Man of Character PHOTOS

Charles Kennedy and Alona



The FIRETOWER



Charles's home as seen from atop the firetower.



The Great Channels

Man of Character

Charles Kennedy was described to me as a character, so I knew right off I wanted to meet him. About all I knew was that he lived way up at the top of a mountain and that he grew mushrooms and medicinal herbs. That was enough. He sounded pretty interesting.

Getting to Charles was no small feat. Charles place was only about 18 miles away at a place called Hayter’s Gap, but this gap sat at about 3,100 feet and his house was another 1,000 feet above at the top of Powell Mountain. The ride out was pretty. As I wound up the hill, out of town, there were folks hanging around on their front porch and lots of little side gardens going.

When I reached the gap I was determined to power it all the way up to Charles’ house. It was a noble effort, but I finally had to do something I swore I wouldn’t. I got off and walked my bike.

Charles was in a small field on the mountainside tilling weeds when I arrived. I parked my bike, relieved to be done for the day, despite the short distance covered. Charles was a large, strong man, in his mid ‘50’s, with a great peace and calm to him. His short silver hair, slightly receded, created a contrast with his golden skin and blue eyes. Once he spotted me he turned the tiller off, and in a about five minutes we were fast friends.

We discovered that we both hailed from Alabama, had spent some quality time in the Bankhead Forest (he had me licked on this account) and shared some mutual friends (a strong environmental advocate of the National Forest who founded the magazine Wild Alabama). Charles also had a large snake tattooed on his chest that ran from his navel clear to his neck. As we talked we discovered that we also had a common love for Native American tradition and ceremony.

Charles explained the layout of the place and encouraged me to roam about a bit while he finished the days work. He had built two houses atop the mountain, one for him and his lovely wife Alona who is from the Phillipines, and a guest lodge that they rent to weekend travelers. A number of campsites dot the mountaintop and he directed me toward the bathhouse where they kept two hummingbird feeders. The side of the house was literally buzzing with hummingbirds, 15-20 of them coming and going filling the atmosphere with magic.

Before the sun went down, we trekked into the woods for my first lesson in wild mushrooms. Charles has been studying wild mushrooms for the eight years since he moved to this property. He pointed out turkey tails, and described it one the best natural medicines in the woods. When steeped as a tea it can be taken for diabetes, high blood pressure and other disorders. Then, thanks to the late afternoon shower, we find tonight’s dinner, chicken mushroom. Bright orange with a white underbelly, the mushroom resembles cauliflower in its appearance.

Throughout our wanderings, Charles described how he had come to live on this property and the battle he had been fighting ever since. Shortly after purchasing the 150 acres he discovered that the surrounding land owner was a pallatte company that planned to cut all the timber below him and then develop the hillside into a subdivision of getaway homes. No place is safe from such schemes. Charles was alarmed but he had two tools in his pocket. The company needed his right of way to access the property and he wasn’t going to give it to them and on the next ridge there was a geologic formation that was completely unique in Virginia.

The mountain was constructed of sandstone, the remnants of an ancient coast that sat upon this area over 240 million years ago. As the uplifting of the mountains occurred and water and erosion began to carve through the sedimentary rock, great chasms began to form what are now 50 foot tall beautifully carved walls of sandstone. The formations are known as the Great Channels and are breathtaking in their beauty and power.

Charles began a public awareness campaign to bring the plight of the Great Channels to the people. The Nature Conservancy had attempted once before to purchase the property and failed. During the struggle Charles received death threats, gun shots and was even assaulted. His determination to protect this land was unrelenting.

When Charles was born he was diagnosed with a rare blood disease that gives him absolutely no immune system for about 10 days of every month. As a result he was smaller and less athletic than other boys growing up. His family loved the woods and he took to it like a fish to water. His Croation school teacher really understood what Charles was going through and had picked out a book to read to the class that she thought Charles would enjoy. The book was an action adventure set on a mountain top and involved a fire tower. The book changed his life, and he loved fire towers from that time on.

During the middle of his fight for the mountain, Charles came to know a local well-loved community columnist named Jack Kentsler who was in his ‘80’s. The two became fast friends. Jack mentioned to him one day that he had written a book in his younger days that described the mountain and the Great Channels and would he like to read it. Charles said he would and borrowed the book. He was in the height of his battle, he and Alona were facing bankruptcy with legal fees, and the company had pressured them to the breaking point to sell out.

After holding onto the book for three days, he cracked it open and three pages into it he realized, this was the book that he changed his life as a young boy. In the front of the book was a map detailing the locations of the story. The map was of the Great Channels, Powell Mountain, and the fire tower. As Charles told me this story, he points his finger to the next ridge and says, "That’s the firetower."

Upon the discovery, chills went up and down his spine. Imagine the likelihood of ending up on the very mountain that had touched him as a child. The discovery bolstered his resolve to protect the lands.

Today, the Great Channels are owned by the Nature Conservancy and Charles Kennedy was the man responsible for their protection. Whether you believe in God, karma, fate or coincidence, one thing is sure, the world design intended Charles to come back and save the place that had saved him.

Before I left I told Charles how much I admired him. He gave me a big bear hug. "I haven’t had that type of fight that truly tests my resolve and commitment but if I ever do I’m going to remember you," I told him before pulling off down the hill. After leaving, I went and spent the afternoon at the Great Channels.

This entry was posted on 6/30/2006 9:22 AM

Life is Simple

Tom and Denise Peterson have been journeymen farmers for 25 years. The concept is somewhat of a new one to me, but from the very beginning of their relationship, they have worked, lived, and raised their family on the farms of others. After extended stays in Vermont and Illinois, they decided to look for a place to settle in western Virginia. They loved the Appalachians, were envious of the extended growing season in the south, and wanted to be closer to family now that they had kids. In looking for a place to move, they decided to put a small advertisement in the newsletter of the Virginia Association of Biological Farming, telling people who they were and that they were looking for work. The ad appeared right next to an announcement for a position with Appalachian Sustainable Development (ASD), an organization dedicated to developing markets for sustainable farm and wood products, and providing technical assistance to the producers. Fate is a wonderful thing, and after meeting the organization’s founder Anthony Flaccavento, Tom was hired as their first agricultural coordinator. Shortly thereafter, the family moved to the small town of Abingdon.

They now live in an 1876 farmhouse, known locally as the old Walden house. The house has a notorious history amongst the old timers. At one time about 60 years ago, the home’s owner, Mr. Maddox came home one day and killed his entire family before taking his own life. When the Peterson’s first moved in six years ago, their twin sons, who were six at the time, would occasionally catch a brief glimpse of a sad old man walking around the house. Denise too has caught glimpses of a young girl sitting up stairs staring out the window. Tom finds it a bit spooky that his wife and children have such interactions with the supernatural, as seeing ghosts are apparently not part of his repertoire of talents. The general consensus in the community however, is that the Peterson’s have brought a calm and a joy to the corner house, not felt there for years.

