Pedestrian 23: Footsteps

Navigating Des Moines by tracks left in the snow.

I spent the first days of 2022 in Des Moines, Iowa (my hometown) with my family, where it was unbearably cold, leaving little room for walking. Living in New York (which I joke feels “tropical” compared to the Midwest), I often forget such is the nature of central Iowa. It’s either blazing hot and humid during the summer or bone chilling cold, as it was throughout most of my two week stay.

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This is Pedestrian, a newsletter about walking and our everyday surroundings. I’m Alex Wolfe. This work is made possible by members of the Pedestrian patreon. Please consider supporting for as little as $5/month.

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Naturally, I wanted to start my year with a walk around town, but it wasn’t until Monday, January 3rd that the forecast predicted suitable walking conditions. It would be a sunny 30º F; a reprieve from the unforgiving weather, and relatively speaking, was much warmer than days before. Colder weather was on the way (I’m talking less than > 10º F), thus forcing my restless hand. If I was going to walk, then Monday was my chance. 

So in the middle of the afternoon, I stepped into the cold and was greeted by a piercing sun hanging in a cloudless blue sky. Its radiant sunshine reflected off the surface of the snow that had fallen days before. Not one for wearing sunglasses, I winced and was temporarily blinded. To protect my eyes, I kept my head down and watched my feet move back and forth along a freshly plowed sidewalk. 

Days later I would have a conversation with the owner of a beloved, longstanding deli that felt a bit like deja vu:

“You can always tell where you’re at by looking at the sidewalk. Some are wide and some are narrow. Some are old and others are brand new. Sometimes you have to cross the street just to keep going…”

You can’t always see the sidewalk in the winter’s snow, but you can see the tracks of those who came before you. Each path is another’s interpretation of how to move through space. Some neighborhoods are well traversed, suggesting robust pedestrian activity (or reliance on public transportation), and others are filled with snow as smooth as porcelain, suggesting ownership of vehicles. 

So instead of following the familiar roads and streets that I had once traversed in my teenage years, I spent my afternoon walking along the footsteps of those who walked before me. Instead of University, I followed Carpenter. Instead of Forest, I chose Franklin. Instead of following the sidewalk, I walked in the street, occasionally meeting a passerby and exchanging a grunt of  “hello” from beneath our jackets.

In search of something to drink, I walked through the door of Penuel Grocery Store near Evelyn Davis Park. The store was housed in a simple brick structure attached to a large residence. The windows were covered by metal grates and blocked out by large sheets of masonite. For all I knew, this was a front…or a portal into another world.

Inside I was greeted by a man sitting behind a cash register. Smiling, he wore a faux fur jacket with the hood placed over his head. Smoke rose from a pair of slowly burning incense while a boy played on his phone.

I’d argue there is no such thing as a bodega outside of New York, but this was likely the Des Moines equivalent, yet instead of your run-of-the-mill household items, this grocery contained various staples imported from Africa. I placed my camera strap around my shoulder and grabbed a coconut water from the cooler. 

“Are you a photographer?" asked the man behind the register.

I am always perplexed by this question. While I carry a camera on my walks, I hesitate to wholeheartedly identify as such. I’ve always considered the photographs an artifact of the activity; a way to show that the walk actually happened. In this context, it was easier to say yes. 

We introduced ourselves and I learned the man behind the register was named Patrick. He immigrated to Des Moines from the Congo about 12 years ago, shortly before I left the city for Chicago. He ran the grocery store, but his main business was real estate.

We exchanged light conversation for a few minutes and I joked he should move to New York City where he could make lots of money in real estate, but he objected. A grin spread across his face.

“No, no. Life is good here.”

An hour later, I crossed the Des Moines River, and stopped at the very top of a bridge to look at the expansive view. Footsteps ran parallel to the western bank of the river and I followed them with my eyes until the tracks disappeared in the woods. The panoramic view made it feel as if I was on my own little island in the sky, despite a steady flow of traffic moving across the bridge.

Continuing my inspection, I looked over the guardrail running along the pedestrian walkway to see what secrets sat below me. In a city like Des Moines, where streets and sidewalks are generally maintained and free of litter, the space beneath a bridge reveals an alternative interpretation of a city’s vitality. It is a place of refuge and privacy. A bridge’s supporting structures, covered in graffiti or messages such as “JESUS IS LOVE” serve as a forum for those who are without homes and the vagabonds passing through town.

Convinced I was alone on top of the bridge, I spotted a man partially obfuscated by the river brush. We made eye contact as he took a swig from the beer in his hand. While we did not speak or wave at one another, his gesture had a certain swagger that implied he did not wish to be seen. I pulled back from the guardrail, realizing this man was likely responsible for the tracks my eyes had followed into the woods.

The sun was setting as I walked along a particularly busy stretch of University Avenue – one that is full of fast food establishments, stripmalls, and busy intersections with crosswalks too wide to casually navigate. While there is a sidewalk to follow, it does not make logical sense and often starts and stops without reason. It’s risky to move through these areas as one is often forced to cross the street and risk being hit by a car.

Up ahead, I spotted a pair of oversized fiberglass cows, which signaled I had reached the Anderson–Erickson Dairy Plant. These cows have sat on the southwest corner of the campus and greeted oncoming traffic since 1966. 

Sitting at one of the busiest intersections in all of Des Moines, I felt an impulse to cross and get their photograph. Here crosswalks are few and far between, and despite an abundance of stoplights, it feels as if traffic is moving at all times in all directions.  While I had driven past these cows countless times before in my highschool years, I’d never actually seen them up close.

After waiting nearly five minutes to cross, I bombed across the street. Once reaching the other side, I was careful not to step in the snow surrounding the cow’s feet. I did not wish to leave a trace of my visit. It was golden hour and the sun’s light projected the cow’s silhouettes against the brick wall behind their tails like a giant spot light. Finding the right position, I put my camera to my face and pressed the shutter.

Having a history of walking towards large, oversized animal structures, such as the Big Duck in Flanders, I decided this would be a great place to call my first walk of the year a wrap. In true Chris Arnade fashion, I grabbed a hamburger at a nearby McDonalds where I phoned my father for a ride, who despite being inconvenienced, is more than willing to pick me up when I’ve walked too far to return home after dark.

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I hold a certain superstition that how we spend the beginning of the new year is how the next twelve months will unfold. The new year often brings a new beginning; a renewed sense of pressure to change oneself. Instead, what if we approached our new year as we would approach a walk?

Change is a slow process, and doesn't always unfold in a linear fashion (and almost never as we’d like). Much like a walk, a year can be reduced to a series of starts and stops; pivots and readjustments occurring over time. We can have a destination in mind, but embarking on that walk provides us with information we did not have before leaving. The beauty of walking – given that we allow ourselves the space for flexibility and curiosity – is the opportunity for possibility. There is meaning in movement.

So what will the bovine have in store for 2022?

Until next time, 

Alex
Brooklyn, NY

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As always, this is Pedestrian, a newsletter telling stories about the people, routines, and connections we make as a result of moving throughout one’s everyday surroundings.