In my neighborhood, I might know their names. There’s Peter, whose long arms swing like windmills, and his wife, Nancy, who has been walking regularly for decades now. I’ve seen  Arturo not only in this area but also on the Reston trails. I could name Eileen, Wendy, Maureen, Dave, Doug and many others.

But for every person I know there are hundreds more anonymous fellow travelers. Dog walkers and young mothers with jogging strollers. Long-distance striders who carry water bottles on their belt, like gunslingers. They are short or tall, plump or lean, fast or slow. 

Some folks don’t look up or acknowledge contact; they’re lost in thought. Others catch my eye from far away, wave and smile. 

But in one way we are all the same. We are people of the path.