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Still, in theory, I could have been back on the road by not much later than eight. But I didn't leave my tent until nine-thirty. Blame Satan himself for that.
For I was ready to go well before then. I put on my shoes and unzipped. The ground around me was covered with spiders of every size and description. I didn't give them a whole lot of thought. My attention was on the snake.
A rattlesnake, a good thirty inches long was making his way past my tent. He did not even notice me. I, though, noticed him plenty. He did not look unkind. He looked almost friendly. He seemed to be humming to himself. He looked as if he had some place to be, perhaps a pleasant lunch date.
Snakes are evil. I hope someone kills him with a stick.
When I did climb out I packed quickly, I tell you, standing on tippety toes. And I was across the thirty yards to the road in three or four bounding strides. It was ninety by then but I was ice cold. My voice was a little squeaky.
I walked down the hill to Spearfish, South Dakota. I can't say I much liked the road. Four lanes, divided, like an interstate, but here and there a crossroad. Plenty of people waved at me but I had others gesturing for me to walk in the tall grass next to the shoulder. With the snakes. I should have offered a gesture of my own. I know one for every occasion.
The state patrol rolled by twice. They were not that much put out. They did not stop and yell at me. I'll accept that as tacit approval.
I have a letter in to the South Dakota Department of Transportation, asking if I can walk on the interstate. If necessary, that is, I don't relish the thought. They still haven't written back. Washington and Montana both gave me prompt answers. The Washington guy, I think his name is Ian, was even really nice about it. SDDOT, you do not impress. Pull out your thumbs and get snapping.
As it is I've found my own route out of Dakota. I am headed south through the Black Hills. It is said to be the prettiest part of the state, though not the flattest at all. From there I am headed across Nebraska. Gather your hills while ye may.
In Spearfish I had a burger for lunch, six waters and twenty-nine Cokes. I know I said I was going to starve, but I will be there soon enough. And it was cheap; it's a big enough town that prices are not too too bad. At a K-Mart I bought both weeners and fish and olives for when I have parties. And Gatorade for not too much more than tapwater. It is more refreshing and far less likely to give me the poppin' fizzies.
The real expense was brand new shoes. Good ones; I am taking no chances. So what if it means I must go without food. I am hoping my feet will be happy. If not ecstatic, at least quietly glad. And for the most part, uninjured. I chose carefully. I hope they last. But that will be up to the road.
After some miles my feet did hurt, but in new and intriguing ways. They do seem to be awfully hot, but that may not be their fault at all. It was a good 98 degrees today. That'll warm anyones toes. When I hauled out my arch supports the plastic was too hot to touch. Really.
My shoe consultant was a girl called Kayla, with a smile and a dimpled chin. And a low-cut blouse. I mention that in passing, apropos of nothing at all.
Spearfish, South Dakota is home to some 9000 souls and not a bad place at all. They've retained some of their prosperity. Real estate's doing OK. And farming and industry and tourism. Sturgis has done them some good. Those half million bikers spend enough money around here that most folks pretend that they like them.
They don't. I am certain of that fact. Though you won't find anyone to admit it.
"People in Spearfish are two-faced," said Jake, a man I met in the park. He is a Viet Nam vet and a former truck driver, a bit down on his luck, it seemed. But sober, rather opressively so. He seemed a bit mad at the world. He had, though, had some pretty rough breaks. I don't blame him at all.
He was sure the bad guys would get theirs in the end. "Karma," explained it all. I am something of a believer in karma myself, though I don't know if mine is good or bad. I guess I do put some good out in the world, but any negatve energy finds in me a place to grow.
While I was talking to Jake a little bug came and bit me hard on the arm. Karma. It still hurts. I don't think there was any venom involved. He just bit a big piece out of me. I squished him dead.
Karma.
I squeezed out of Spearfish on a frontage road. That was an unhappy stretch. There was no shoulder and traffic was moving fast and there were snakes all over the place. Every time a car came by I had to climb in amongst them and hope they accepted me as one of their own.
I stopped at a bakery (and wine bar, no less) to beg a few drops of water. It was an elegant place, wedged in amongst the car dealers and trailer hitch shops. I wish I had known it was there. I had already spent all my carb money on crackers. I even remember wishing that there were a bakery around.
C'est lovey. Belle Fourche. Grand Teton, s'il vous plait. At any rate, it smelled nice in there. Wide Mouth Frog, it is called. I got the feeling the baker lady didn't really believe I was Walking Across America, but she gave me a sugar cookie just in case.
It was a very good sugar cookie. Sugar cookies are easy to get wrong. They are deceptively simple, like Japanese food. The ingedients may be few. But the proportions are tricky, the timing precise. Any idiot can make syrupy teriyaki or a bad sugar cookie.
I bet her bread was pretty good, too. I wonder if this is still bentonite country. The water might be one of those secret ingredients that can't be reproduced anywhere else. They say Olympia beer owes its taste to the water, but I think in their case it is more about non-union labor and spotty quality control.
I eventually made it to Highway 85 and turned south into the Black Hills. Another fairly narrow shoulder. With bumpity strips cut in every forty feet. They are sharp and hard on my toes. Roads in South Dakota are made of concrete. The cars make a whistling sound. From the ridges cut in to let off the rains. Wet concrete can be slimy.
Concrete must be cheap in these parts. Or maybe the governor owns a concession. Or maybe the SDDOT never got around to reading the e-mail explaining the benefits of asphalt.
The Black Hills themselves are an odd bit of geography. Geology, should you prefer. They are proper mountains, but they're the same rolling plains, only taller and covered with trees. They are shrouded in haze and they do look black across the dry grass of the plains.
Find me now camped comfortably in the Black Hills National Forest. I did not get too far today. I went a mile more than I meant to. The State Patrol had a speedtrap set up across from the first good spot I found. I am not sure how legal it is to camp here.
But they have seen me walking now dozens of times. No interviews as of yet. This ain't Montana; they're out in force. It's weird seeing cops again.
I may have signed on for a few more hills than I bargained for. These are, I repeat, proper mountains. We'll let you know how it works out.
I RIPPED MY TROUSERS, right at the crotch, climbing a barbed wire fence. I am glad it is cold up here. It could have been much much worse.
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