Day Thirty-Five, The Livelong Day

I've spent the last week or so walking uphill. I am following a river. If a river didn't have some sort of grade to it, it would just be a long skinny pond. Sometimes I have to go over hills the river gets to go around. So it's harder for me than it is for the river.

Today, however, I woke up next to a river, spent all day walking downhill, and now here I am camped at what I'm pretty sure is that same river, twenty-one miles upstream. It's mind-blowing, I tell you. Once I rode a bicycle in a straight line for forty-five minutes and arrived back where I started. But that time I was really drunk. It was pouring down rain and I was wearing a Versace necktie. They're fairly vivid. Cheap dyes, though. The colour ran all over my shirt. And if I remember right, the bicycle did not have any tires. Just rims. I think I found it on the street. But that was ages ago and has little bearing here. As far as I am concerned, it is forgotten.

I woke up early and spent two leisurely hours sitting naked in my tent. The sun was streaming in and I was right on the water. There weren't any bugs at all. There were people playing golf across the river. I think their course used to be wider. There have been all sorts of floods this year. There are trees coming up right out of the water and at the little fishing spot where I was there was a picnic table twenty-five feet out to sea. The river is moving very fast. A month ago it was doing real damage.

I was in unusually fine form on my short walk to town. My feet had settled into quiet complaint and my muscles weren't aching at all. My pack was light because I was out of water. I actually felt pretty good. You might say there was a sort of spring in my step. That's when I witnessed the murder.

There was a little ground squirrel, a chipmunk or something, running across a field. He was making good speed. I think he was happy just to be alive, to be a chipmunk on such a beautiful day. Then he ran out into the road, suffered a moment's indecision, and was deliberately murdered by a man in a monster truck.

I saw it all go down; it was cold-blooded murder. The guy was laughing like Billy Carter. A chipmunk. You might argue that praire dogs are conspiring to break your horses' legs, or that wolves take all the fun out of elk season, but this was just a little chipmunk. What had he ever done to anyone? Who doesn't like chipmunks? I watched him explode.

I don't think I am overstating things when I say that guy was a complete psycho. I bet there are dozens more like him. Kill off the snakes and you've done something, but to murder a poor little chipmunk is sociopathic. It is right up there with bedwetting as one of the sure signs your kid is going to grow up to be a serial killer.

I don't know if the chipmunk's mother will miss him. I don't know if anyone has noticed him gone. Life goes on, sure, even without him. His wife's probably dating again. Perhaps there were things he wanted to accomplish. Even chipmunks have their dreams. I wonder if I'll die as quickly or as pointlessly. And if I'll be as quickly forgotten.

Life goes on.

A brisk hour's hike took me to Thompson Falls where I lingered for quite some time. I wanted to charge up my little computer. It's a case of altering the nature of something by observing it. These little autobiographies require time and planning and as often as not dictate the pace of my trip. I would, in fact, be asleep right now if I weren't still typing these words.

I loitered long at the library and learned some more about David Thompson. He's this Canadian fellow who mapped this whole area and set up trading posts for the Hudson's Bay Company. This was in 1809. Everyone I've met since Idaho seems to know all about him. They often get him confused with Jim Bridger but you can forgive that. It's nice they even care.

Of course, it would not be difficult to master the history of Idaho. "In 1809 David Thompson set up a couple of trading posts and then nothing much happened and now here we are." Which is not to say Idaho is not a beautiful state. Buggy as all get out, but a beautiful state.

On my way out of town I passed a laundromat. I would have been happy to charge my computer there but it didn't even occur to me to look for a laundromat. Thompson Falls is the first little town I've been to for days. The others have all been gas stations next to taverns. There was even a sidewalk for some distance and I went to the post office.

It is staffed by lunatics.

I was tempted to stick around and wash some clothes, but I was in a peculiar mood to walk. One hates to waste these opportunities, not least when the next town is thirty miles away. I had to chew up some distance if I am going to make it to Plains, Montana by tomorrow.

It was a very nice road. I was right by the river a lot of the way and I got to walk down some hills. I wish I had more time to learn the geography, but whatever mountains I've been walking through, I seem to have come out on the other side. It's dryer here, rockier. Less beary and more snaky.

All along the road were signs saying "Watch For Sheep" so I did. I think it was sheep. Maybe it was goats. Anyway, they were extinct here a hundred years ago and after many failed efforts and transplantations, they are back. But they still like to leap in front of cars so everyone has to be careful.

I watched the high rock hills with interest, hoping to catch one leaping from crag to crag. Finally I did see some goats. They were standing in the road in front of a blind corner. I think they were eating salt. I worried they might be mean so I clapped my hands at them and they scurried up the hill. Goats are notoriously applause shy. They were pretty good climbers but I've seen better. I saw a much bigger goat in India standing on a motor scooter. He wasn't driving or anything. He was just standing there. Looking regal.

Find me now camped on a thin strip of land between the railroad and the river. The trains are maybe ten paces away and this is a well-used piece of track. When I hear them coming I like to close my eyes and pretend I am sleeping right on the track. It is a rush every time.

I asked a nice man, Terry, if I could camp here. He seemed to think it would be alright. He works for the railroad, keeping their signals in order. He is always travelling and doesn't get to see his kids as much as he'd like. He says it is easy work but he was covered in grease and had a handshake like a vise.

I have been following the railroad more or less since I started this adventure. You wouldn't believe how many thousands of guys they've got working on it. I alays figured you layed your track and were pretty much up and running, but there is a whole lot more to it than that. Those guys are out there every day. Big fellows, too. Strong. Tough-looking. If you wave, they always wave back.

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