Day Forty-Nine, Lesbianism

"Are you a cowboy, I mean a real cowboy? You don't just dress like that, do you?"

He looked every bit like a cowboy. He had the hat and the vest and the handle bar moustache. He was just a little bow-legged. His boots weren't all shiny and his eyes were lined. He was happy to answer my question.

"No, sir. I am a lesbian."

I knew he was going to say that. Just as I had known he was a real cowboy. The first few cowboys I met I was fascinated. I wanted to learn all about their trade. I still have a few questions. But mostly I just like having these wiry, weathered ol' cowpunchers look me in the eye and with the barest hint of a smile, tell me they are lesbians.

I should explain that this comes from an old joke, seemingly very popular with cowboys. In it an old cowboy is asked how one went about becoming a cowboy and he explains that from earliest boyhood he had had an affinity with horses and a burning desire to rope dogies and ride the range. A lesbian is then asked how she got started and she explains that, likewise, from the earliest flower of girlhood, she had been [THIS PART OF THE JOKE IS OFTEN DRAWN OUT IN EXQUISITE DETAIL] very fond of women. The cowboy then, finding no fault with anything she has said, announces that, in addition to being a cowboy, he is also a lesbian.

So now every cowboy in America thinks he is a lesbian. And following their reasoning, so am I. A really militant one. Yee haw.

I am something of a humorist myself and can't help thinking that someone ought to write these fellows a new joke. I rather enjoy the old one, but they might appreciate the variety. Maybe we can get Tom Bodett or someone. I know he ain't a real cowboy but he's close enough. It would be a real service.

I walked twenty miles, more or less on the button. My day passed effortlessly. It was how I thought Walking Across America would be, before I knew any better. A twenty-mile stroll; I stopped a few times. I took the odd break here and there. But mostly I just trundled along. The mile markers were flying by.

It is my fondest hope that I will reach a point where all my days are like this. I could have gone anothet ten miles. I was carrying almost two gallons of water and a bunch of food. I barely noticed the weight.

Part of it was that it wasn't hot. It may have been eighty or so. I don't notice ninety right away but it does seem to tire me out. Likewise with hills. Today's road was comparatively flat. And I think the rest might have done me some good, but I don't think that's all of it. There is something mysterious happening here. Some days I just feel stronger.

I walked about twelve miles on a lovely frontage road, directly beside the freeway. There was almost no traffic and there were a couple of overpasses to rest under. There's not a lot of shade in this part of the state. They're a nice place to pass an hour.

When my frontage road veered inexplicably off into the hills, I climbed over a barbed wire fence and out onto the freeway. It weren't so bad; it was just a few miles. Traffic was not too too heavy. And the hills are pretty and the sky was blue. The promised thunderstorm never arrived.

I stopped when I got to the Ranch House, a saloon just outside of Garrison, Montana. It had been recommended to me by Jim, a publican in Drummond. He had called ahead; they were waiting for me. "You're right on tme," they said.

They set me up with a mushroom burger and an ice cold pint. They couldn't have treated me better. I had a chance to talk to a Bret, T. Brett to his friends, who owns the place. He earns his money as a bigtime camera technician in Hollywood and spends it as a Saloon keeper in Montana.

He is also an avid cyclist so I have to watch my over-generalisations there. But I would like to state, for the record, that almost none of those assholes ever say hi to me.

But T-Brett is one of the good ones and he topped off his warm hospitality with a great campsite, just behind his saloon. It is an under-utilised campground. Gosh, it's a pretty spot. I am six feet from a river with the hills all around. I set up my tent on a lawn. I hear the thunder and I hope it rains. I am safe and warm and content.


CHEERS TOO to Jim in Drummond, of the Rough Something-or-Other saloon. Not only did he turn me on to this place, he more or less planned my route through Montana. And he marked every saloon on my route with an X. This man really knows his state.

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