The old country bridge, where I ran out of gas, was on the verge of collapse. Stepping nervously from the car, the planks squeaked under my feet. I gauged the speed of the river below and wondered where I'd wash up.
He was a rough and tumble artist, cut from the Bukowski cloth. A two-fisted drinker, he rattled off poems late in the night when the madness overcame him. His bloodshot eyes spoke to the fire that burned from within and from which he, finally, burnt out.
A small, but steady, group of pilgrims continue to visit his grave. There are times, they claim, they can feel the heat of his spirit.
"Bells on the backpack," she says, "will keep the bears away." I listen, a little sceptically. They would also let them know we're here. I prefer the route of silence - slipping through the forest, ninja style.