Chapter 5 All the Way to Washington

Chapter 5

All the Way to Washington DC

With 360 miles behind him, and now resolved to go all the way to Washington, Dad steeled himself for 700 more miles of hardship and adventure.

His AAA maps showed him that he would be walking about 240 miles through the rest of Georgia, then 140 miles through South Carolina and another 140 miles through North Carolina, and finally, 180 miles through Virginia. No maps could show him where to sleep, where to get a cup of coffee, where the Post Offices and phone booths could be found, or where to find a shower or a hot meal.

North of the Florida-Georgia state line, US Route 1 veered inland, so he would leave behind the tourist areas of Florida’s Route 1.  He would be walking through the “Deep South,” where roadside accommodations would surely be scarcer. He may have expected Southern hospitality to make up the difference.

About five miles after striding across the Florida-Georgia state line on the bridge over St Mary’s River, Dad entered the little town of Folkston, Georgia where, according to his pocket log, “the folks are not ‘folksy.’ ”  He wrote :  “Refused service at two motels and a rooming house, backtracked 2 ½ miles to the Tahiti Motel south of town,” where he was finally able to check in and sleep. The next morning, he visited the town laundromat, “a truly sorry mess- no soap, no attendant, no heat in dryers.”

That night, after 25 miles of walking, he noted that he got a drink of water from a pig farmer, and then slept outside the Okefenokee Swamp Park.

The disappointments in Folkston were more than balanced by the kindnesses he encountered in a small town called Alma, about 20 miles north of Waycross. (Alma happens to be the name of the town in West Virginia where he eventually bought 50 acres to live on after he retired from the Post Office in 1993.)

After being checked out by the Waycross Police as he made his way with his backpack at night along the side of the road, he was stopped by another car. The driver, a man named John Chancy, offered Dad a ride, which he declined and explained why he had to walk. When he got to the town of Alma, he stopped at the American Legion hall for a “cold one,” where he met Eddie Holton, the Legion commander, who told him he had heard about Dad from Mr. Chancy, and he wanted to talk with him about his walk.  Mr. Holton put Dad up at the Sunset Motel and bought him dinner.  The next morning, reporters from two local newspapers interviewed Dad and took photos. In his log, he wrote these rare descriptive sentences:

 “ I like the town of Alma.  Very decent, cordial, proud people.  Left town at 5 pm so full of good feelings about the local people I plum forgot to stop for supper or buy anything for the walk to the next town. A pick-up truck stopped to offer me a ride. I explained why I couldn’t ride, asked about place to eat in next town- about 15 miles. He GAVE me a can of beans. I ate the beans when it was too dark to walk. Found a place to sleep by the road. Good night’s sleep. Level, dry ground. No ants. Continued walking North.”

At this point, The Walk had become less a publicity event than a test of his own will.  He was out to prove, even to himself, that he could do it.  Whatever publicity he got came by chance.  Sure he welcomed an interview by a local newspaper whenever he could get one. He hoped to ultimately capture the attention of the US Postal Service, but most of his energy in the last two-thirds of the journey was spent not in trying to get his story out, but in just surviving.

To say it simply, some days on the road were better than others. The word “walk,” which brings to mind a pleasant, fairly passive activity, hardly comes close to describing the extremes he experienced on the road.  His notes each day reveal a dogged effort to push forward, with terse indications of miles covered, miles to go, county and town lines crossed, weather conditions, meals and sleeping accommodations. Between the lines we can only imagine his feelings.

He seemed determined to appear hale and upbeat in the messages on the postcards he mailed to friends and family from points along the road, but in his daily notebook, he documented the full range of his experience, however cryptically.

No one page stands out; in many ways they all start to sound similar. Taken as a whole, though, his pages and pages of notes (one for each of the 71 days he spent on the road, plus a few more to describe how he spent his rest days) tell the story of the monotony of his ordeal in the only way that the story can be told- one day and one night at a time.  Walking, carrying his load, looking for coffee, looking for places to sleep.

