My father Mark spent his 12th grade year living in Burlington, Vermont, attending Burlington High School. That may not seem significant, but for my father it was. His father, my Grandpa Max, was an army officer, so his family never lived in the same place for long. At age ten, my father moved to Heilbronn in southern Germany from Fort Sill, Oklahoma. His father had worked on developing, testing and firing the Pershing Missile in Oklahoma, and moved to Germany to command a Pershing Missile battalion. Pershing Missiles were medium-range missiles designed to become the United States’ primary nuclear-capable weapon at the time. Pershing Missiles lasted in the United States’ arsenal for over 30 years, before President Ronald Reagan and General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev of the Soviet Union signed the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty, effectively eliminating them.¹
         From Heilbronn, the Horton family moved to Heidelberg, then Munich, and finally Frankfurt, where Max worked at the headquarters for the Army in Europe, specifically in the Pershing Missile department. After eight years in Germany, the well-travelled Hortons returned to the United States and to Burlington, where Grandpa Max took charge of the Vermont National Guard. My father became an American teenager, attending Burlington High School.
         It was in Burlington that my father assimilated into American culture for the second time and developed his love of nature. Spending most of his childhood in post-World War II Germany meant growing up on Army bases in urban environments.
         In Germany, my father learned strict discipline and how to follow directions. Surrounded by military officials and stern rules, there was no room for error in what he did, unless he wanted to be punished. He learned how to navigate the Army regimen and the German subway systems. With his father occupied with Pershing Missiles and military duties, and his mother taking care of four children, my father went through a lot of his childhood tied to the restrictions of Army life. Much would change when he moved back to the United States. So it was his year in Burlington, where he could visit a public library with books in English and where he lived in a house backing up against Ethan Allen Park (a local forest), that stands out for him as formative.
         The city of Burlington wasn’t always as warm and welcoming as it is now. Bernie Sanders ran for Mayor of the city in 1981, defeating six-term incumbent Gordon Paquette. With Sanders as Mayor, Burlington became the first city in the United States of America to fund community-trust housing. The socialist governor turned the city from a rundown mill town into the young, lively city it is today. He kept the surrounding wilderness intact, while developing the center of the city into an energetic nucleus of Vermont.² With the thrilling city-center and endless wilderness adjacent to his home, my father had room to explore.
         In Vermont, my father discovered his enthusiasm for backpacking. With more freedom to explore his interests, my father spent hours planning trips into the wilderness. He explored the Adirondack Mountains and the surrounding wilderness, spending days at a time hiking through various trails. This love of the outdoors still guides him today, and is the primary reason why the current crop of Hortons (his kids, myself included), spends so much time in the nearest national park to our home, Yosemite.
         As a native of San Francisco, California, I had never been to Burlington. My first trip to Vermont came my junior year of high school on a college visiting tour, but on that trip, the city eluded me. However, because my father spent a defining year in the town, a year that convinced him to stay in New England for college, where he would eventually meet my mother, I had to go there. Given that Burlington was where my father found his love for the outdoors, it seemed fitting to enter the city via a hiking trail.
         On this trip to Burlington, I envisioned spending most of my time in the city on Church Street, exploring the shops, and talking to the vendors. Most of the current urban fabric appeared after my father left. He told us about the modern city and what he had seen in recent visits, so I heard about the dock area down at the shore of Lake Champlain, the jumping cliffs on the shore north of downtown, and the city center, including Church Street and Main Street. Church Street, the pedestrian shopping mall and marketplace, was where I planned on spending the majority of my day in town. As my father told me, over one hundred clothing stores, restaurants, and other shops line the street. One of my father’s greatest skills is his ability to strike up a conversation with anyone. Considering my circumstances and location, I decided to prove I had the same capability. However, I had to get to the city first.
         North of Burlington lies the beginning of the Island Line Trail, the 12.5-mile trail connecting the southern tip of Grand Isle, in South Hero, Vermont and Burlington. So, my plan was to walk the Island Line Trail, ending up in the city where I would begin an exploration of downtown Burlington. A friend of mine, who was heading into Burlington on Sunday, October 22nd to run some errands, heard about my plans and volunteered to take me to my starting point. With no other plans of how to reach the trailhead, I accepted.
         The Island Line Trail crosses Lake Champlain from Grand Isle to the mainland, and weaves through the northern sections of the city before entering the urban center. It almost immediately transitions into a long, narrow path known as the causeway. Elevated a few feet above the water of Lake Champlain, the causeway is about 10 feet wide; just wide enough to fit a bike lane in each direction, and nothing more. The causeway is mainly gravel and sand, lined with small evergreen plants, and bordered with large rocks on each side. Waves batter the rocks, but the trail’s elevation keeps travelers dry. Once a walker reaches the city of Burlington the trail becomes smoothly paved asphalt. The small, dark green bushes and trees on both sides of the trail had yet to change into their bright reds and yellows of fall, but the cold, whipping wind reminded me of the time of year. Mist from Lake Champlain frequently chilled my cheeks, and the low sun did little to keep me warm.
