Wesley Read online

  I stop dead. I see a man. I squint to make him out in the night shadows. I’m about to turn around because I don’t want to be alone on the beach with a man I don’t know. There are tourists, campers, fisherman and the like, so strangers are quite often around the area. I am not afraid of people I don’t know, but all the same, this guy is someone I don’t know. His behavior is a little odd. First, he’s pacing the beach, with a huge backpack on, then he stops abruptly and shoves the pack to the ground and starts stripping his clothes off. The glow of the moon reflects off of him and I can see that he’s darker brown than I am. Now, he’s busy putting on a hat and stuffing something under it. He drops the lower half of his clothing, all but his underwear into the backpack, which is a pretty large contraption, larger than a school backpack. It’s like one of those camping packs meant for hiking or overnight stays. What you’d use if you intended to carry your shit instead of driving it to a remote campsite. Anyway, barefoot, bare-legged, and now bare-chested, he’s raising the backpack and placing it onto his bare shoulders. I stare, open-mouthed as he enters the water.

  What the hell is he doing? If he were taking a swim purely for enjoyment, I’d assume he’d leave the cumbersome, enormous backpack on the beach. If it were something else, like a… what? Attempted suicide? In that case, wouldn’t he leave the pack behind too? Why would he take off his clothes?

  I’m confused as I continue watching him. His legs are long and muscular. His torso and arms are deeply sculpted with sinewy muscle. They stretch and tug and flex as he enters the water.

  The barge is anchored out there. It’s carrying gravel and waiting to go upriver. It will wait patiently until a free tugboat shows up to tow it somewhere. Maybe it’s anchored until it can go up the locks of Bonneville Dam just upriver of Silver Springs.

  Wait. Crap. Is he swimming out to the barge?

  Yes. I’m convinced of that when he starts the breaststroke. Long strokes and determination take him out towards the main current of the river. Half hidden in the small cove here, the barge blocks and decreases the most aggressive downriver currents. After many years of living and swimming around here, I know how strong and unexpected the currents can be. I gasp. He stopped. The man is desperately treading water. That pack is just too much. Drop it! I can’t believe he doesn’t just abandon it. I’m about to yell, but I fear I could be distracting him—and then no! He continues forward. With the pack on his back still.

  My heart climbs into my throat. I slowly release my breath and drop my hands, which were cupped over my mouth while I was watching his reckless swim through the dark waters with that pack on his back. Then I spot him catching the ladder on the barge and…. Crap! He’s pulling himself up. How he manages to do it with that waterlogged backpack puzzles me. He does it. Then he’s standing on the edge of the green painted deck. He drops to his knees, obviously trying to catch his breath and garner his strength. At last, he manages to drop the straps of the wet pack and remove it from his body. He relaxes and sits down.

  He’s… doing what now? Stowing away? On… on an agricultural barge? These barges were simply a way to move the grain, corn, gravel, sand, etc., up and down the river. They sailed from the Snake River in Idaho and down to the various towns that hug the lower Columbia. But stowing away?

  I’m confused. What is going on here?

  Who stows away on an idle barge floating harmlessly and anchored on the river? It was the first time I’ve ever seen such a thing.

  I almost start to laugh. Really, it is kind of ingenious. They often left the big barges unattended. How could anyone try to steal a couple thousand tons of gravel? Ha! Even with a train or a freight truck, you couldn’t dent the load of that barge. There are no living quarters. It’s more like a floating dump truck. That’s it. Did this guy think he’d somehow hitch a ride on it?

  I’ve never heard of anyone doing that, but I supposed it could have happened. Like the old ideal of the hobos from the great depression who used to steal rides on trains?

  However, if he got caught on the barge? I can’t imagine the tugboat drivers I’ve known in the area would react too kindly. If they dealt with it on their own, the kid could get beaten up and thrown overboard, or the cops could be called. I groan softly. Shit. What do I do?

  Let him go?

  Call the police?

  Call the coast guard?

  Call the only cop I know? My boyfriend’s dad! I should do that. Ryder Kincaid is a Fish and Wildlife officer with full enforcement capabilities, which means he carries a big-ass gun and has the authority to arrest people.

