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Missoula is home to the University of Montana and is at its heart a college town. It is on a river and a great deal greener than what I have been walking across. It has a proper downtown and a lot of little shops. Even in the summer there are all kinds of attractive young people about.
They make me feel old and ugly. It must have been Sunday when I rolled into town because all the little shops were closed. Good looking town, though. I wouldn't mind living there.
But as I discovered in Spokane, these big cities aren't a great place to be a hobo. In the small towns people seem almost happy to see me. Not so in Metropolis. Perhaps because the interstate is nearby, Missoula seems to be experiencing something of a hobo infestation. I counted no less than four of the beggars while I sipped my morning coffee. I had occassion to speak to one.
His name is Hoss and he is moving this way and that, hitchhiking mostly. He was a head taller than me and missing most of his teeth and lauged maniacally. He invited me to smoke his pot. I respectfully declined. Still it is heartening that so many people offer. God bless America, I say.
From there it was down the road to East Missoula. It was quite a nice little hike. I am at last walking beside a river again. It was on my right and to my left was the railroad and beyond that was interstate 90. Towering over us all was a high rocky hill, covered with grass and pines. And sheep. Hundreds of them. They had a great deal to say. I kept an eye out for shepherds or dogs, but it seems they were pretty much on their own. It was like Brokeback Mountain.
An Indian named Michael bought me lunch yesterday. He had a big smile and long black hair and a cowboy hat. He could have been on TV. Someone asked him why he tucked his jeans into his boots and he said he liked for sheep to stand their hind legs in his boots so they couldn't run away. Everybody laughed and laughed.
East Missoula is separated from Missoula by two or three miles of wilderness and is a town unto itself. I don't know why it doesn't have its own name. If it were up to me I would call it "James", or after somebody I loved. I stopped there for lunch.
I was not yet sure at that point how my tummy issues would resolve themselves and was in no great mood for walking. There are certain urgencies which make the wandering life particularly difficult. Lunch may have settled me somewhat, but I drank too many Cokes and it made me all sloshy.
I have discovered the American tavern. Dark, seedy-looking estaishments, with their neon beer signs and their heavy wooden doors. They are the only place open in many small towns and, get this, they serve lunch. Cheaper than cafes and if you buy one Coke, they keep filling it for free. And there are always affable drunks to talk to, even at ten in the morning.
From there I went on to an enormous truckstop down the road. I had pie but it wasn't very good. The truckstop itself was fascinating. Huge place. Huge. It has its own casino. I sat in the 90-degree sun and watched the trucks for an hour. America do have commerce.
I have long since had a similar insight from watching the railroad, which I have been following since I left Seattle. Train after train after train aftet train, full of all kinds of good stuff. America is doing business, I tell you. Lots and lots of it.
Onward then to a tavern in Turah. I was doing a regular pub crawl. I am told the locals call this string of pubs the Trapline, though that may refer to the drunk-driving roadblocks the State Patrol puts down the road from each one. But everyone stays in cellphone contact to know when it is safe to drive home.
To my surprise and delight, the tavern at Turah was packed to the rafters with beautiful women. There must have been four of them in there. The prettiest one gave me free Cokes. She was very tall and I think I love her. I didn't care how sloshy I felt. I stayed a very long time.
I then moved on to Clinton, stopping once or twice on the way. Today has been all about forty-five minute walks, punctuated with two-hour breaks. I still managed fifteen miles, which is amazing considering how the day started. I was feeling rather ill. But I am good now.
Better for having arrived at a very congenial tavern, not too far from Clinton, Montana. The usual gang of sixty-year-olds was out front, drinking beer and passing a pipe. They invited me to join them. There were pretty girls, too, dozens of them. My favorite was one called Gwen. She wore a yellow sundress and had braids like Pocahontas. God bless America, I say.
I am now camped behind that very tavern, comfortable in a gravel parking lot. There is something relaxing about camping with permission that almost touches the thrill I get from camping without it.
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