Older Thoughts, Fresh on my Mind

Since my birthday on April 5th, travels, and thoughts of a dwindling youth, have been much on my mind of late. I have seen and done much, as have many people, and I worry at times that the window of opportunity to do many of the things I desire to do is diminishing as the days slip through my fingers. This may or may not be the case. I do know that many people older and wiser than myself have let dreams slip away, and yet went on to live perfectly happy lives. The thing with dreams is that they can change, I suppose, alter to fit the person, or the persons way of life at any given moment. I know that the dreams I had when I was young are no longer the dreams I have today. The great dream of travel, however, has remained rather constant in my soul for many years, damn near a decade now. With this in mind, I went back to my old journal that I kept in 2003 when I made my maiden voyage out into the great unknown.
I wrote a stirring (and rather self indulgent) little essay during my stay at the Pink Palace. It was the day after the Toga party, and I imagine (for I cannot recall with certainty) that I was nursing a slight hangover. It was written on Aug. 31st, which would have meant that the trip was starting to wind to a close, although we did not dwell on that fact. We still had over a month of living left to do. As I reread the pages, I thought of many things – the people, the places, the experiences. I swore then that it would not be a “once in a lifetime” thing, and yet, following my 2006 adventure, when I went back to the Pink Palace, and found that either it or I had altered, I realized that in point of fact it was – the experiences can not be remade, making everything that happened then unique in time for myself. I cannot redo that trip, ever again. It was an explosion of experience and youthful endeavour. I cannot remake that, as I am no longer that youth. Life has changed me, not beyond recall, but I am not the same 23 year old I was. I am now 29, and life has caught me up (which may not be the worst thing that can happen, so do not take that as a negative). I think I will relate that youthful essay to you. It has a great deal of appeal, now that I can see my “youth” receding, rather more rapidly than I would like.

Travel is the last true refuge for the young. In it we find all that society denies us, the rush of hedonism (real and unabated, not some glitchy sales pitch), the joys of vagabondage, an appreciation for the person you truly are behind the mask. We are prophets, expounding joy and release, living life on the very edge of a razor. The saddest thing a traveler can ever realize is that at some time their sojourn shall end, and the absolute, unconquerable joy of the vagabond’s whimsy, is, somehow, conquered. It is a melancholy thought – why must this be so, why this need to return, to don the mask, to quench the joyous spirits that consume the traveller?
We must, at some point, abandon our worship of the lusty eyed Devils of lust and desire, passion and sin, to become what? What is a school teacher to the vagabond? A slave, driven from this final refuge by the retreat of his youth!
I desire nothing more than a pack on my back, and a compass in hand; the world, in all its infinite glory, spread out before me. A truly melancholy air fills me, knowing that this shall end. Yes, travels will continue, but vagabondage, wondrous vagabondage, with its uncertainty, doubts, confidences, joys, and loves shall not. It feels at times that I have but these five three months, months spent in this refuge of youth, to truly live my life; I have spent twenty three years, and will spend another forty confined to this prison we have made out of life – I desire to fly free in this world, to face the dangers and taste the joys like wine.
Why will this glorious sense of wonder and my tramp-like existence have to end? I am now more of a man, in all aspects that word entails, now than I was – I left my home a boy, and will return a man (and yet, oddly, still a youth somehow). The change occurred, where, I know not, but it did, somewhere between Cayuga and the infinity that lies beyond.
I understand why so many of my companions did not come – courage. It requires courage of spirit, of soul, or self, to be a vagabond, to break away from the self-imposed shackles, and seek out that lonely refuge that is travel. Of course, the fool can travel easily, for the fool does not feel the chains, nor does he see the refuge; he merely sees, but does not experience, and that is a mighty difference. The fool cannot be claimed by the Red Eyed Devils of passion; he is too much a fool to see them and their claim on Mankind’s spirit. The fool is no wayfarer, for he sees not what he is escaping from, and therefore, there is no escape.
I hold my head high and I can see the cage descend, waiting in this final refuge for the Fall. I can also see those Devils of spirit, so welcome to me, like familiar friends. Yet, they shall flee, and remain in the refuge, while I shall not.
Why?
Does my courage fail me? I had it, and a vagabond I became, if only for so short a while. My grandfather had it, but he too ended his exile. I know, in the very pit of my being, that I will always long for that lonely road that the vagabond lives, living life in a constant state of goodbyes, only to be broken by a short flash of hellos (which in turn, become another stream of goodbyes).
It is a strength to live in such a way, a testament to character. My companions lack it, this courage. I have it – I must not lose it, never to be a slave driven by society’s whip! That is a promise I have made to myself. I shall worship those Devils of sin, as well, not allowing myself to bow down to some other false god, be that god Hindu or Christian. My Gods exist within men, and do not pass judgement. Another promise, to keep my faith in my lack of faith.
Thank you, eternal Corfu, for bringing my mind to these thoughts. Fight the retreat of youth! The body ages, but the spirit does not – that is a myth. Live life! That is a creed, not a catch phrase. Live within the refuge, and laugh at the fools and cowards who do not, watching you with envy as they see you free of chains; or do not laugh, but rather, pity them, for them life is oft times bitter.
I exist outside, looking in, free. Please let this always be so.
Enough rambling; I have cleansed my mind of bitter thoughts. To Vagabondage, the eternal flame of life! We are here to escape that which we know to be unavoidable.
- Corfu, Agios Gordios, August 31st, 2003

