The Salt Path: A Memoir

by Raynor Winn

I once heard a lecture by Stephen Hawking, when he said, “It’s the past that tells us who we are. Without it we lose our identity.” Maybe I was trying to lose my identity so I could invent a new one.

The path had taught us that foot miles were different; we knew the distance, the stretch of space from one stop to the next, from one sip of water to the next, knew it in our bones, knew it like the kestrel in the wind and the mouse in his sight. Road miles weren’t about distance; they were just about time.

There is no elephant. Can’t be, we haven’t got room.”

Had I seen enough things? When I could no longer see them, would I remember them, and would just the memory be enough to fill me up and make me whole? He walked away, slowly back the way he came. Could anyone ever have enough memories?

In another millennium, someone would discover fossilized hikers in the mudstone. Last known meal: noodles.

“That’s a good decision, when you’ve got nowhere to go, to just keep moving. It’s the staying still that drags people down. Yeah, there’s plenty here that stay still for too long—they’ve given in and accepted that the streets are their home.”