Now, the halfway mark itself--7,500 miles--has become another ingredient in my memory's caldron. Those words I penned in south Spain ten months ago remain true. Still, with all the obvious benefits that have come my way through the walk, the question of why I'm doing it remains strong in the minds of many who've learned of my journey.

The whole thing began innocently enough as a 9-year-old's whim to someday grow up and explore the entire universe. My inspiration was (and still is) that old killer of cats: curiosity. Growing up with the awareness that there's a whole world of strange things out there waiting to assault my senses was all I needed to keep my itch alive. It was to be one fantasy which refused to go away in the sobriety of growing up.

Still, the dream might have slowly passed away if not for the disturbing words of my 80-year-old grandmother. Though her own legs were too weak to support her anymore, she always wore the world's firmest smile, and she had once told me: "Whatever your dream is, do it while the urge is strong. Don't put off the dream until a`better day,' because life never gets any better than when you're struggling to see your dreams come true."

At the time of my grandmother's advice I was 23 and more tempted than not to follow the secure course of a 9-to 5 journalist. But the more I contemplated her words, the more sense my boyish fantasy made, as opposed to what seemed the "normal and reasonable" route to take. Taking the extra time and effort to explore in detail the world about me just seemed to fit. I loved learning, meeting people, exploring and traveling. So, why not?

Traveling on foot, strange as it may sound, even made sense journalistically: when you're walking an area you are exposed to everything. Little misses your senses. Plus, I would be able to collect enough interesting personalities, settings, and stories to satisfy my writing needs for a lifetime times ten.

I also felt there had to be more goodness in the world than the stories coming across the news wires were telling me. I disagreed strongly with my journalistic peers' pessimistic views of the world and its future. I knew from hitchhiking across the United States several times during my teens that, more than anything else, people love to help others. Many times they couldn't seem to do enough.

Thus, all the more reason to travel on foot with only a backpack. In that manner I would be purposefully depending on the everyday common people to help me around the world. In a sense I wanted to test mankind, and if it responded as I thought it would, I might even, in my own small way, help to break down the popular conception that this is mostly a cruel, cold, selfish world.

Depending on others forces me to meet many day in and day out. So, in my own subtle way, I was forcing myself to experience far more human encounters than the average traveler can ever have. And a greater variety, too.

There seems to be a mystique about the young lone traveler with a pack on his back. It's as old as history. In the Middle Ages monks and people of the church used to go on long pilgrimages alone. For thousands of miles they would walk and people always took care of them. And it's still true. People--you and I--still feel an inner compassion for the lone traveler seeking nothing more than knowledge and friendship.

All of which, as you might guess, suits this particular knobby-kneed pilgrim just fine.

Steven