As I stated at the beginning, rather self indulgent, and yet held within that diatribe, there is a nugget of gold. Life lived without travel truly is devoid of joy for me, and yet I do not feel that the cage is so awful either. Rather, there would seem to be a middle ground that should satisfy. I am not sure why I would share these old thoughts with the world, but I wanted to – for the sake of the writing I suppose.
To cherished memory, may she never grow dim, as we do.

Nothing Like a Weekend Away to Refresh Oneself

There is nothing quite like the Canadian wilderness to rejuvenate the soul. These last few weeks, I have been feeling quite out of sorts; the long dragging winter here in Cobalt lowering my spirits. Depression, rather light and not at all a genuine cause for concern had reared it ugly head none the less, and I was missing both friends and family badly, feeling as though I were trapped in a rut, as sometimes happens when I have not been on the move much.
Of course, the “urge to go” has been strong lately, as it always in when winter begins to loosen its iron grip. When the birds start to fly, I wish to join them apparently. Travel at this time was not an option, however, and I was not responding well to this sense of stasis. I needed to recharge my batteries in the worst way. Luckily, that is exactly what long weekends are made for, and none is better than Easter, thanks to the Ludkin family tradition of backpacking during this time. The tradition had staggered, and was in danger of dying out itself these past few years. Just like Jesus, however, the tradition was resurrected, and few friends and I made the jaunt to Algonquin Provincial Park.
Algonquin is a strange beast – it is absolutely glorious, and nature just explodes in your face, radiant and harsh, unforgiving and compromising. It is a gateway for many, many Canadians from the south, as well as people from around the world, to get out and experience the “North”, which is a good thing. It is great that so many people want to get out and experience this wilderness. Conversely however, its own popularity has served to kill it in a sense. During high season, along the hwy 60 corridor, the park literally swarms with tourists, which turns this rugged wilderness into a sort of extension of civilization. Even during Easter, which in Algonquin was still very cool (indeed, even seasoned backcountry campers like ourselves were hit hard by the cold at night, which plummeted from about 5 degrees during the day to -20 at night), the park was busy. All the campgrounds were closed except for Mew Lake, and the backcountry hiking trails were closed due to flooding and washout. Not to be dissuaded, we booked ourselves into Mew Lake. We drove in and the camp was busy, crawling with tourists, not exactly what we had in mind. So we set up, and then went on a walk about the camp, and lo! Found a section of the camp that was sealed off due to snow and fallen trees, but as we had 4 wheel drive vehicles, we wasted no time in relocating, as this newly discovered corner of the camp was isolated, without a soul within half a kilometre. - much more ideal.
Having found a satisfactory camp, we then set out daily on hikes, using the day hiking trails which dot the highway: Track and Tower, Bat Lake, and Hemlock Bluff. Not exactly what we used to do for the Easter trek, but a nice little getaway all the same and we were able to avoid the growing crowds, which offered a nice escape. I feel refreshed now, and at ease, able to continue on here for another spell of time, possibly enough to get me through to the summer. It was great to see my brother and a few of my friends, and share some real quality time. A few beers around the fire, stories of yesteryears, laughs, and some genuinely stunning vistas; just what the soul needs to preserve itself over time. I look forward to the next weekend excursion. The weather here seems to be turning at last. If spring is on the way, exploration is the call of the day.