The rare pages on which he wrote of a conversation with someone he met, or with a loved one over the phone, or noted a historical site or an encounter with an animal reveal his interests and his curious nature. He never writes directly about his motivation, his hopes, his fears or disappointments. He just tells us how he walked, and walked, and walked.  “Continued walking” was by far the most common phrase he used.

In Baxley, Georgia, October 2, he described a large meal in a Huddle House- “soup, salad, sandwich and three coffees.” Later that day, he bought some baking soda for soaking his feet. (Dad loved baking soda and used it for all kinds of personal care and cleaning tasks. )  And he bought some ice cream and enjoyed eating it while resting under a shade tree. Later that night he found a place to bed down under a tree, where he slept “until 7 am, very comfortable under a full moon.”  The next day, while stopping to “fix feet,” he saw “a doe with twin fawns less than 100 feet from me.”

Whenever he got the chance to use a telephone booth, he would call Thom, or Mom (probably to get news of Ginger, who at 17, was having a hard time.) He would also call Barb, and after conversations with her, this phrase would appear in his notes “He is still with me.”  Barb probably reminded him that she was praying for God to watch over him. I never knew Dad to be religious, but he probably appreciated Barb’s faith.

There was a note on the back of the page for October 4- “We talked for approx. 1 hr. She promised to take action my specific concerns.”  This may have referred to a conversation with Senator Paula Hawkins, (R- FL) who had received a letter about Dad’s predicament that Thom had sent her a week or so after Dad had left Pompano. Senator Hawkins did more than send a form letter after receiving Tom’s plea for help. She called Tom and asked him to have Dad send her a signed release to allow her to talk with him directly, which Tom and Dad managed to pull off, using Express Mail and General Delivery at strategic Post Offices along Dad’s route.   Senator Hawkins would prove to be an important advocate for Dad once he reached Washington.  In Dad’s papers, I found six letters from Sen. Hawkins, referring to her contacts with several separate bureaucrats in the Postal Service on Dad’s behalf.

On October 5, his sixth day since leaving the state of Florida, he noted “very hot walking last two days. No rain since entering Georgia. Will need clean stream or motel soon.”

He must have been pretty uncomfortable, but the postcard he sent me that day did not even hint at any troubles:

“10-6-82 Swainsboro, GA

Hi Kids,

Still walking. Spent last night in a motel (with running water and a fridge.)  Almost at halfway point. Will meet Jim this weekend near Augusta. Have worn through one shoe sole. Have lost some weight. Just fat I guess. Interview and pics again today. Highway Patrol all seem to know me. Take care. Love, Dad”

He washed his clothes in the motel room, wrung them out and carried them wet to the next town to find a laundromat with dryers. There he met a Mrs. Smith who arranged an interview and photos with a reporter from the Swainsboro Blade.  Few of these interviews could be found among Dad’s papers, sadly. He seemed more interested in documenting his legal struggles than in creating a record of stories and photographs showing the drama of this walk.

Now about halfway through Georgia, it was October 7, and he had spent 29 days essentially living outdoors and walking 20+ miles a day.  He noted that the walking was hard because of the sloped shoulder along the road, but he was able to “S.O.A.K.” his feet in the Ogeechee River (“first stream with running water in three days.”

Just south of Louisville, Georgia, he stopped to call Jim and Pam (Jim's wife then,) at the request of Mom, who had recently told him during a phone conversation that the young couple was dealing with some family emergency.  He did not describe that emergency in his notes, and he never spoke of  the worries that must have been weighing him down during this time.

At 9:30 that night, with the light bad and the traffic heavy, he found a place to sleep under the Bic Creek Bridge (“my motel”) on a narrow ledge over water. He covered himself with a plastic sheet to ward off bugs. Despite what must have been a fitful night, with worries about his kids and the harsh conditions, he writes that, at 7:30 the next morning he was “awake and on my way after repairing a backpack strap.” It wasn’t long before he got caught in heavy rains, and took shelter at a roadside rest area where he found an overturned outhouse “just right for a rain shelter.” The rain let up long enough for him to change to dry socks, and then poured again as he walked another four or five miles. He slept soaking wet that night under a gas station canopy at Fletcher’s Shed Rock. 

