A Walk In The Snow

It had been twenty years since the EMPW’s (Electro Magnetic Pulse Weapons) had destroyed any semblance of normalcy; and Aras couldn’t believe how arduous the hike, so far, to the ocean was. Air travel no longer worked and routes that had once been easily drivable, were warped and broken; walking was the best means of getting from one place to another. Aras had left Albany, New York in hopes of finding relatives in Osterville, Massachusetts on Cape Cod. With every step, the visions of hugging and better yet, talking to a friendly face, strengthened the resolve to make it home. Figuring an average of 10 miles a day, Aras reckoned it would take about 25 days to complete the trip. The plan was to arrive on Christmas Day, as long as there were no life threatening, obstacles to overcome.

The non-nuclear war of EMPW’s had begun innocently in the January winter of 2022. The entire world was reeling from the devastating effects of COVID19 and its various strains. Fingers were pointed, feelings were hurt, irrational diplomats and hostile nations began bickering and local fights turned into international incidents. Then, in the spring of 2023, drones became headline news as they delivered devastating bombs to places far away, places that weren’t here in the USA. Then, December of 2023, drone attacks, using electromagnetic pulses on all major USA electric power stations led to cascading failures, plunging the country into darkness long enough for the nation to be splintered into factions, militaristic overflows of the anger, and unrest building from the political unrest of the early part of the century. By March of 2024, the USA were no longer united, as regional groups called “parties” wrested control from the traditional government and bitter fighting and destruction ensued.

Unrest ruled the day and the night. Murder and disregard for what was once “normal behavior” brought a new sense of fear, terror especially if you were not part of the correct party or if you were a woman. The larger parties were called the “Lefties” and the “Righties”, and the smaller one’s had names like “Tread on Me” and “Crusaders”. Mostly, folks who wanted to just be left alone, sought shelter in areas where land mines had not destroyed roads and bridges and cities. While trekking down the Mass Pike, stopping to sit on the edge of what was once an overpass fence, Aras ruminated on the months spent camping along the Hudson River, and the attack that left Aras almost dead.

Thinking, I just put my head under water for a second, to wash my face and wet my hair, then suddenly being yanked up by the hood of my sweatshirt, sharp pain as the baseball bat hit me full tilt in the left knee, and again on the side of the head, then darkness. Left to die, but awakening in the middle of the night, hearing the June crickets and night critters scampering about in the forest next to the Hudson, knowing it would take a while for the leg to heal well enough to walk. Relating the incident to only individuals that could be trusted, and who could provide some safety. With no pain medication, Aras daydreamed to reduce the pain. The thoughts of hot summer days, as a kid, walking the beach with mum and pup, chasing after the little shore birds that scurried away, like they owed you money when you came close. The days spent diving into the waves of Craigsville Beach with friends, on the warm Gulf Stream side of Cape Cod and riding bicycles down hot tar roads and chasing fireflies at night, always laughing and having fun. Then, suddenly, pain from the knee jolts Aras from pleasant thoughts, and a plan begins to take shape. Simply put, “I will go home”, as soon as I am able.

The only meaningful items remaining from the teen years, a heart-shaped locket and a Swiss Army Knife were in a leather pouch hanging around the neck, as Aras spent the rest of summer and autumn gathering and preparing for what would be a long test of endurance, but important, return to the safety and warmth of family. Travel light, eat on the go, camp at night and stay out of anyone’s way. Aras practiced, at each of these things, and healed. The plan was to head south, then east on route 90 the New York Thruway to the Massachusetts Turnpike, to 495 and 25 or 28, if they still existed, over the Bourne Bridge, if still spanning the Cape Cod Canal. Aras would leave on December 1st; out of the area, with no goodbyes or thanks, just go for a hike and never look back.

Camping at night and hiding in and around the shadows by day, and only speaking to other single souls, wanting nothing to do with groups, which generally produced violence, to those not affiliated with them. Hearing stories of unchecked hangings and rapes and senseless murder of innocent people, Aras determined that getting home to Cape Cod, continued to be the only thing that made sense, and it gave Aras a purpose. Also, it was December and this was a very cold winter, with lots of snow, Cape Cod could be a little less harsh.

Alone time was safe time and Aras knew by now, to stay that way, travelling by day and resting at night. Stepping quietly into the woods when voices were heard, or more than one person was spotted, was keeping Aras on track and not deviating from the plan to arrive by Christmas.