         About a half-mile into my walk, I came to where a significant chunk of the causeway was missing. In the spring of 2011, Lake Champlain suffered extreme floods, destroying sections of the causeway, including the section in front of me.³ After the storms, in order for the trail to remain effectively intact, a small bike ferry connecting the two segments was put into service. The ferry, a small metal boat that seats a maximum of 20 travelers, has a small plastic blue top and one propeller. The boat navigates easily; a necessity considering the countless trips it makes across the causeway every day. According to Mike, the young operator of the ferry, a turnstile bridge formerly united these fragments. The bridge connected both sides of the causeway, and could turn, or “open up”, allowing bigger boats to pass through. The bridge was used frequently, but the 2011 storms and high water levels destroyed it.
         Mike, a 20-something local, divulged as much information about Burlington and the trail as possible during our short ferry ride across the gap. In his perky, high-pitched voice, he told me about the floods two years ago, and the reconstruction that had taken place to preserve the causeway.
         “Yeah, just a couple of years ago, this was all washed out. Absolutely no chance anyone could get anywhere near this place. Now, it’s almost all back to normal.” he said. Apparently, countless visitors visit the trail each year on bicycles. He told me that, strictly speaking, the causeway was open only to bikers, and was not meant for pedestrians. However, given it was a Sunday, and because of my limited options at that juncture, he felt sympathetic and gave me the essential lift across the gap. When we reached the other side, he wished me luck on my excursion, and recommended a visit to a taqueria by the name of Boloco. Making a mental note of the location, I stepped off the ferry and onto the second section of the causeway.
         As I stepped off the ferry, the bikers that accompanied me on the commute over sped away, and I began to walk. My thick brown boots, loosely tied but sturdy, crunched the gravel underneath me and pushed the small stones behind me. I shaded my face from the sun with my hand. Three miles of causeway lay ahead, so squinting and shivering in my thick black fleece, I started walking. Locals, including Mike, told me that this fall had been uncharacteristically warm for Vermont, and that today’s weather was more realistic of what I should expect.
         As I met families of bikers passing me in both directions on the narrow path, a sense of loneliness and boredom gradually overtook me. The bikers all seemed to be laughing and smiling, and enjoying their Sunday morning together. I lengthened my strides, and increased my pace, trying to shorten the seemingly interminable three miles of causeway. I craved human interaction, and a family to laugh with, like the ones who were flying by me.
         Alone on the causeway, in the middle of a lake, without any obvious answer to the lack of conversation, I began to sing. At first I sang small, unrecognizable melodies in a quiet voice, but soon I bellowed full-blown songs. A short tune we would sing at family reunions escaped my mouth: “Father’s photograph is hanging in the hall, right beside the picture of the monkey on the wall. They make a lonely couple, but the worst of it all is you can’t tell which is faaaather.” Next came the Christmas Carol, “’Tis the Season.” Before long, I found myself at the end of the causeway, and I was back on the mainland.
         From the causeway, the Island Line Trail runs through several parks outside the city. It stays close to the water, but rises in elevation, giving a walker several lookout points. The first park I came to, Airport Park, was not particularly memorable. The park was empty, barring a sleeping homeless man, and littered with trash. The windy day blew the garbage in and around the swing set and slides, leaving the eerie impression of a playground for ghosts.
         Leaving Airport Park, the trail transitioned from rough gravel to smooth, paved road. Burlington was close. Anxiously, I passed through Delta Park, a dog park, and Leddy Park; I stopped only once. At the beginning of North Beach Park, I saw a large white sign pointing to my left. In large, plain black letters, it read “Burlington High School”. Although it was Sunday and there wouldn’t be any students, it required a change in course; I turned toward the school.
         I walked past the athletic fields and the track, where my father once ran. Grandpa Max had played baseball throughout his life, and missed playing for the San Francisco Seals only because he was drafted for World War II. He tried to convince my father that aggressive, body-contact sports were more worthwhile, but my father wouldn’t listen. My Grandmother, Yvonne, convinced Max to accept my Dad’s love of running, and to support my father in his sport of choice. My father pursued his running, and ultimately ran in college. Ironically, it was my grandpa Max who became my father’s biggest fan; my grandma never bothered to watch him run, even when he ran in the Vermont State Finals on this track, only a ten minute walk from their home.
         I walked on the synthetic track material that compressed under my shoes, and across the thick grass that tickled my ankles. The big brick classrooms lay beyond these facilities, and I reached them with a few steps. Locked. I peered through the windows, but the dark hallways and empty classrooms revealed nothing. Discouraged, I turned back toward the trail, imagining how the school might have looked 40 years ago.