I had met Tom the day before during a visit to Anthony’s farm, the director and founder of Appalachian Sustainable Development. ASD was hosting a Sunday afternoon organic farm tour and the crowd of about seventy-five was impressively large, and diverse, with a number of traditional farmers in the mix. Southwest Virginia, not unlike much of country, is struggling to keep family’s farming. With the bottom dropping out of the tobacco market, and federal allotments being cut by as much as 90%, farmers are looking for alternatives for survival. What Anthony and Tom and the rest of ASD have accomplished is no small feat. The organization provides the link between producers and new markets and has generated a growing demand for locally produced foods at small and large retail outlets throughout the state and beyond. Though organized as a non-profit, ASD operates under an unconventional, entrepreneurial mentality. By making decisions as a business they have created a “middleman with integrity” that helps producers centralize their resources for grading, packing, shipping, and marketing. 38 organic growers now package under one brand call Appalachian Harvest, gaining access to gigantic supermarket chains such as Food City and Whole Foods. They now direct market to consumers, informing them about the farmers and the practices gone into growing the food with written materials available right in the supermarket. The more personal approach sells, and many of the large supermarkets are now mimicking the technique.

When I first arrived at Tom and Denise’s house, I immediately felt at home. They had guests enjoying themselves at stools in the kitchen while Tom cooked potato and corn chowder. One of their friends, Kirsty Zahnke, had just finished giving Denise a massage, as part of her homework for massage school. Denise had a glow on her face, relaxed and happy. Kirsty was also one of the farmers in the Sustainable Harvest network and had returned to her family’s farm after many years abroad to make a go of sustainable farming. She and her parents are English, and somehow settled in Big Stone Gap, a once affluent community deep in the heart of Appalachia coal country. A quite charming woman, (something about an English accent in rural Appalachia makes one charming), Kirsty was strong as an ox both physically and mentally. She possessed an absolute passion and commitment to food, sustainability, the environment and education. She had returned to the farm three years prior and was growing sheep, pastured poultry, and preparing a Devon cow for milking.

The evening was the first of my trip where I not only felt completely at ease (I have been fortunate to find that feeling more often than I would have expected), but also in the company of fellow soul mates. These were people who yearned for doing simple but vitally important things that would improve people’s lives, communities, and surroundings.

The evening came into focus when we discussed how the spirit of community is such a small and simple thing. “Life is pretty simple,” said Tom. “You eat, you breathe, and you die.” Each individual develops a vision of how they want that to happen, and for Tom and Denise the question is “who do you touch in the process?” “That’s what we’re trying to do here. That’s why we have people come over to the house to pick up their produce, because they don’t just come by and grab it and leave, they hang around, their kids jump on the trampoline, they see how we grow the food, and we talk or play some music.” Such a lifestyle was at once as appealing as it was foreign. I was instantly aware of the distance between neighbors in modern society, because the ties and the talents that bind us have been replaced with outside goods.

“In modern society, everything is provided for us,” Tom states and that makes us disconnected from one another. He mentions a friend who had visited an island in Greece where everyone wore shoes made on that island. The people were proud of their shoes because they were good quality and someone from their community was making them. You could actually go and watch them make the shoes. And it’s a skill, it’s an art.

The most fascinating thing about Tom and Denise as we stayed up past 11 pm, pretty late for farmers, talking about our search for community, is that their vision was still out there in the future somewhere and they were still working to attain it. Tom spent his day’s trying to find struggling farmers who were willing to risk the transition from conventional producer on a glutted industrial market, to becoming an organic or sustainable producer selling to local people within a few hundred miles who would read about his farm and have a picture of him in their minds as they ate his veggies.

Interestingly, when I mentioned my wonderful trip to Monticello and discussed Thomas Jefferson, one of Tom’s heroes, we realized that Jefferson too was an imperfect visionary with a similar dilemma. He nurtured the establishment of a nation, but the backbone and integrity of that nation required so much more effort. The work of visionaries is never complete. As recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize and famed theologian Albert Schweitzer once stated, “Example is not the main thing in influencing others. It is the only thing.” The Petersons are a beautiful example of how to live, and one I’ll not soon forget.

COMMENTS
6/30/2006 2:43 PM Anna wrote:
Something is wrong with your last post...lots of code mixed in?? Anyhoo, I mentioned to my friend Bryce, a farmer in Berea, that you'll be travelling through. He'd be happy to have you come by. His website, with contact info, is:
http://www.stewardsoftheland.com/
Too bad it's so damn hot out there!

Reply to this 7/2/2006 12:26 PM Justin Ellis wrote:
Thanks Gal,

I know. I can't simply cut and paste or I get jargon. Ah, nothing is simple after all.

Hey thanks for the tip. I'll give your friend a shout. I love connections like this. Thanks for the help...again.

All my best,

--Justin

Thoughts during my Hungry Man breakfast

(The following article will be submitted to the Roanoke Times for publication)

On the advice of a resident of Troutville, I pedaled my bike down the road a piece to Nannie’s Market in Botetourt County, Virginia where I’m waiting for my Hungry Man breakfast of scrambled eggs, tenderloin pork, potatoes and pancakes, for which I paid under $5.



On my way outside to enjoy the crisp, cool morning air, I spot the headline article for the local paper, the Fincastle Herald; “Botetourt’s fledgling wine industry sours over new law that limits how vineyards can distribute their wines.” The article is a fascinating example of how ridiculous the challenges facing the modern day small farmer in today’s world.

Virginia’s wine industry has rapidly grown to become the fastest growing sector of the agricultural industry in the state. Such success often inspires increased regulation and the Virginia General Assembly recently passed a law, which takes effect July 1, prohibiting wine makers from selling directly to retail stores or over the internet.

Vineyards and winemakers will now have to sell to middlemen distributors, who may or may not choose to distribute to local stores in the very community in which the wine is crafted. Farmers and wine makers have been cut out of the loop on how to market their own products. The result of such laws is to further the disconnection between consumer and farmer while disjointing communities from the very goods that sustain them.

Farmers have been plagued with such nonsensical decisions for decades now. Grandma Jones hasn’t been able to go out and pick apples, bake them into a delicious pie and sell the pie to you at the country store for some time. Such a delicate operation requires a USDA certified kitchen in a separate unit from your residence. At least regulated kitchen inspections have some notion, however contrary and misguided, of protecting public health. Virginia’s new wine distribution laws benefit no one except the distributors.

Though I am unfamiliar with the detailed history of this new distribution law; who was for it, who was against it, and how it was passed; the effects of this new regulation will begin to take shape almost immediately. The communities that are home to these wineries will never have the ability to be as supportive as they once were. Relationships that are distanced, become strained, or simply dissolve altogether. There is a big difference between a farmer dropping a case of wine off at the local country store, telling them how the grapes are doing, inviting them over for a wine tasting day, and asking how their family is doing, compared to a delivery guy for Milwaukee’s Best and Miller High Life who now delivers a case of wine from a winery right down the road which he knows nothing about. That winery might as well be in China. There is no longer that connection; to the winery, to the farmer, and most importantly, to the land.

