Day Eighty-One, Marathonathon

Twenty-seven miles, or a tiny bit less. I was up with the dawn. And on the road by seven-thirty or so. I still haven't reached the next town.

"Why," you wonder, "don't you wake up early and walk twenty-seven miles every day?" To which I reply, Why don't you wake up early and walk twenty-seven miles every day?

I was trying to make up for yesterday's poor effort. I'll pay for it tomorrow. My muscles are tired, my knee is clicking and I've got open wounds on my feet. And I am hungry, dammit, hungry as a chimp, and I am more or less tired of walking.

I made it to the edge of the Custer National Forest before I took my first of several long breaks. There were a few trees but they were nothing to brag about. But it was better than what came next. From on top of the hill that next stretch road looked like the surface of the moon.

That was a trick of light. It was nothing more than miles of rolling praire. Sort of a miniature version of that godawful stretch east of Billings, Montana. Not small, of course, but the horizon was closer. The sky's not as big around here. And there was more sagebrush and a bit more rock, here and there it is shaped into cones. They look like haystacks or maybe igloos, or in my state of mind, boobs.

But mostly it was miles of grass. I am camped on a patch right now. There were a few good winds but it was not at all hot. In fact I am at this moment cold. I am not looking forward to winter weather. I am headed south as soon as I can.

I managed to run out of water at about the twenty-mile mark, and food sometime before that. I tried begging water from passing cars. I guess I had better work on my technique. I waved an empty water bottle at each passing car. Almost everyone waved back. I felt like an absolute idiot and was getting thirstier with every step.

Finally I found a house by the road. Nobody was home. No one was home at the next house either, but I found a hose by their garden. The water was foamy and smelled like cheese. I decided to give it a miss. A few miles later I found another house. No one was home there either. I guess all the ranch hands and cowboys were spending their wages in town.

There was a little dog at the third house, though. He insisted I come through the gate. He showed me a spiggot on the side of the porch and asked me to throw his ball. He was one of them, what do you call them, corgis, I think; very oddly proportioned. And dumb; had I been a burgler he would have helped carry the loot. But he had a good heart; what more can you ask. I thanked him and went on my way.

I was going to leave a thank-you note, but I didn't. The water is awful. It saved my life but the last thing I need is an e-mail saying, "Ewww, you drank that stuff?!" I don't want to know what's in it or where it came from. All I can taste is rust.

You are not reading this. You have forgotten me by now. I have just been too very long offline. I have big hopes for the city of Broadus, but I may just be fooling myself. At any rate, I seem to have survived another godawful cossing. Peace.

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