Biking to a Cob Workshop

In the middle of October I spent two weeks embarking on an adventure I’d been planning for a while: this is the whole story of that adventure.

Earlier in 2023, I was thinking about how important it is to have some idea of not only what I am trying to reduce (ecological disaster, suffering, injustice, etc) but also what I am striving towards (human thriving, a flourishing biosphere, justice, etc). I observed a good amount (although perhaps still not enough) coverage of the bad stuff in the media, but found a dearth of sustainable visions in the popular imagination. Movies, television, and the press are rich in dystopian paintings of the future. It’s usually either dystopia or techno-utopia: virtually never ecotopia. Hardly any attention, in comparison, goes to the idea that humans could thrive without steamrolling the rest of the planet with technological force. The occasional portrayal of a “sustainable” future is often a miserable, regressive one. Fictional media is a reflection and reinforcement of what people really think, and I want to push back against self-fulfilling pessimism I see there. One cringe-worthy example out of many is the Telegraph’s hit piece on Sadiq Khan, which was panned by Carbon Upfront (the reason I saw it).

Why do people think that a sustainable future is miserable? How do we get so turned around that the idea of a society that lasts is undesirable? I think one cause, or a causal uncle, is a lack of good examples in consciousnesses. The story of progress says that life used to suck, and has gotten a lot better. I agree that there are many examples of life improvement across history. But that doesn’t mean that everything in the past sucks, or that a sustainable civilization of the future would look exactly like a sustainable civilization of the past. I think there are many examples of great ideas used across human history, and I think we can use many of them to help create a future that is different and even better than any time in history (shoutout to the vast body of work along these lines).

But what are those practices? Especially in the urban environments I’ve lived in all my life, so many people, including myself, know so little about how societies present or past meet their basic needs. How many urban dwellers really understand the whole process of producing food? Or the process of supplying water, or building and maintaining housing? The highly specialized occupations of today lead people to be blissfully ignorant about so many important things. For people who don’t know hardly anything about how their basic needs are fulfilled, or for those who do know a lot but only in the current unsustainable version, it’s easy to think that change means suffering and death. No fossil fuels = no food, no water, no shelter. “You mean to say we have to stop using fossil fuels? Well, if we stopped using fossil fuels right now, the world would collapse! You say we’ll be okay if we transition in many steps? Well that’s not possible either, people won’t want that. So yes, the world is screwed, nothing matters, nihilism!!!”

I don’t think that way, as I just explained. I want to learn more about how we can live sustainably, so that I can better help us get there. I surveyed my little knowledge to figure out where to start. Food was the clearest to me: I’d seen examples of sustainability-forward agriculture, and regularly spend time working on an organic farm. Water was less clear, and I started looking into how wells are made and different methods of water purification, like with charcoal. Housing was the biggest mystery to me. I knew very little about how buildings were made, past or present. So I went down a rabbit hole of researching sustainable building, also known as natural building.

Through my internet research, I got very interested in and inspired by natural building, which led me to seek out a workshop to get some real-life experience and exposure. There are a fairly small number of natural building workshops held all over the world. The closest suitable one I could find for 2023 was in Tennessee, run by Alex Sumerell of This Cob House. Commence planning!

Airplanes were automatically out of the question, since I no longer fly. I also avoid driving and being in cars, because I get carsick, strongly dislike driving, and dislike the negative impact on the world. So how does one get from Boston, Massachusetts to a very specific location in Eastern Tennessee without ever being in a car or plane?

Amtrak and biking. My plan was to take the Northeast Regional out of Boston, transfer to the Crescent in NYC or DC, and take that to Charlotte, NC. First ~900 miles down pat. Then, I’d bike the remaining ~200 miles from Charlotte, NC to Greeneville, TN.

It would take multiple days of travel, but it was certainly doable. Plus, a multi-day bike trip that crossed national forests sounded pretty awesome to me, having dipped a toe in bike travel in the spring and heard some amazing stories (the Ciclismo Classico Bike Travel Film Festival in Somerville was incredibly inspiring). I find train rides kind of fun, too.