Our elected officials, and to be honest most of the rest of us, no longer understand what agriculture is really all about. It’s about the relationships that we as individuals have with the land. Most of us don’t have the opportunity to actually see how the land is cultivated, to understand why this peach tastes so good, or how much effort has gone into raising this beef on grass only. When I walk into a country store, I want to be reminded of these things. I want the lady behind the counter to say, “You like cherries? Farmer Jim just brought these in today and they’re terrific.” Not only do I know that these cherries are going to taste better because they’ve been picked fresh from trees close to where I’m standing, I also now know something about who made them, what kind of person they are, and that I am helping to support them and the lands that produced this food, simply by making this purchase.

If I ever run into Farmer Jim, I can thank him, and he deserves to be thanked. Whether we know it or not, he and I have a relationship. His food and his lands nourish my body. Neither one of us need a bunch of Budweiser delivery people getting in the way of that.

--Justin

This entry was posted on 6/23/2006 5:05 PM

COMMENTS

• 6/25/2006 1:16 PM Rebekah wrote:
  Hello! I am Brent Beall's girlfriend, Rebekah. Brent sent me your shirt in the mail and told me about your project and website. Be careful out there and we will follow your journey.
  Reply to this
• 6/28/2006 1:48 AM Lauren wrote:
  Preach it brotha! I am so pleased that you are having such an awesome journey. I love you, miss you and think of you everyday.
  Reply to this

Day 14 - Natural Bridge to Buchanan ...on way to Troutville

OK. This is going to be a quick one, but my trusted friend demanded I post a blog everyday...which is impossible, but I'll try and do one as often as possible.

I have actually been writing extensively, but I frequently stop at these small town public libraries that don't have usb ports on their computers so I can't transfer my writing to a computer with internet. I've actually been quite suprised at how frequently I've been able to find wireless internet service. Even in some extraordinarily small towns they will have it. And lots of quirky restaurants have it now too. It's actually a great way to draw business because its one of the first things I ask when I arrive in town.

So I realize that I haven't posted that much yet about the farms I am visiting, but that is about to change. In the last couple of days I have really been exposed to some revolutionary thinking in the agricultural world, and I expect that it just might change the way you think about food.

I've also been hestitant to just throw my general thoughts out there before taking the time to refine them. I don't want to offer up revolutionary ideas in such a watered down...blog like way that they go in one ear and out the other.

I am beginning to feel very connected to food. I still stop and buy some trash along the road occassionaly, but I'm noticing some subtle changes. For one, I'm eating a lot more fruit, and every place that I go I try and find the most local variety available. Local is more important than organic. What is the point of organic apples from Venezuela. Shipped food is poorer quality food, and I'll go into detail on this point in the future.

Jefferson's cherries really did get into my head. I've also been reading more about our founding fathers. Benjamin Franklin, likewise, believed in the virtues of a farming lifestyle. He attributed a nation's wealth as coming from one of three sources. The first is outright robbery. Picture the Roman empire, and some of our earlier imperialistic endeavors. The second is commerce, which Franklin compared to cheating. He didn't go into the details, but we certainly live in a commercial society today. And thirdly, farming presents the only honest way to develop wealth, in that it is directly related to the seed you sow. It is a miracle of nature and a blessing by God that the Earth is made in such a way that by working to care and understand the land you can increase its bounty.

There was a respect that these great men had not only for the land, but for the men who made their living from it. Where has that respect gone....because it is certainly gone. Name for me a farmer that you respect and why. I hope that you can name ten, but you probably don't even know ten.

Well the Buchanan library has just turned off their lights and I have 15 miles yet to ride today.

The trip is starting to get interesting.

This entry was posted on 6/22/2006 5:43 PM

Polyface Farms - Swoope, VA - Days 12 and 13

Joel Salatin is a Paul Bunyan looking character. Thick as a tree trunk across the chest, he walks, talks, and guffaws in a big way. I first met Joel less than a week ago when I attended the Farm, Food Voices program at West Albemarle high school. Joel was the MC for the night and was dressed in khaki’s and a sport coat. Joel is a difficult man to place. He doesn’t really look like anybody you’ve met before. He wears glasses and has a real attentive look about him, and so in some ways he struck me as slightly nerdy, in a Brad McLane sort of way (sorry Brad…if you’re reading this).

When I arrived at Polyface farms, late, around 8:30 (this seems to be a popular time for me to arrive), I was slightly surprised at the man who came to greet me. The farm itself didn’t strike me with wonder. The white house with red shutters was a fairly standard looking farmhouse, somewhat flat on the front, no porch, not much of entrance. The walk up to the house was grass with a little gravel before you got to the concrete.

Before walking up to the main house I heard some flapping sounds coming from the barn and I thought I might find someone there. A stretch of the legs after a good long ride is always a good idea anyway so I moseyed over to see if there was still some work to do. I typically like to dive right in to whatever is going on. It reduces the necessity for trivial congenialities.

The barn also didn’t look like anything particularly special. It was a rather large barn, open air, filled with hay on the front two sides, with a clear path through the middle. I walked in and began suspecting that the noise was nothing more than animals feeding. Turned out, that was a good guess because on the backside of the barn were maybe 20 pigs in a pen. They scooted a little when they saw me and then came right up to the fence sticking their ginormous wet noses out wanting attention, food, or possibly conversation. The flapping noise was a plastic door on the feeder that they pushed up with their heads and then closed behind them.

OK, that’s enough snooping around. I headed back to the house. Dusk was settling in good. I rang the bell and Teresa came to greet me. “You must be the fella who’s riding his bike.” “That’s me,” I said. Joel came right behind her, and that’s when I first saw the real Joel. Wearing a t-shirt covered with dirt and sweat, and jeans equally dirty, Joel looked like one might think of a farmer looking; one who had been working real hard all day. They came out onto the small little porch and talked about what it’s like to ride your bike across the country. Joel was real curious, and quite amazed by the whole thing. We chatted for about 20 minutes or so and I asked them where I should pitch my tent.

“Well, you’re welcome to camp anywhere you’d like, but you might be most comfortable at our haybarn. It’s got potable water and you could sleep right on the hay if you’d like.” They both agreed if it was them, they’d rather sleep on hay than in a tent. These were the real deal farmers right here. Neither one had probably spent much time camping, was my guess.

It was getting late, I was tired, they were tired, and from the sound of it, it was going to be a busy day. I gave Joel my general plan, I would work all the next day, stay again that night, and then set off the following day. We now had an arrangement and a plan, so I pedaled on down the dark gravel rode and immediately got lost. When you’re tired, and its dark, and you’re pedaling around dragging 60 pounds worth of gear, getting lost is no fun. There came a point in the road where there were three to four options. I took one, and it just didn’t seem to be going anywhere. He had said that I would pass his son Daniel’s house. I could sort of see a house through the woods, on the other road. I backtracked and drug my sad tired bones up the hill. The nightlife was impressive. Lots of frogs, beautiful sky. I considered sleeping in the hay, but remembered how sick I had gotten as a kid on a hay ride with Dawson Memorial Baptist church. They loaded up a bunch of kids and hay in the back of a Tractor Trailer and then left us to our own devices. Hay was getting kicked up everywhere. That was my first memory of going home, blowing my nose and having dark black boogers. I didn’t want to risk being allergic to hay and ending up worthless on my first day on the farm.