  I don’t like any of my options. The giant backpack, however, suggests the kid’s homeless.

  I’m hesitant to call the police on this stranger, especially when he’s not doing anything alarmingly wrong, just a little bit wrong. Like jaywalking. That’s how this feels to me. I’m not sure what to do, if anything. Maybe it’s not my business. Besides, the guy is bound to get caught. I don’t think he realizes that the barges get hooked up to tugboats. The crew boards the empty barges to make that happen. Even if it’s none of my business, the way he swam with that enormous pack pricks my conscience. He didn’t seem to be pulling a prank or vandalizing anything. Sure, right now, he’s trespassing. I’m aware that’s a crime. But something about his demeanor speaks to… I don’t know exactly. Someone in need of help, not a pair of handcuffs.

  His bulky figure is shadowed out, and he appears to crouch as he adjusts his backpack and sits just a few feet from the ladder he climbed up on. I watch for a while, but there doesn’t seem to be any plan to vandalize the boat. No spray paint cans come out. Nor is he ducking around the barge as if to what? Break something? Untie the barge from its mooring? No. He’s just sitting there.

  I’m really not sure, other than with spray paint, how one could damage it. I couldn’t begin to think of what other kids might do to cause trouble just for fun. I never bother. It seems pointless to me. But still, he just sits there. His pack is moving around. I think he’s emptying it. Spreading the contents out to dry? Again, what kind of a vandal would carry that giant pack with them? He almost drowned just hauling it out to the barge. I can’t imagine anyone planning some kind of prank would risk that. Plus, they’d be doing whatever they planned to do by now. They wouldn’t be sitting there. Just sitting. No, they’d be scurrying about. Getting right to it. Most would people would go around the barge to the side and work away from the shoreline.

  I can’t call the cops. He’s not really doing anything illegal. Maybe he’ll disappear tomorrow—no harm, no foul. Maybe he’s just looking for a place to stay tonight. But something about that doesn’t feel right. What an extreme swim just to find somewhere to sleep for the night. He could have stayed on the beach or under a tree. There are plenty of remote spaces to camp around the town and in the surrounding meadows and forests or even in the mountains. Places to hide without any detection. So why would he risk the swim or possibly getting caught trespassing on the barge?

  I don’t know. But it’s something I don’t need to get involved in. As long as he appears to be sleeping on the barge, causing no harm, I wish the guy luck. But I am still smirking at him trying to stow away on a barge. That was the strangest thing I’ve seen in a while. It’s almost like jumping on the shell of a turtle to escape a speeding car—it would be much quicker to walk on his own two legs. I shrug. Whatever. It’s not my problem.

  WESLEY

  I stay on the barge for two days and move to the front, facing the river during the daylight hours. The beach occasionally has a jogger or dog walker on it. It’s a public trail after all. Being Wednesday, it remains relatively quiet during the work hours. It’s easy enough for me to duck around the barge’s front when I catch any movement. Occasionally, however, some small personal boats zip by. Those situations have me scurrying to the shore side and ducking down beside the ladder. Luckily, each time this happens, there haven’t been any walkers or beachcombers around.

  Once, a tugboat with a high t
ower idled by. It was heading towards the dam upriver. I tensed up, expecting it to turn towards the barge. But nothing happened. I constantly hope that whichever tugboat is assigned to this barge, it will come from downriver. I munch on the snacks I stowed in my still damp pack. I spread all the stuff out at night to dry and draped the garments on the rope that surrounds the walking area of the barge. It is normally used as a handrail. By daylight, I have all my stuff stowed away so I can hide and make a quick getaway if necessary. By night, I climb down the ladder to water level and fill a few water bottles. I use the portable water purifier I carry with me. Time ticks by, second by second. I’m aware of each and every one of them. It’s monotonous. Boring. The views are something though. I’m not used to the mountains or seeing the expansive breadth and volume of the river. It swirls and curls in crazy currents, bumping the barge and drifting past me. It numbs me with its lulling serenity. It gives me way too long to think. I review my life. I really detest doing that and usually avoid it at all costs. My lifestyle, however, makes that the easiest part of my long days.

  Now I figure the cops most likely have moved past their search for me in this area. I have no doubt they’re sure I ditched the stupid, small town. I highly doubt they’d suspect I was hiding right here, so close to their waterfront. Out on a barge.

