by David Palmer
Certainly hope Harpers home. Apart from obvious, interested in observing daily workings of family life; see whether they glow together. (If so, at what intensity in which combinations.)
Off tomorrow to Baltimore—or perhaps "toward" more realistic preposition: Though only 427 miles, according to map, know about map distances now (been through that before, haven't we). So don't expect to make it in single day. Or even two, three.
For one thing, must retrace path around much of Connecticut, Hudson rivers—doubles distance right there. Additionally, frequent stops to post leaflets in promising locations takes time. Finally, map shows two additional major rivers between here, there (Delaware, Susquehanna); both so convenient to large populations, almost certain downstream bridges useless.
Can't take less than week. Maybe two.
If possible at all—for very different reason: While hasn't been hint of residual radiation heretofore, Baltimore very close to Washington. Capital one of few targets across land scheduled for broken windows: According to Daddy's secret papers, favored with many direct hits. Quite conceivable D.C. area still hot. Equally probable, Baltimore unsafe as well.
Been testing ambient background radiation periodically with geiger counter from shelter (recent design: lightweight, quite sophisticated [nine-tenths of capabilities completely over head]). Will step up checking frequency as approach Baltimore area.
Bedtime again—after another deliciously hot shower. Then to that firm, cool bed.
Tomorrow beckons. . . .
Yes, Posterity, derelict again—sorry. Trying to do better, really. Sometimes difficult to muster energy. But trust me: Missed nothing through failure to enter daily progress from Boston on regular basis. Omissions, if any, not substantive in nature—events not substantive; absence from history books not world-shaking.
Because mostly dull. Indescribably so. Hundreds of miles. Some on roads, some not. Thoroughfare varied from expressways to pasturelands; passability from utterly not to unobstructed. Myriad get-out-and-copes. Engaged four-wheel-drive lots. Cleared path with winch frequently. Doubled back often.
First break in routine came while working southward through rural portion of Pennsylvania, apparently egg-farming region. Accidentally rediscovered old source of fresh meat: Hit chicken. Happily, not going very fast; killed cleanly with bumper instead of mashing flat with tire. Stopped, cleaned immediately; roasted over charcoal for early dinner.
Delicious—thought so myself—but Terry transported beyond ecstasy: Waded in with gusto; split, pulverized bones; cleaned out every scrap of marrow, gristle. Long time since last chicken dinner; poor baby probably in throes of withdrawal.
Experience profitable long-term as well as short. That night switch clicked in brain, disturbing sleep. Old switch. Primitive circuit.
Found self suddenly awake, staring into darkness. Pictured clearly in mind's eye was tee shirt seen on tourist several years back: cartoon of hungry vulture glaring down from tree branch, muttering, "Patience, hell—I'm going to go kill something . . . !"
H. sapiens not scavenger. Was, in fact, puny physique notwithstanding, deadliest predator on planet. Any reason for successor to be less forthright about satisfying appetite? Moral issue, perhaps? Should H. post hominem be vegetarian, as philosophical principle?
No . . . ! Nothing philosophical about vitamin deficiency, creeping malnutrition. Granted, probably entirely possible for hard-working, full-time agrarian to raise sufficiently diverse crop to constitute balanced meatless diet. But for explorer, nomad, simply not practical.
So next day, again feeling carnivorous (anticipating brother's vote if asked), stopped van, caught chicken in footrace. Issue considerably in doubt at first. Prey ran to, fro, dodged about squawking. Wondered for time if might have to resort to gun.
But finally zigged when smart money all on zag; fell victim to feral pounce to gladden heart of primalest hungry raptor ever admitted to guild—which, in fact, by then apt self-description (though neither growled during chase nor stood with foot on kill afterward, beating chest, screaming mangani victory cry).
Dinner that night especially tasty. Perhaps calories expended in pursuit honed appetite; perhaps enjoyment on more atavistic level. Hard to say—and don't much care: If reverting, will enjoy it.
Began edging westward to flank Delaware River while still far enough north that detour of little consequence. Finding passable bridge never became issue.