I pitched my tent in front of the barn where loose hay had piled up making it nice and soft. I hadn’t eaten yet and also hadn’t bought any extra food so I had two big bowls of oatmeal with fresh granola sprinkled on top. I was gonna need my strength the next day.

Morning chores start at sun up, and that means 6 AM. I awoke about 5 till 6 and then had to get dressed, put contacts in, wash my hair, and move the tent. I knew it would be in the way later that day. By 6:30 I arrived at the pastured poultry fields.

So before I continue I should mention that I know a little bit about poultry. In addition to living in a poultry raising community for 3 and half years, I was fortunate to have gained some rather unique experience working for an industrial poultry business for the four months prior to my bike ride. So I understand the basics of conventional poultry pretty well. When I had mentioned to Joel the night before my familiarity with broiler houses, he had corrected me saying, “Now these aren’t houses. These are pens. Everything here is going to be completely different.”

Pastured poultry is a fascinating concept. So most people envision what they hear called free range chickens and they think a huge field with some fences with the chickens all spread out across green grass. I hope to go to some actual free range farms at some point, and I doubt it will look anything like this. In fact, USDA regulations only call for free range chickens to have some kind of access to the outdoors. So that means they can be kept in a 50 by 500 square foot building with a six foot opening to the outdoors, and that’s considered free range. Congratulations America, you’ve been bamboozled yet again.

Pastured poultry is not free range chickens. The chickens are instead kept in manufactured pens that are 8x12 feet square and about 1.5 feet tall. The pen is constructed of wood, tin and chicken wire, with ¾ of the square covered to protect the birds from the elements and predators, and chicken wire along the sides of the front half, and on the roof of the last 1/4. At the front of the pen, a bucket of water is attached to a tube leading to a red drinker, dangling inside the cage. The birds have to have constant access to water. Each pen also has a feeder trough that’s filled with mashed corn and soybean feed. And that’s it. Only, each of these pens holds about 75 birds, and the Salatin’s have about 30 pens. That’s 2,250 birds. Although a fraction of what one typical conventional poultry house grows (those houses can contain as many as 10,000 birds), these birds live their entire lives outdoors, and on grass. And that’s the difference.

Joel is a grass lover.

Every morning, the field hands, which consist of Joel’s son Daniel, and two interns, Nathan and Jordan, go out and place each pen on a dolly, and roll that pen off of yesterdays patch of grass that has been defecated upon, and onto fresh, new, green pasture. The pens are staggered in a z pattern so that each pen is pulled onto fresh pasture. In this way, the animals are kept healthy by being rotated to fresh pasture, and then the nitrogen from the litter is applied directly to the field.

We spent the morning filling water buckets and feed trays, and moving the pens the 10 feet forward to fresh pasture. Poultry are omnivores and they also eat bugs. Though not a considerable part of their diet, they do, no doubt find bugs in the grass.

The major preoccupation of conversation during the morning chores is how to deal with predators. A number of chickens had been killed during the night and I was curious what varmint was responsible. I expected a fox or a coyote. Surprisingly, the responsible party was a raccoon. Unable to actually extract the chickens from the cages, they simply sneak up to the cage and grab one through the chicken wire, whereupon they pull whatever part they can through the fencing, gnawing away at it, leaving the rest to waste.

There were two types of chickens kept in the pens. One was the standard variety used by the poultry industry, a white bird. I will have to request the name. The other was a black chicken, that they referred to as pullets, which typically expresses the early development stage of laying hens.



This is a photo of turkeys in an electric feather net at dawn

We finished the morning chores and headed in for breakfast around 8 AM. I met Joel and Teresa inside. Breakfast is a big deal on the farm, its an opportunity for Joel to catch up on phone calls, read the morning paper, chat with Teresa and the kids, and load up on plenty of fuel for the days occupations. I quickly came to realize that it is also Joel’s favorite time to talk. He is fresh and invigorated after a good nights sleep followed by the full circulation induced by the morning chores. Breakfast consisted of Polyface farms sausage and eggs, and fresh milk from a dairy down the road (milk is a staple product on a farm). There was some moist, dark sweet bread as well. With little provocation from me, Joel began an unforgettable discourse on the principles of his farm, and how they fit into his overall world view.

He began by laying a foundation for his philosophy and pointed out the ironies inherent to being an environmentalist, a Christian, a libertarian, and a capitalist. Polyface Farm is a livestock operation, pure and simple. They raise beef, pork and chicken and that’s about it. What makes their farm different is that the perennial grasses of the landscape are at the heart of the operation. He points out some important things to recognize when considering the ecological background of cattle. Firstly, they’re herbivores. If you observe herbivores in the natural environment, they graze intensely in one area, then migrate to a new area and graze there. Two things are accomplished, they don’t stay in areas they have contaminated with their own wastes, and they are always grazing fresh grasses, while allowing previously grazed areas to recover. Secondly, they are herding animals.

I’ll pick this stream up and tell you more about my Polyface adventure…soon. There is a lot, lot, lot more to tell.

This entry was posted on 6/21/2006 5:23 PM

Pictures from Polyface

My experience at Polyface Farms was incredibly rich and opened my eyes to the true potential of farming.

I hope to write more extensively on the experience, but in the meantime wanted to go ahead and share some interesting photos.



One of the Polyface interns, Jordan, shares the morning chores with the youngest working Salatin at Polyface farms, Travis.



Daniel, Joel's son, showed me the potential of the next generation in carrying on the farming tradition with strength, pride, knowledge, understanding, and an overall farm ethic. Daniel has operated his own part of the business, raising rabbits for meat, since he was 7 years old. As he dressed rabbits he described how all social movements begin with about 1% of the population considered "the fringe" who, after many years of hard work, influence another 9% of the population, and it is that combined 10% that then influences the world and the movement becomes mainstream. The effort to support locally produced foods is still in that fringe margin.



So this is what pastured poultry looks like and believe me, this makes conventional practices seem.....industrailized. These pens are moved every day so that the birds are on fresh grass, not living in their own excrement, and receiving fresh air and sunlight. And anyone who knows will tell you, happier birds make healthier birds, and healthier birds taste better. This system is so simple, yet so brilliant in its conception that I plan to devote much time to it in the future.



This is the egg mobile. That's right, even the layers are mobile so that the litter is spread around, and again, the birds are always on fresh grass. Neat huh.



Inside view of the egg mobile. The birds are of course free to come and go as they choose. Notice the slats to allow the droppings to fall to the grass below. The bins are where the birds lay their eggs.



These are cute little pigs. One day they will be delicious bacon, but in the meantime they will live sunny, happy lives. I'll describe the sustainable way that Polyface does this in the future.

