To Loading My Pack (first letter)

Dear Friend,
There’s an intoxicating promise between us, faith as an end.  It’s addictive.  I’m always refining you, thinking you through.  It’s enjoyable.  I can’t stop.  It’s an evolving romance in step.  You and I are bound to reach an ideal walking relationship, a sore-free, enduring balance of renegade assuredness and profound sensitivity.  I recall Thoreau as I fix you for the next hike:
 I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks, who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering; which word is beautifully derived “from idle people who roved about the country, in the middle ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going à la sainte terre” — to the holy land, till the children exclaimed, “There goes a sainte-terrer”, a saunterer — a holy-lander. They who never go to the holy land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds, but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean. Some, however, would derive the word from sans terre, without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret of successful sauntering. 
External forces seem powerless as I fill you up.  Divisions of labor are momentarily contained.  It’s what I look forward to. You keep hope alive through this age of retreat, despite my weakness in privilege and fear of true hardship.  I hear my indentured ancestors cry out with love and support for these anticipatory moments (you help me lose my mind and heavy heart), these expectations of anti-imperialist release.
It is true, we are but faint hearted crusaders, even the walkers, now-a-days, who undertake no persevering never ending enterprises. Our expeditions are but tours and come round again at evening to the old hearth side from which we set out. Half the walk is but retracing our steps. We should go forth on the shortest walk, perchance, in the spirit of undying adventure, never to return; prepared to send back our embalmed hearts only, as relics to our desolate kingdoms. 
It’s as if the violent directives of modern time are about to be cancelled out, that our bodily existence can defy the nullifying abstractions of capital, the brutal limits of possibility they enforce.  Our bare life will rebound with the new day coming.  There’ll be no more equivalencies or resignation.  Our desires will be our own.
If you are ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends and never see them again; if you have paid your debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free man; then you are ready for a walk.
We’ll hit the road, go off the grid and underground, start prairie fires, put them out, set up and abandon safe houses.  We’ll get where drifting takes us, before and after all else, without categories or conditions, perpetually stateless, nomadic, always able already to starve, rejoice and suffer, to revolt without longing, to seize reality, to transcend the present and our careful preparations.
I can’t wait until next time,