Day Eighty-Five, Living on the Edge

I did not sleep especially well. My tent was on a flat spot. I had to go over barbed wire to get there, but I thought it was worth the risk. But only the bit where I laid out my sack happened to be a bit lumpy. And an adenoidal cow somewhere very nearby kept bleating at me all night long.

Come the dawn, the cow turned into a sheep, or rather a thousand of them. Marching single file and with noisy complaint to somewhere beyond the horizon. They were every one afflicted with mange. They were bare as the day they were born. They looked like fat little sausages. I did not try to make friends.

Town was not, as I thought, a mere eight miles off. It was in fact closer to ten. Small matter, you'd think, but it got to me and rather upset my rhythm. I was moving at a respectable pace until I unearthed the deception. Then my pack got heavy and my feet started to hurt. I slowed to what felt like a crawl. It confirmed what I learned now too long ago about how my mood can affect my performance. I have to learn to fool myself to believe everything is sunshine and daisies.

There are daisies, by the way, lining the road, or perhaps they are little sunflowers. Or tulips or anemones. I know little of these things. Nor am I much moved by flowers in general. I would have traded them all for a tree. Because in addition to daisies there was sunshine, as well. More than I would have preferred. And bugs, mean little flies of a kind. They looked like the sort that might sting. I was feeling rather abused by the time I sighted Alzada.

It showed on the horizon as a patch of green trees from the top of a fairly high hill. I'd have called it a mountain but here it's known as a "ridge." That means it's much wider than it is tall. From up there you could see a good ways. Town was yet a good seven miles off and did not get closer as I walked.

I was happy a mile outside of town to meet my Iowa friends. They had spent the night in Belle Fourche. Their car was now fully repaired. I have since been informed that lugs will snap off if the lugs are not tightened enough. They had new tires put on for their trip. I think they should get a refund.

I am not certain why but I was worried about them. I guess because they are so pure. I am accustomed if not entitled to hardship. They, I think, deserve better. But they were back on the road and their spirits were high. They brought me a cinnamon roll. It was big and sticky and pleasingly sweet and it came with moistened towlettes. I ate it under a tree.

My first tree in a while. It was rather spindly There were cows looking on, lined up shoulder to shoulder. I didn't know if they liked cinnamon rolls or not, but there were so many of them I did not want to share. A few of them would inevitably be left out and I did not want to sew any discord.

I hit the saloon for my Coca Cola. I can't say I much loved the place. It is aimed at bikers, of which I am not one. Neither are most bikers these days. The floor is covered with sawdust. The barmaid was surly and tattooed. Very much so, in both instances. She showed contempt for that which I do. "F***ing around," she called it. That is not the case, I'll have her know. I am f***ing in more or less a straight line.

I thought of Thoreau, who I've been rereading. Some folks just do not understand. There is a value in contemplation. It brings forth your higher soul. Illiterate, Hank called them, among other things. I'll save my opinions for my book.

There are a number of observations which I am not wholly comfortable revealing here. My book, for example, will have a whole chapter on pooping, whereas here I've only mentioned it in passing.

Two chapters, maybe.

Of course old H.D. had little use for anyone who couldn't appreciate Homer in the Greek, so he wouldn't have liked me either. It's not easy being James. It never has been.

There are folks who think I am doing something heroic. They are wrong but I like them best. I am the first to admit that Walking Across America is an awfully silly thing to do. But a refusal to believe that it might mean something--anything--shows a lack of imagination. My walking is, as I see it, a work of performance art. It should inspire, or at least get you thinking. Frankly, I'd settle for laughs.

One day, I hope, I'll sit down at a desk and express all these thoughts a bit better. Or not. I'm not given to serious thought. I cannot resist a punchline. But that is my art, such as it is. Go make some art of your own.

I did, at the saloon, meet four travellers, from the antipodes. They were a bit older, retired I guess, and are touring the US in campers. Australians are among the peoples I most like to kid, but it was sure nice to have them around. I've spent the last twenty years amongst foreigners. You know, I miss them sometimes. Too many people think the edge of the world is right outside their own backdoor.

There is too a post office in Alzada, Montana. They're threatening to shut it down. And across from that is a gas station and grocery store, of sorts. That is where I've been for the last several hours. I am sort of stuck here in town. My next crossing will be forty miles. I'll need water after twenty or so. Or maybe not. But I don't want to risk it, and the sort of truck depot where I planned to refill my bottles will not be open tomorrow.

I hate having wasted half of this day, but a sailor must wait for the tides. Or teacher his student or the actor his role. The truck driver, his speed to kick in. Walking is a wholly inefficient way to cross the American continent. I do, though, really want to get moving. Winter is coming soon.

I did meet a nice fellow, Dale a rancher He had come down here to sell some hay. But the buyers never showed up so he cracked open a bottle of rye. A half hour later his friend happened by. He is employed by the federal government as a Wildlife Specialist. That means he flies around in a light plane and murders coyotes with a shotgun. Sounds like interesting work.

I am informed that the odd turkey sound I heard on the Cheyenne was not, as I suspected, coyotes. It was more likely foxes. Or turkeys, for all I know. I also learned that this country is just swimming with cougars. They are foul-tempered beasts. And here I am, smelling just like sardines and three flavors of Purina Cat Chow.

Less so now. I had a shower at the gas station, for which privilege I payed five dollars. I took the second longest shower of my until recently clean life and used up all kinds of shampoo. I am so clean you could eat off me, which would likely embarrass us both.

I am going to camp behind the gas station, rather than behind the saloon. It's a better vibe. They do have breakfast, and it is a quarter mile closer to the border.


THE NICE LADY from Iowa said I should contemplate God. Perhaps I already am. It's just that I'm not very good at it. Or I see Divinity in the wrong things.

IT WAS MY DISTINCT PLEASURE to meet Moonpie, up here from South Carolina. He is seventy years old with a Santa Claus beard, and is something of a free spirit, to say the least. He is cooking for a combine crew. I don't think he needed the work. He just wanted to see Montana, one hayfield at a time. He is a philosopher, a scholar, a philanthropist. He has done all sorts of things. For the hell of it or to see the world or to help out his fellow man. Walking Across America does not unduly impress him, but he thinks it is the Right Thing to Do.

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