But same not true of Susquehanna; another matter entirely: long, extending far northwest, very wide. Bridges encountered during initial exploration all collapsed. Began to think might have to circumnavigate after all. Until came to railroad trestle.
Stopped van abruptly. Stared. Deliberated at length, with distaste. Reconnoitered on foot, all the way across. Took careful measurements.
Yes, was possible—probably not even actually dangerous. But uncomfortable notion: Span between tread centers and track separation identical; giant mud/snow flotation tires fully 15 inches across tread face, providing perhaps four inches' grace either way before risk mounted. And even if did allow vehicle to slip off rails, wooden ties sufficiently closely spaced to permit crossing completion by bump-bump-bump method, assuming care, deliberate progress.
(Rather not slip off rails, though, thank you. True, walked entire span; inspected structure for apparent faults. But layperson; key word is "apparent": Not versed, personally, in abstruse skills required to determine at single glance which tie sound, which rotten. And cantilever loading provides severest test of strongest member; little doubt that bump-bump-bumping whole way across surefire system for substandard tie detection. Quick, positive detection.)
However, longer debated matter, less attractive became alternative. Judging by map, dearth of bridges upstream, mountainous contours of land, can't-get-there-from-here character of roads, less appealing became prospect of driving around Susquehanna. Looking at thousand miles at minimum; probably more, considering present-day road conditions. Did not care to spend another two weeks getting past dumb river.
Therefore backtracked to last small town. Located hardware store; scrounged to good effect, assembling components necessary for Rube Goldberg device intrinsic to rash solution: Mirror, mounted out at end of tripodish boom secured to front end of roof rack, both ends of bumper; with control rod permitting accurate positioning from driver's seat—lash-up enabling direct observation of front tires' actual ground-to-tread contact point, removing seat-of-pants element from precision driving required to remain on tracks.
With mirror boom in place, control rod tested, working properly, next step was getting van perched on tracks. Accomplished well back from trestle, on solid right-of-way.
Front wheels easy; went where pointed. Mostly. Were, of course, encountering rails at fairly acute angle. With four-wheel-drive engaged, transmission in first gear, transfer box in low-low, released brake, eased out clutch, crept forward inch by inch. Right front wheel climbed first rail effortlessly, dropping to roadbed between tracks. Double contact next; doubled weight also—and doubled resistance, as smooth steel/rubber coefficient attempted to hoist weight of van's entire front end. Progress first limited to sideways, tires glancing off rails' shoulders, sliding along tracks without mounting. But finally corners of big mud/snow treads caught, drew front end upward. Moments later, following careful steering adjustments, front tires centered on rails.
Rears another matter, however: Right rear stubbornly dragged against left track for 30 feet before bumping up, over onto roadbed between rails. Then for good hundred feet both rears clawed ineffectually, unable to gain purchase.
Finally, with bare hundred yards remaining before commencing trestle ascent, gave up. Set brake, exited. Employed shovel to pile up small gravel ramp against rail ahead of each rear tire. Primitive solution (employing engineering principles well regarded .in Pharaoh's day) but serviceable: Five feet beyond, all four wheels poised neatly on rails.
Astonishing, after all that effort, how quickly enth
usiasm for project (product of own cleverness) waned:
Ten feet out on span, to be precise. Just far enough for hitherto-unnoticed breeze, unimpeded now by aught but trestle's cobweb structure, to seize ample sail area presented by van's slab sides and nudge. Gently but perceptibly.
(In retrospect, doubt actual chassis movement [limited, of course, to slight suspension yield, tire sidewall squirm] exceeded quarter inch in any direction. Then, however, felt like major tectonic adjustment.)
Was suddenly conscious how very different trestle had looked from on foot: wider, solider, much more secure.
And wooden ties projecting from under tracks on either side appeared shorter now when viewed through windshield from driver's seat, with river as background beyond, below—far below. Tie ends not visible, for instance, through side windows—nothing visible through side windows. Except distant ground, river.
