"The stars awaken a certain
reverence, because always present, they are inaccessible.”
Twenty one years later, he can
still be found hiking, expeditiously clicking along on a Texas Panhandle High
Plains back road at a steady pace of three miles an hour. He has for a
generation crisscrossed America, logging over 40,000 miles. However, he cares
little for such acknowledgements, his hiking not stirred by ostentatious
motives as he seeks neither wealth nor recognition for his toil. Now, a near Octogenarian,
he continues trekking on, he claims, for a Zen like inner peace the incessant
steps deliver. He is a man in a desperate race with the setting sun of life. He
will not win, this he tells me, but like the Man of La Mancha, effort is the
key. “I am not afraid to die,” he philosophies. “I want to leave this world as
I came in, with nothing. My grandfather died in the woods, my father died in
the woods and I hope to do the same.”
We crossed paths outside of
Shamrock, TX on a hazy September, late summer afternoon. Mr. Nomad was within one
day of reaching the halfway point of his latest odyssey, hiking the path of
America’s “Mother Road” – Route 66. He began his sojourn on July 26 amidst the
toxic urban sprawl of South Chicago and should reach the trail’s end in the
land of Milk and Honey, just past Thanksgiving. Upon completion of the 2300
mile journey he will symbolically dip his swollen feet into the Pacific Ocean,
just off the Santa Monica, CA pier.
Along the pathway he will use his Apple 7’s smart phone’s photo app to recreate and archive the best he can of what is left of the Depression era Grapes of Wrath migration trail, a movement that has come to represent the Great American Dream. “Route 66 is a highway we simply cannot forget. It cuts right across the heart of America, the very soul of this great nation. It is our Main Street,” Nomad says. “This road tells stories of hope and heartbreak, of starting over, new dreams found beyond the hazy blue. Route 66 represents what makes us a great nation.”
He is a man impossible to
pigeonhole, but if I must - a mixture of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Johnny
Appleseed, would seem apt. He is a man who disdains personal wealth
and has a strong reverence for the power of nature, but in a written article
this past July defended the right of big industry to pollute the atmosphere with
fossil burning fuels. He is outgoing to a fault, never considering personal
security as he warmly greets every “On the Road” traveler he encounters. Yet,
he told me, he has not been in contact with either of his two sons or his
ex-wife in, “at least 15 years.” For a recent acquaintance, it is hard to
understand the intent and purpose as he wanders. He is a man whose life is a riddle, wrapped
in a mystery, inside an enigma.
I started the post meal conservation while seated in my adjoining motel room with the obvious question: So
why is a 80 year old man vagabonding across the nation? “After all is said and
done,” Nomad explains, “the question boils down to this; and it’s really quite
simple: How many of us can honestly say we’ve ever dealt straight up with who
we truly are as a person — as a kind, loving, caring, and forgiving
person? Here’s the problem. When we start this thought process, when we
begin probing, we become very uncomfortable, very fast! But with all the diversions and distractions
around us — distractions that we create, along with all those that simply occur
day-to-day here in the 'real world,'we’re able to block out and avoid these
painful thought processes. On the trail,
however, where one is alone mile after mile, day after day, month after month,
where these diversions don’t exist and can’t be created, eventually all the
masks, all the facades, all the little games played and replayed get stripped
away. It is then you come face-to-face
with yourself!”
Nomad prides himself of
traveling light. “I have learned over the years,” he says, “to haul only what I
need and not just what I want. At my age, I have to travel light. I can still
do up to 30 miles a day but I can’t pack 20 to 30 pounds with me like I use to
when I was younger. Not counting any food or water I might haul, my pack goes
about 11 pounds.”
He will admit to a few worldly
possessions, like an old pickup truck with a camper shell, housed now back with
a friend in Alabama. He winters in his truck, often times parked in either a
Walmart parking lot or a state park, spending hours in public libraries
preparing meticulously for his next hike.
Nomad survives off the funds from a merger social security check. If the money runs out before the month does, he simply does not eat. He has a few keepsakes stored at a sister’s house in his native state of Missouri; but most of what he has to show in terms of personal possessions collected over nearly eight decades lies now in a small backpack dropped by a leaking window air conditioner in a budget motel room in Shamrock, TX.
