Day Twenty-Three, My Ancestral Home

I had some trouble getting up to steam. My heart wasn't in it all day. I had slept long and well; my feet were fine. The weather was mild and fair. But I could not walk more than an hour at a time without feeling I needed a rest. It went on like that until late afternoon when I stopped in a tavern for lunch.

No beer, mind; I know that doesn't help. Just a sandwich and a bowl of soup. It was there I met Ted, the septic man, "licensed to take your shit." I had been trying to give him my boots, my old ones still in my pack. They were taking up space and adding pounds and poking me in the back of the neck. I had some notion of shipping them home. They were, after all, almost new. But it was the weekend; the post offices were closed. I just wanted rid of the things. I kept my eye out for a charity box but in the end I thought I'd give them to Ted.

"Let me pay you for them," he says. That had not been my intention. But I had been worrying about money all day long and could muster only the feeblest protestations. He wound up giving me forty bucks. Now I don't know what the market for gently used footwear is in modern America, but I am guessing I got the better end of that deal. It was Ted's gentle way of wishing me luck and subsidising my expedition. He spotted me lunch, as well.

"You're young," he told me. It seemed to impress him. I wasn't feeling very young at all. When he was a young man, Ted and his wife had built a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. Miles from nowhere they brought everything in on their backs. They were hippies of some kind. But after twenty years his wife started making noise about having flush toilets so in deference to her he went out and became a successful businessman and a pillar of his community. And he knows more septic jokes than anyone you've ever met. I could have listened to him all day.

But it was back on the road. I was feeling encouraged. There was a new spring in step. Another thirteen miles and it would be a glorious day. I made it all of four. You see, Ted mentioned another bar up the road, a new place that had at one time been a restaurant/Winnebago park. He said they'd let me camp there if I dropped his name. Everyone knows Ted.

I had only come sixteen miles. My feet were more tender than sore. It was getting late but there was enough daylight to put in another five miles. But the place looked so horribly inviting and I was looking forward to a rest. I popped in a dropped Ted's name and they couldn't have been more decent about putting me up. I thought I'd celebrate with a beer.

There was a party going on. There is apparently liitle to do in Elk, Washington of a Sunday evening. All the best folk were there at the bar. It was like Roadhouse with Patrick Swayze but without all the murderous rage. I had come a day too late. The big Elk Days celebration was winding down. It is an occasion on which, as I understand it, the whole town goes on a three day bender. Only the very strongest remained.

There was a logger and a soldier and truck driver or two, and a philosophical ex-con. There was a genuine cowboy with a champion's belt; he was held together by pins. And an Indian, a mudbog racer, who taught be something about tribal governence and reservation life. One woman, I remember, sold insurance. She was a guest-pass Mormon with a sweet smile who would, every now and then, say something to make me blush.

But then I blush easy.

I learned about logging and cowboying and the benifits of having a sound personal financial strategy. I was treated like a friend. One beer led to two and two to two more and a good time was had by all. There was wrasslin' and coarse language. The one fistfight ended well. Everyone behaved more or less like brothers. I was the cousin from out of town.

"We are all pretty much related," one woman told me. The same familes haved lived around here for five or six generations. It occurred to me that I might be related to them, too. As it turns out I am from here. My grandfather spent his unhappy boyhood on a farm not five miles away. I spent my unhappy boyhood elsewhere, but we came to be great friends. "Mr. Pierce," he'd say. "Mr. Pierce," I'd say. And then we'd both laugh and laugh.

So this, you see, is my ancestral home. It is likely that in the reckless days of his youth my grandfather raced his Model T down the very roads I am walking today. And it ain't a bad place. I feel comfortable here and I've met some like-minded people. The only thing that could have made it better would be if they had nachos. And pie. And one of them lava lamps.

The Mulz'z Shed is my new favorite bar. On Highway 2 just down the road from Elk. It will be a landmark someday. The prices are good, the people are kind. They'll make you feel at home. Drop in for a beer if you get the chance. Tell 'em Ted sent you.

"We're gonna get Willie Nelson in here," says Chris, a partner in the bar. They've got a nice little stage and friendly crowd and a place to park his bus. I sure hope Willie does come. I think he would have a blast.

Find me now the next day in my own Winnebago, parked out behind the bar. It's the Japanese version on the Toyota chassis. I admired them when I was kid. The were so sleek compared to them big boxy full-sized jobbies. This was before I learnrd to worry they might be underpowered on hills.

I am half ashamed to confess I have never been in an RV before. They are really neat. This ain't even one of the larger ones and I've got all the comforts of home. There's a toilet, it ain't hooked up. There's a stove, it ain't hooked up either. But I slept like a princess on a double-wide cot, using my bag as a blanket. All the fresh air of a tent combined with the comfort of a hotel. I am still not sure I would like to pilot one of these things around America, at least not at four dollars a gallon, but I am beginning to see the point.

I woke up early and started typing. There seemed to be so much to say. But all you get are the high points. The joy was in the detail. There were tales of stabbings and heartache and brawls and a most ungentlemanly Elvis impersonator. But it was all too perfect, it was all too good. You'd think I was making it up.

I feel great. I could do with some Nachos. It's a beautiful warm spring day. But it's getting warm and I am feeling so well. I really ought to get walking. I had some intention of reaching Idaho today. That ain't going to happen. I'll click off a few and get some rest. Or I might just hang here all day.

Peace.

QUOTES:

"I'd rather be a lesbian than a cowboy." --from a cowboy who very much enjoyed being a cowboy

"Spokane sewers suck." --in a portable john at a disused set of truck scales, twenty miles north of Spokane. I had spent the day before wading through puddles and being splashed by passing cars. I couldn't agree more. But what amazed me was the fact that someone had carried this resentment so far out of town and written it in a toilet.

"I will make love to you." --bartender explaining what the consequences would be if he had to stop work and come around the bar to stop two men from fighting

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