No. I arrived here on shank's mare and will return that way, too. I have everything I need: sturdy sandals on my feet, a body that's been sitting all day and needs to move, a carry bag where I stash my purse and book. My two legs will carry me wherever I need to go.
Down the trail I glide, insects humming, bikers blasting past. The trail is much busier at 6 p.m. than it was at 5:30 a.m., so I stay to the right, pick up my pace. The thoughts of the day swirl in my head. The longer I walk, the more they make sense. How many souls through the ages have used their walks home (from the hunt, from the well, from the village) as a way to sort things out?
Walking home: The original way of decompression.