He was 14 miles south of Augusta and the Georgia/South Carolina state line. The side of the road was muddy from the rain, so he took a break to wait for the sun to dry out the ground.  He called Thom and then Jim, who convinced him to take a day off to rest and get cleaned up at his house near Atlanta, 140 miles away.  Perhaps Dad thought his visit might help Jim and Pam. Jim drove the 2 ½ hours to pick Dad up where he waited on the South Carolina side of the Savannah River.  Dad didn’t write anything about the conversations that may have taken place during this visit to Jim’s. 

He took a bus back to Augusta and walked about six miles from

 the bus station to the point along US Route 1 where Jim had picked him up two days earlier.  He resumed his walk.

It was October 12, and Dad had made it to South Carolina, about 550 miles away from home. He was a little more than halfway to Washington DC.  That afternoon, he stopped by the Aiken County Veterans Affairs office, and then missed a turn on US Route 1, causing him to backtrack 3 ½ miles. He was offered a ride which he of course refused. That same day he was refused use of the restroom at a gas station, and then refused shelter at a motel. He slept under the I-20 bridge near Aiken, SC that night. He had walked about 38 miles in all that day, and slept under the I-20 bridge.

Dad’s notes from this part of the trip show how little it took to give him comfort worth writing about- a dry level place to sleep, a cup of coffee, feet and back that didn’t hurt too much.  It also showed how undeterred he was by the lack of kindness offered by some people he met along the way. By this time- after almost two full months on the road-  he must have been in shabby shape, despite his best efforts to wash up and keep his clothes clean. We know, from what reporter Rick Pierce told Tom after meeting Dad in Washington, that at the end of his walk, he was covered in angry ant bites, and infested with fleas.  He couldn’t have been looking or smelling much better at the halfway point. 

October 13, after a 7 am breakfast of beans and crackers, he decided to stay under the bridge near Aiken, SC, where he had spent the night, to wait out the rain which had started while he was sleeping. He stayed there until noon, when he packed up and started walking in the cold and wind, looking for coffee. He noted that during the day he found eight quarters on the ground, and found a bridge over a stream with clean running water where he filled his canteen and soaked his feet (sore from walking the previous day in wet shoes.)  He wrote, “Hard rain, thunder and lightning. Slept well.” 

Oct 14 was notable because he enjoyed his “first coffee in two days,” in Batesburg, SC, and was interviewed by yet another small-town newspaper, the Twin City News.

He awoke after sleeping on the ground south of Columbia, SC the next morning to find frost on his sleeping bag. He was cold and stiff, with his back very sore, but feet feeling better. He had a breakfast of Spam and raisins, and continued walking (“uphill,” he noted.) Not a religious man by any means, he notes that he saw his first Catholic Church since leaving Florida, and that the sun felt good on his back. He had a “bowl of good soup and two beers,” and found a place to sleep under the I-26 highway, “high and snug except for the likelihood of company during the night. Too close to city.” The next day, waking “rested and not so sore,” he crossed the Congaree River and stopped to enjoy the view, then walked slowly through the city of Columbia to enjoy the historical sites. He backtracked two miles to find a “good dry level place to sleep under a bridge.” He remembered October 18 as a long day, with the roadside rough and hilly, but at the end of it, a place to sleep under a bridge over a railroad track. “Barb is right,” he wrote. “I am being looked after. Third consecutive night under cover. “

October 20 he woke in after a “very cold night,”  having been “very tired most of the day before.”  He tried to call me twice (It was my 33rd birthday,) but got no answer. His left foot was hurting, so he found a shoe repair shop where he had his boot stretched, and bought a pair of used hiking boots for $2. He ate beans and rolls and drank water.  