In August, I made the dive and bought the tickets to the workshop, and train tickets too. It was on!

A lot of planning went into this trip. The most important pieces were the bike route. There were a couple main considerations. I wanted to pick the quickest bike route, given limited time, and it was my first ever consecutive multi-day bike trip. I also wanted to stay with hosts from Warmshowers.org as much as possible, because it’s more comfortable than camping, a great way to connect with people with common interests, and free. Lastly, I preferred to keep to more bike-friendly roads (spacious shoulders, less traffic). With all this in mind, I did my research, reached out to some people on Warmshowers, and pulled together a satisfactory plan that divided the days quite evenly. All in all, it ended up being a fairly direct route!

The bike ride would be no joke, though, especially considering all the uphill that dallying with the Appalachian Mountains entailed: a lot for someone used to very flat terrain. So the other big preparation item was training. I normally biked for utility and a bit of fun, but I’d need to start training specifically for this trip. I did some research on how to train for a bike tour, and made myself a two-month training plan. This included dedicating every Sunday to long rides. Although getting sick and vaccine recuperation knocked me back a total of nearly two weeks on the plan, near the end, which was concerning, when the day came, I felt I would be able to do it.

The last main piece of preparation was supplies. I’d be camping for the week at the workshop, and maybe a night or two on the journey, so I needed a tent and all that. I borrowed or thrifted the items on my shopping list when I could, like clothing, cooking supplies, and a bear canister. Other items I purchased new when I couldn’t find suitable matches the first way, like my tent and sleeping bag, trying to select ones that would last a long time. I practiced sleeping in the tent a couple nights, and just as intended, learned some useful things from it!

Travel tip: make a list, lay it all out, and check the list twice.

As the sun rose that Wednesday morning, I lugged my bike and bags down the stairs, loaded it up, and pedaled off towards North station in Boston.

Once I was on the train, I noticed that some seams on my panniers had split open. They were used Ortlieb panniers I had gotten for free on a Buy Nothing group due to their manufacturing defects. While the seams I had mended earlier, which had first split with their previous owner in Ecuador, were holding, other sections were coming apart now with the heavier contents. Thankfully, I had prepared for this possibility: I’d packed thread, a needle, and some superglue. The first several hours on the train I spent sewing, glad that I had abundant time.

The train ride itself went smoothly, with only some minor stress every time I had to load and unload my bike. I managed to sleep a couple hours before I arrived at my destination, Charlotte, North Carolina, at 2:30 A.M. the next day. Rather than start biking in the dead of night in a questionable state of alertness, I opted to pitch my tent in a stealthy location and catch a few more hours of sleep.

The next morning I beheld Charlotte for the first time properly under a beautiful sunrise. It was comfortably warm, a little humid, with some clouds. Still a little tired from undersleeping, I enjoyed a hot coffee and bagel at a cafe, which left me feeling surprisingly good, before starting my four day ride out to TN.

 The city roads were alright, and I enjoyed looking at the very different variety of trees around me, wishing I had time to stop and identify them all. I was in good spirits. Around 1pm, I stopped at a Sprouts (first time), since it came up when I searched “vegan” on maps, and satisfied my craving for a giant fresh salad and fruit smoothie after all that train time. Being in vehicles of any kind always makes me crave fresh foods. I resumed biking, in even better spirits. That afternoon, as I neared my destination, things got a little more difficult. Over the trip, I’d develop a familiarity with this “last-hour rage”: when I’m tired, running out of time to be on schedule, everything is suddenly hills, I can’t hear my navigation cues, the street signs are ridiculously hard to find… “Rage” is an exaggeration but the last few miles feel way too long.

I arrived at a fine time, though, and was so grateful to be welcomed to my hosts’ beautiful home. I can’t lie, I was pretty socially anxious at first: it was only my second rodeo (with Warmshowers). But thanks to their warmth and graciousness (and three adorable dogs), I was not only clean and fed but also quite relaxed by the end of the evening. I really enjoyed our conversation, and it was really cool to see their fig tree and beehives. My first ever fig fresh off the tree, what a gift!