His list of hiking injuries
are worthy of an overworked MASH unit. Once,” he confided, “I was struck by
lightning. It was up in Canada.” He has broken both his ankle and his shinbone,
obvious calamities in the middle of a hike. He has fallen and broken ribs. Even
sans toe nails, his feet are a constant source of torture and torment. He pops Ibuprofen pain tablets as if they
were M&Ms. “I use to use straight aspirin,” he says. “Doctor was really on
me about how hard it is on my liver. Now I go to the Vitamin I, Ibuprofen,” he adds with a
chuckle. “I always know when I have taken too much and need to cut back, when
my ears start ringing.” Yet, with the exception of the bout with shingles, he
has finished every odyssey he has begun.
He readily admits he is hiking
away from his past, the decadent and reprehensible life of a man named Meredith Eberhard. Today, he tells me, that person no longer exists. “I am ashamed how I lived the first 58 years of my life,” he states. I notice his eyes are misting. “I was a classic Type A personality. Not a likeable person. I didn’t like myself, even. My walks have changed that.”
“Now, I wear my heart on my
sleeve,” he says. “Finding the Lord Jesus Christ was an emotional experience
for me, the most humbling in my life. I have learned the virtues of love,
patience, compassion, and understanding.
Today, I live purely by faith and trust.
I rely on a higher power. Today, I see life from a whole new vantage, a
wide and endless horizon and how is the view from here? Well, it’s called wisdom. Wisdom comes
through faith and trust and that trust is administered by God.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
At 58 years of age, he sat
dead in the cross hairs of a midlife crossroads, precariously perched on a
cliff of mental despair. He was unhappy but not sure why, so he said the hell
with it all, casting away a six figure a year Florida optometry practice and
started to hike the Appalachian Trail, releasing his burdens and personal
demons one step at a time.
 |
| Nimblewill Nomad |
His given name is Meredith, “a
boy’s name back when I was born in 1938,” he assures me. His surname is
Eberhard. However, within the world of long distance hiking he is known by his
chosen moniker of Nimblewill Nomad and he is a legendary and revered figure,
the Michael Jordan of long distance trekking. At 80 years of age, he is a
walking machine.
 |
| Always walk into traffic |
 |
| Shawna and Nomad |
Along the pathway he will use his Apple 7’s smart phone’s photo app to recreate and archive the best he can of what is left of the Depression era Grapes of Wrath migration trail, a movement that has come to represent the Great American Dream. “Route 66 is a highway we simply cannot forget. It cuts right across the heart of America, the very soul of this great nation. It is our Main Street,” Nomad says. “This road tells stories of hope and heartbreak, of starting over, new dreams found beyond the hazy blue. Route 66 represents what makes us a great nation.”
 |
| The Michael Jordan of trekking |
His long distance hiking
resume is unchallenged. Nomad has hiked the "Triple Crown" of
American Trails: the Pacific Crest, the Appalachian and the Continental Divide.
He has hiked all 11 National Scenic Trails (only one other hiker has
accomplished this feat) and he was one of the first to completely hike the
Appalachian Trail from the Florida Keys to Maine, a trek he later named the
Eastern Continental. He chronicled his adventure in a book titled Ten Million
Steps. Later, he repeated the trip with a southbound course, originating in
Canada; etching for time his walk with a second book titled Where Less the Path
is Worn.
My wife Shawna and I first
spotted Nimblewill on an east bound service road, hiking west, into the
oncoming traffic. He was a striking figure, slightly hunched while rhythmically
striding along with his custom made walking poles clicking in cadence. From a
distance, one could not tell his age; only that he was thin with unbound and
unkempt beard and hair. He stopped cutting his hair and beard years ago.
Upon greeting, he smelled of a man who had spent the last two days in the heat of the Texas Panhandle hiking over 45 miles, with an in between a night’s stay in a long ago abandoned gas station. As we greeted each other, he immediately apologized for his hygiene. “I must be some sight and an even worse smell for someone you have just met,” he offered.
