As of late, each day has become a journey all its own, least that’s the way I’m approaching it. Not an epic walk, but a series of vignettes with their own stories to tell and lessons to learn. So it was Wednesday, when I awoke in Bushy’s Motel (yes, the owner is Bushy, and yes, quite nicely bearded) in Fowler, Colorado, and remembered I had two flat tires on my cart. It was a mile back to the auto body shop, where Paul was waiting by the door. “I thought you’d already left.” With a few new, super Goo, non-puncturable tire tubes in hand, Paul went about repairing my ride as we talked Dust Bowl, horse rides through Canada and “that look on people’s faces in Kansas.” (I’ll know when I see it.) Trying to get his new garage off the ground, Paul wouldn’t accept any money. Rather, he filled my ride with water and Gatorade. “I wish I could have done more,” he said, as we shook hands and I headed off toward the land of people with that look on their face. The new wheels felt good, damn good. Rather than stop in Woody Ford like I’d planned, I walked into the night (rocking the headlamp and flashlight) to a campground in La Junta, a new best 28-mile day. I’d exhausted myself, to the point where Thursday got off to a late start. It was 22 miles to Las Animas and I was spent halfway through. The temperature was 100 and there wasn’t a tree or shade-providing street sign in sight. It was stifling. The day was crashing down and I was without a plan … until a call from local reporter Donna Ford-Ferrell. “I’d like to write your story,” she said, asking where I sleep at night. I told her my every-day-is-a-journey spiel. “Well then, I’d like to offer you our spare bedroom too.” I love it when a plan comes together.