Noticed van had stopped. Wondered briefly if due to wind also, until discovered (looking past white-knuckled hands gripping steering wheel) both feet apparently trying to push brake pedal through floorboard. Had forgotten clutch; engine dead.
(Probably just as well. With engine dead, could not yield to rash impulses: Could not attempt to back up. Mirror not placed to permit observation of exact rear-tire/rail relationship, nor could envision any practical means of doing so. Further, geometry inherent in reverse steering precluded making attempt to regain solid ground astern: Small angular changes at rear are product of large lateral displacements at front. Would have led to immediate bump-bump-bumping. Or worse.)
Became aware was perspiring all over. Felt spontaneous aching sensation in soles of feet, palms of hands. Eyes began to burn, tear. Noticed also mounting sense of suffocation.
Memory chose that moment to call up, play back lifelong accumulation of admonishments concerning Bridges, Premature Burning Of; Corners, Painting Oneself Into; Leaping Before Looking, etc. Cheeks grew hot; glad Teacher couldn't see star pupil then, frozen at wheel amidst predicament created solely by own failure to consider all aspects of problem before charging in.
But wait—what if Teacher were watching . . . ? From Above. Wouldn't do to let him see funk continue. Momentary startlement probably barely excusable, considering circumstances, provided not carried beyond limits of good taste. If watching, Teacher would expect to see constructive signs of recovery soon. Or would look sorrowful; make entry in notebook.
(Said recovery no doubt expected to include movement of portions of completely paralyzed body—that would be hard part.)
With effort almost physical in character, managed to wrench gaze from river below. Turned perceptions inward, initiating code sequence leading to transcendental state. And reaped prompt dividends: Upon closing eyes, cause of optic discomfort immediately evident—probably hadn't blinked for whole minutes! Likewise, shortness of breath alleviated by resumption of respiration. . . .
And as meditative discipline took hold, thought processes again began to acquire semblance of coherence; acted to clamp down, brake churning emotions, restore control. Heartbeat slowed, perspiration subsided.
Opened eyes; focused on point at which rail disappeared under tire. Noted was perfectly centered under tread. Directed attention to left hand. Tried three times before fingers unclenched from wheel, shifted grip to mirror control rod. Readjusted mirror to inspect other tire, rail. Also centered.
Okay. Everything. Under. Control.
Returned mirror to left tire, rail. Without angles to allow for, offered more direct observation, clearer perspective.
Returned left hand to wheel. Eased right hand's grip to point where feeling returned to fingers; moved to ignition switch. Took longer to get left foot from brake pedal, depress clutch. Turning key required act of raw will.
After being clutch-killed, engine started raggedly, settling into lumpy, galloping idle as gas-soaked plugs shorted, fired, shorted again. Torque reaction, transmitted through engine mounts to chassis, produced motion almost as scary as wind.
Ignored it. Moved right foot from brake pedal; placed gently on accelerator. Eased clutch out (had never taken out of gear); applied hint of gas. Forward motion resumed.
Applied fraction more power. Small fraction. Proceeded deliberately. About two-thirds mile across trestle, but in no hurry. Plenty of time.
Quickly learned driving not that difficult:. Merely question of keeping eyes fixed on rail disappearing beneath tire tread; steering precisely to keep centered; ignoring van's frequent wind-induced shrugs. (Ignoring also scenery and own position relative thereto.)
No, not difficult at all. But rather tense work. And as initial session dragged on, began to feel effects of prolonged concentration; decided might be wise to stop, take breather. Did so, looked around—discovered had come barely hundred yards!
No, wasn't difficult. But took best part of three hours to complete crossing.
And when finally cleared trestle, solid ground under rails beneath all four wheels (waited until could confirm in rearview mirrors to ensure wasn't being fooled by optical-mistic illusion; do something silly while rear end still overhung void), wasted no time turning sharply off tracks, bumping over rails, driving down embankment to level ground.
