Prompt 305. Adventures into the Unknown

& Tom Turcich on walking the world

Hi friend,

Nine years ago today, in late September 2015, I was making last-minute preparations for my 15,000-mile solo road trip with my road pup Oscar. It was T-minus six days from departure, and I was collecting all the necessary gear, like a camping stove and a tent I sourced on Craigslist from a guy who turned out to be a priest at a church in Hell’s Kitchen. I’d gotten a bed and travel bowls for Oscar and gathered paper maps of each state on my route in case my cell reception cut out. Wanting to pack light, I settled on a simple road uniform: my favorite Levis, some battered old Frye boots, and t-shirts, to be bolstered with sweaters and a beanie in colder climes.

I had sublet my apartment and was staying with Jon at his place in Midtown for a few nights until it was time to hit the road. We were still in the early stages of our relationship. I remember him coming home from work and finding me in his living room surrounded by piles of gear. He didn’t love the idea of this long solo trip. He worried about me getting behind the wheel (freshly minted as my driver’s license was, valid) and about the distance it would put between us (as new as our relationship was, also valid). The piles made it very real, and I could feel his trepidation.

I too was anxious, but I pushed on. The next day, I took a bus to the Hudson Valley to pick up the vehicle that would carry me all those miles. A friend was lending me his old Subaru, affectionally nicknamed Bessie. On the way there, I felt increasingly uneasy about the arrangement—what if I banged up his car? But when I arrived, my friend eased my mind almost immediately, reassuring me Bessie had seen a lot of years and miles. “Anything that happens to her is not just fine but expected and welcomed,” he said. I immediately felt relieved, not only of the anxiety of being a new driver embarking on a very long, perhaps ill-advised boondoggle, but also the fact that it wasn’t even my car.

The days passed, my anxiety waxed and waned, and on the eve of my departure, I couldn’t sleep. I was full of anticipation but also guarding against creating unrealistic expectations about what this trip would be and what it would do for me. I understood that this was a rare window in my life where I could take three months for myself—possibly the last time I could do such a thing. I was twenty-seven years old, didn’t own a home, didn’t have kids, and wasn’t sure of my next steps professionally. I felt as lost and untethered as I had ever been, and fresh out of four years of cancer treatment, so uncertain about the future, which felt scary. But it had dawned on me that there was a freedom in the in-between place—when you can’t go back to life before, but you’re not quite sure what lies ahead. And I wanted to do as the poet Rilke advised: “Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

Departure date arrived. Jon helped me gather my things and load up Bessie. As we said goodbye, he handed me a road trip mixtape—a gesture of his support and blessing. I needed it. To this day, embarking on that road trip is one of the scariest things I’ve ever done—but at the same time, it’s one of the things I’m proudest of, and it’s not an exaggeration to say it was life-altering. I drove a long slow loop around the United States, visiting places and meeting people and stretching myself in ways that changed me forever. So many good things came of it, like my memoir Between Two Kingdoms, and lifelong friendships that emerged from that time on the road.

Oscar and me in the Tetons of Wyoming and Big Sur, California

These days, most of the things I was uncertain about back then are no longer question marks—from my career to my romantic life to where I call home. But my recent return to chemo has thrown me into a new landscape of uncertainty: my life looks really different from just two months ago, and I have no idea what it will look like two months from now. What I’m trying to keep in mind is what I have learned over and over again—that the unknown can be scary, but it also contains an element of adventure, an opening for something fresh and new. That sense of possibility is so often eclipsed by all the negative connotations of the unknown. But rather than indulge the fears, I’m trying to focus on the adventure part. I’m telling myself, “This is a good time to make changes, to take new risks.”

Of course, it’s easier to do that if we know we’re not the only ones who have faced the unknown. One of the luxuries I allowed myself on my road trip was a small crate of books. Many of them were road narratives, everything from classics like Travels with Charley and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance to more obscure travelogues like the diaries of Isabelle Eberhardt, a young woman who traversed North Africa on camelback. These stories gave me a kind of vicarious courage. Others had done this before, and I could too.

Overlooking the Rio Grande in Big Bend, Texas

One book that would’ve been a brilliant companion on my trip is one I’m sharing an excerpt of today. As a little context, the same year I left on my road trip, a man by the name of Tom Turcich was embarking on his very own solo trip with his dog, Savannah, though his was an even more quixotic quest: to join the ranks of only a handful of people who had walked around the world. Seven years later, as Tom was nearing the end of his 28,000-mile journey across six continents, I read an article about him, then started following him on Instagram. We became online friends, and about a year later, shortly after my second bone marrow transplant, we met up in person. We talked about our adventures, and he told me that, like me and so many of our fellow travelers, he was writing a memoir about his time on the road.

Today, it’s my great joy and honor to share an excerpt of that now-completed book, The World Walk, which will come out in a little over a week, and to pass the mic to my fellow road-wanderer and friend Tom. May it inspire you to reframe the unknown as an adventure, and to take a risk—not necessarily to get rid of all your worldly possessions and walk around the globe, but maybe something small, maybe something you’ve been thinking about doing for a while, something you want but are afraid to pursue. And may it remind you to look to the trailblazers—to the people who have proven what’s possible—for wisdom and guidance.

Pedal to the metal,

Suleika

Some items of note—

• “The Alchemy of Blood,” my joint art show with my mom, Anne Francey, is up until October 6 at ArtYard in Frenchtown, NJ—just one more week! But if you can’t make it, don’t worry! You can glimpse some of the works and hear my mom and I talk about the meaning we make of them in this video replay of our artist talk.