His handshake was remarkably strong for a man whose wind burnt face gave a strong hint of his age. He was attired in long acrylic shorts and a long sleeve white dress shirt. When he removed his sunglasses, his pale eyes were deep set giving off a vague sense of weariness and wisdom. He wore a trendy racing hat while supporting himself on two Cressida Antishock trekking poles. He had distinct tan lines on both his wrists and ankles. His appearance was disheveled but his clothing was high tech. His greeting was genuine and without pretense. My immediate reaction was to like this man.
Upon greeting, he smelled of a man who had spent the last two days in the heat of the Texas Panhandle hiking over 45 miles, with an in between a night’s stay in a long ago abandoned gas station. As we greeted each other, he immediately apologized for his hygiene. “I must be some sight and an even worse smell for someone you have just met,” he offered.
His handshake was remarkably strong for a man whose wind burnt face gave a strong hint of his age. He was attired in long acrylic shorts and a long sleeve white dress shirt. When he removed his sunglasses, his pale eyes were deep set giving off a vague sense of weariness and wisdom. He wore a trendy racing hat while supporting himself on two Cressida Antishock trekking poles. He had distinct tan lines on both his wrists and ankles. His appearance was disheveled but his clothing was high tech. His greeting was genuine and without pretense. My immediate reaction was to like this man.
We offered to pay for a
night’s stay in a nearby motel and a good evening meal in return for an after
dinner interview. “Your generosity is most kind,” he said in acceptance.
 |
| 2300 miles at 3 mph |
His commitment to long distance hiking is
total. A quick Google search told of a rumor he had surgically removed all ten
of his toe nails in an attempt to avoid infections. True he confirmed, removing
his shoes and socks to show me the proof. “Took a long time to find a doctor
who would do it,” he said with a twinge of pride in his voice. “He used a pair
of surgical pliers to pull them out one at a time. Hurt like hell and I couldn’t
walk for a couple of weeks, but I don’t have to worry anymore about infections or
in-grown toe nails. It was a good investment.”
 |
| Miles to go before rest |
“It speaks to our life’s
priority, how much ‘stuff’ we collect and haul around with us,” Nomad
says. “Our life’s pack, its size, gives
a strong indication of our own insecurity. Many fear the dreaded unknown. The
greater our fears, the more stuff we haul around through life. To find inner
peace, we must face this reality, we must lighten our load. Here is a quote for
you, my new friends, ‘Feed your faith and your fears will starve to death.’
Every year I intentionally lessen my possessions, and every year my happiness
increases, makes me richer, not poorer.”
He allowed for a peek inside
of his nylon pack, something he said he normally will not do with strangers. Listed below are the contents, total weight is 10.9 pounds:
1. Gossamer Gear® Murmur™ Hyperlight
Backpack
2. Nimblewill Tent (Cuben fiber body 0-8.1 –
Silnylon Fly 0-6.9 -stakes 0-00.7)
3. Mountain Hardware® Phantom™ 45 sleeping
bag (converted to quilt)
4. Therm-A-Rest® NeoAir™ short sleeping pad
5. Dollar General® emergency poncho
6. GoLite® Ether Jacket
7. ZPacks™ Challenger Rain Paints
8. Aquamira® water purification tablets (6)
9. Gatorade® 32oz bottle (2@1.8)
10. Photon® Micro Light II® w/cap-bill clip
11. Silnylon ditty bag
12. First Aid in Ziploc® (iodine/alcohol preps,
Neosporin®, bandages, powder, floss, razor blade)
13. Garmin® eTrex™ GPS w/2AA batteries
14. Apple® iPhone 5S™ w/case/charger
15. 14-days OTC (Osteo Bi-Flex®, GNC® sports
meds, Ecotrin®, regular aspirin)
16. 2.1 Maps and data in Ziploc®
No toothbrush, no soap, no
extra clothes, no toilet paper.
 |
| Hiking at dawn with a legend |
Nomad survives off the funds from a merger social security check. If the money runs out before the month does, he simply does not eat. He has a few keepsakes stored at a sister’s house in his native state of Missouri; but most of what he has to show in terms of personal possessions collected over nearly eight decades lies now in a small backpack dropped by a leaking window air conditioner in a budget motel room in Shamrock, TX.
I tackle the age issue, an
inquiry as to the toll that his grueling day after day efforts take on an aging
body. “I have had my share of hurts, aches and pains, for sure,” he admits.