I slept like a rock, and woke very reluctantly to my alarm the next morning. I would have liked to sleep my fill, but I had a schedule to get to. After a quick breakfast, I bid farewell to my wonderful hosts and hit the road. This was already the most sore I’d ever been at the start of a long ride.

The route continued to get more rural. I started seeing more and more green areas covered by a dense, leafy vine, which I later learned was the notorious kudzu. It completely dominated swathes of land by the road, pouring over the tall, lumpy shapes of trees like a thick, infinite carpet. I observed the distinctive, irregular leaves with a few round lobes of varying numbers: I wouldn’t need a picture to confirm its identity later. Its appearance was somewhat disturbing.

A few hours later, after a surprising and heartily appreciated little stretch of separated bikeway, where I passed some roller-bladers and a family on bikes, I stopped for lunch at a dim, mostly empty Mexican/Ecuadorian restaurant. I had a bean burrito, charged my phone a bit, and then headed back out into the hot sun.

By mid-afternoon, I was climbing up winding mountain roads, getting friendly with my lowest gears. Having just discovered yesterday that persimmon trees could be found alongside roads here, I kept my eye out, and wonderfully, found one at the side of a fenced-in field. I stopped and peered up into the tree, searching for the dark spot of a ripe persimmon. There was only one within reach. It was delicious.

Then, shit got difficult. The last ten or so miles up to Earthaven Ecovillage, my destination for the night, were very hilly (mountainy?). The star of the show was a very steep stretch that I spent maybe near an hour pushing my bike up, one step at a time. I’d say it was some of the hardest “hiking” I’ve ever done. At one point a car drove by and the passenger made what I interpreted as a “why?” gesture, making me laugh.

I arrived just in time for the campsite orientation. There was just one other camper, and an ecovillage member showed us the outdoor kitchen, outdoor shower, and composting toilet, which were all very nice. Afterwards, I headed straight to the shower. Feeling clean and much better afterwards, I set up my tent, chatted a little with the other camper, and went to cook my dinner in the outdoor kitchen, a large covered area with a sink and cooking equipment. I hadn’t brought enough food, something I’d willingly overlooked, but I had a can of beans, a bit of leftover burrito detritus, and extra tortilla chips from the restaurant. Heated up on my camp stove, it was good. Soon, it was dusk, and I went to bed. There was just enough reception to text my family that I’d gotten there safe, after a couple tries.

The next morning, I woke up after the sunrise to a chilly and beautiful morning, the coldest yet. After a relaxed breakfast of oatmeal, it was time for the tour I’d come to Earthaven for. With the small group of other guests who arrived by car that morning, we convened for the tour. Earthaven is one the oldest and largest active ecovillages in the United States, about 40 years old, with several hundred inhabitants. I’d heard of it a while ago when I was researching ecovillages. It was very fortunate that it worked so well into my travel plans to visit.

Our tour guide led us on a walk through the verdant ecovillage, stopping at the council hall, micro-hydropower plant, a number of neighborhoods, and more. We learned about the ecovillage’s land, history, governance, culture, economy, and infrastructure. It was fascinating! The council hall was the first natural building I had seen (I’m not counting the places I’ve touristed in years past, before I had much of an appreciation for building). Our guide explained how it was part cob, on the south side, to store the sun’s heat in the winter, and strawbale on the north side, to insulate more. With the sunny morning’s ray streaming in from the windows, the interior, clothed in lumber harvested from Earthaven, radiated warmth, both literally and figuratively.

The village was simply beautiful, I imagine especially so on a sunny fall morning. The fluttering, multicolored fall canopy was with us everywhere. The homes were beautifully constructed and all unique. Numerous gardens were abundant between them. Even the clanging of walnuts falling onto metal roofs was musical. Over two hours, I only got to know the tip of the iceberg of the doubtless vast body of knowledge and experience that filled this community across its 40-year experiment. It was a moving example of what people could create when united by belief in and commitment to a better life and world.

