A season ago, I walked over a hundred miles at what I felt to be the same rate as the advance of spring. With a pack of about twenty pounds and a sore hip, I moved so slowly that the microclimates of farms and yards and roadsides and woods, closely observed, altered my previous sense of time and place, a sense that had been based on routine or schedule or obligation. In stead of that disconnection, in this pilgrimage, I sensed something like a congruence of movements – mine and the season’s - so