The backpack was not that heavy, carrying a small hatchet and a dozen heavy duty woolen socks, unlike many others Aras met along the way. The logic was to camp at night, put on a clean pair of dry socks before rebooting, and wash in a brook or stream the dirty and damp socks and dry them over a small fire. Additionally, the backpack contained an extra watch cap and mittens, a pouch for a three dozen BIC cigarette lighters, ideal for starting little campfires (stolen from a 7-11 weeks ago). A large pouch in the center for any light food goods that could be carried, and including a small pan for boiling water and a fork. Aras also carried a canteen and a light weight winter sleeping bag, “keeps you warm at night”, the red tag read, inside of that an army blanket wrapped around a Bible and Aras' heart-shaped locket.

Aras managed to only get off the NY Turnpike and now Mass. Turnpike, only when a store could be seen. Carefully entering the mall or occasional gas station, food was the number one necessity. If the shop or store was vacant, grabbing candy bars and jerkies of any type and taste was perfect, fairly light and full of protein and sugar for the long walk. When an individual was there to wait on Aras, $300 in cash, if the store accepted it, would do, otherwise bartering a pair of socks or a lighter would get what was needed. Using the “in and out, nobody gets hurt” method, from an old SNL skit, Aras would get back to the matter at hand, walking to Cape Cod.

The further into Massachusetts, the more often were the moments when strangers could appear and voices could be heard, also more frequently stores for reloading food supplies. A church with door’s open, beckoned Aras to rest a while and talk. This day Aras rested a bit, chatting with a pastor that seemed devoid of the madness that ruled everywhere else. Then walking through a couple of inches of new snow, Aras headed out, aiming for the “Shoe” city, Brockton, by end of day. Hopefully, to the old stone tower at D.W. Field Park and protection from weather and any harm. Aras says out loud “Today is December 17, 2044, I have eight days until Christmas”, tomorrow I find old Route 28 and head for Cape Cod.

“Good, chilly, but sunny”, Aras thinks and pushes each step, feeling, what salmon or turtle or migrating bird must feel as they swim, crawl or fly closer to their home. This was the right thing to do, family returns one to the center of who they were and also to who they have become. Of course, some negative thoughts enter the mind, while walking, “is everyone OK, alive even”, “do they still live in the old homestead Cape Cod home, with old weathering shingles”? After 17 days of walking, and hours of mentally reliving the horrors of being attacked and beaten, Aras stomps down or claps, to regain focus, “clearing the mechanism” to borrow a term from The Manchurian Candidate, a book from the last century, by Richard Condon.

December 22nd and Aras approaches the old route 28 Wareham sign showing the gateway to Cape Cod with stone-built lighthouses on each side of the road. Arriving to this point is exciting, and a sense of joy at almost being home takes over as the steps get a little quicker and longer. Aras can only think now of Buzzards Bay and the Bourne Bridge, and crossing over the canal. That’s for tomorrow, today we will head that way until a safe location can be found to start a little fire and find some trees or big rocks and set up a lean-to for one. Washing and drying socks and putting on dry ones to sleep in, eating some beef jerky, and drinking some fresh cold, very cold, water, finishes the day.

Snowfall during the night, will slow the pace today, but Aras is determined to reach the bridge that means the last leg of a trip begun over three weeks ago. Even from a mile away Aras could see the Bourne Bridge was missing its middle, and the heart rate increased, wondering how will I get across or do I add more time to my trip by moving north to the other bridge (Sagamore) that also crosses the Cape Cod Canal. Also, more and more people began appearing, which scared Aras.

Arriving in the appropriately name Buzzard Bay, Aras trades a lighter for a burger made from a mystery meat, was the first decent food Aras had consumed since leaving Albany, and it was delicious. Good news too, as there was a man with a boat, who would barter for a quick ride to the other side, in another hour. The skipper agreed to take 5 lighters as fare; his name was Sam, and he got fuel for his little boat by siphoning gasoline from wherever he could find it. Aras was happy to get underway and en-route to the last part of the trip, wondered if the canal ever froze over, so one might walk across it.

Last day, also Christmas Day, and Osterville was within sight. Still standing, was the home Aras had been drawn to these many months and through a window, Aras’ mother saw her and ran to meet her. My girl, mama would say, what a wonderful Christmas present you are, come in and see papa and tell us how you got here. Papa smiled broadly and said “Sara my daughter”, come give us a hug. Taking off all her gear and removing her big winter coat, Aras, as she called herself so as not to be thought of as a woman, now stood as a woman in front of the fireplace. Warming herself and tearing up often, as she retold the story of her ordeal, including the belly bulge revealing she was carrying a six-month old fetus, the last mark of the beating back in June. Sara, after eating a feast prepared by her loving mother, wept with joy and slept with a peace not enjoyed for years.

Home, while the rest of the world continues its insanity, one can begin a new cycle of life and teach of what could be. “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”