Perth-Andover to Florenceville-Bristol   |   Campsite: 46.42406° N, 67.61198° W

By 1:30 I am walking across the bridge into the town of “Florenceville-Bristol” from the west eastward to the shores of the Saint John River. The morning began at 5:30 after shaking out a wet tent that had accumulated water over the course of the night from a very misty, very foggy river. By 9:30 the long sleeve fleece comes off, and when I stop to eat an 11:00 lunch in a dirt entrance into a very green farm field, the Patagonia pants are swapped out for Lululemon shorts. By 2:00 the temperature of this fully clear and sunny day will climb to 24 degrees. Today was spent walking a small two-lane highway on the west shore of the river—Highway 130. Like most highways, there were numerous endlessly straight sections, however, the limited traffic made the walk today peaceful. Walking across the bridge into town this afternoon was both comforting and exciting. Actually, walking across any bridge has me feeling this way. There is something about walking across any bridge has me accessing aspirational memories. There is something about walking away from this place I used to inhabit, toward that place I will soon inhabit via this liminal space—the bridge. I am always reminded that if I keep walking, seeking, and searching, the potential I am in search of will materialize. The scene that perpetually comes to mind is that of Ewan McGregor, after ripping off his “mates” in the closing scene of “Trainspotting”, walking across a bridge, the day sun-filled, the depth of field beautifully blurring out the background, moving away from that old, dead lifestyle. Underworld’s “Born Slippy” underscores the entire scene, a band that I have fond memories of as it served as an anthem from my college graduation into my introduction to professional practice. So, here I am twenty years later having the same emotional reactions as I walk over this bridge after a full day of walking, in the sun with backgrounds artfully blurred out. Hot, sore, and tired, I acquire cold pints and enjoy them under a number of cedar trees with picnic tables placed within the shade cast. I journal the day, which is not outstanding nor dull—it has been a day of acquiring the necessary distance required. Tomorrow I’ll walk 19 km to the town of “Hartland”, work at a coffee shop, cross the world’s longest covered bridge back to the west shore of the river, and walk 39 km to a town called “Woodstock.” I meet a man named Al at a coffee shop as I am preparing to transcribe hand-written notes in Perth-Andover. We get to talking about the province of New Brunswick, about his growing up here in the area but later traveling to the city of Toronto for work, and his returning to Perth-Andover for retirement, love, and life. This is a story I have heard told by people growing up in small communities countless times since my own youth. People feel the pressure to move to larger centres in order to experience growth, education, personal development, and the acquisition of work. In order to meet these dreams of bettering one’s life, they have all had to abandon their homes. Al has a patient, quiet demeanor, and his eyes inquisitively guide the conversation. As he leaves in pursuit of chores requiring attention, he wishes me luck with a smile. I transcribe notes, back up files, and post to the blog. I book a room for three nights down the road in Fredericton, from Friday to Monday morning, for a good price. The next four days will be 40+ km walking per day. I wrap up at the coffee shop by 7:00.

Today’s distance walked: 44.51 km    |    Total distance walked: 1,472.34 km

“When you travel, you experience, in a very practical way, the act of rebirth. You confront completely new situations, the day passes more slowly, and on most journeys you don’t even understand the language the people speak… You begin to attach much more importance to the things around you because your survival depends upon them. You begin to be more accessible to others because they may be able to help you in different situations.”

– Paulo Coelho, “The Pilgrimage”, p. 32.