  Man, I need to get out of here. I can’t sit here another day. Once darkness hits, I do pushups, sit-ups, and run around the barge several times, using it like it’s my own personal track. Gotta keep my muscles primed. I never know when I’ll need the extra pump of speed or stamina. Look at the chase just a few days ago. Plus, my pack is hella heavy and sometimes there isn’t someone to pick me up. I might walk seventeen miles or seventeen blocks to my next destination. No way of ever knowing how close or how far. Most of the time, I don’t even know where I am going.

  I’m a traveler. That’s what I’m called, not just that I happen to be traveling right now. No, I have no home. No need for securing an identity or trying to be registered anywhere. I used to be, years ago. But I left all that behind when I ran away from the group home the Social Services stashed me in. I didn’t stay long. I soon realized I’d be far safer on my own than I was there. I had to endure a miserable few months of homelessness at first. I was in Tukwila, Washington. Ugh. I don’t do cities now. But then, I was the homeless kid you find next to a dumpster at night, wandering around all day, begging for a few coins. There were way too many drug addicts everywhere. Always coming up to me, looking to score. I figured out that being young and healthy meant most people assumed I sold shit. I got too much attention with their constant trawling of me. The cops frequently stopped me and questioned me. Fair or not, with due cause or not, they did it all the same. And what did they ever find? Nothing!

  I never sold drugs. I don’t carry a weapon. I figured out real quick to never give anyone the chance to get the goods on me. And besides, that was no kind of life for me. I wasn’t planning to set up a tent under a bridge or a tarp beside a freeway. God! The misery. No thanks.

  I left the city. I collected supplies and the key to all of it was this backpack. A warm, sleeping bag, a lightweight, one-man tent, and a tarp to sleep under and protect me from weather. Hell, I don’t like feeling the slightest bit damp, like I’ve been feeling since my swim to the barge. I carry my own survival gear with me and then I’m neither homeless nor needing to beg. I’m self-sufficient. I’m pretty damn comfortable. I carry a water filter, so I can drink. I have a mess kit, so I always have a plate and utensils. I carry my own canister stove so I can cook with my small pan. I’m rarely left cold or hungry or uncomfortable. I usually carry enough dry food to survive a few days on. I might not eat a huge variety of food, but I won’t die of starvation either. And I have a smartphone.

  That’s priceless. When I first started out, I used to watch YouTube and I learned how to do anything from fire-starting to shelter-making. I discovered what products work the best and keep my pack as light as I can while not trading in all of life’s creature comforts. I charge things when necessary. I use Facebook to keep track of the friends I’ve made all over the country. Since phone numbers change so much, especially with other travelers, Facebook Messenger is my best contact list. My bill is paid by a good friend to whom I send money every month.

  I carry my gear with me always, so this pack is my lifeline. I stay in the woods, mountains, meadows, and rural areas a lot. I enjoy nature and wide spaces the most. I grew up in Tacoma, and later on Tukwila and barely saw anything naturally green except a potted tree in a planter until I left. I didn’t know about the kind of rural country that surrounds me right now. I never had access to it. Now that I have, I rarely go back to any cities.

  I also rarely commit crimes. Except for yesterday. Jacey messaged me through Facebook, asking me for money. She said she was desperate and had no one else to ask. Could I spare some? She didn’t say why, and I didn’t probe. I know she wouldn’t ask unless she were really desperate. I’ve been in the gorge for two weeks. The last few days before I mugged the old lady, I hadn’t had an offer for a ride or work. I hitchhike or walk everywhere. I’ve traveled to twenty-six states.

  I live dirt cheap, but I still need cash. I earn it in a number of ways. When I have the funds, sometimes I grab a bus or a motel room. I always have to buy food. When necessary, I hold out a cardboard sign that says I’m looking for work. I’ll do whatever I can scrounge up and work until I earn enough to feel comfortable moving on. I live so cheaply that it doesn’t take much. I was on the Pacific Crest trail, moving through Oregon before dropping into the gorge. Instead of continuing on the trail after I crossed the Bridge of the Gods, I started down the highway on the Washington side of the river.

