Second blog of four in the “Life as Pilgrimage” series

I remember very clearly when I was about to embark on my 4,000-mile cycling trek through the West that one thing kind of freaked me out. I had confidence in my 51-year old body to ride the miles. I had never ridden 4,000 miles, but I had completed a number of one-week 500-mile treks and I imagined that if I could ride 500 miles in a week I could certainly ride 400 miles in a week and just hit repeat nine more times. I also had confidence in my ability to share my experience with the people back home through a daily blog.

But the one thing that freaked me out was knowing if I would have a safe and secure place to sleep every night. One of things about pilgrimages is that they rely on your body as well as leave you vulnerable to the elements. It’s hard to develop a plan and stick to it. You might make reservations for a town 70 miles out and discover that your legs just don’t have it that day. Or hit a road construction detour that adds 15 brutal miles. Or get caught in a rainstorm that halts your progress for half a day. On the other hand, occasionally you might find yourself lifted by a tailwind that is so fun that you can’t help but to cross the century mark that day.

I knew that about riding bikes long distance. The distance itself didn’t worry me. What worried me was where I would sleep if I either couldn’t make a planned destination or decided to pedal on beyond the planned destination.

Because of that fear I did make reservations for my first two nights after leaving Portland. I had plans to stay with Warmshowers hosts, Rod and Laura, in Silverton, Oregon. I arrived there basically as planned even though I lost an hour on the road due to some mechanical difficulties.

The next night I had already booked a campsite at Detroit Lake State Recreation Area. Quite honestly, I almost didn’t make it. I began getting leg cramps half way there. If I hadn’t had the reservation I would have stopped fifteen miles short before the hills got really steep. But I struggled on and made my destination that night.

It was the next few nights that taught me that I could learn to trust. The day after Detroit Lake I got caught in a heavy and consistent Oregon drizzle unusual for July. I was sopping wet as I descended the east side of the Cascades’ range. That night I found a hotel room in Sisters and took advantage of the laundry facilities and balcony bannisters to dry out.

The following day I decided that I would ride to Ochoco State Park only 47 miles out. The park required reservations for camping, but I was hopeful as a biker I might be able to slip in through the regulatory cracks. I arrived mid-afternoon and was delighted to discover that they had a large area for hikers and bikers that didn’t require advanced registration.

Sleeping in the chancel of Dayville Presbyterian Church, 2011

The next night I slept in the chancel area of the Dayville Presbyterian Church and had full use of their kitchen to cook a steak and potato dinner followed by a pint of Haagen Dazs ice cream. The next night a couple at the diner where I was having dinner invited me to stay at their house rather than camping in the field. The following night I found a rundown, but welcome motel in Unity. The final night of this first eight days was spent in the home of a close relative of church members from back home. All of this planned almost at the last minute, literally.

The point being this: By that eighth day I had learned to trust. I almost never knew exactly where I would be staying when I took my first pedal strokes in the morning. But I had learned that one way or another I would be taken care of and would be safe and secure.

I have titled this post, “The Practice of Trust.” I feel like I am in a period again where plans will only get me so far and that trust is the key to navigating the pilgrim nature of my life right now. It all started last March. After concluding work as an executive for a regional church system, I had plans to walk the Camino de Santiago in Spain beginning May 15, do research in England at the end of June and drive the Lewis and Clark Trail in September as I set myself up to consult with churches about hosting pilgrims.

But I was also recovering from a leg injury from the prior January. The injury was more significant than any of us had anticipated and I had to postpone the Camino/England trip to September and October. I left for Europe on September 1 with no job to come back to nor any planned income. And my health insurance was ending October 31!

This is where trust has come in!

On October 17 I was offered a half-time, six-month, benefitted position at a church in Eastern Oregon helping them discern their future starting November 1. I had plans to live in my camper out there. Two days before making the transitional journey, a housesitting arrangement showed up. I left my camper at home in favor of a heated house!

This is where I am now. But I am learning that trust is key. I have ten more weeks in the housesitting arrangement and four more months in the consulting position. Where will I go as both of those come to an end? I don’t know. But honestly, I am not all that worried. I mean, seriously—I have four more months and life has taught me that I only need a few hours or days for things to show up.

Twelve years ago I learned that. Every night, without prior planning, I had a safe and secure place to sleep at night—sometimes on the ground, sometimes in a motel, sometimes on the floor of a church, and sometimes in the house of a kind stranger.

People ask me, “What are you going to do next?”

I respond, “I don’t know. Next hasn’t arrived yet!”

By Brian Heron

Cultural Innovator and Spiritual Pilgrim

The Practice of Trust

Flash Floods and Life

The Practice of Intention

Pedal Pilgrim