On October 21, he woke near McBee, SC and made this stark entry in his log: “Yesterday was a very tough day.”  Later that day he bathed and washed his clothes in a river, and rested while his clothes dried a little. Then, he walked along looking for a level spot to spend the night, just settling in before rains hit.  “It was a good place- nice to be in a dry spot. Slept on a concrete slab. Cold in a.m.”

He was just 30 miles -a little more than day’s walk- from the North Carolina line, with most of his clothes damp. He wrote that the conditions were cold, windy and cloudy.  So he found a place to build a fire, dried out his clothes and sleeping bag, and warmed himself.  He needed to cash some traveler’s checks, but, walking through a steady cool NW wind, had not found bank before the 3 pm closing time customary for those days.  He was planning to call George Whitney (Thom’s father-in-law who had a big place out in the country about 75 miles west) “and see about knocking off for a couple of days.”  Half a day later, he did connect with Whitney who “didn’t seem interested.”

The next day wasn’t much different from the last few. “Cold and windy. Slept under railroad bridge. Only two trains. Woken up by police spot light.” 

His last two days in South Carolina were not pleasant, even though he was walking through a large rural area- his favorite kind of place.  It was cold at night, wet during the day. Despite the conditions, “No breakfast, cold and windy, uphill. Hard walking. Rain is getting serious. ” He appreciated the fact that Route 1 passed by the Sand Hills Wildlife Refuge which he named, but referred to as the “bird and squirrel sanctuary,” and noted that deer hunting season had opened. He found a motel and enjoyed a shave and a long hot soak in a tub there. But he couldn’t sleep in the bed, for some reason, and spent the night on the floor! He must have gotten a kick out of the misspelled signs at the laundromat he used the next day because he took the time to copy them into his log:  “In Bisness. New Machenry.”

On October 26, as he sat on the steps of the Cheraw, SC Post Office writing cards, he happened to see a letter carrier delivering his route.  “First walking mailman I saw in almost 700 miles,”  he wrote in his log.

Dad often referred to himself as “the Walking Mailman,” as did several reporters who wrote stories about him in small-town papers along his route.  The clerk inside the Post Office was so interested in Dad’s story that he called the local newspaper, but found that the editor was too busy to talk with Dad while he was passing through town. He walked 25 miles that day, crossing into the state of North Carolina after dark- his third state line. (Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina were all behind him now, with North Carolina and Virginia still to go. He had walked about 700 miles so far, and had another 350 or more ahead. He covered 25 miles that day, and slept under a railroad bridge in the center of a small town called Hamlet that night.  He wrote, “ Very poor sleeping place. Cold noisy, not level.”  

The next morning, he awoke at 5 am to find frost on the ground. At the Post Office in the town of Marston, NC, he found a package addressed to him, c/o General Delivery. It was a lightweight tent, sent by Kathi, who had spent many a night in it during a recent cross-country bicycle trip. In his log, he would often take the time to write a few words about  things he saw that impressed him. This day it was a paralyzed veteran riding a motorcycle with a sidecar rigged up to carry the man’s wheelchair. He made a note about being interviewed by another small-town news reporter. Dad was looking for a place to set up his new tent that night, but he got a better offer- sleeping on the floor of a gas station whose owner invited him to “help his watchdog guard the place overnight.” Dad says he gladly accepted the offer to sleep indoors for free.

At this point, in Vass, NC, about halfway through the state, Dad made a note in his log, “Still can’t find cart for excess weight in backpack- now over 45 pounds.” No doubt he was getting worn down. As far as we know, he never found a cart, and carried the pack on his back the rest of the way- about 325 miles.

At Cameron, NC, his log told a somewhat different story than the message he wrote on a postcard he mailed to me that same day.  In his log:

Sat., 10-30

8:00 am- Awake refreshed but cold. Start walking and eating raisins. Just So. of Cameron.

12:00 pm- Cameron PO.  Mail cards.  Leave note for Mr. L (may have been a reporter.)  

