The hostile land,
The Great Land,
Called to him down in Georgia
So he ventured North, hitchhiking all the way.
By way of California
and Oregon
and North Dakota,
With only his backpack
and some change
(but not a change of plans),
and a map,
and a compass
to guide him.
What about a flashlight?
And money?
That first night camping,
he thought himself a modern day Thoreau
and decided to go
further north.
The weather hadn't turned yet.
No need for concern.
But wait,
a storm is brewing.
Weeks passed
and the fishing was abundant.
Nights under the stars
after visiting the bars
in town.
This was bliss,
or so he thought.
Days spent foraging,
nights spent sleeping in an old
abandoned bus.
Then the weather turned,
the waters rose,
and heaven knows,
he was scared,
with food supplies decreasing,
and no one to help,
despite repeated attempts.
Until finally he fell
into a permanent slumber,
sickened from seeds
from a poisonous plant.
He had only his journal.
So sad,
the end of this Super Tramp.
How Un-alaskan
of him
to die like that.
Days spent foraging,
nights spent sleeping in an old
abandoned bus.
Then the weather turned,
the waters rose,
and heaven knows,
he was scared,
with food supplies decreasing,
and no one to help,
despite repeated attempts.
Until finally he fell
into a permanent slumber,
sickened from seeds
from a poisonous plant.
He had only his journal.
So sad,
the end of this Super Tramp.
How Un-alaskan
of him
to die like that.