         A little farther down the trail, the outskirts of the city appeared. Buildings started to pop up on the left side, the east side, of the trail. My goal was to reach Battery Park, then turn toward downtown. Battery Park, a small recreational park, was dedicated to William Wells in 1972. A statue at the end of the park depicted Mr. Wells with his right foot in front of his left, and a determined look on his face. His tall boots, long sword, and large brimmed hat suggested that he was defending Burlington, which seemed appropriate: according to plaque next to the statue, the Brevet Major General fought in the Civil War, and defended this very spot, formerly a fort, during the War of 1812. In August of 1813, the American gunmen defended the fort against an attack by a British navy regiment. Lake Champlain was a centerpiece in the War of 1812, as both sides fought for control of a body of water so far inland.⁴
         About 100 feet ahead of me, a large brown sign indicated the first part of my plan concluded. I entered the park, and stopped at the first lookout point. A metal bench faced Lake Champlain, and a brick wall stood in between the piece of furniture and a steep hill. I leaned on the sturdy brick wall, and looked out over Lake Champlain. Behind me, a grassy area looked like the perfect place for a summer picnic, and trees lined the path running through the park. Sitting here for a few minutes, I readied myself for the second portion of my walk. Channeling my father’s social ability, I targeted anyone who would accept a conversation.
         At the end of Battery Park, a painter worked on his easel, looking out of the lake toward the Adirondacks. Equipped with a worn out paintbrush, and tubes of blue, red and yellow paint, he captured the fall colors of the trees below and the lake beyond on his canvas. His painting looked fresh, but the sleeping pit bull at his feet suggested the duo had been here a while. I walked closer. His pants were torn, and there were holes in his boots. His shirt, which at first appeared beige, revealed itself as an old dirty white shirt. He failed to notice my presence until I stood three feet away, when his dog woke up and greeted me. The puppy looked tired, and wagged its tail as I scratched his ears. A muffled noise came from behind the thick beard of the painter. He kept adding layers of paint to his piece, although it appeared finished. The painter placed his paintbrush on the ground.
         “What do you want?” His question was more of a low-toned growl, and as soon as he spoke his dog lost any interest in being polite.
         “That painting is really good, man. How long are you going to keep working on it?” I said.
         “It won’t be done until I say it is. Okay?” Clearly talking with a stranger didn’t top his list of priorities. This didn’t deter me. I focused on my father’s ability to pick up a conversation with anyone, and continued talking.
         “Where are you from?” I said.
         “Here.” Still nothing.
         “Where around here? I’m not from Vermont so I don’t really know…”
         “Around. I don’t usually sleep in the same spot for long.” He cut me off. For some reason this question caused him to open up. He looked me in the eye, sat down, and asked if I wanted to join him on the ground. His puppy also perked up, and nuzzled into my foot, begging for a scratch. I sat next to him, and, surprised by his sudden interest, continued our talk.
         His name was Jonaton (pronounced as if it began with a Y), and he was born in Burlington. He, like my father, attended Burlington High School, before dropping out in 10th grade. He then looked for a job in the city, while simultaneously pursuing his art of painting. Over the years (he was 21), he committed more time to painting, and less to finding a job. Eventually, he gave up on his search, and started painting stills of the city. He entered his work in local competitions, and evidently his artwork was popular, because he earned prize money from a few small contests. However, rather than spend the money on finding a stable place to stay and a job, he bought his puppy, Ralph. In Jonaton’s words, Ralph was there “to keep me company, and also to sniff out some good spots to paint. He’s got a nose for it”. From there, Jonaton committed himself to painting full time. Taking to the streets, he painted whatever came to mind, forgetting about finding a house or a job. His art and his puppy were all that mattered to him, so he gave up everything else.
         Jonaton reminded me of Aunt Susie, Mark’s sister, who also moved to Burlington with my family to attend the University of Vermont. She, like Jonaton, dropped out within a year of starting college. What Aunt Susie did between then and now eludes me. My father declines to talk about it much, and whether he simply does not know or refuses to tell us is up for debate. She may have painted on the streets with a dog, or spent her time travelling across country on her own. All I know is that after a while of living on the streets, she made her way to Healdsburg, California, where she met up with her mother. She now has a house, a job, and many stories of her travels, and we see her every Thanksgiving and Christmas. Jonaton, like Aunt Susie, seemed like an entirely normal, enjoyable person who had made the decision not to live a structured, standard life. Fed up with how they were ‘supposed’ to live, they left on their own trail, without hesitation. Although I have no desire or intention to become homeless, I think there is a lot to learn from my Aunt and my new friend.

¹“Pershing Missile.” Pershing Missile. 3 Apr. 2009. Web. 29 Oct. 2013 http://www.pershingmissile.org/

²“The Wall Street Journal.” Bernie Sanders: U.S. Senate – VT. Web. Nov 30, 2013. http://projects.wsj.com/

³“Friends of the Island Line Trail.” The Storms. 4 Jan. 2012. Web. 29 Oct. 2013 http://www.islandlinetrail.org/

⁴“History: War of 1812.” War of 1812 (1812-1815). Web. 30 Nov 2013. http://www.lcmm.org/