drmstream[writing]

These young men are wav­ing good­bye as they start the 1000 mile trek from Pitts­burg to New Orleans. They’ll skirt the Allegheny Moun­tains, pass into Ten­nessee and pick up the Jack­son Mil­i­tary Road for the final 400 mile descent to the Mis­sis­sippi Delta and the bay­ous and great swamps sur­round­ing New Orleans.

They are fol­low­ing the inspi­ra­tion of the Eng­lish­man Thomas Stevens, who set out from San Fran­cisco in 1884 on his high bicy­cle one Spring morn­ing and arrived in Boston four months later. Stevens ended up trav­el­ing around the world on his bicy­cle and writ­ing a book about his trav­els that described the remark­able beau­ties, intrigu­ing char­ac­ters and thrilling dan­gers that he encountered.

The moon has risen; it is two-thirds full, and a more beau­ti­ful sight than the one that now greets my exit from the bunk-house it is scarcely pos­si­ble to con­ceive. Only those who have been in this inter-mountain coun­try can have any idea of a glo­ri­ous moon­light night in the clear atmos­phere of this dry, ele­vated region. It is almost as light as day, and one can see to ride quite well wher­ever the road is rid­able. The pale moon seems to fill the whole broad val­ley with a flood of soft, sil­very light; the peaks of many snowy moun­tains loom up white and spec­tral; the stilly air is bro­ken by the excited yelp­ing of a pack of coy­otes nois­ily bay­ing the pale-yellow author of all this love­li­ness, and the wild, unearthly scream of an unknown bird or ani­mal com­ing from some mys­te­ri­ous, unde­fin­able quar­ter com­pletes an ideal West­ern pic­ture, a poem, a dream, that fully com­pen­sates for the dis­com­forts of the pre­ced­ing hour.

I imag­ine the young men in the train trav­el­ing back to their lives in Pitts­burgh. They’ve walked, rid­den, been sod­den and baked. They’ve expe­ri­enced the hos­pi­tal­ity and hos­til­ity of the coun­try­side. In New Orleans, they have sold their bicy­cles, objects of great curiosity.

Now they are sprawled across the train car, din­ing sump­tu­ously. The 19th cen­tury is draw­ing to a close. The grand adven­tures are nar­row­ing. They tell and retell their sto­ries, prac­tice for the din­ners and par­ties across the cold win­ter months. They will come back with their slice of expe­ri­ence, the sore mus­cles and edgy frus­tra­tions forgotten.