DAY 27
November 1, 2006
 
As I trudged the last mile of my 500-mile peace walk across Utah, the reddest state in the nation, my mind was racing and I wasn’t sure how to feel. People had been asking me all day how I felt. I told them I was excited, and it was true. The walk had been a great success.
 
On a personal level, it had been nothing short of miraculous. The rigorous daily exercise and psychological satisfaction of what I was doing had put an end to all my symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder. The uncontrollable anger that is a common part of PTSD seemed to melt away as I bruised my feet on the lonely highways of the Utah desert.
 
On a public level, over 500 people had walked with me in different parts of the state. Only two people came out to challenge the message, and they did so in a respectful and rational manner. While this is not scientific proof that Utah no longer supports the war, it’s an amazing occurrence. I never expected this much support, and it indicates that the tide is changing in Utah and America.
 
That’s not to say I didn’t have any challenges along the way. Two weeks before I started, the Utah Department of Transportation told me they would arrest me for trespassing if I attempted to walk on the highway without purchasing a one million dollar commercial liability insurance policy for every day of the walk. A spokesperson said my walk on the sidewalk was different from the normal pedestrian’s walk because I “had a political purpose in mind.” I argued the first amendment. I shouldn’t have to buy insurance to exercise freedom of speech. The spokesperson didn't care.
 
So, I tried to get the insurance policy UDOT wanted me to have. The insurance broker’s forms had questions like, “Will you be selling beer?” and “Where will the vendors’ booths be?” I wrote in the blank, “N/A, just a guy walking.”
 
The insurance companies all refused to underwrite me because the situation was too bizarre. Talk to Lloyd's of London, they said. Luckily, my father-in-law is a lawyer and he knew to contact the American Civil Liberties Union. Together, they wrote a brilliant letter and sent it to UDOT’s legal counsel. After pages of legal precedent, the ACLU concluded by writing, “Given the clarity of the law, we trust that UDOT will not unconstitutionally require Mr. Thompson to seek a permit. Please advise within 48 hours whether UDOT intends to enforce its permit scheme against Mr. Thompson. If UDOT so intends, Mr. Thompson will seek a temporary restraining order in federal court to prohibit such enforcement. However, we hope that this matter can be amicably resolved.”
 
Luckily, UDOT responded quickly. “I [agree] that your client does not need a permit to walk down U.S. 89. Obviously, Mr. Thompson should obey all traffic rules ….”
 
“Amazing,” I thought. “Chalk one up for the little guys.” With the UDOT letter in my backpack, I started my trek on the overcast morning of Oct. 2 on the border between Utah and Idaho. Utah gets less than 16 inches of rainfall per year. According to almost 200 years of weather data, it only rains an average of one day in the month of October. It rained on the first day and eight more days after that. My feet became soaked and blisters ensued.
 
By the time I got to Salt Lake City, I had five nasty blisters and no relief in sight. At least the rain didn’t stop people from showing up. Stalwart peace supports came out in numbers to walk in rain, sleet and even snow. My Dad pointed out that in Utah, people see precipitation as a good omen and a blessing rather than a curse. It’s a good way to look at it.
 
Of course, I blame the whole thing on Doug Firstbrook, a Vietnam War vet from Oregon who walked nearly the whole way with me. The rain must have followed him. Even then, I’m grateful Doug came down to walk. He was there to buoy me up during the hardest part.
 
A little over halfway through the state, my wife noticed a lump on our 14-month-old daughter’s neck. The doctor thought it might be cancer, so a radiologist did an ultrasound. He said it looked like it could be childhood leukemia. I called my wife and told her I was coming home. I’d felt like a deadbeat dad while I was in Iraq and I couldn’t stand the thought of not being present to support my family during this crisis. I’d just have to postpone the walk, I thought.
 
My wife told me to stick it out until our daughter could see a specialist and we knew for sure what was going on. I agreed, but it was with major reservations. That weekend I found myself alone in a hotel room in the middle-of-nowhere, Utah. That’s just a recipe for depression. I stayed awake all night questioning the efficacy and necessity of the walk. In the morning, Doug was waiting for me where we left off the day before. We talked and he reminded me of all the great things the walk had done for me on a personal level. Then he reminded me how much it meant to everyone involved. I knew he was right so I put aside my worry and self-pity and walked until I was exhausted. The next day, a couple from Illinois showed up to walk with us.
 
“We just thought you might want some encouragement,” they said.
 
“You came at a good time,” I responded.
 
And so I slowly made progress toward the Arizona border, meeting hundreds of fascinating and peaceful people along the way. One of the highlights was walking through Zion National Park, a magical place of vertiginous red cliffs where I spent nearly every summer of my boyhood. The next day, when I walked out of the park, about 50 people joined me from Springdale, a community of less than 500. Things were really catching on.
 
I told myself not to get too optimistic. I hadn’t passed through Virgin, Utah yet. Virgin is famous for passing a law to banish the United Nations and a law requiring all adults to carry a gun. I thought surely, there would be some opposition there. But I was wrong. Instead, a woman in the John Birch society came out to walk with us. She was a true conservative, not a neo-con, and had some very good reasons for opposing the war. For instance, it’s unconstitutional, it’s a misuse of National Guard troops, it’s fiscally irresponsible, and it makes the U.S. less safe.
 
With nearly 490 miles behind me, I met a group of about 150 walkers in St. George, Utah. We walked to a park and had a memorial and then about 50 people made the 10-mile journey to the Arizona border. Many veterans came to walk with me including Sgt. Larry Cannon, who received an honorable discharge just before his unit went to Iraq for a second time.
 
As we all walked out into the open desert, I couldn’t help but think of the guys in Larry’s unit and all the other’s still in Iraq. I couldn’t help but think of all the innocent Iraqi civilians dying every day. I remembered a quote from Lao Tzu, “When great numbers of people are killed, one should weep over them in sorrow. When victorious in war, one should observe the rites of mourning.”
 
Lao Tzu was wisely pointing out that when it comes to war, every victory is also a funeral when you consider all life of equal value. I felt it was appropriate to apply this idea in a slightly different fashion to the walk: Finishing the 500 miles and showing that the war’s last supporters have changed their minds is a great victory. Yet people are still bleeding out their lives in Iraq and so it is also a funeral.
 
So how did I feel when I touched the sign marking the Arizona border on Nov. 1? I felt sad, but hopeful. It was a funeral and a victory.