After the tour ended, I packed up. It was noon already, and I had some biking to do.

I was treated to some nice coasting, although I was far from out of the woods when it came to climbing. An hour or two later, sharply aware that I was out of food, behind on energy, and still in a fairly isolated area, when I spotted a tiny farm stand, I took the opportunity to get some granola. Some long, winding, fast descents down the mountain roads, which felt amazing (wheeee!!!!!) eventually took me back to town. There, I had enough signal to send some messages and make some calls to find a place to sleep that night, which my imperfect planning had left needing arrangement. As I biked towards Asheville, the mountainous character of the region emerged more and more in the skyline. I felt surrounded by mountains.

As I neared Asheville, the steepness started to pick up again. I got nervous as the sun approached the horizon. The roads got bad: huge, uphill multi-lane roads with fast traffic and no shoulder. This became probably the lowest-morale part of the whole trip. At one point I was walking my bike up the side of such a highway, getting that “man, what is my life?” feeling.

Eventually, I made it to the house as the sun was setting. I was greeted by my hosts and to my grateful surprise, was offered a bedroom in the house rather than shown to the backyard to pitch my tent, which was what I had originally been offered. Turned out that they had a vacancy, and the landlord wished for me to make use of it that night.

The house was a wonderful old home inhabited by a young family, a few other people, the landlord, and several very good dogs. The rooms and halls felt cavernously gigantic compared to the much smaller scale of typical houses in my area. Yet, with the warm and communal atmosphere (and the big whiteboard with all sorts of communal living things written on it), I felt reminded of home. After a warm shower in a bathroom larger than my previous bedroom, I joined my hosts in the kitchen and was treated to a huge bowl of vegetable soup (with extra beans) that basically fixed everything in my life.

We had some very nice conversation while they baked apple crisp. We ended the evening in the living room, with hot tea, basking in the heat of the wood stove and petting the dogs. What a 180-degree change in my fortune from the end of the bike ride. I couldn’t believe my luck.

Dog tired, I went to bed.

The next morning was even colder. Although I slept like a rock, I was still slightly under-rested, a trend that would continue on these long days of travel. I had a quick breakfast by myself before packing up and heading out of this oasis, into the cold.

I was excited to get out Asheville. I had enough of these highways and intensely manmade environment, a hostile concrete corral compared to the more rural roads I had gone through. This was my last day of biking to get to the workshop, and if all went well, I’d be there by mid-afternoon.

As I entered the next small town over, the word “vegan” on a shop window caught my eye. I pulled over to check it out, and treated myself to an (expensive) chocolate cookie that I packed for the road. As I was going back on the road, two people exited a car and one greeted me.

“Did you bike here from Earthaven?”

I was dumbfounded. Turns out they had been driving into Earthaven for a friend’s birthday party the same time I’d left the previous day, saw me, and then recognized me again today. What a delightful, ridiculous coincidence! The second part wasn’t hard, it’s not like there were other bike tourists to confuse me with. Bike touring is often lonely. In three days, outside of Charlotte I’d seen few enough cyclists to count on one hand, much less to say any bike tourists. We spoke briefly. I texted my parents later that day, joking, “I have fans now.”

I biked on a road alongside a river for a long time. It was cold enough that I had to put on my gardening gloves that I’d brought for the workshop. Eventually, I got to Marshall, a cute little town I’d heard good things about. Gloriously, I saw a bike shop. I went in, of course, and met the very friendly mechanic. He gave me a bike tourist salute, and soon enough my bike was in the stand as he tried to diagnose the two minor concerns that I had. In the meantime, I went over to the cafe half of the store (what a wonderful thing, a bike shop café) and had a drink and a snack. I was kind of in heaven.

The mechanic pointed out a couple things, made a few adjustments, and after a very short test ride suggested it might be better, I tipped him a good percentage on top of the very low compensation he’d suggested out of solidarity for my tour, and went on my way, reinvigorated with green smoothie and kindness.