“The worst was on my Continental Divide hike, abut 10 years ago. I had to shut down at
Silverthorne in Colorado, had made it about half way when I came down with the
shingles. It took me a good six months to recover from it. I went back the next
year to finish the hike, on down to the Mexican border. I simply ask the Lord
each morning to lay it on me, challenge me, testing my faith. I don’t always
have the luxury of having a fine steak dinner like you provided tonight. A lot
of times I survive on what I would call crap food, lots of gas station hot dogs
and the like. I depend on the Lord to provide and it seems each day he takes
pity on this old man by allowing generous people like you two to cross my
path.”
 |
| A fine dinner companion |
Nomad travels with very little
money. When a Good Samaritan does not materialize to provide a night’s lodging,
he will erect his pup tent in what he calls a “stealth camp.” It could be a
roadway ditch or it could be behind an urban dumpster. “I find beauty wherever
God leads me,” he says. Earlier, on his Route 66 Odyssey, he had found refuge
on a stormy Oklahoma night within an abandoned side-of-the-road warehouse. When
he told the waitress at a local diner the next morning where he had stayed the
previous night, he was informed, “it’s full of rattlesnakes.” He has no fear of
the trail’s unknown; with faith he will somehow procure whatever his needs may
be. “I put my faith in the Lord to protect me. I say the same prayer each
morning as I shoulder my pack. I ask the two angels assigned to me, one on each
shoulder to watch out for this old lost soul.” Providence, he says, has always
found him.
 |
| Trail's end, Santa Monica |
He readily admits he is hiking
away from his past, the decadent and reprehensible life of a man named Meredith Eberhard. Today, he tells me, that person no longer exists. “I am ashamed how I lived the first 58 years of my life,” he states. I notice his eyes are misting. “I was a classic Type A personality. Not a likeable person. I didn’t like myself, even. My walks have changed that.”
Along the Appalachian Trail,
over 20 years ago, the Nomad found God. He today is a deeply religious man, an
antithesis of his odious pre-hiking self. He says walking alone, mile after
mile, gives a man time to think, time to ratiocinate with increasing clarity
the meaning of one’s life. Surprising, to me, his faith has no “New-Wave” feel
to it. It is not mystic or humanist based. It is; he leaves no doubt, a
down-home-rock-solid-old-time conservative religion. “I believe in Jesus Christ
as my Savior,” he proclaims, his voice full of emotion. “I believe in the Bible
as the true word of God.” His hearing is almost gone, he tells me, but his is
not deaf tone to the melodious sounds of nature. “You cannot experience nature
in the sense I have - just listen - and not believe in a higher being. The
world is too complex for a mind of our human limitations to have conceived or
created, or to logically explain. That is where faith comes in.”
His spiritual transition has
taken time. It has been often painful. Enlightenment did not come cheap. “I
sold my optometry practice in 1993 and started spending more and more time
alone developing a piece of land I had bought in Northern Georgia, next to a
little stream named Nimblewill. I took the name as my own.” Over the next five
years, a time he says today he recalls little of; Nomad gave away most of what
he owned, eventually divorcing his wife and reinventing himself as a perpetual
long distance hiker with no permanent address and few worldly possessions. By
the year 2000 and the completion of his eastern seaboard 4,000 mile marathon,
the excoriation of Meredith Eberhard was complete.
The world of Nimblewill Nomad
is one of timeless hope. His life's odyssey is a refreshing story. At an age
well past when most men have taken up the rocking chair, Nimblewill hikes on,
day after day, mile after mile. Along the way he lives a life of freedom most
can only dream of. But Nomad is not a dreamer, he is a doer. Possessing a kind
soul that warms the spirit of all he encounters on America’s “Open Road,” this
little old man accepts each new day’s
challenges with a smile and a nod to a God he knows will provide. He models an
inter-contentment I find envious; knowing his task for today will be the same
as yesterday’s and identical to tomorrow’s:
keep moving west at a never varying pace of three miles per hour,
straight into the setting sun on a direct course to the Land of Milk and Honey.
Note: The day after Thanksgiving, Nomad dipped his toes in the Pacific Ocean, just off the Santa Monica Pier.
Note: The day after Thanksgiving, Nomad dipped his toes in the Pacific Ocean, just off the Santa Monica Pier.
