Once I was a rucksack wanderer, hitching on the road like my “Beat” heroes.
In Kerouac’s “The Dharma Bums,” Japhy Rider (Gary Snyder) says,  “…I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution, thousands or even millions of rucksack wanderers…”
I read the words and followed.
Owning nothing but a rucksack, hiking shoes, jeans, a blue work shirt, and a pup tent; I was 27, escaped from teaching high school English in Iowa and ready to live. 
So we meandered up the East coast, into Canada, hitching rides, sleeping under bridges, in packing crates, on sand dunes, in the woods; sailing to islands on ferry boats; relying on the good will of strangers, which never failed. 
Decades later, a therapist told me I must have had a death wish, putting myelf in danger like that. Danger? Never thought about it. I was busy being a rucksack wanderer. Adventure was my middle name.

late again
in trouble for reading
Ferlinghetti
all night with another
rogue poet