  The Bridge of the Gods is an impressive toll bridge that spans the Columbia River. It has a metal grate deck on which vehicles drive with no sidewalk or shoulder for pedestrians. It's one of the freakiest places I’ve ever hiked. The bridge felt like it swayed when eighteen-wheelers crossed it at the same time I did. Pretty spectacular. It’s just one example of the unusual and unplanned things I’ve gotten to experience since I started traveling. And since I ditched foster care, along with the city and the poverty and the abuse.

  The thing about traveling is I might not have any money, but I never suffer from poverty. I’m not poor.

  Fuck, no! I’m free.

  Until I reached this stretch of river. I couldn’t get a ride since leaving the Pacific Crest Trail, which was odd. It still amazes me how many people will stop for a hitchhiker and give me a lift or some money or even items out of their car. But when no one stops, I have to walk. I walked a long time. Going down to the dam on the Washington side. I entered this town called Silver Springs where I wanted to get something to eat. I stashed my pack because I often won’t be served in stores, cafes, or small-town businesses if I have it on my back. They generally insist I leave it outside their doors. I hate to leave it unattended outside, so I often hide it where I can easily get back to it, but no one can see it to steal it. Some travelers don’t value their packs like I do. But it makes me sick to imagine being without it. It’s my key to this lifestyle. To staying safe. And being able to live the way I want. Not finding myself in need. Not feeling poor, stuck, or wanting. No. With my pack, I’m in control. I choose this life and how I want to live. Without it, I would be poor and desperate and homeless.

  It’s my survival pack.

  I think I’ve laid low for long enough. It’s time to get off the barge. I hate to get my stuff all wet again, but there is no other choice. The longer I stay here, the more likely I risk a tugboat coming for it. I’m not looking forward to getting caught. I have no idea what branch of law enforcement would prevail, but I don’t imagine it being too forgiving about my stay here. It’s probably some type of maritime offense that’s worse than getting caught on the beach with the money I stole. I honestly don’t know, but I don’t plan to stick around to find out.

  In the early morning hours, I again take off
my clothes, hide my money under my ball cap, stash my stuff tightly in my pack and grip the ladder as I start down towards the dark water. It’s a creepy feeling. I’ve never been a good swimmer, and my inner strength is all that keeps me afloat. I don’t like the blackness of the water all around me. I have to convince myself that sinking deeper is okay because there are no river sharks and water monsters don’t exist. Nothing in the water is going to come up and bite my leg off, though it still creeps me out.

  I quickly get enveloped by the cold water and groan at the unpleasant immersion. It’s an easier swim this time as the current sweeps me right to the shoreline. I get there safely enough, dragging my waterlogged self and pack to shore. I grab my clothes from the plastic bag. They’re damp, but not dripping wet. I dress and pick up my wet pack, grimacing as it bumps against my back and butt, soaking me. Ugh. Water. I don’t need this.

  I walk back towards town with my hat pulled down low and my pack tightly secured on me. I come to baseball fields as I bypass the town square. No one is out and about yet. It’s eerie with everything so empty. Like a spooky movie set of a too-perfect town. Shit, places like this don’t exist. The ugliness must be lurking somewhere in this quaint little town, as surely as it did on the city streets where I was raised in a group home.

  I start down the highway. There’s very little traffic. A few long-haul eighteen-wheelers cruise past me, their giant freight and excessive speeds creating a breeze that threatens to blow me off my feet. A few cars race by, too, and I put my thumb out but no one stops. It’s like that sometimes. Some areas are friendlier to hitchhikers than others. Sometimes it’s my color, I’m sure of that. Other times, it’s the socioeconomics of the area. Sometimes, country folk aren’t used to seeing hitchhikers so they’re automatically suspicious. On the major interstates, however, it’s way more common to see them so I usually get picked up at an on or off ramp or by waiting at a traffic light, holding my sign in hand. My signs say I’m looking for work, or they name a destination I’d like a ride to. I never put a sob story on my sign or ask people for money or food. What is surprising to me is how often I get a ride, and sometimes get invited to stay with people. I am also invited to parties and given all kinds of stuff. So much stuff. Most of which I have to say no to, because I carry all my worldly goods on my back.