that mattered were the pack on your back and sunlight on rough rock and the look of the way ahead. A world in which you relied, always, on yourself."
It has been raining hard here today, so we've been laying low, cooking, reading the paper, listening to the old squawk box, feeling the freight trains roll through, and for the last few hours, reading.
Very comfortable Sunday, indeed.