I crossed the Tennessee state line, entered the Cherokee State Forest for a while, and by mid-afternoon, was getting thrillingly near my destination. I was going to make it!

Around 4pm I pulled up to the address, a hilly green property, waved to the three people standing atop the hill, and walked my bike up the chunky gravel driveway to the top.

“Tired!” I remember responding on how I was. Was that ever true!

I took a hot shower in the outdoor shower, set up my tent, chatted, and eventually, got over my slight embarrassment to ask for food. I hadn’t bothered to bring any proper dinner, unwilling to stomach any more weight in my bags, and nothing in close biking distance was open. I was very happy to get to pick some cans of beans and carrots out of Alex’s emergency stash. It was just what I needed, and I was happy as a clam eating hot beans and carrots. I’m bringing little containers of seasoning with me next time I bike tour, though. Important lesson from the whole trip.

I was the first person to have arrived, to my slight surprise. The other participants who were camping arrived throughout the evening, and we found ourselves gathered around a campfire as night set in. I immediately found myself on the receiving end of further generosity, as I was offered a camp chair to borrow by one participant (we were asked to bring our own in pre-workshop email, a line that I laughed at since there was no way I was bringing a fucking chair on the bike when I was barely bringing food). I felt maybe the most relaxed I’ve ever been in a circle of people I’d just met. Big perk of this mode of travel: after days of exertion and facing fears like being hit by cars, running out of water, Crimes, and unlikely bear encounters, my social anxieties withered into nothing. Perspective, man.

Eventually, it was time for bed. I crawled into bed, which was like on a 15-degree slope, because the whole site was on a hill. That night it got the coldest it would my entire trip, hitting the low 40s. My so-called “women’s 20-degree” sleeping bag was not warm enough for me, and I woke up too cold to fall back asleep around 6 in the morning.

Despite that chilly, tired start, the next five days of the course were wonderful. Each day had several hours of “classroom instruction”, sat around the whiteboard under the tent that formed the open-air classroom, and also several hours of hands-on time. We learned to mix and test cob, apply it to a structure, as well as mixing and applying plaster, and various other activities. Despite the hours being less than a grade-school day of class, I felt ready to wrap it up each afternoon when we adjourned. I enjoyed many meals and evenings around the campfire with the other participants, and getting to know them was a huge highlight of the workshop. There was also a dog who was by far the most beloved participant of the workshop, deluged with pets, cuddles, and oohs and aahs every day.

The instructor, Alex, thoughtfully answered every question that came his way, and explained and demonstrated a lot. His co-instructor, Joy, did a lot of the book-teaching, offering lots of helpful perspective from her considerable experience, and made everyone feel welcome and cared for. Jamie, a friend of the enterprise, also added a lot of valuable information from his extensive technical background as building inspector. It was kind of a dream team.

Although the matter of building houses, cob or otherwise, is a vast field of knowledge which we could only hope to cover a fraction of in five days, I felt that the workshop was a great introduction. It was a thoughtfully designed introduction that seemed aimed at introducing the most important concepts and considerations, giving us a place to start and directions to go further. The sense of community and support fostered was welcoming and empowering, and I left feeling like I was a part of the natural building world.

The learning was also flat-out fun for me. Digesting the new information and building up an understanding tickled my brain pleasantly. The hands-on stuff was great fun too. Trying to find the most efficient way to pack cob into the awkward spaces under the eaves, trying to spread plaster onto the cob wall while minimizing the amount that fell to the ground were both physical problems of the satisfying kind.

I’d almost gotten used to waking up two to three times per night, with my feet pushing the end of my tent, to groggily haul me and my sleeping pad a foot or so uphill, when Friday arrived. We surprised Alex with some birthday treats and a card, finished our last class, and started packing up, bittersweet.

That last morning greeted us with layers of fog lifting slowly up from the ground as the sun rose, like enormous streamers of gauze draped among the hills. An epic starburst of sunbeams emanated from behind the trees. We took our group photos, one “serious” and one with props.

