DAY 30 - Richfield toward Carey, ID - 593 miles from home

[written on the morning of day 31, Aug 3]

Little things, big things. We're moving slowly, 20 mile increments, and at the same time we're now closing in on over 600 miles traveled. (Okay, yes, my sister drives that in just a day when she visits me from San Francisco. But, still. We pilgrims are officially badass, I think).

Even more to the point - this walk from Richfield toward Carey: little things, big things. Within just a few miles, I started to see the landscape change. A teensy bit of elevation. Some bona fide cragginess. Rock formations veined with deep red iron oxide. Those gorgeous subdued sage greens and rust browns buckling up into hillocks and ridges, and then suddenly I realized: those are mountains in the distance! Mountains? I have 5G - astonishingly - here in the open plains of Idaho. Google tells me that I am approaching the Salmon River Mountains. Who knew? (Well probably anyone knew - who ever looked at a map - which, apparently, is not this pilgrim.)

I was thinking to myself: I used to travel almost this same distance every day, back and forth, to and from my job at Riverbend. 10 or so miles. All the time. I even biked that route, and thought nothing of it. I never noticed the ceaseless and ultimately mindboggling changes unfolding in the earth all around me, all the time. Geography, topography - space itself - was completely invisible to me.

People keep asking me about time. Asking me whether time is slowing down. "Oh," said my beloved sister-in-law Jane yesterday, "You must have so much time to think." Hm. Well indeed I'm thinking constantly, but that's maybe not saying much! The truth is: time feels very very full, here on the trail. I've never been busier in my life - doing less than I've ever done. I think that as SPACE expands - as I'm finding myself facing this extraordinary horizon every day (literally walking toward the sun) - time gets fuller, not emptier.

Or maybe what I mean to say is that I am more and more completely absorbed in both time and space. I am more and completely doing. This "completely doing" isn't what I would call restful. This isn't exactly a walk in the park, as they say.

Completely doing. Little things, big things. Red bubble, blue bubble. Eugene, Oregon bubble. Richfield, Idaho bubble. What keeps us confused about little things and big things seems to be these bubbles we inhabit. At the end of the day I had this rather basic thought: more than anything else, I want to be fearless enough to move out of my bubble. It's really uncomfortable and really really hard to do. I carry my bubble with me, like a diving bell. And of course I do - can't help but do that. And/but... maybe where the edges of my bubble meets yours, things can get a little shimmery and a little porous? Maybe the littleness of our diving bells can feel a bit more spacious - a bit more connected to the whole sea...?

Back in Richfield our home is this quintessential loving and welcoming house of worship. For me, a special connection with JoAnn (dang, I did not get her photograph!) and Tena - who grew up in Nevada at the intersection of gaming and ranching (her mom came from the world of casinos; her father from the world of the herd.) Tena tells me she'd love to walk the Pacific Crest Trail one of these days. "Bob did it at 67 years old!" I tell her. Tena's eyes brighten."It's never too late!" I exhort, in the sunshine.

Tena's aunt was a phys ed teacher at the University of Oregon - died in 2000 - and I think I met her! - But actually, I can't be sure, and now as I write these words I can't even remember the name Tena shared. Yet both Tena and I longed for the world to be small, for our paths to be connected in this way.

Glen and JoAnn Brannon, Tena and Delwin Amy are holding the Richfield congregation together. They're getting ready to run vacation Bible school on Monday; the basement is filled with art supplies and kid-friendly Bible stories. And all the same, they given us full run of the place. We've plugged in Libby and watered her up, run our showers - and bunked down in their fellowship hall. Meanwhile, our hosts have been doing everything they can to help us find lodging over the next week (a difficult stretch of road - tiny communities, few amenities - between Craters of the Moon and Idaho Falls).

The Richfield 16-member congregation was once affiliated with the United Methodists, but Covid changed that (Covid, we keep remembering, changed everything). The UMC insistence on lockdowns and social distance didn't sit well with this community in the wide open expanses of southern Idaho. There was padlocking of doors and contention and finally the congregation broke away. They bought the 1909 building, white and steepled and sweet, for just $20,000 - and have made the Church theirs. Now it's "all Bible, not religion," says Tena.

Thank you, thank you JoAnn and Glen, Tina and Delwin.

Glen shared a story about his birth in 1938: his father hitching the horses up to the sled in the middle of a snowstorm. Heading through the blinding white toward the water tower of the nearest big town, in order to find help for his wife, Glen's mom, in labor.

Salmon River Mountains

I think I'm game.

Tena Amy.