The railways were crammed with priority freight and when I woke up in my coach seat aboard the Starlight Express. In the late august heat of central California, and all across the U.S. freight trains inhibited travel for passenger trains. I left my seat, pressed the large buttons on both entrance and exit doors and entered the observation deck. As we sat motionless I tried to shrug off the claustrophobia, focusing on the trees and observing the rugged mountain pass in which we were stalled. After inquiring a fellow traveler on our estimated halt time I grabbed a cup of coffee and tried to extinguish my flaring discontent. Three hours seemed like an eternity in such cramped quarters. I located myself in a comfy booth next to the window, managing to befriend a few neighboring passengers. I passed a guitar back and forth with one gentleman and shared lengthy conversation with another short haired woman. Finally we lurched forward, northbound again. Nevertheless the stall had exceeded our time window for making our transfer. Along with all eastbound passengers I was escorted onto a shuttle bus for another 7-hour haul to connect with the Empire Builder in Pasco, WA. As we made way I relied on social media for morale support. When my phone finally died I gazed upon the scorched landscape rolling by. Fires had ravaged California and Oregon like a plague just a month prior, some still burning. Leafless and blackened trees dotted the charred hills for miles. They stood somberly naked, stripped of their life.

Our shuttle delivered us to Pasco on time and we safely boarded the train around 9 pm Tuesday night. The eastbound journey on the Empire Builder was less thrilling than I hoped, and my favorite stretch of the trip through Glacier National Park was ridden at night. Not exclusive to the west coast, smoke from Canadian wildfires blanketed Montana and western North Dakota with a canopy of yellow haze. The next day we made frequent stops as our conductors tried to maintain enthusiasm announcing our increasing delay. Our tardiness would have been an inconvenience had the train not been scheduled to arrive at 2 am. Instead, we ran four hours late and pulled into Fargo just as the sun was rising. Before arrival I was awoken in my seat by the conductor and a young woman who instructed me to follow. At a brisk pace we crossed coach, dining and sleeper cars all the way to the luggage car at the back of the train. I gathered the young woman was a fellow cyclist, as she carried a twin set of cycling panniers to my own. The train slowed to a stop and her and I grabbed our bikes and were the first passengers to exit. Almost as soon as we had stepped off, the train continued creeping forward. The young woman looked with dismay at the snakelike locomotive moving away nonchalantly. I reassured her the movement was only temporary re-positioning for other passengers to exit, but I didn't breath easy until the train quit rolling. When it did we retrieved the rest of our luggage. Fed up with biking through the smoke she had boarded in Whitefish, skipping over Montana and North Dakota, rejoining roadways at the border of Minnesota. After mounting our panniers we climbed on our bikes and she asked if I knew any good coffee houses in the area. Already planning on visiting Twenty Below Coffee I invited her along. We rode through the empty streets soon to be buzzing with traffic. After ordering we sat together and exchanged travel stories until my coffee was lukewarm. That night she had scheduled a stay with a Warmshowers host and I was without a place to stay. As soon as I could see a gap between sun and horizon I bid her farewell. With a full day ahead of me I aimed to make it back back home—Alexandria, MN—75 miles away.

The difference between west coast and Midwest roadways was like night and day. Traveling on Highway 1 along the coast of California I averaged 30 miles a day on winding up and down hill roads. Assuming flat land to be easier going I pushed southeast and anticipated doubling my mileage, but immediately I realized my prediction was ill calculated, facing a strong northwest wind that kept me moving at less than 5 mph despite my greatest effort. By the time I arrived in Barnesville it was almost noon and I realized I needed to drop weight in order to make it home by nightfall. Saving only essential belongings, I wrapped my gear up into an over sized gunny sack within my largest tarp and hid the bundle in a lilac bush. Even with most of my weight left behind, I didn't make it to Fergus Falls until after 3:00 pm. By that time I feared I was damaging myself physically as my legs began to develop sandbag sensation and pain followed every forward motion. I pulled to a stop along the main street where a small assembly of vendors in tents were selling art, crafts and sweets. Bow-legged and sickly with exhaustion I wandered around the small event, poorly disguising my disinterest. Wafting aromas drifted out of a Mexican food cart and succumbed to the smell, purchasing a meal. When my hunger persisted after I cleaned my plate, I found Union Pizza & Brewing Co. and satisfied myself over cheese bread and beer. The alcohol severely diminished the likelihood of me making it another 35 miles before dark, but despite the odds I tried my luck and found the trail head of Central Lakes Trail. Overcast skies hid the sun and before I reached Ashby my visibility was at a minimum. On top of that, rain drops began increasing in size and number. Twenty miles away, my mother inquired on my whereabouts, offering to pick me up and I gladly obliged. Having not seen her in two months, the car ride home went by in a blink as I rushed to detail of all my recent experiences.

Being home was bittersweet as always, for I had developed a familiarity with raw survival, sleeping outside. Valuing safety over comfort, the Egyptian cotton sheets felt unnecessary and foreign on my body as I slept and the next few days dragged on like watching grass grow. Instead of vibrant yellow and orange trees I foolishly anticipated, leaves hung lively and green. The air still carried summertime heat and humidity; mosquitoes still lurking in the shaded brakes of yards, thunderheads governed the skies and rain clouds arose like phantoms daily. I made few ventures into town on my bike, uninspired by the poorly painted shoulder lines and rumble strips lining the highways nearby. With little money left over from my tour, pending student loans and other bills haunting my immediate future, I grew restless realizing I would be flat broke without a second source of money before my next paycheck rolled around. That weekend I spent evenings washing dishes at the restaurant where my brother cooks and serves. In the daytime hours I organized files on my computer and caught up with a client who owed me for a logo design. On one peculiar day, throughout an afternoon of catching up a very good friend of mine gave me the idea to apply for a seasonal trucking gig for the month of September.