This entry was posted on 6/21/2006 11:02 PM

COMMENTS

• 8/10/2006 9:49 PM vicki pense wrote:
  Wow! I just found this place with all the photos from polyface. I'm really enjoying it and now I will look at all the rest - as time permits that is! Happy travelling

Day 11 - From Monticello to the Cookie Lady

Eating Cherries at Monticello

In nine days of bike touring one phrase has come out of my mouth again and again. “This is the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.” My every day is an adventure unto itself, each place worth describing, and each encounter worthy of an article, a chapter, something to allow the awe to settle into wisdom. And yet, there isn’t much time for reflection. Something big is right around the next bend in the road.

At the bike level, the world is a very different place. You are able to absorb the essence of your surroundings in a very unique way. All the sights, sounds and smells are connected and the changing world beneath your tires begins to feel like home. I have slept in forested parks, churches, civil war battlefields, homes, barns, and a cross country bicycling museum. I have spoken to vegetable and livestock farmers, farm managers, communal participants, book authors, survivalists, and people with hearts as big as houses. I’ve seen corn, wheat and soybeans fields, vegetable farms, peaches, wine grapes, goats, seed plants, and the gardens of Thomas Jefferson. I’ve ridden upon equipment that sprays fertilizer based on the chlorophyll content of the plants beneath it, harvested carrots and cabbage heads, pulled onions, washed turnips, filled orders for a community supported agriculture operation (CSA), scrubbed the communal dishes, and attended meetings hosted by farm organizations promoting local farming.

Of the farms I’ve visited, one was once owned by the very first man to ever apply limestone to his fields; a true agricultural pioneer. A small family farm further west was started from scratch just eight years ago as a way to instill a strong work ethic and “the value of a dollar” into their kids. Their once poor clay soils now yield a growing bounty for the weekend farmer’s markets, and the kids receive five percent of the day’s earnings. Further still, an egalitarian alternative community (yes, they’re still out there) operates the most successful organic seed business in the southeast. And, as a great example of how wealth and community ideals are influencing agriculture, famous singer, songwriter Dave Matthews is reutilizing some of the best lands south of Charlottesville to feed over 160 families organic produce.

In the midst of all of this, I’ve learned a few things about bicycle touring. 1) Don’t go too fast, but don’t dawdle; 2) At least part of every day is going to be intensely frustrating; and 3) The single biggest challenge is trying not to lose your stuff along the way. Most importantly, there is no such thing as writing too much or taking too many pictures.

I have arrived in the Shenandoah Mountains, and the most grueling part of the entire 4500 mile journey is about to begin. To strengthen my constitution, I am refueling at the home of June Curry, the Cookie Lady, the most famed supporter of bike tourers anywhere in the world. For three decades June has opened up her guest house for traveling bicyclists to stay for free, and today it is filled from top to bottom with postcards, photographs, newspaper articles, and other memorabilia commemorating these adventures and thanking June for her unending generous spirit. I arrived after 8 pm with only a smattering of daylight remaining. As it appeared I would be the only one visiting that evening, I went to ring June’s buzzer. June is the kind of person that you just know instantly. With a twinkle in her eye she invited me in, and for the next hour we exchanged our histories at a lightning sharp pace.

Though she is 85, June tends to the house and greets each biker herself, and until recently would meet them at the road with a plate full of cookies. Her sense of humor and energy are contagious. Her self adopted role as the un-official historian of Afton, VA has been a recent, rising passion. June remembers the good ole days of Afton in vivd detail. In the 1920’s the Afton area was the fourth largest shipping locale in the state for fresh fruit. Each week farmers for miles around would travel by wagon, carrying barrels filled with apples and peaches. In the ‘20’s, Afton had one of the only train routes that cut right through the center of the mountains. The Afton hotel was bustling with visitors coming to escape to the cool, clean air of the mountains.

June’s history comes to life in a rather unique fashion. On her coffee table in the living room, she has built a miniature replica of Afton as it was during her youth, from the cooper building (where they make barrels) to the duck pond where she and friends would ice skate during the winter.

June is a good example of the quality of people I am not just meeting, but learning from, as I pedal across this fascinating state. People with vision and passion do in fact change the world, and they often do so simply by making an impression on the people they encounter.

Just a few days before, I decided to pay a visit to Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello (which means “little mountain” in Italian). Jefferson’s plantation, and lifelong experiment sat at the edge of the western frontier in the mid 1700’s. His home is a good stop for a tour examining farmland as his agrarian vision for the country was implicit in his philosophy, writings, and in his own farming. Jefferson believed that “Those who labour in the earth are the chosen people of God, if ever he had a chosen people, whose breasts he has made his peculiar deposit for substantial and genuine virtue,” Jefferson believed that farmers were able to intuit the laws of God by observing the laws of nature and that by the very nature of their work, became resourceful, neighborly, free thinking, inquisitive, and independent. He contrasts this condition with that of the manufacturer, who by operating as a
specialized yet faceless cog, becomes dependent, subservient, and susceptible to the designs of ambition.

Such heedy thoughts lingered distantly in my mind as I walked President Jefferson’s southern orchards. The grounds were closed, the plantation was empty, and as the sun settled behind the hill, I was enjoying myself on his Montmorency cherries. Fruit trees can offer a permanent reminder of the bounty inherent in the wise planning of a farm. The seeds of Jefferson’s vision still exist today, in every one of those cherries.

This entry was posted on 6/19/2006 3:21 PM

COMMENTS

• 6/19/2006 3:57 PM Kit wrote:
  Justin,
  These entries are great.
  Keep it up.
  
  
• 6/19/2006 7:50 PM Sherri wrote:
  The kids and I enjoy reading about your journey. Have fun.
  
  
• 6/20/2006 9:15 AM Lee and MC wrote:
  Great stuff, Justin! Keep it up, be safe, learn, and most of all- have fun!
  Lee & MC
  
  
• 6/21/2006 8:45 AM Anna wrote:
  Your blog is wonderful...Sounds like you are orbiting more closely to The Center than usual, you know what I mean!!!? Wonderful, just wonderful.
  I took the youth group to Heifer International's ranch in Arkansas last week. I mostly worked in the CSA garden...I orbited with the ladybugs for a while. Happy travels, old man.

Best of What's Around - Scottsville, Virginia

Last names are obsolete during this trip. Even though Eliza picked me up in downtown Charlottesville, helped me load my bike in her truck, carried me to the “Food Farm Voices” meeting at West Ablemarle High School, then let me crash out at her farm house, then today got up at 6:30 AM, began working at 7, and now it’s 6:15 PM and I’m sitting here on her couch before we shower and go out to downtown Charlottesville for the night, we are still on a first name basis.

Eliza is the heart of the Best of What’s Around Farm. This farm has its own unique place in the spectrum of types of farms. This type fits quite well with the Charlottesville community. One of the first surprises was that the farm is owned by Dave Matthews, as in The Dave Matthews Band. The story is that the University of Virginia was given this 1200 acre parcel as a gift. Not being a land grant university, they were at a loss with what to do with such a large parcel of agricultural land, so four years ago they sold it and Dave Matthews snatched it up. Given the lands agricultural roots he was interested in seeing a small organic operation utilizing the existing farm infrastructure.

