DIARY
Jessica said that the last entry here (the one with all the photos) sounded like a cheesy tour guide.
She’s right: it does.
I don’t know why I fall into clichè so easily. I really enjoy tour guides; they explore regional distinctions that, however obvious and superficial, are often never noticed.
I enjoy facts. Statistics. Ratios. Milestones. Lists.
Sometimes, it affects the way I speak or write.
So sue me.
* * * * *
No more pictures.
After Berwyn, the sun had set, and while I took another dozen or so shots, none of them picked up enough light to turn off.
LYONS
At Harlem Ave., Route 66 veered off of Ogden, and rode south a half-mile. At Pershing (39th St.), I passed a standard sterile strip mall that had replaced the Fairyland Park where people paid to ride the Whoopee Coaster. No, actually, it was just a bunch of timbers to drive your car over. Even the dime rides of the 1950s are euphemisms.
Route 66 turned west onto Joliet road, and immediately plunged into a forest preserve. The wind roared and clouds built up, and it started to rain, hard. So I took off my backpack and hugged it, to shelter the books within. But the rain stopped.
I crossed the Des Plaines river, entered a residential neighborhood with tiny Cape Cods and Chicago bungalows. The wind built up and it rained again, so I took off my backpack, hugging it, protecting the books within. The rain stopped again.
I crossed 47th St. and entered McCook.
McCOOK
Joliet Road twisted and turned, passing giant crops of transformers and electric circuits, running under an expressway that thundered with the third and final outburst of heavy rain and semis, and an eerie sidewalkless bridge that climbed by a foundary of sorts on the left, glowing Gary green, and on the right… yes: “General Motors Electro-Motive”.
It could’ve been Michigan.
As I stood below the giant sign and felt several hundred miles northeast of my actual location, I thought of a revision to the old saying:
Home is where GM is.
At this point I arrived at a road block in the middle of Joliet road, while a detour veered off on 55th St. to my right. My internet guide to Route 66 told me: “Joliet Road runs between two quarries, is structurally damaged and unlikely to reopen any time soon.”
After reading that I certainly wasn’t about to take the detour.
Especially considering I’d be led astray; the detour was not part of Route 66.
This was one of the most surreal and creepy moments of my nightwalk that night. For one mile I walked along the splintered and cracked concrete, lifted like a bridge several hundred feet above the pitch black delves on either side, and skeletal spine of stone rolling between two massive quarries.
The quarry to my left was active, with bulldorzers grumbling in the depths and radio lights winking below.
The quarry to my right was inactive, black and empty, a huge depth.
As I continued on, the condition of the road deteriorated, and I eventually found myself walking along the right shoulder, watching steps and clutching the stone barricate erected in lieu of guardrail. In fact, the road was built on solid bedrock and about thirty feet across. The decay would’ve simply been lack of maintenance. Still, I thought being all alone in the middle of the night warranted a little caution.
That, and the fear of serial killers.
(Ambiguous question: the agreement of pronoun and antecendent?)
Pitch black beyond the barricades. No cars or people allowed.
I later searched for that empty stretch on a map.
Each quarry was about a half-mile across. The causeway I walked was a mile long.
HODGKINS
I reached the other end of the blocked off section. I had to climb a chain link fence twelve feet high and try to jump over a puddle of water a foot deep. I failed partly on both counts. I slipped as I flipped over, puncturing my right hand below the thumb, and in pain lost my grip, landing squarely in the puddle. I then casually walked the last hundred feet to a gas station, where I cleaned up in the bathroom. On the other side, I passed the Hodgkins police station.
Hodgkins was a sketchy little town. It reminded me of parts of Beecher or Burton, somewhat. I bought a 2-liter of Strawberry Punch and headed on my way.
COUNTRYSIDE
As I entered Countryside, my resolve began to falter. I half regret it. And half do not.
See, over two hours had passed since Berwyn, roughly. I underestimated my progress. I also had the consequences in mind; I had one more day of work, and if I could not make the Joliet Metra by 6 AM, I was stranded.
I called Jess from a restaurant to check in. We talked a few minutes. I became homesick. I thought, and decided to return to Chicago.
I walked north on LaGrange Road until I came to 55th and waited for the Pace bus to take me back to the city.
It didn’t come.
I called Jess again and asked if she was willing to come and pick me up. She was. She told me to walk along 55th as she drove toward me.
Here was where the night’s final and most frustrating adventure began.
As I walked along 55th I realized that it was the detour. Sure enough, I passed the GM plant and found myself back on Joliet road, which I followed, hoping to eventually meet back up with 55th. Instead, it north faster than I had recalled. After passing through empty and fog lit Gary Green Industrial Junk, I fonud myself back at 47th street.
I waited and waited, hoping and praying that she would turn this far north, but after a half-hour, worried and frustrated, and thinking I had nothing to lose, I walked back along Joliet.
She found me among the Gary Green. It was almost one. We had been within a mile of each other, looking for each other, for over an hour. It was mostly my fault.
And so it was that the summersdawn walk this year was filled with many adventures, more exciting as the walk went on, but ion the end I abandoned my plans and was suitably punished.
I have to return to finish that walk this summer. At the very least to pass the quarries in the day and take photos.
~ Connor