August 03, 2004

The following is a transcript of notes I wrote on July 26, the 12th day of my trek:

I awoke to the smell of rain and left Port Rowan late in the day after too much coffee. The weather worsened by the time I reached Turnkey Point: the winds rushed through the forests and the waves on Lake Erie were ravishing. I liked Turnkey Point’s distinct scenery as much as I hated its hills: I transversed endless miles of forests on wet, winding roads and it all seemed marvelous and unreal.

And so was the abandoned farmhouse I found somewhere on Highway 3 early in the evening. Birds fluttered in and out of the empty rooms when I entered, and through the hollow windows I could see fields and desolate trees. The gloomy skies filled everything with sorrow and crazy birds kept flying through the windows.

I started cleaning up the mountain of rubble in what was once the dinning room; the roof was still, making this an excellent place to camp. For the next hour I hauled away plaster, broken glass, dirty rags, dust, and bird shit until the hardwood floor looked new and inviting.

I set up my tent in the middle of the room and spent the night comfortably sleeping on the same floor where a farmer’s wife once served supper and dreamed her dreams. At night it rained hard and the wind blew through the broken walls, but the roof over my head kept me dry and I dreamt my own dreams while the storm raged on.