12:50 pm- Leave Moore County, enter Lee County. Long hot walk mostly uphill.

6:00 pm- Approach Sanford.  Look for bridge.  Use first overpass. Nice ledge (7’ long) Too tired to care about concrete.”

The postcard mailed that day had this contrasting upbeat message:

North of Cameron, NC

10-30-82 Cool, sunny

Hi Kids-

Still at it. As good as ever (or better.) Have had very good reception by news people. Might appear on TV in Raleigh next week. Still sleeping under bridges. (I’m considering writing a column for the “Hobo News”)  I’ve been learning a lot about how much I am capable of doing.  I hope to meet “Red” McDaniel again. I’m walking through his district (3^rd Dist., NC) A few nights sleeping on the ground would help some of our “leaders” to think better. 

Love,

Dad

The next day was a Sunday.  He woke up in Sanford, NC cold and stiff, and started walking at 8 am, looking for a restaurant that was open.  He took a detour, still looking. Finding nothing, he backtracked to Route 1.  He eventually found a restaurant, but he was refused service.  It was some time before 2:30 pm when he found a convenience store with hot coffee.  

His day ended with a phone conversation with Thom, and then a talk with a fisherman who showed him a sleeping spot under a “nice bridge” where he used some dry hay for a mattress. He noted “very good sleeping- no cold wind.”

The next day, Nov 1,  he wrote “Changed clothes. First time since Cheraw, SC.” That was 100 miles and six days in the past.

On Nov 2, he was nearing the city of Raleigh, where he hoped to visit with some of the congressmen he had been corresponding with during his struggle to get his job back.  His log shows that he made a phone call to Senator Jesse Helms’ office, speaking with his office manager, who told him that when he got to Raleigh the next day, he could just “walk right in” to see the senator. He spent $35 for a night in a motel, and to prepare for a meeting with Sen. Helms.

His log for the next day indicates that the visit to Helms’ office was “a waste of time,” with no other details. He added, though, that at the office of the other NC senator, John P. East, he received a “very cordial reception. They were happy to listen to me.”  The rest of that day was spent chasing a letter from Thom, (probably with traveler’s checks) walking from one Post Office to another in the large city, looking for General Delivery.

Nov. 4, near Wake Forest, NC, was a cloudy day, with low, fast-moving clouds.  He bought a piece of scrap foam rubber for $1 to use as a mattress. After a phone conversation with Barb he wrote in his log, “He is still with me.”  He later waited out some heavy rain at a gas station and walked a half-mile further up the road to find a dry place to sleep under a bridge.  “Heavy rains for two hours after finding bridge. Lucky break.”

On Nov 6 he took the time to describe the morning, at Henderson, NC.

“Sun just showing. Light frost. River steaming vapor. Wind very cold.”

Then he spent the day walking, looking for good hot coffee, finding only a cup of warm stale stuff around noon. The afternoon brought a completely unexpected surprise- a free ride in a hot-air balloon, courtesy of the men at the Henderson VFW.  He wrote nothing more that day, except to say that he spent a cold night, high and dry under a bridge.

Nov 8 was the day he would cross into Virginia, his last state, bringing him within 140 miles of his destination. It was also the day he learned, after a phone call to Mom, that Ginger, 17 at the time, had been returned home to Pompano Beach after having run away to Atlanta several weeks before.

On Nov. 9, In Meredithville, VA, he walked four miles out of his way to find the Post Office, (“not near ANYTHING”) only to find that his mail had still not caught up with him. At this point, he left a forward order to have all mail returned to sender.  The next day, he mailed a postcard to me:

Meredithville, VA

11-10-82

Cool-clear

Hi Kids-

Getting closer all the time.  I sure enjoyed our talk the other day. I’m taking it real easy for a few days to charge up my batteries for the final walk into DC.  I’m now about 65 miles from Richmond. This is a small town: the signs are actually painted on BOTH SIDES OF THE SAME BOARD. Give my best to Jack. (Jack was staying with me in MA at the time.)