Hoping that my legs had recovered well by now, I embarked on the bike back. With class wrapping up by noon, I had limited time to get to the hostel I intended to stay at that night in Hampton, TN. I ate my ego and dislike of cars to hitch a 30-minute ride with one participant to get a head start on sundown. I did not want to be biking after dark, and by my estimate, this 14-mile boost would help ensure I didn’t have to.

I passed some lovely river views, a farmstand where I bought some apples, and best of all, a pear tree by the road. The branches within reach were bare, but the upper boughs still had many pears, some of which had recently fallen to the ground. I poked around the pear mess under the tree, careful of bees, and found a single unscathed pear, perfectly firm and unbroken, that must have fallen recently. It was perfect.

As I approached Hampton, it started getting dark. This stressed me out. I eventually got there fine, although it was after dark, and I was in the last-hour blues. The hostel floor I was on was deserted. I supposed that it was getting out of season for Appalachian Trail hikers, which were the main clientele for the hostel. Unwilling to haul myself as far as the nearest open business that sold edible substances (Dollar General, I’m talking about a Dollar General), I ate an amusingly pathetic beige dinner of hostel kitchen goods (instant mashed potatoes and pasta, pepper, garlic powder. No salt to be found).

The next morning, I woke with dismay to a mild sore throat and light rain. I immediately started thinking about how I might’ve brought it upon myself—I hadn’t washed my hands enough before eating, I’d stressed myself out too much, I’d not kept up enough exertion throughout the workshop to avoid the sudden stress of the return to biking, I’d had too much sugar, I hadn’t had enough vegetables… Well, it didn’t really matter at this point. All I could do now was try to be as gentle on my body and mind as I could and keep going.

I took a slower pace and thankfully the rain stayed at an intermittent light sprinkle. Although I didn’t feel my best, I could still ride. Mid-morning, I stopped at a café, where I very slowly enjoyed a hot tea for my sore throat. When I left, the clouds had cleared up a whole lot. It was becoming a beautiful, sunny day.

The fall foliage was also in full glory. I slightly regret that I didn’t snap a photo of the best views I had from the higher elevation, but I did get this photo of a variety of leaves on the ground. Learning more about trees has made looking at things like this pile of leaves much more delightful.

That afternoon, I reached Pisgah National Forest, through which I enjoyed almost an hourlong descent. It was pure fun! I wished I could take my sunglasses off to see the forest better, but the at these speeds, the eye protection was necessary. Zooming down the smooth road, surrounded by greenery, turning left and right, the air loud in my ear—it was epic.

Not long after I completed the descent, I got a flat tire. As I laid my bike down beside the road and started digging for my tool kit, a car stopped. The driver asked if I needed help, I said “Hopefully not!” and they went on their way. But only minutes later, they were back.

“I couldn’t just leave you there!”

The kindly woman and her daughter, who turned out to live just down the road, helped me to their garage where I had a much more comfortable spot to fix my flat.

From there, I still had a couple hours to reach my host for the night. As the sun got lower in the sky, some apprehension set in. For a while, I was on a gravel road in a forested area. The surrounding trees made it darken even faster as the sun got lower, and I struggled more to see my path, even with my lights on. That last-hour irritability came in. But it didn’t stop me from appreciating the beautiful sunset.

With great relief, I finally rolled up to the house after dark. I reeled in my last-hour rage as I came down the driveway to cheerily (albeit somewhat deliriously) greet the host. As usual, it was almost straight to the shower, where I discovered that I had chain grime on my face. After I cleaned up, I emerged, ready to socialize.

My hosts were quite an experienced bike touring couple, having done an epic Thailand to Italy tour a few years back. I got to hear many stories over dinner, just the tip of the iceberg. We also had a couple cool coincidental things in common, like the chemical engineering profession and having lived in China before.

I got to sleep eventually, and was hauled awake most unwillingly the next morning by my alarm. One more day to go. Even though it was the longest day in miles, there was hardly any elevation, so I felt good about that.

