George Thomson

At 78, George Thompson moves slower than he used to, but with purpose. Dressed in a gently worn pinstripe suit and black fedora, he carries a small leather valise and a notebook filled with destinations—national parks mostly, each one carefully checked off as he travels the country. His cane taps rhythmically against the ground, and though the years have softened his frame, his eyes still hold the gleam of a younger man chasing beauty before time catches up. The Newton Motel is another quiet stop on his self-appointed pilgrimage—one more dot on the map, one more sunset to witness.