The Walk - Day Two, pt. 1
Walking Toward the Cult: Waking up in Watsonville
To catch you up: it’s 2012 and I’m slowly making my way to Los Angeles before heading West towards Tucson and the leader of a doomsday cult who has haunted my family for decades.
On day one, I barely made it out of Santa Cruz after making a few critical mistakes.
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Let’s get walking.
DAY TWO
Saturday, August 25th, 2012
Watsonville to Marina
Distance traveled: approximately 18 miles
I woke up at the edge of the strawberry field shortly after dawn. From inside my tarp cocoon, I could hear car doors opening and closing and voices speaking in Spanish in the distance. I unrolled myself and removed the hood of my sleeping bag to discover a dense, white fog had settled along the banks of the river.
The pain of the previous day’s mistakes had settled into my legs and feet. I removed my camp shoes and rubbed my feet through my socks. I slowly and painfully laced my boots back onto my feet, electing not to inspect my blisters; ignorance is bliss, I told myself. Stiff-kneed, I lifted myself up to my feet, using my pack for balance.
I hobbled down the narrow dirt path to retrieve my food sack. I untied the tethering rope and lowered the sack to within grabbing range. As soon as I opened the bag, I was struck by the smell of raw meat; the jerky had absorbed the morning fog and rehydrated into nuggets of steak. I pulled a disgusted face and dropped the meat back into the bag.
Suddenly, I became aware that I was performing for an audience. I saw at least a dozen men and women diligently stooped over with farming implements not 20 yards from where I was standing. Some of them looked at me sideways, and others pretended not to notice me. I gave an awkward wave, which caused the folks who were looking at me to immediately look away. I hobbled back towards my pack as quickly as I could.
I thought about how odd I must have looked to them; a young, white man with clean clothes and a brand-new backpack, sleeping on the edge of a strawberry field all wrapped up in a plastic tarp. I was feeling even more self-conscious because I knew how close I was to home. In my mind, the farther I was from my Santa Cruz, the more I legitimized my story when I spoke it out loud. Of course, the folks in the field didn’t know anything about that. All they saw was a man with obvious privilege who chose to sleep on the farm where they worked. I had that terribly self-conscious feeling of being a tourist again.
