Pittsfield, Maine.
Growing up I was intrigued by the stereotype of the hobo. My father called him a bum or a tramp. He was dirty, smelly, and unshaven. He would heat up cans of pork and beans over an open fire down by the railroad. He wouldn't stay very long in any one spot. He would keep movin' on.
I never felt like a hobo on the Appalachian Trail but I certainly do on the bicycle. On the AT everyone expects you to lok disheveled and camp in the woods. In towns along the road nobody does. But I'm really enjoying this. Thjere's something quite stimulating about hiding in the woods at night. It has a slightly illicit feeling to it. And I expect I'll continue to get that thrill until I get arrested one of these days.
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