Love, Dad

Nov 10 was a typical day on the road near Meredithville, VA. He woke up  late- 9 am- after “a very comfortable night on dry leaves.”  The weather was cool and dry, and he scrambled up a hill to find a spot in the sun to update his log and eat a can of sardines.  Later he made note of this curious historic marker which said only:  “General Wilson crossed the road near here in 1864.”  This could have been a small town’s way to claim a connection with Gen. James Wilson, of the Union Army, who led one of the last battles of the Civil War.

Dad made a phone call to his mother, Rose, in Pennsylvania, and gave her the news that Ginger was home again.  At the end of the day he found a “very narrow 12” concrete ledge close to houses, noisy dogs, but slept here anyway.”

He woke the next day, Nov. 11, Veteran’s Day, to a light rain, and started walking. By 11 am he had still not found coffee, but he wrote that he passed a sign marking the spot where William Byrd (a surveyor who established the NC/VA state line) camped in 1729. Later that day he noted that he had just walked through the birthplace of Gen Winfield Scott, (1786-1866) a distant relative of Mom’s.  Scott was a distinguished  Army general who served through several wars, including the Civil War, and ran for president, losing to Franklin Pierce in 1852. 

Dad loved American history, and would always be disappointed that none of his six children, when we were young,  ever seemed to appreciate the stories he told us about his experiences on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier under enemy fire in the Pacific in WWII.  I wish I could talk with him today about the times he lived through in the 1920s, 30s and 40s, and learn from the perspective that his broad reading and self-education brought him. He went to sleep that night on a mattress of brush and leaves, after having spoken that day with Rick Pierce, the Pompano Beach reporter, to arrange a follow-up story when he reached Washington.  The prospect of walking into Washington DC accompanied by a photographer and this trusted reporter may have given him just the boost he needed for this last leg of the journey- another 160 miles.

Nov. 12 was his 60^th day of walking. He had camped outside in McKenny, VA, 45 miles south of Richmond. He wrote that he had slept for 11 or 12 hours.  A card he sent me the next day, of course, gave no hint of his exhaustion. It reflected only his customary bravado. Reading it now, I suspect he was beginning to believe he really was going to make it all the way to Washington DC.

Dinwiddie, VA 11/13/82  9 am  Bright, clear, cool

Hi Kids-

Greetings form the birthplace of Gen Winfield Scott. All kinds of commemorative signs. Slept under a leaky bridge last night, didn’t get wet. Have walked over 920  miles to date. Only 140 to go. Will probably be in DC in another 10 days. Health still holding fine. Your old man is a tough old S.O. B. Why not call your mom on her birthday? (11/17) She’s had a rough time lately. 

Much love,

Dad.

For the next several days, he noted that it was starting to get cold, especially when the sun went down. He wrote that the temperature was 28 degrees one night, and he woke up the next morning chilled, with a stiff back. He added this reminder to himself: “Do not use plastic outside sleeping bag- retains moisture during night- condensation.”  As he walked and warmed up, he enjoyed crossing a river where there was a flour mill and a “nice vista.”  A gas station attendant near Doswell, VA gave him a wool blanket, and he noted the next morning that he “ woke up refreshed.  Much better sleeping with a blanket.”

As he approached the large city of Richmond, VA, the general conditions, Dad knew, would be worse- more traffic and noise, fewer places to sleep in privacy. On top of this, he walked through a severe rainstorm. He spent another cold night outside Dinwiddie under a bridge, but had to move his bed during the night to stay dry. He dumped his pile of leaves on a rocky ledge a few feet above a creek and waited for sunrise.  After a breakfast of beans of crackers, he walked into the town of Dinwiddie, (“Home of Gen. Winfield Scott- he practiced law here.”) where he visited the Post Office and then called Mom to talk about Ginger. He kept walking until 7 pm when he reached the town of Petersburg. There he spent $36 plus tax on a room at the Howard Johnson Motel where he enjoyed the rare comforts of a “nice hot shower and a hot breakfast with coffee in the morning.”