Stopped, got out; walked back to cliff edge, breathing hard. Suddenly rubbery legs seemed to suggest another time-out. Sat abruptly. And as stared out over valley, down at river, up at bridge, found was reviewing incident in detail: Had saved minimum of week's travel; and barring ever-present potential for untoward development arising out of mechanical failure (and despite recurring apnea episodes during crossing), probably not inherently dangerous. Reflected at length, totaling pluses, minuses.
Finally concluded: stupidest damnfool stunt have ever pulled . . . ! What was all-fired rush? So might have had to spend another week circling river. Or month, for that matter. So what . . . ! Not as if on schedule . . . !
Mechanical-failure risk real; but only then, sitting at brink, contemplating vistas conquered, did practical implications sink in: What would have done had tire gone flat midspan? Or engine quit? Or steering come adrift . . . ?
Sum of potential failure through which could have been stranded or pitched into space at least equals, probably exceeds, total number of parts of which van constructed. Madness to hazard position in which ten-cent part's failure could cause other than fleeting botheration.
Now, loss of van not disaster per se; replacements endlessly available, one form or another. But inconvenient; much semi-irreplaceable equipment aboard. (To which considerations might be added inconvenience attendant to dropping self, Terry into river, some bunchteen dozen feet below.)
However, when scrutinized under gimlet microscope of hindsight, incident not entirely devoid of redeeming aspects (apart from obvious: Yes, am across that river). No question now: Been blundering along, gripped by curious form of mental myopia. Tight grip, too: Even when glimmer of sense raised head (in form of blithering panic ten feet from safety), never entered head to abort—set brake, seize Terry, abandon ship through rear doors.
Few bridges thus far encountered standing actually physically impassable—to pedestrian. But for blinder-mindedness regarding van, could have walked across, carrying gear; then picked new vehicle on far side. Certainly no dearth of replacements.
Sure, would take several trips to move whole inventory. Probably hard work. But quicker than driving around each river found sprawled across (And surely easier on nerves than emulating Wallendas.)
But, incredibly, was first time concept crossed mind, even as most fleeting of notions. (Curious behavior for certified genius—perhaps should just resign gracefully; avoid humiliation intrinsic to being found out, summarily drummed from corps.)
Okay! Was stupid—lesson learned. But water over dam; no benefit accrues from brooding over mistakes (besides, sackcloth itchy; ashes hard to shampoo from hair). On notice now—van expendable; shall keep fact in mind.
(But perhaps, in exercise of reasonable foresight, new policy implementat
ion unnecessary. Ever. Because not truly fond of idea—not through fuzzy sentimentality, irrational attachment to inert mechanism; of course; practical considerations only: supremely capable on/off-road vehicle; quirks, limitations of which now second nature. Also capacious: lots of gear aboard, stowed neatly; everything in its place, readily at hand. Further, after pedal-lift installation, shift-lever extension, seat relocation, fits me—not insignificant factor from four-foot-ten-inch perspective. Besides, finally have galley in shape: cabinets, drawers organized; stove, oven properly broken in. Hate to go through that again.)
So van expendable, true. Fact now in mind. But "expendable" not synonymous with "consumable": that fact in mind, too. Next question, please.
Which (from serious historian, student) must be: Did you find anyone, anything, in Baltimore?
Answer: Of course not. Yet—just got here. (Apart from happy discovery that, proximity to Washington notwithstanding, ambient radiation still reads within normal limits.)
Harpers not home; no surprise there. House displays usual signs (which have come to know, hate) of methodical move-out seen elsewhere. No clues immediately apparent; fine-tooth search must await morrow—been long day.
But first, another wallow in civilized decadence. Power out along much of East Coast, but Harpers' house totally solar powered, plus has own deep well—utterly independent of local utilities. Flip switch, electricity restored. Water standing in system already hot from automatic convective functioning of calorie collector on roof; with electricity working again, pump stands ready to replenish water as used. In brief: Hot shower time again!
Which is practically first thing did upon investigating house. Supper preparation, consumption next; only then turned to present journal update. (Sorry, Posterity; itchy, smelly skin and empty belly come first.)