To Walk is to Dream

 To imagine walking alone down an ice-covered gravel highway north of the Brooks Range when it's minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, one must consider fire. Human skin is comfortable in a relatively narrow range of temperatures and when we take it beyond its limits either through heat or cold, the feeling is similar. Extreme cold is as painful and deadly as extreme heat. Seeing this man walking north with nothing but a small cart is not a complete surprise as he's been preceded by Haul Road rumors. But I am startled.

Caribou, ravens and foxes have proved their mettle through generations, but few humans venture into the Arctic winter, even with good reason and a safety net. Here is someone who faces it alone, with nothing more than he can carry. I observe him from the comfort of our heavy warm truck. We've spent a lot of days hunkered down this stormy winter, not even driving, to avoid the possibility that we might get stuck for a few hours. He chooses to travel for days, on foot, alone and exposed. My brain chews on this enigma.

While common in some parts of the world, I'd venture pilgrims are scarce above the Arctic Circle. And this one is both rare and mysterious. Accustomed to peeking behind the magician's curtain with a quick Yahoo search, I am surprised to find little more than his name, Toru Yamaguchi, and a quick note in the Fairbanks NewsMiner that he started at the southern tip of South America five years ago and plans to finish at Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, the northern coast of North America. I didn't even know there was a Pan American Highway and he has almost walked its length. I found no Facebook page, no blog, no website where he posts daily snapshots from a satellite phone, but an article in the Fairbanks NewsMiner includes a quick quote from Texas in 2007.

"People think I need help," he says, "but I don't need help. I love to walk. This is my dream.

To walk is to dream. Toru Yamaguchi walks slowly and deliberately. Perhaps it is because of the weight of the cart he pulls, or perhaps it's simply that after five years, he's in no hurry. I reflect on what it might be like to have walked the world from stem to stern. First, I envy how much closer he is to these Arctic mountains than I will ever be, and then I envy the hours he has spent listening to the symphony of the Americas. Then I move beyond envy to consider that to an outsider, such a traveler might appear foolish or fearless, but he is more likely self-aware, self-confident and self-contained. He has experienced truths that were impossible to understand. In the steamy press of a jungle or a dreamy frigid Arctic landscape, his own breath has been a constant companion. He has tested his mettle, and found fear can be pushed back to reveal a world much bigger than most of us could envision. He is not bound by politics or geography. Life and death are his limits, each constantly within reach. After five years, I'm guessing it doesn't feel like a huge journey so much as one brilliant moment after another, each step a lifetime within a lifetime.

To imagine what it's like to walk alone down an ice-covered highway north of the Brooks Range when it's minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, one must take into account that each life includes personal pilgrimages. While most are smaller in scale, they take us beyond day to day existence, and allow us to breath in, breath out, and see the dream that is our life. An evening walk reveals a sunset more beautiful than we have ever seen. Love-lifted wings carry us through a terrible life 'storm.' The awakening journey of pregnancy connects us to our ancestors and human continuity. The death of a friend, parent or child leads our hearts into unknown territory. From these experiences, we constantly refine our limits, and learn that while we can touch the pathways of other lives, no one can save another from their life's truths. Like Toru Yamaguchi, we make our own way and we all walk alone.

I watch him in the rear view mirror as we drive away. We shared a few words, and smiled warm thoughts for his safe journey. He said 'thank you' when he grasped the apple and orange I held out the window and I felt grateful that he had accepted our gift. Perhaps his face lit up, thinking of fresh sweet juice streaming down his throat on a dry Arctic highway. I can only imagine. Like a true pilgrim, he remained a mystery. The mask protecting his face from the cold completely hid his features. We never even saw his eyes.