Eliza’s family has been friends with the Matthews for years, and had some prior experience on farms working for the family of Nina Planck on a farm on Virginia’s eastern shore. As the on the farm manager, she is doing a fantastic job. She’s quite young for both the responsibility and the degree of work. Her personality is low key, friendly, and calm.

Charlottesville is a fabulous town. The downtown mall is the most pedestrian and family oriented downtown I’ve encountered. The main street is paved in brick, and pedestrian only. Dozens of restaurants have tables and courtyards, each with its own character, lining the center of the street. We headed downtown for “Friday after 5,” a free concert hosted by the city every Friday in the summer. The place was packed. They had built a amphitheatre pavilion for concerts at the very end of the street. A salsa band was the entertainment.

After the show and a quick dinner, we headed to a reggae party. On the way there we exited a residential area into an incredibly dense wood on a long dark dirt road. The party was low key, and the reggae below average. Eliza must have been suspicious of their poor reggae taste because she asked me to bring my I-Pod. When we could bear it no longer, we bamboozled the sound system. At first I had to realize that picking danceable reggae songs from your I-Pod without the luxury of pre-screening is difficult. I don’t have the song names memorized, so it was kind of a guessing game. The party wanted to dance, not nod their head and praise Jah. Eliza came over and said, “You don’t necessarily have to play reggae.” I possess boogie tunes in abundance, and let fly.

It was a late night. The next morning Ken and I walked over to Teddy Roosevelt’s hunting lodge which sits on the property. It’s called Knotty Pine, presumably named for the knotty pine posts that support the porch. Unfortunately I didn’t carry a camera to photograph it…but there are lots and lots of President locales to visit in Virginia.

The Best of What’s Around gang had become fast and easy friends. They were young, energetic, enthusiastic, and passionate. Nothing about their farm was typical. For one, the owner wasn’t in a position where he had to derive income from the farm. This changes the entire context of their operation and how they make decisions.

That said, the fields were well managed, the vegetables in excellent condition, the farm, the buildings, and the operations, finely tuned. The young crew were welcoming, and professional and created a real community feel.

This is just a quick summary. I will elaborated in more detail and add some really nice pictures re: this visit soon.

This entry was posted on 6/16/2006 3:10 PM

Day Two - Newport News to Yorktown

So today is actually Day 5. It's easy to fall behind. Here's a back history.

End of night one I camped at the Newport News city park. Woke late and headed the 12 miles north to Yorktown.

Hadn't been there 2 minutes when a fellow cross country biker, Patrick Sloma pedaled up. In addition to informing me that the local Episcopal Church had a house that let bikers stay there for free, he was an exceedingly friendly and enthusiastic chap. I decided I should hang with this compatriot. I suggested we go down to the water for the customary pose dipping the rear wheel in the Atlantic. On the way he told me about this house that had cannonballs lodged into the brick. I had to see that ....



Cool huh? There was another cannonball a little higher up that was lodged even deeper in the side of the building. Brick...it's good for stopping cannonballs! Who knew?

Then we headed down the beach for our photo in the ocean. Ok, so it's not really the Atlantic Ocean. Thank you everyone who points this out. It's actually the York River, but who's counting. I'm claiming this is a coast to coast

Here is my famed dip.



The day was Saturday so the beach was hustling with people. Yorktown was cute so I decided not to hurry. Besides, I'm sort of Episcopalian. It'd be a shame not to take them up on their hospitality. Especially considering that this is where they put you up for the night.



The name of this house is Riverview.

I had a great lunch in a home builtin in 1720. Pine panelling with those little vents above the doors to let the heat from the fireplace circulate into the other rooms without sacrificing privacy. The place was called the Carrot Tree so I had to have the carrot cake. Mmmmm! I love good carrot cake.

That evening Patrick and I had a memorable last meal on the banks overlooking the York River. We were two strangers with a shared passion to pedal our bodies, minds and souls from one coast to the other. I had the crab sandwich with artichoke mayonaise by the way. Don't won't to get too soft here.

Great first full day.

--Justin

Day Three - Yorktown to Williamsburg

I'll have to fill this one in later. Great day though. With Great Food at my friend May Sligh's house.

Day Four - Williamsburg to Malvern Fields

No question. Today was one of the best days of my life. May Sligh and her mother Francis showed me a wonderful time at their home. I slept like a log. The décor of Francis’s home would have greatly appealed to mother. She had wonderful antique furniture, old family photos on all the walls, frilly cloth under every lamp. It was spectacular. I’m not sure where she was from but she very much reminded you of Mountain Brook aristocracy mixed with the elite of the Atlantic shore. Very sophisticated, very engaging, wonderfully social.

I awoke refreshed. It was after 7, so I was in a mad dash to catch up and get out the door the same time as May. I was pretty successful. I shoved a scone down my throat and a couple of dried apricots and tried to wash the doughy mass down with some OJ. Then I ran upstairs and took a three minute shower. OK, five minutes. I’ve never taken a three minute shower.

I grabbed everything as quickly as I could, offered Francis my sincerest thanks for the wonderful time and headed to the garage to pack things up. May was so fun, she wanted to take a picture of me all set to go. It was about to start raining so I had my rain jacket on. We said our goodbyes and she drove to work. It was a little after 7:30.

As I came pulling out of the subdivision, there is May pulled over on the side of the road, sticking her camera out the window to take my picture. “You need an action shot.” She said. These are the moments that make this trip so cool.

Down the road a piece I pulled into a gas station to look up the numbers to bike shops. I still had some business to attend to before getting to far out into the middle of nowhere. I needed a new tube (the one I had was a Schraeder valve rather than a Presta), some special screws for my fenders and some butt loob. The problem was it was so early. It was actually just 8 AM when I started making calls. Sure enough, first call I make, I get an answer. Hallelujah. The guy is there, but he’s not willing to open the doors to help me out. He said he had a conference call until 10.

So now I have two hours to kill, so I decide to ride down and see Jamestown which was my original plan anyway before heading west for Charles City. Right as I hit the road, the drizzle starts. It was kind of fun though. I had all the appropriate rain gear, my front and rear blinking lights, and most importantly my fenders. I was snug.

I get to Jamestown by 8:53. It must have been a little under 10 miles. I had planned on sneaking in before they opened at 9, but this plan is foiled when I discover that they open at 8:45. The guy is at the gate, so I tell him that I’m only going to be there for about 30 minutes. He says, “If you go in, it’s $8 per person.” No thanks I say and move on.

I took the Colonial Parkway back to Williamsburg which was 11 miles long. The ride was beautiful and sopping wet. It took longer than I was expecting b/c it’s after 10 by this time. The Parkway spits you into downtown Williamsburg so I went to Scotland Street because I had seen a bike shop there the day before. I cruise down to the shop… and surprise, they’re closed. Patrick had actually told me they were closed on Mondays. Great. Now, I’ve got to drive out Monticello, which is exactly where May and Francis live. I’ve been awake and pedaling for 2 and a half hours and I’m further away than when I started. And I haven’t been to bike shop yet.