• Mark your calendar! We’ve scheduled our next meeting of the Hatch, our virtual creative hour for paid subscribers for Sunday, October 20 from 1-2 pm ET. It’s always the warmest, most wonderful gathering—I hope you can join us!

Sand sweeps across the road in northern Peru. Photo by Tom Turcich

Prompt 305. The Note in the Desert by Tom Turcich

In the north desert, the road was flat, but as we moved south, the Pan-American was nudged to the coast by the last ripples of the Andes as they descended into the Pacific. Beside the coast, the air was salty, and the towns were tucked into narrow valleys. The desert became drier and more lifeless, too. Sometimes I didn’t speak to anyone for days. With no internet, I listened to old podcasts just to hear someone’s voice.

I blared Sam Cooke, the Black Keys, and the Beatles on my speaker. I sang with uninhibited passion, often pushing my cart ahead so I could conduct with my hands.

When I grew tired of singing, I talked to Savannah. I wasn’t delirious enough for full conversations, but I was bored enough to make comments throughout the day.

“What a view.”

“At least it's cloudy.”

“Peanut butter, peanut butter, peanut butter.”

The desert was numbing. Each day, I felt less and less. I was increasingly dull, empty, lobotomized. What I was doing, I could barely remember. 

One morning, I sat in an abandoned house tapping the back of my head against the wall to knock some life into myself. By looking at the map, I knew I wouldn’t encounter a thing for another two days. I dreaded it. My boredom would turn each mile into five.

“Come here, Savannah.”

I pulled her head to my chest and rested my head against her side. I closed my eyes and focused on how her fur felt on my cheek, how her chest rose and fell, but Savannah wasn't one for affection. The moment I let go of her collar she walked off and sat by the steps to tell me she was ready to start walking.

At noon, I rested on a rock off the side of the road. I ate peanut butter with a spoon. After enough scoops, Savannah and I resumed walking. The miles passed slowly, but in the early evening we stumbled upon a restaurant that I hadn't seen on the map. La Balsa was at the intersection of the Pan-American and a dirt road that led to the fishing village of La Gramita.

For a restaurant in the middle of nowhere, it was surprisingly busy. I took a seat at a table along the wall and tucked Savannah by my feet. I wondered if I could convince the owner to let us sleep inside for the night. They would open early, which meant I'd have to leave early, but spending another night in the desert was as appetizing as a mouthful of sand.

“From where do you come?’ asked the waiter.

“The United States.”

“On bicycle?”

“On foot.”

“We’ve had only one other walker.” The waiter pointed to a collection of photos on the far wall. “Look.”

I dropped Savannah’s leash and walked over to the collage. On the wall was a familiar photo—Karl Bushby, my idol, hands to his chest, face wrapped against the sand, standing in the Peruvian desert. It was the very picture that had been burnt into my head since seventeen. 

“I know him,” I said to the waiter across the room. :I spoke with him before I left. That’s Karl Bushby.”

The waiter came over and stood beside me. “He was here in 2000.”

I leaned closer to the articles. Even though I’d seen the photos before, they held new meaning now that I was walking the same road Karl had walked sixteen years prior. I wasn’t as tough as Karl—I skipped the Darien Gap while he crossed it, and I had no interest in swimming the Bering Strait like he had. But the club of world walkers was few. Although I’d spoken to him only once, I felt I knew him. I understood what it meant to leave, to be a stranger, and to have the insatiable need to be out there.

THE GOLIATH EXPEDITION

A WORLD-RECORD WALK AROUND THE WORLD!

I inspected Karl in the desert, two-wheel cart attached to his waist. He was covered head to toe, only his hands were bare. If I hadn’t seen this photo at seventeen, I would have never started my walk. I was connected to this photo by a straight line, and looking at it I understood how one thing leads to the next and the next thing leads to all others. I wasn't an individual set apart in time, but a continuation of ideas; not the brush, but the paint; not self-governed, but guided by greater forces.

Your prompt for the week:

Write about someone who blazed a trail that you later followed. When did you learn of them? What did they do? How did their example help you along the way?

If you’d like, you can post your response to today’s prompt in the comments section, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals. As a reminder, we love seeing your work inspired by the Isolation Journals, but to preserve this as a community space, we request no promotion of outside projects.

Today’s Contributor—

Tom Turcich is the tenth person to walk around the world, completing an extraordinary seven-year journey across six continents and thirty-eight countries with his adopted pup, Savannah. What began as a quest for self-discovery evolved into a testament to human endurance and the unbreakable bond between man and dog. Turcich has been featured on CNN, Good Morning America, The Guardian, BBC, The Today Show, and more. Now a sought-after motivational speaker, Turcich is also the author of a children’s book, Savannah's World of Adventure. The World Walk will be published on October 8 and is now available for pre-order.

For more paid subscriber benefits, see—

• Goodbye to All That, an installment of my advice column Dear Susu, where I answered a question is from a disillusioned city mouse who is longing to leave the bustle but doesn’t know where to go

• On Wonder, a video replay of my Studio Visit with the adventurer and New York Times bestselling author Jedidiah Jenkins, where we talked about speaking things into existence, rites of passage, and bridging the distance between no longer and not yet

• The Work of Happiness, a recap of our virtual creative hour, where Isolation Journals managing editor Carmen Radley meditated on a poem by May Sarton, the power of inwardness, and the value of patience in making a home

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