I was expected in Boston Friday evening.

And I was going to take my time getting across the 853 miles of two lane highways that would take me there. I had taken Route 62 up through Danville, OH for more than fifteen years, but today I was taking it out of the state. Two-hundred and seventy six miles on my first day of what would be an eight day trip.

Wednesday morning started slow. Last minute packing and gear checking. 

Two t-shirts. A thermal long-sleeve shirt. A sweater. My favorite pair of well worn Carhartt pants. Socks and boxers. 

I had an itch to get out of the state, so I didn’t stop much. I probably missed a few good things, but I didn’t care. There was something pushing me, go, go… 

Go. 

___

I stopped for a break not long after crossing the Pennsylvania State line. I found a quiet little country road and parked. It felt good to be in another state. Put some distance under me.

When a truck approached and slowed, numerous thoughts passed through my head. A middle aged man and his wife. The window rolled down and he hollered across the passenger, “Ya need anything?” “No, thanks. Just a break.”

I smiled.

The the next twenty or thirty minutes were spent looking at the map, studying the local flora & fauna and taking a few photos. In that time maybe eight vehicles passed me, nearly all of which slowed down waiting for any sign that I needed assistance. I gave them a wave and friendly salutation through open windows.

A maroon Chevy Blazer slowed as it drove by, pulling over a few yards in front of me. As all the various characters that could emerge from it began to come to mind, a very scraggily-looking seventy-something man hopped out, “Ya travelin’!?” 

He had a very “retired” look about him. Long grey beard over a well soiled plaid shirt sloppily tucked into pants a few sizes too large cinched tight with a well worn belt. Behind glasses that had makeshift repairs on every corner, his eyes glowed with a warm curiosity. I didn’t get too far into the details of my planned adventure before he was reminiscing about family he has in Ohio, and the days he used to hunt for Indian arrowheads in freshly tilled fields. “I used to find them in this field right here,” thumbing over his shoulder, “After they plow the rain washes them clean and the field glistens with them. But they stopped farming it and now it’s useless.”

I mentioned my intent to camp out somewhere near Warren, PA and he perked up. “There is a great campground right on the edge of the Allegheny up there, place called Buckaloons. Look for it!”

As he walked backward to his truck it was as if his eyes wished they could ride with me. Large and studying every detail, they tried to take in as much of my adventure from the gear strapped to my bike and the smile on my face.

As I followed the Allegheny up into the Appalachian Mountains the forest grew dense with conifers. Large lumber mills and old mill towns, huge industrial parks stacked with oil refinery equipment and old pumpjacks tucked back in the trees along the roadway.

I found Buckaloons Campground just before the intersection of Route 62 & Route 6, the famous route that winds through all of Pennsylvania. 

Being a Wednesday the campground was mostly empty so I chose one of three tent-only sites, less than fifteen feet from the west bank of the Allegheny River. As I pitched my tent and the sun began to set over the surrounding green ridges, an elderly couple toured the paved parking lot on a pair of beach cruiser bicycles. Everything about them was so casual, slowly turning and weaving around, making as much as possible of the limited asphalt.