I go down the road to the public library and decide to look online for the exact location of the bike shop. While I’m there I figure it’s a good idea to go ahead and print out my contacts list, and farm descriptions. This takes a while. Meanwhile, I am one weird looking dude in the library.

I spent at least twenty minutes trying to get these documents to print. And guess what? I left there without being able to print squat. The morning is going down the tubes fast but I am in good spirits.

I head towards Monticello Road. On the way I remember there is a Staples. My buddy Patrick Sloma (guy pictured with cannonball from my first day in Yorktown) had informed me that Staples will print out 1000 business cards for like $11.99 or something ridiculous like that. He had done this so he could hand out cards to people he meets. Why I didn’t do this before leaving I have no idea. But now that I’m in the know, I go in to talk to Staples. Rudest sales lady I have ever met. Couldn’t care less what you wanted. I talked to her first about printing out those pages that had failed at the library. She tells me there is a $2.50 charge per file opened, and then its 7 cents a copy. The hell with that! I walked out swearing never to do business with Staples again. As I exit, there is a UPS package with Staples name on it lying in the driveway, I pick it up and look for the UPS guy. Nowhere to be seen. I notice the window of his truck is open. I’m in a hurry so I lob it through the window into the seat. Only it catches the corner of the seat falls to the left between the seat and the side of the cab that never opens. I think, uh-oh, what have I done? He’s not gonna find that. I look around, there’s no one to tell. I punch the numbers into the decision machine and they spit out, “Let’s get goin’, this isn’t your problem.” Take that Staples!

And now I’m off. Wait, no. Now I have to go the bike shop. It’s after 11am. I get there. I go in. Nicest bike salesperson I’ve met so far. She was young, she wasn’t an arrogant butt, and she was a girl (I’m partial to girls). Bike people are always guys. I did like the Cahaba Cycles people in Birmingham though. And the Hub owner was cool. But most bike people are jerks. No luck on the screws, but I get the tube, and she gives me two trial sizes of the butt butter to see if I like it. Thanks girlie. Those last two sentences taken out of context would get me in a lot of trouble.

I go out of the store, pull my bike up to a bench and fix my trailer fender, and tape my rear fender where those screws are missing. There, it’s jerry-rigged. I’m pleased with myself despite my ridiculous tardiness. On the way out of the shopping center I stop and get some Chick Fil A nuggets.

Once I’m on Highway 5 I’m happy. It takes you near Jamestown again, and then becomes a beautifully wooded road, very flat, very straight, and very little traffic. That’s what I call a beautiful road. Saw lots of cool things. A pileated woodpecker flew by after I’d been hearing him call. I saw a hawk with a white underbelly carrying a squirrel in its talons. Rabbits, wood chucks (is that what those things are you always see right next to the road). I caught my rhythm today. My legs weren’t hurting too much, but I am worried about all this weight.

I was running late for my 1PM meeting with Paul Davis. I tried to call him, but he didn’t answer his cell phone. This was a semi last minute thing that May had helped set up. May had told me about him, and him about me. I called him Sunday afternoon and then Sunday night he called May and we talked to him for awhile. I liked him right off. When I told him what I was doing he said, “You’re speaking my language with all that. That’s the stuff I’m into.” Paul is an extension agent for Charles City County and the city of Kent. He’s also a farmer. I’ll tell you all about him sometime. He does kind of look like George Bush (see photo) though. Only I like him about 100% more.

The hour and a half I spent with him and Steve Phillips is worthy of much writing.

There is much, much more to this day, but I'm out of time. I ended up camping at a Civil War battle site called Malvern Hill. Here is the last thing I saw before going to bed.



Peace,

--Justin

Comments

• 6/13/2006 4:26 PM Alice Rolls wrote:
  Hey Justin,
  
  Congratulations on starting your trip. I look forward to reading your stories as both a former cross-country biker and advocate for sustainable farming. Walmart was actually an appropriate first destination for you. They have recently made a big announcement that they plan to double the amount of organic products and produce they now carry as they remake themselves and appeal to urban markets. Have you heard of Michael Pollan's book, "Omnivores Dilemma" that is out right now? I wish it wasn't so heavy so you could take it on your ride. It would be the perfect read to accompany your farm adventure.
  
  Best wishes to you in the joyous days ahead . . . and be glad you are not biking in Alberto's path!
  
  Alice
  Georgia Organics
  
  
• 6/14/2006 4:59 PM Kes wrote:
  Yo Justin - glad you're on your way! We just got back from California and it's a great place to ride. When you get to the Pacific, just turn left and keep going til you hit San Francisco. I'm serious! Tons of great farms to vist and a great way to finish up.
  
  Kes
  
  

Some details on GEAR!

So thought I would share, quickly, a note about the gear required to undertake a trip like this.

I don't believe you could describe me as a bare bones kind of guy. I tend to collect and hold onto stuff. It's a bad habit.

That said, here is photograph of the items I had packed prior to leaving Birmingham. Missing from the photo are a tent and a sleeping bag, and some odds and ends which I picked up from REI before my trip began.




Justin’s Equipment List

Clothing

Two short sleeved biking shirts (one Louis Girneau, one Sugois)

Two pairs of smart wool socks , one pair cotton

One pair of long pants (Carhart)

Three pairs of cycling shorts - Descente, Louis Girneau, Partner

One pair of quick dry shorts - Columbia

Two Farmland Conservation t-shirts (one green, one white)

One long sleeve shirt (North Face pullover)

One nice shirt for church (short sleeved black shirt?)

One bandana

Nylon rain jacket- Patagonia

Nylon rain pants - Patagonia

Hat – Upper Chattahoochee Riverkeeper

Camping Gear

Tent – REI half dome

Sleeping bag – 40 degree bag

Pillow

Thermorest mattress

Leatherman WAVE

Cooking Gear

Three pot set with rubber handles in nylon bag

MSR stove and fuel bottle in nylon bag

Lighter

Knife-fork-spoon set

Sharp knife – Stove bag

Bike Gear

Air pump - bike frame

Three water bottles - bike frame

Bike lock – bike frame

Handlebar bags

Lube – Red stuff sac

Extra spokes – attached to bike frame

Seat bag – bike frame

Extra Tube

Helmet Mirror

Gloves

Tools

Screwdrivers (flat and Phillips on Leatherman)

Cone wrenches (one 15 mm wrench)

Allen wrench set (two – one with Toolmanator, one standard)

Pliers (attached to Leatherman tool)

Chain tool (Blackburn Toolmanator)

Tire "irons" (Blackburn Toolmanator)

Tire patch kit

Spoke tool (Blackburn Toolmanator)

