The Trails of Happy Horse

“Please, just come back home, Steve,” my sister pleads over the phone. “You could get killed out there hitchhiking.” Her sadness and frustration seep through the telephone wires, and I feel a pang of guilt. “I know it hurts, and I’m sorry,” I reply gently, “but if I stop searching now, then I won’t find what I’m looking for, and all of this will be for nothing.” “What is it you’re looking for?” she presses. I take a moment to gather my thoughts before responding: “I’m searching for a deeper meaning to myself, to life, and for healing. When Mom died, something inside me changed. Something woke up. It sparked a light in my soul that I need to keep searching for deeper meaning. I need to know more.” My sister sighed. “Can’t you do that here at home? Your family and friends are all here. You can stay with me, get back on your feet.” “I understand, but what I’m searching for can’t be found there. I already tried. I can’t learn new things if I stay in old patterns or old comfort zones.” I try to reassure her. “I promise, sister. I’ll call more often and check in and let you know that I’m okay.” Another sigh, one of defeat. “Okay. I love you, brother.” “I love you too, sister. I’ll talk to you soon.” Stepping out of the phone booth, the weight of our conversation lingers, melding with the fatigue gnawing at my body, and the hunger gnawing at my stomach. Why are you out here doing this, Steve? The familiar self-doubt creeps in, echoing accusations of selfishness and failure. I pause, drawing in a deep breath to silence the negative chatter. “No,” I resolved, pushing back against the doubts. “I’ve got to do this. Even if I don’t understand it yet, I know it’ll unfold as I go.” The memory of a single tear escaping my mother’s eye on her deathbed flashes before me, a poignant reminder of a higher power at work. “There is a higher power within us, guiding us,” I affirm to myself, drawing strength from the belief that I know guided her in her final moments. “And that higher power will guide me. You’ll see, Steve. You’ll see, World,” I declare to the universe, feeling a newfound resolve stir within me. My inner voice, once a whisper, now speaks with conviction, a beacon of clarity amid uncertainty, a lifelong companion I’m learning to trust more with each step of my journey. These thoughts churn in my mind, gripping my heart as I trudge past the Flying J truck stop. I snatch a piece of cardboard from a trash can, knowing it will offer me some insulation against the cold, unforgiving ground. Living on the streets and hitchhiking has taught me a harsh code of survival, a gritty reality I cannot escape. Each step toward the overpass feels heavier, laden with the weight of my circumstances. As I seek refuge under the concrete abutment, the impending storm mirrors my inner turmoil. With trembling hands, I lay out the cardboard, brushing off the remnants of discarded meals, grateful it is not as filthy as I feared. I wrap myself in the sleeping bag that I had found at a Salvation Army store and curl up for warmth. The sleeping bag was old and dusty but still weather resistant on the outside and fleece-lined on the inside, with a hood attached so I could easily zip up my body like a cocoon. The rumble of passing cars above provides an irregular, rhythmic lullaby, mingling with the echoes of my recent phone call. As my body heat fills the bag’s thin barrier, I gradually drift off, thinking back to another phone call that changed my life forever…