As the day went on, my surroundings got progressively more urban. After so many days and hours in more rural areas, it was a palpable shift in an unpleasant direction. Strip malls increased in frequency, highways widened, and natural views slipped away. I remember one conversation I had with the girl working at a café that I stopped at. She asked what I was doing, I explained briefly, she exclaimed “that’s crazy!” like she really meant it. I wish I could have better explained that it really wasn’t that crazy. Almost anybody could do it. When I meet people who find what I’m doing wild and foreign, I don’t want them to think that they’ve just found some new kind of weirdo that they could never be like. I’d rather that they realize that more is possible, for anyone, than they previously thought.

I didn’t manage to arrive before dark. In fact, I had to walk between houses, going up to the front door with my headlight searching for the house numbers because I couldn’t find numbered mailboxes by the street as I’d expect. I went up to the wrong house at one point and someone came out all confused. I eventually got into the right house and shortly met my host for the night, a wonderful lady who’d responded to my rather short notice request to stay. I showered, had dinner, and we chatted. I wished we could have talked longer, but I had an early train to catch the next morning.

The next morning was groggy and rushed but I managed to get to the train in time. It was about a 12-hour ride to Washington D.C., which I dozed through some, spent lots of time on my phone, and read the cycling safety booklet that my host had given me last night. I was grateful that I’d been able to do some laundry last night, so I had actually very clean clothes on.

I had a 5-hour stopover that evening in Washington D.C., during which I did absolutely zero touristing, and instead spent most of in a café-bookstore reading and enjoying dinner. Then it was back into the train, where I had a stressful bit trying to find a place to store my bike. The bike towers were all full of bikes and luggage, and my bike didn’t fit in the other really narrow slot they suggested, so I ended up stowing it near the end of the car, where you weren’t supposed to put stuff. Having bought the bike ticket and done everything according to the rules, I was irritated that it was still such a hassle.

I caught some more sleep, including during the three-hour stop in New York City, which I didn’t realize was going to happen until it did, and eventually, the sun rose again and we approached Boston.

It was sunny and warmer than I expected when I came out of the station. I got back on the bike for the final 20-minute ride of the trip. You might think I’d be sick of biking after all this, but it was as much of a joy as ever to be flying down the Boston bike lanes.

The feeling of arriving back on my front doorstep was one of victory and relief. It was 11 a.m. on a Tuesday, quiet, with no one home. The house felt smaller and a little unfamiliar. I felt changed.

I went straight to the shower.

Our food in the cupboards, all the cooking equipment. The relaxation of being in your own space, not being someone’s guest. Pure luxury! And in a few days, when my mild illness finally disappeared, it lifted away a whole brain fog I hadn’t quite realized the extent of.

Colleagues at work asked if I had a relaxing vacation, which was hilarious. Relaxing!? Hardly. But good, really good.

I learned a lot from this trip. I gained a lot of confidence. Some of it was this temporary psycho/physical boost of undergoing a lot of physical stress that kind of recalibrated all other stressors in its wake. I realized that facing challenges of one sort made other challenges feel easier. I made connections that had me feeling less alone in this journey, in a way that the internet can’t. I connected with nature more and discovered (or re-discovered) how beautiful it is to be so close to the outdoors. I miss climbing out of my tent at dawn to the crisp air and dewy grass. I miss the sky full of stars, more than I’ve seen in so long, and the nights around the campfire.

I’m so grateful to all the kind and inspiring people I met. Fellow workshop attendees who were so quick to offer me chairs, food, spots to sleep, rides to town, groceries, and their attention and time. The workshop leaders for creating a wonderful experience and atmosphere. All my hosts who took me into their homes and made me feel so welcome, respected, encouraged, and cared for. All my loved ones for supporting from afar. It’s no revelation that traveling teaches one to appreciate humanity more.

I’m excited to keep learning and doing. I’m actively working on standing up natural building opportunities in my region and will share news and opportunities when the time comes, probably sometime in 2024. Onwards!