This brilliant Colorado morning I walk with a man from Boulder. Franklin Folsom is a gentleman and scholar,
the oldest person on this March and one of its great leaders. He is my kind of leftist - a Marxist! - and the author of fifty
or sixty books. We discuss American-Soviet friendship for a time. But when I learn that Franklin was at Swarthmore College
in Pennsylvania, I get all excited: "Where you there at the same time as my very favorite Shakespeare critic, Harold
C. Goddard?" Yes, Franklin says he knew Goddard! Wow! I feel I am practically walking next to the man who knew Samuel
Johnson or A.C. Bradley!
Rest Day at a big field beside a river near Lawson, Colorado. But Beatrice and Benedict walk today anyway;
we hoof it to the next settlement up the road. Well, the walk is longer than we anticipate, and so we hitch a couple of rides.
But we don't want to walk all day anyway; we're in a hurry to get to Idaho Springs. We hear tell there's a hot spring in town!
Yes, it is a darling little old western town and it DOES have... We dump all our dirty clothes together into one big machine.
After wash/and/dry we find a resort called Indian Springs.
We've been walking three whole months now - fifteen
or twenty miles most days. We're blistered and bone-weary. But here's the cure for what ails us. Here's a long tunnel dug
into a mountain - a cavern of boiling water and steam. Here are three pools of mineral water: hot, hotter, hottest. How long
can one sit in water 112 degrees? But we find our way to an enormous indoor garden of tall trees and luscious plants. In its
midst is a pool with water just right; it's comfortable enough to sit and soak and talk for hours. The time, the place, the
long and remarkable journey we're on seem to call for philosophy. And so I regale Beatrice with the best philosophy I know
- the truth and beauty of dialectical materialism.
We get a ride back to camp from some friendly local guys,
and we babble 'bout the Peace March to them until they deliver us to our pastel forest of little dome tents - just when everyone
is lining up for supper! In the evening poetry circle I read four of the letters from the Cupertino high school students.
Another dream of a day.
A twenty-mile walk from Lawson to the Chief Hosa Campground west of Denver. At the lodge across
from camp Guy Colwell manages to set up a slide show of his work. Beatrice and Benedict sit side by side in the dark and oh
how we get turned on by Guy's erotic art! Nice and cozy in our tent tonight.
Another rest day. But that only means no walking. There's always work needs doing. I clean a dozen
nasty porta-potties, then accompany Beatrice the mail lady into the big city of Denver. At the massive main post office we
pick up five very heavy sacks of mail.
Yesterday two of us drove into Denver; today
all of us walk toward that towering city. But not all the way. After eleven miles we stop at a place called Red Rocks. A picturesque
spot, a park of sorts. But soon as we arrive it rains. It rains long and hard. Our dirt campground is all water and mud, but
still it rains. Pete Seeger is here to sing but it rains harder than ever. And yet what a time in that town hall tent - what
warmth! Pete Seeger is the greatest guy. And the most modest!