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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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1990-09-17
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ESSAY, Page 70Walking on the Wild SideBy Lance Morrow
The part of the self that is Toad of Toad Hall took to the open
road again.
The interior Toad rhapsodized, "Walking is the finest thing in
the world, but wild walking like this is finer still."
Toad's muscles glowed with well-being. He sported a touraco
feather in his slouch hat. He had walked for days out of Kitich,
a remote, beautiful camp on the Nyeng River in Northern Kenya, and
now was skirting the Mathews Range in sandy, thorny country.
Vultures wheeled over a distant lion kill. Toad was walking through
heaven.
This was the line of march: first bright Lutupen, the Samburu
guide, with his spear and tribal finery, the yellow-and-black-bead
cords crisscrossed on his chest, the tops of his ears sprouting the
bead horns that gave the Samburu warrior, Toad thought, an air of
medieval imp. Toad admired Lutupen's sense of style. Lutupen had
slipped a trapezoid of broken mirror under his bead headband for
decoration, so that he now had a kind of third eye, a window in the
center of his forehead that flashed as he slipped along through the
forest.
After Lutupen came the mule, Miss Mule, policed by another
Samburu warrior named (it is true) Livingston. After Miss Mule at
a cautious distance marched Toad and friends -- the guide Chrissie
Aldrich, the Kitich Camp manager Ian Cameron and the others. And
last, the ten donkeys that carried water and food (short rations
that got shorter as the days passed and the wild walking grew more
wonderful). The donkeys advanced along the trail like a party of
schoolgirls in dove-gray uniforms, sociable and disorderly, the
sheer din of their progress driving off elephants and lions and all
other wilder beasts as Toad's parade advanced. Toad surveyed the
line of march with a jump of pleasure. En passant with his
olive-wood walking stick, he poked cannonballs of elephant dung and
judged how long ago the beasts had passed. Now and then they came
upon Samburu tending herds of high-humped Boran cattle. But mostly
they walked in solitude. Toad savored the wild walker's joys -- the
peace of utter remoteness, the little thrill of vulnerability and
self-testing.
The jerry cans on the donkeys' backs got lighter. Toad the
linguist asked Lutupen in Swahili, "Wapi maji?" (Where is water?)
Then after finding a few dung-fouled cattle watering holes, he
learned to be more precise: "Wapi maji mazuri?" (Where is good
water?) At length they fell to quarreling over water and stopped
speaking to one another for hours at a time.
One day, pointing the march back into the mountains, on steep,
thickly wooded tracks, thirsty and quarrelsome, they came upon an
emerald pool in the forest, a sweet, shaded secret. Toad drank
water for half an hour without stopping. That night they
slaughtered a goat and feasted. Lutupen hung the remaining goat
meat in a tree above him as he slept curled up on a flat rock, and
in the morning Toad found leopard tracks around the camp.
But that day as Toad tramped on through the undiscovered
country, his eye was suddenly transfixed by the sight beside the
old cattle track of four Eveready size-D batteries lying in the
dust. It was as if a passing whaleship had answered Ahab: "The
white whale? Yeah, we killed him yesterday." An old joke. Toad
suffered a deflation.
Well, he reflected later, the planet can no longer sustain the
luxury of pure wild walking, which may in any case carry a certain
taint of the elitist or the narcissist, a demand for virginity.
(Americans and Europeans have always liked to think of themselves
as the first white men ever to have walked into some wild place.)
Wild walking intoxicates the Toad. But all walking is a matter
of style. In finer sensibility, Toad might admit that a tramp
through hyena droppings would rank pretty low on the evolutionary
scale of walking.
William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge did not fight
over drinking water as they rambled through the Lake District. In
any case, the important thing to Toad was that walking put the mind
in motion, and might even set poetry in motion. A line of verse is
a march of poetic feet, the trudge of iambs and shuffle of dactyls,
the ambulations of language.
Toad simultaneously loved walking as an escape from thought,
a way of setting the world itself astir, like a cycloramic dream,
so that it flowed through his eye to his mind at the speed that
suits the total creature best -- all higher speeds being a mere
greed for frivolous accelerations, for wind in the face.
The best walking is a liberation, and a way of thinking. A
creature like Toad is not a tree, but is designed to move across
earth's surface, perpendicular to gravity and companioned by time.
Somehow walking, thought Toad in his mellower moments, makes time
a passage that is not only bearable but also sweet and festooned
with an everlastingly changing array of scenery.
So many kinds of walking did Toad savor. Beach walking took
him along the edge of eternity. Night walking carried him through
another mysterious fluid, darkness. Walking populated his solitude
with multitudes of fancies and inner images, and let his mind roam
up and down in time. Yet walking in the city also gave him
sometimes an ecstatic solitude -- a paradoxical apartness and
serenity.
Conversation, Toad thought, was best when walking, since talk
itself is an ambling. Toad even talked better to himself when
walking -- though if he moved his lips when doing it, he looked
like a street crazy. It was at last in the walking that Toad's
soul, he found, was most at rest.
Toad yearned always for the wild walking, of course. But he
sighed the sigh of resignation. The whole world now is a beaten
track. Even if Toad went to the moon for a hike, he would find
footprints there.