| When I was a kid I wanted to be two things: a writer and a mountain man. I wanted to be other things, too. I was a bookworm, so I had lots of ideas... |
| About Me |
My first job was bagging groceries at the supermarket. After high school, I worked the
graveyard shift as a stock boy. I crammed shelves with soup cans until the sun came up. I
sliced cardboard cases through the wee hours and dreamed of owning an ice cream truck.
Ice cream dreams carried me through the long nights.
I stocked groceries for nine years. People often ask me, "Gee, Lewis, that sounds
fascinating. What was it like working almost a decade in the retail grocery biz?" (I'm just
kidding...no one ever asks me that.)
My grocery career evaporated one morning as I leafed through the newspaper. I read an
article about the Appalachian Trail, a 2100 mile long footpath following the mountain
ridgelines of the Eastern United States. The story reminded me of the dreams of adventure
I'd had when I was a kid. How could I have forgotten?
I quit my job and bought a backpack and hiking boots. I walked from Georgia to
Pennsylvania (and lost about 70 lbs! ...I was kinda big when I started). The journey was a
revelation. I realized that a world of adventure was out there waiting for me. The following
summer, I walked from Virginia to New Hampshire. I spent the fall season living in a
basement in a small New England town. I marveled at the amazing autumn colors. I poured
coffee for tourists and served them muffins.
Summer came and I headed West. I lived on a high mountain pass at a remote lodge in
Northwest Wyoming. In the fall, elk bugled and headed down into the valleys to escape the
snow. Winter roared in and the white powder piled high enough to cover doors and bust
through cabin windows. I loved the snow! But like chocolate, too much can be a bad thing...
A handful of extreme winters wore me down and I headed south. I worked aboard a paddle
boat along the Mississippi River. I loved leaning over the lower deck railing, listening to the
massive red wheel churning through the muddy water. I slept on a narrow bunk in a room
the size of a sardine can with the chug-chugging of the engine vibrating through the steel
walls.
I soon jumped ship in New Orleans and lived in an old house on St. Charles Avenue where
the famous streetcars clattered past. During carnival season, Mardi Gras floats paraded
outside my front door. I delivered pizzas by bicycle and worked as a waiter in posh hotels.
Later, I moved to the French Quarter. On the corners, kids tap-danced for tips and
disheveled clowns sipped from paper sacks. Musicians played in the streets and the sweet
smells of Louisiana cooking filled the air. It was a grungy and magical world and I loved it. I
bought a guitar and played and played, but I never got any good! I rubbed frayed elbows
with artists, writers, and characters of a less definable nature. I wrote poetry and read at
open mics and rode my fire-engine red bicycle everywhere.
But the travel bug was still biting. I traveled to Alaska. I talked to myself aloud as I walked
through the woods so the bears wouldn't get me. I caught a trout as long as my arm and a
salmon as long as my leg. I flew to the far north in a tiny plane transporting eggs and
tomatoes and milk. I lived above the Arctic Circle where it never grows dark in the
summertime. It seemed like the edge of the world. The sun moved in lazy circles around the
sky. I hitchhiked to the Arctic Ocean and stuck my finger in the cold Beaufort Sea.
I became a massage therapist and rubbed old people's tired bones.
I cooked at a diner where all the orders were clipped to a line with a clothespin.
I've been a room-service waiter, janitor, housekeeper, dishwasher, hardware clerk, and
(horror of horrors!) a retail manager.
I've even been a mountain man.
And now I'm a writer.
{ For the moment, I live in Tallahassee, Florida. }
graveyard shift as a stock boy. I crammed shelves with soup cans until the sun came up. I
sliced cardboard cases through the wee hours and dreamed of owning an ice cream truck.
Ice cream dreams carried me through the long nights.
I stocked groceries for nine years. People often ask me, "Gee, Lewis, that sounds
fascinating. What was it like working almost a decade in the retail grocery biz?" (I'm just
kidding...no one ever asks me that.)
My grocery career evaporated one morning as I leafed through the newspaper. I read an
article about the Appalachian Trail, a 2100 mile long footpath following the mountain
ridgelines of the Eastern United States. The story reminded me of the dreams of adventure
I'd had when I was a kid. How could I have forgotten?
I quit my job and bought a backpack and hiking boots. I walked from Georgia to
Pennsylvania (and lost about 70 lbs! ...I was kinda big when I started). The journey was a
revelation. I realized that a world of adventure was out there waiting for me. The following
summer, I walked from Virginia to New Hampshire. I spent the fall season living in a
basement in a small New England town. I marveled at the amazing autumn colors. I poured
coffee for tourists and served them muffins.
Summer came and I headed West. I lived on a high mountain pass at a remote lodge in
Northwest Wyoming. In the fall, elk bugled and headed down into the valleys to escape the
snow. Winter roared in and the white powder piled high enough to cover doors and bust
through cabin windows. I loved the snow! But like chocolate, too much can be a bad thing...
A handful of extreme winters wore me down and I headed south. I worked aboard a paddle
boat along the Mississippi River. I loved leaning over the lower deck railing, listening to the
massive red wheel churning through the muddy water. I slept on a narrow bunk in a room
the size of a sardine can with the chug-chugging of the engine vibrating through the steel
walls.
I soon jumped ship in New Orleans and lived in an old house on St. Charles Avenue where
the famous streetcars clattered past. During carnival season, Mardi Gras floats paraded
outside my front door. I delivered pizzas by bicycle and worked as a waiter in posh hotels.
Later, I moved to the French Quarter. On the corners, kids tap-danced for tips and
disheveled clowns sipped from paper sacks. Musicians played in the streets and the sweet
smells of Louisiana cooking filled the air. It was a grungy and magical world and I loved it. I
bought a guitar and played and played, but I never got any good! I rubbed frayed elbows
with artists, writers, and characters of a less definable nature. I wrote poetry and read at
open mics and rode my fire-engine red bicycle everywhere.
But the travel bug was still biting. I traveled to Alaska. I talked to myself aloud as I walked
through the woods so the bears wouldn't get me. I caught a trout as long as my arm and a
salmon as long as my leg. I flew to the far north in a tiny plane transporting eggs and
tomatoes and milk. I lived above the Arctic Circle where it never grows dark in the
summertime. It seemed like the edge of the world. The sun moved in lazy circles around the
sky. I hitchhiked to the Arctic Ocean and stuck my finger in the cold Beaufort Sea.
I became a massage therapist and rubbed old people's tired bones.
I cooked at a diner where all the orders were clipped to a line with a clothespin.
I've been a room-service waiter, janitor, housekeeper, dishwasher, hardware clerk, and
(horror of horrors!) a retail manager.
I've even been a mountain man.
And now I'm a writer.
{ For the moment, I live in Tallahassee, Florida. }
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| Copyright 2008 by Lewis Harris. All rights reserved. |