The final week of his journey, the 100 or so miles from Richmond, VA to Washington DC, in the middle of November, was not much different from the first week, in south Florida at the beginning of September, except for the temperature. He was still sleeping outside most nights, looking for coffee, checking in by phone with Thom and Barb and Mom, and sending postcards to keep in touch with the rest of us.  He studiously kept his log updated with details about the number of miles behind him and the miles ahead, the names of the towns he walked through and the rivers he crossed, interviews he had with small-town newspaper reporters, and always, the weather.  The blisters on his feet that bedeviled him in the first 100 miles no longer got any mention, but his overall fatigue seemed to be the underlying theme of his notes during the final week of the ordeal.  

He had come to the end of his physical reserves, so what fueled him through the last miles must have been something greater than that. I believe it was the pride and confidence he had discovered within himself over the days and weeks and months as he made his way north.  He had taken his fight into his own hands, and now he was doing something wildly unprecedented and unexpected. He was proving to the US Postal Service, in the most concrete way possible, that he was in no way physically disabled. In a matter of a couple of days, as soon as he walked into Washington DC, his fitness for duty would be undeniable.

Saturday, Nov. 20 found him about 40 miles from DC, in Stafford, VA. He wrote that he woke at 6:40 that morning, and was “up and away early, very refreshed- the creek didn’t rise.”  He arrived at the Stafford Post Office to find it closed at 7:45, but clerks opened early for him and gave him a cup of coffee because they recognized him from stories in local newspapers. He walked on, finding some “delicious persimmons on a tree along the road near a phone booth” where he called Rick Pierce. The reporter from the Pompano Beach, FL Sun Sentinel newspaper would meet Dad at a Holiday Inn on Route 1 in Alexandria, VA, practically in DC itself,  on Monday afternoon, just two days away. Pierce wanted plenty of time to interview Dad for his third in a series of feature stories he was writing about his journey.  The following morning, Pierce would walk into DC with Dad, and a photographer would document the moment he would make his long-anticipated climb up the Capitol steps.

With those arrangements made, Dad continued walking north, enjoying a sculpture at the Quantico Marine base as he passed through.  Rain came with nightfall, so he looked for a bridge to sleep under, walking two miles out of his way uphill before he found cover. He slept well, though. It would be his last night of the trip sleeping under a bridge.

He spent the next day, Sunday, walking up Route 1 in Lorton and  Alexandria, VA,  through the outskirts of the capital city. He lost his hat in the wind, but located the Holiday Inn where he was to meet Rick Pierce the next day. When it got dark, he looked for another bridge for shelter for the night, but was halted by the police who didn’t think it would be such a good idea for him to sleep outside in the urban  neighborhood.  According to his notebook, “returned me to Fairfax County for my own safety.”  After the police dropped him off at a motel a safer distance from the city, he had no choice but to spend $28 for a place to sleep. 

Dad had arrived in Washington, but his mission was not complete.  He spent the next day, Monday, Nov 22, making phone calls. First he talked with Barb, and Thom, and with his sister Babe, his mother Rose, and Mom. Then he contacted the US Postal Service, a newspaper called the Spotlight, where he arranged an interview for the next day, and finally, the office of Florida Senator Paula Hawkins. Hawkins’ assistant told Dad they were “very interested in his documentation.” This was the packet of letters Thom had sent to the senator at the beginning of Dad’s walk, almost three months earlier.  He had been making his way to Washington, mile by mile, the whole time and now that he was in town, he hoped he would be able to discuss his situation in person.

At the end of the afternoon, Dad walked alone over the Rocheambault Bridge and into DC for his meeting with Rick Pierce. The reporter would ask Dad to re-enact the walk over the bridge for a photo op.

Pierce’s story describes Dad’s official “walk into DC.” It ran on page one of the Pompano Beach Sun Sentinel the day before Thanksgiving.