Days 117-125: Of Fairies and Dust

NEW ALBANY, IN—

July 20-28, 2024

This piece is a mixture of my journal entry and the Markus Summer Workshop’s week 5 assignment.

Days 117-125:

“The moon is already an everyday and luminous thing, but that doesn’t mean we can’t see it in new ways, or as something more than what we know it is.” - Peter Markus

There’s this phrase people toss around when they see a young person who’s got it all together: ‘You give me hope for the future.’ But Todd and Sharon, retired boomers and empty-nesters, embody a different kind of hope. It’s not about some far-off, abstract yet-to-be; it’s real and present, unfolding right now.

I left the Canida household in Madison and set off along the ADT toward Lexington, with Todd and Sharon nearby. It was the usual drill: flat roads, a brutal sun that seemed to have it out for me, and the occasional rain that, of course, always showed up at the least convenient times—all the typical elements of trudging through the southern Midwest with a 40-pound backpack in the middle of summer.

Todd and Sharon have been friends with the Canidas for decades, bonded by countless games of rec volleyball in Madison over the years. Bob liked to refer to them as the “handsome couple,” and he would say it with a certain reverence.

I reached out to Todd and Sharon earlier in the day, letting them know I’d be passing through their neck of the woods. They’d been keeping tabs on my journey online, eager to host me just as they had other hikers who wandered through over the years. They agreed to come get me near Lexington at the end of my day’s walk.

I was picked up from another backcountry road along the trail as the sun began to dip. Todd pulled up in a silver Subaru. Beside him in the passenger seat was Don, a tall and lanky figure who’d once been engaged to Todd’s late mother and now resided in a house Todd had built directly across the street from his own.

Todd stepped out of the car to say hello, and instantly, I noticed a palpable kindness and warmth about him. As the golden hour light wrapped around us, his transition lenses shifted to a cool, understated tint that seemed to perfectly match his easygoing demeanor. Perched atop his head was a well-worn baseball cap. At the nape of his neck, platinum locks were gathered and bound into a ponytail, a style choice that seemed both deliberate and almost ceremonially casual, as if the act of tying back his hair was a ritualistic nod to having made peace with a long-gone burden. He looked like a man who’d figured things out, or at least decided to stop worrying about figuring things out that didn’t really matter, which struck me as a kind of unfamiliar freedom in modern society, one that allowed him to be thoughtful, considerate, and unencumbered by the burden of self.

Don, on the other hand, was the historian/village elder type, an oracle with a southern Hoosier twist, Gandalf with a bohemian aesthetic. Although he’d been legally blind for a number of years, his memory was uncanny, sharp as a tack—able to recall details from plaques he’d read half a century ago with pristine lucidity.  He had this remarkable knack for stitching together the past and present, making you feel like you were part of some grand documentary, one that you were woven into as a participant rather than just an observer.

On the drive back to the house, Todd and Don gave me an impromptu history lesson on their particular slice of southern Indiana, the most salient event being the Pigeon Roost Massacre. Don explained that it was a slaughter that occurred not too far from their homes 212 years ago, leaving an indelible mark on the area. The massacre had been the work of a group of Native Americans, mainly Shawnee warriors who’d thrown in their lot with the British during the War of 1812, viewing them as a lesser evil compared to the land-hungry Americans at the time. The memorial built to honor the 15 children and 9 women who perished in the carnage stood near the trail. Todd mentioned that his family lineage traced back to those in the massacre, but nearly every time the topic of this familial link came up, Todd would inevitably reflect on the tragedy with the moral introspection, “But really, what’s that in comparison to what we did to them?”

As we pulled into the driveway off the main road, Todd and Sharon’s private lane unfurled into a bucolic scene, where the expanse of a sunset-lit field stretched out, dotted with grazing horses and round bales of hay. Beyond the field, the lane wound behind a tree-line and into a woodland clearing where their rustic house sat, cozily tucked away from the outside world. Out front, a pond shimmered with the late light, bordered by a waterside deck underpinning a quaint gazebo, its eaves adorned with dangling bistro lights that shone softly. A paddle boat bobbed lazily beside it. Up by the garage sat their RV, a compact hiker sanctuary where I’d lay my head.

Sharon slid open the glass door and stepped out onto the patio, moving toward me with a welcoming smile. She’d been busy in the kitchen, preparing dinner for us.

“You’ve come a long way,” she said, extending her hand with a tenderness that felt more than just a greeting. Her eyes held a compassion that made you feel seen, like she could sense the best in you right away, even if you hadn’t quite found it yourself.

Once we sat down for dinner, Todd, Sharon, and Don’s hospitality and personal anecdotes enveloped me, making me feel like I was part of their tribe. They all spoke in an accent that was a mix of Southern drawl and Midwestern plainness. It was like their vowels couldn’t decide if they wanted to stretch out and relax on a porch swing with sweet tea or just get the words out quick and practical, like they were in line at a drive-thru. It gave everything they said a kind of laid-back allure, with just the right amount of brevity and twang. The cadence of their Southern Hoosier charisma buoyed my spirit, raising it far above the tree-line where the sun had just set.