Spare nuts, bolts, brake pieces

Personal Supplies

Toothbrush – Grey bag

Toothpaste – Grey bag

Floss – Delta bag

Q-tips – Delta bag

Chap stick – Delta bag

Suntan lotion – Nalgene pack

Liquid soap – grey bag

Razor with two backup blades – Delta bag

Shaving Cream – Delta bag

Toilet paper – BOB bag

Contact container and cleanser – grey bag

Glasses case – grey bag

Medicine bottle – grey bag

First Aid Kit – BOB bag

Miscellaneous

One Pen – handlebar bag

One Marker – handlebar bag

One Notepad – shorts pocket

Headlamp - black fleece bag

Wallet – handlebar bag

Checkbook – handlebar bag

Road maps and touring book – Red stuff sac

Don Quixote book – Red stuff sac

Extra nylon bags for organizing

Technical Equipment

Laptop (5.5 lbs)

Timbuk 2 laptop sleeve

Laptop charger – orange stuff sac

Solar panel – orange stuff sac

Battery Charger

Rechargable batteries – 8 AA

Cell Phone

AC charger for cell phone (and car charger for solar panel)

I-pod w/ earphones – Handlebar bags

Canon Powershot IS2 camera- small red stuff sac inside handlebar bag

USB camera cord

I am riding a Novara Randonee bicycle and pulling a BOB Yak trailer.

That's about it.

There is a lot to say about all this stuff, especially the solar panel rig. I actually have a DC battery that I'll be picking up in a couple of weeks to make this fully operational. I no doubt will shed and pick up items along the way. I'll find the balance in a couple of weeks.

By the way, about half of this gear was donated. I will return to this entry at some point and add the name of the donor for each item. In the meantime though check out the donations page of my website. Big thanks to my trip sponsors. Here they are:

Patagonia
REI
Habersham Bicycles
The Hub
Cahaba Cycle

-- Justin

This entry was posted on 6/11/2006 1:14 PM and is filed under uncategorized.

Re: Somewhere in India

If you are returning to this blog and are searching for one of my former postings entitled "Somewhere from India," I have temporarily removed it.

Here's an update. I have now heard from my girlfriend. The situation is still tense to say the least. Due to the sensitivity of the subject and parties invovled I have decided to remove the posting until..... well until I think it would be a good idea to re-post it.

I'll let you know further information in the future. In the meantime, I am in communication with her, and fate will decide the future.

Thanks for all your comments.

--Justin

This entry was posted on 6/11/2006 2:01 PM

DAY ONE - The beginning

I knew that parking my bike, loaded trailer in tow, outside the front door of the airport was bound to raise some eyebrows. Add to that the fact that I am donned in a chartreuse skin tight bike jersey, itty bitty socks and a fanny pack and voila, I’m the weirdest thing anyone’s seen all day.

I arrived in Newport News, Virginia just in time. The receipt for the car I had rented had a 3:30 PM delivery time. After hoofing it all day, skipping lunch and cutting corners on bathroom breaks, I topped off the tank and pulled into the airport at 3:15. This would allow me a whopping fifteen minutes to unload and pack every earthly belonging that would sustain me for the next four months before pedaling off into the horizon. I decided to go in and plead for mercy.

Once I explained my situation, the amused and friendly gentlemen said, “take all the time you need. Even though it says 3:30, you’ve paid for the full day.” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve felt a false sense of urgency, I wouldn’t have had to sell so many t-shirts to help finance this trip. So now I’ve got all this time on my hands, and some final moments to savor fossil fuel powered transportation.

So where did I go? How did I utilize my precious car time; the last spin of the wheel and rev of the engine for four whole months? Considering that the purpose of my journey is to learn about and promote the preservation of America’s farms, I went to the most unlikely place imaginable; Wal-Mart. A lot of people have said a lot of things about Wal-Mart so it seems silly for me to chime in. So here it goes. Wal-Mart replaces identity with convenience. But this story isn’t about Wal-Mart so I won’t qualify that statement.

What I will say is that this Wal-Mart had a massage chair located next to an electrical outlet which allowed me to charge my laptop and record a few thoughts before picking up bananas, batteries and oatmeal.

I returned to the airport, excited to shed myself of all gas guzzling, over-complicated machinery. I unloaded my gear, loaded my bike, put on my blindingly bright clothing, and proceeded to park the contraption outside the airport’s main doors. I was bristling with excitement. As I exited the airport I noticed one of the airport attendants who was collecting baggage carts glancing at my setup with a grin in his eyes. As he strode past he said, “It looks like your fixin’ to go on an adventure.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m about to ride this thing from here to Oregon,” I replied. That stopped him in his tracks. “You don’t mean it….well isn’t that something.” We were both grinning at that point. I hadn’t even gone two feet on my bicycle and I was about to have my first encounter.

The gentleman was an older black man, very thin, a little bit hunched, with a glow in his face and eyes. Everything about him radiated kindness, warmth and respect. “That is just fantastic,” he said. I told him that I was visiting farms as I went and trying to learn and tell their stories. For whatever reason, it touched him that I would set out on such a thing. We had not exchanged more than a few sentences when he asked me, “Do you know the Lord?”

Before I go on with this story let me pause. There was a time in my life when such a question would have irritated me. Religion is a funny thing, it can either bring people together or drive them apart. On this day, it brought two together. I answered, “Well, that’s what this trip is all about.”

We shook hands and William Baker, age 62 told me his story. The story started with a sentence I’ll never forget. “I run marathons. I’ve run five marathons in the last five years.” William had run for long distances as long as he could remember. He never knew why he liked to get out and run like that, but it was something that he could do, so he did it. Then in 2001, right after the terrorist attacks of 9/11, William decided that he wanted to do something to help the families of those affected. But what could he contribute? He didn’t have very much money.

Then he realized that his particular God-given talent was to run long distances. He wanted to use that gift for a purpose. So he signed up for a marathon and called the editor of a local newspaper and explained to him his passion to run this race for others. The newspaper ran an advertisement asking people to donate one dollar for each mile of the race to the families of 9/11.

He was 57 years old at the time. Since then he’s run all of over the country, in Illinois, Miami, and New York and he’s planning to run again this year. The last race he ran to support the victims of hurricane Katrina. William was living his dream. In his words, he felt the Lord calling him to do this work. We exchanged a lifetime of hopes and dreams in about five minutes.

I was amazed by this man. And he was amazed by me. There we were, two people who were trying to do something important with our lives. I was alive inside. William prayed for me right there on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance to Newport News airport.

I hugged the man. “I’m so glad we met, this was meant to happen,” I said. “This has been an encouragement to me,” he replied. I felt the same. I knew that there would be many difficult days ahead and this man’s encouragement and support would be a reminder to me of why I’m doing this. Total strangers, and yet at the deepest level of our souls we understood each other.

I rode off down the road. My trip has officially begun.

This entry was posted on 6/11/2006 2:15 PM

COMMENTS

• 6/12/2006 12:35 PM Anonymous wrote:
  My little heart leapeth for joy!
  
  
• 6/12/2006 5:16 PM g wrote:
  This story made me smile. Thank you.
  
  Sounds like you've already started to find what you're looking for.