He sat in the dirt resting his back against a graffiti covered wall. Cleanliness had long since become a secondary thought, and a little dust would not make a difference anyway. Grime is caked upon his legs and face, and found comingling with the dried sweat on his shirt. Someone hands him a small plastic bottle of cheap tequila. He takes a swig without much thought and passes it on in a fog. Next to him, two bearded me in cotton sweat suites eat cold beans out of ziploc bags- with their hands.
It was about this time I contemplated if I was a hiker, or a homeless man lurking under a bridge in the desert. Choice- It is the only difference between a hiker and a bum, and maybe a $200 down jacket. Continue reading Bridge People