Todd and Sharon invited me to explore what they endearingly called their ‘Magical Fairy Forest.’ Todd flipped on a light switch near the patio, and suddenly a soft, almost magical light spilled into a charming wooded nook by the house. This special part of their woods had been thoughtfully cleared into a small trail area, complete with a treehouse and bedecked with large, color-changing lights and dainty string lights—a labor of love crafted by Todd and their adult daughter, Holly. It felt like stepping into a dreamscape, a place where their warmth and creativity came alive in the enchanting kaleidoscopic gleam, transforming the ordinary forest into a luminous haven. It was the kind of place that filled you with such happiness and ease that you couldn’t imagine ever wanting to leave.

I ended up staying several nights with Todd and Sharon, and Don made it a point to join us each evening. During that time, they’d drop me off for my walks in the mornings and pick me up at day’s end. Everyday, they made me breakfast, packed me a lunch, and had dinner waiting for me by the time I returned to their home. I found myself eagerly anticipating each moment with these remarkable souls. They felt like my kind of people, strangers quickly turned friends with a rare ability to recharge this textbook introvert’s batteries. The rhythmic pulse of their Magical Fairy Forest became a familiar comfort, another reminder that the journey wasn’t merely a series of grueling miles, but also a space for authentic connection, healing, and joy—the only American dream worth chasing when we remember the dust we’ll return to.

After tightly hugging Sharon goodbye at the end of my stay, Todd and Don dropped me off for the final time at Clark State Forest. Don, with his old-school charm, extended a handshake, and I promised to write him—fan that he was of the tactile, slower world of letters by mail. Todd and I shared a quick hug.

“It can get lonely out here on the road sometimes,” I admitted to him. “You guys are an antidote for that.”

Todd smiled, his warmth as steady and effortless as when I first met him. With a final wave and a honk, they drove off, leaving me with a sense of communion as I faced the solitary expanse ahead of me, starting with a steep climb up a hill into the forest.

As I weaved my way through the rolling timberland, I thought back to the visit Todd, Don, and I made to the Pigeon Roost memorial after one of my days of hiking. Todd had mentioned the colonies of passenger pigeons, now extinct, that used to roost in the forests near the ill-fated frontier settlement. He described how his fallen ancestors would’ve seen them fill the daylight sky so completely that they turned it night—a new way to see and know the moon.

One late evening, Todd, Sharon, and I sat around the dinner table discussing how to establish healthy boundaries and heal from the displacement of loss. Todd’s acoustic playlist softly filled the air from his phone speaker.

“Todd had a really hard time when his mom passed,” Sharon said, clasping her husband’s forearm with a reassuring glint in her smile. “But he’s doing better now,” she added, as if reinforcing a shared, hard-won reality.

“One day, about two years after, I woke up, and all of a sudden, I finally let go,” Todd said. His honesty was that of someone who’d walked through the fire and emerged, not unscathed, but somehow lighter. “I felt this tremendous weight lifted from me,” he added. “I realized I didn’t have to carry it anymore. I was free to live my life, and that was okay.”

His serenity was contagious, pulling a soft grin to my face.

“Do you have a trail name?” he asked, breaking the reflective silence. “Mine’s Dusty. My daughter’s boyfriend, Josh, gave it to me.”

He picked up his phone.

“Here, he made this song about it,” he said. “It’s called ‘In the Dust.’”

“Before Todd’s mom passed, she asked Josh to sing it at her funeral,” Sharon said, her eyes softening.

“Josh wrote this after he and I went for a hike together,” Todd said, scrolling through his music library, a faint, reminiscent smile tugging at his lips. “He was so focused on his pace that he slipped and fell. He was leaving me in the dust, so that’s how I got the name Dusty. He realized he needed to slow down and smell the roses.”

He set his phone down on the center of the table and pressed play.

---

A clap of thunder ricocheted throughout the night sky, rattling the canvas of my tent as I lay cocooned in the wooded hills of Clark State Forest. I thought of that quiet moment with Todd and Sharon, where the only sounds were the mellow strumming of Josh’s guitar and the humming along of the people who’d found me while I was still finding myself—somehow louder than the thunderstorm raging outside:

I was rushing down the trail

Focused on where I wanted to be

Under a canopy of trees, I let the world fly by me

Yeah, I was missing the wild roses

And the songs a weaver composes

Wasn’t ‘till I fell down, looking up from the ground, I found myself

Oh, in the dust

Yeah, leave me in the dust

Finally, I’m in no rush

Run along. Don’t you worry about me

Just leave me in the dust

Now I’m singing away through the winds

I’m watching the dancing bees

I step to the side, let the hurried pass me by and tell me,

“We’ll leave you in the dust”

Yeah, leave me in the dust

Finally, I’m in no rush

Run along. Don’t you worry about me

Just leave me in the dust

When my journey is finally over

And I’m taking that final step over

Hold my hand as I cry, see the joy in my eye, as I find myself

Oh, in the dust

Yeah, leave me in the dust

Finally, I’m in no rush

Run along. Don’t you worry about me

Leave me in the dust