The trail was going to be long and hard, we both knew. We packed out bags with half a flask of Joaquin's Run and an eighth of green herb, a quarter leg of venison and a change of clothes, we set out into the afternoon Sun. From Carver, we set out to make our way on our own, without the need of a roof over our heads or a car to travel in.

We stopped by a restaurant to fill our stomachs with a bite to each. Pork chops and beans. Tasty and filling. We were then ready to travel into the night. We walked down Harrison St to Oregon Hill, smoking from a cherry wood tobacco pipe and chanting about the time ahead of us.

We came to the river and crossed the foot bridge to Belle Isle. I looked back on the times I had crossed this path before. I remembered a friend of mine who took a great journey on that bridge, one that passed him into the afterlife, wherever that may be. May his memory always live in our hearts. It was just around an hour before Sundown when we got to the far side of the isle. The river was down and the rocks were bare. We trekked along the boulders that made up the river bed when it was high water. There, we came to a small niche that held two crust punks.

I can't remember their names, and I am sure now, they probably don't remember ours. But for that time, our paths crossed and our needs were one. We smoked a bowl and drank the pirate piss rum I had packed. After chit chatting, we decided we needed to head to the store for some cigarettes and a bit of munchies.

I have always had a general dislike for the culture of bums. Not that they were hard on their luck...but they tried to be a bum. They chose the lifestyle of a beggar, having no want to do any labor for their keep. They sit on corners and beg for change to buy their beer and cigarettes. Street performers and vagabonds are fine, because they play music, or perform acts for their audience, putting out some sort of effort. Crust punks wantonly beg.

I remember talking to the crust punk on the way to the store. He told me he was 17, and his friend, who was back at our niche still, was 35. I thought to myself man, thirty five. That's a wasted life. He told me that his mother didn't know he was living like he was. I found that he was a good person, he just chose to live free rather than in the system that we have all around us. I agreed with him, but I did not think the way they went about it was at all progression of their ideals.

But he told me that he had hopped a train from California to make it to Richmond for Best Friend's Day. It sounded like an adventure I would enjoy. He told me how he scored food from people and how he got what he needed. I didn't comment to him how I would have gone about things. But I listened to this kid. He poured out his soul on the walk.

After we got back from the store, it was well past dark, and we were trying to get to "secret spot" as they called it. But first, they wanted to tag the trains in the yard that was just around the way from the wooden bridge. We made our way to the train yard. The younger punk was still in control of himself, and stalked into the yard assuredly. The older punk, fat and drunk, stumbled around, yelled at the top of his lungs and staggered the whole way. He was trying to get himself caught.

We tagged a train that night, Alex and I. We learned the meaning of tags, and how certain signs are read by modern day hobos. Tags were personal stories, ever developing, ever evolving. I tagged the train with a well known Mark Twain quote "Don't let schooling interfere with your education." It has stuck with me since I first heard it.

The four of us made our way back to the footbridge leading back to Oregon Hill from the isle. At the small boat launch, we took a dip into the warm James River. I will forgo details of the two crust punks skinny dipping. The old fat one, however, and this needs mentioning, was a figurehead of obesity. He rolled, he shook, he made the water level rise, he trembled as jello. He was stark naked, and I have never been the same.

The secret spot. It was a mile or so down the tracks from Oregon Hill, leading out to Texas Beach. It was down a ravine, having to slide down to the river banks to get to it. It was a clearing there, where other travelers and vagabonds had made a small niche to suit their needs. They had a fireplace and a bivouac there, wood already stacked a bit.

But the trip to "secret spot" is worth mentioning I feel. To get to it, we started at the Lee Bridge under crofts, where the trains stop to refuel and load their cargo. We waited for one to stop, and then made our way on the adjacent tracks, walking beside it. If you have ever heard a train up close, you will know that the engines are like thunder. They roar. The sound of a train engine is almost as resonate as a sort of opera for me after this. We slid in the shadows of the small train yard there. The older fat crust punk was drunk, and rather obnoxious at this point. He stepped onto the train and entered one of the cars, where the operators had a fridge and a few stores of flares. He snagged a small case of bottled water and six or so flares from the cupboards of the train, like he owned the place, or he was grocery shopping. It was rather amazing, seeing how casual the whole ordeal was for him. He didn't pay a second thought to it at all. He had done this many times, I was certain.
We walked down the tracks more, along this very long train. The fat punk began lighting flares. He tossed them into the air, then into the coal cars of the train. He wondered "Why aren't they lighting?" I found it to be ridiculous. For one, a flare will not light raw coal. For two, if they were to go alight, we would have been fucked. When he lit his third flare, things turned on us. We saw the lights of another train coming down the tracks. It was on our set of tracks. To our left was a wall of the other train, to our right was a ravine and a ditch, which was filled with stagnant water. We only jumped down into the ditch with enough time to spare our lives. The train was inches from our noses. The thunderous noise it produced as it passed was incredible. We smiled, Alex and I. We paid no attention to the crust punks we were with, being in our own adventure world by now. They were merely the guides. We laughed at the danger we had just face.

That night at "secret spot" we cooked venison and at it with our fingers. As modern day hobos, we slept on the hard ground next to the river banks. We watched the city lights in the distance twinkle as we fell asleep. We woke up with the morning fog covering the river.

This is a time in my life I do not think I shall forget. I believe Alex will not forget it either. For those two days, we were hobos. We had a home, but we did not have shelter. We had money, but we could not access it. We had food, and it was primitive.