Day Sixty-Eight, Give Me a Home

I am Here

I woke up comparatively early and hobbled five or six miles up the road to Park City, Montana. Good Jimminy, it was hot. A sort of evil hot that starts deep inside you and spreads to the whole outdoors. My feet do not care for the warm weather at all. Anything over ninety-five and you can barely hear yourself think for all their noisy complaints. I whisper soothing words to them. They mock me for my kind heart.

Just back on the road I saw an approaching bicyclist and was troubled by an earlier vow to pound into mush the next one who zips by without saying hi. I don't doubt it would be the right thing to do, but this one was pretty big. And though I make light of my ongoing efforts at Positive Thought, it is crucial to my success. It is better to save the physical violence until much later in the day.

"How's it goin'?" he said, saving us both. You could tell he did not really care. Still it's a start, a move for the good. I promise to try as hard.

I stopped at Pop's Inn, the local saloon for a quick and restorative lunch. A cinder block building, the place looks new in every detail but it has been there for many long years. It seems it burns down every couple of years. When it does they put it back up. This latest version is expected to last a while. I join with them in their best hopes.

My burger was promoted as "the best in Montana." These things can be hard to judge. It was at any rate good and my kindly host provided advice and maps. I was, too, fortunate to make the aquaintance of a truck driver with an encyclopedic knowledge of America's highways. Not just where they go but the roads themselves in their every hill and curve.

I have felt for a while some affinity with truck drivers. They have been kind to me on the road. You can tell they are trying not to squish me flat and that's good enough for me. I think though I may have asked the wrong questions regarding my forward path. I was planning to turn south but that may not be the trick. The Badlands don't sound like anything good. But North Dakota isn't so awfully much better. I may have painted myself into a corner here. I've got some decisions to make.

The fact is this whole trip may end in failure. It is a thought that slows my steps. It won't be for any lack of effort on my part. It will be because I am stupid and poor. God, I hate being stupid and poor. Stupid and poor and alone. Throw in some weakness and you will have all you need to build your very own James.

I met too Coyote, a mountain man. He was really most kind. He had a long white beard and a billiard cue cane and a profoundly philosophical nature. He showed me the sort of hospitality I have come to associate with Elk, Washington. And Jamaica.

Which reminds me of my third favorite joke:

"My wife went to the West Indes."
"Jamaica?"
"No, she went of her own accord."

Thank you. Thank you very much.

Anyway, so nourished and encouraged, I had an almost jolly walk up the road eight miles to Laurel, Montana. It was a good road for walking. I never would have found it on my own. You sometimes need local knowledge.

There are fewer ranches in these parts. I am seeing more and more farms. Lots of corn and other things. God knows what, though they are healthy and green. Some kind of beans, maybe. I don't know. And something that looked like spinach. Miles of it, as a matter of fact. You wouldn't think there were that many spinach eaters on earth. I love the stuff but no one else does. Maybe it is making a resurgence.

I confess I don't much like looking at farmland. It bores me and I know it should not. I should be impressed by God's bounty but it is so much the same, mile after mile after. mile. But this road had some curves and the farm buildings were right up where I could see them. I like looking at farm machinery and wondering what it all does.

A disadvantage is that what little shade there was tended to be in front of people's houses and, while I don't think anyone would begrudge me a rest, explanations would no doubt be necessary. So I plodded on and it wasn't so bad. It was hot but much of the humidity had cooked off by then. And there was the faintest breeze blowing on my face. These things do come in handy. It may just be God looking out for me like so many promised He would.

I am in now what is known as the Yellowstone Valley. It is somewhat hard to describe. I see high rock cliffs and rolling hills where buffalo once might have roamed. And of course the river's always over there somewhere. I am camped just beside it now. A lousy spot, I am trespassing on a sliver of cow pasture. I could well wake up to those affectionate beasts slobbering all over my face.

I was good and worn out by the time I got to Laurel. I stopped at the Locomotive Casino, I think it was called, for a belly full of Coca Cola. My good bartender gave me beef jerky for the road and a friendly railroad man kicked in two bottles of ice cold Gatorade. They both assured me I would be robbed of everything I own if I try to walk through the Crow indian reservation. A pretty waitress said I might not.

I had the damnedest time getting out of town. I failed to check my map. I wound up going a few miles out of my way but I did meet some friendly hobos. One was an Indian; I did not ask which tribe. He was nursing a broken ankle. He assured me I would be robbed of everything I own if I try to walk across the Crow reservation.

Which is a concern, I guess, though it is the stretches beyond it that have me the very most scared. I may need to head north but that is hard too. It may in fact be impossible. Meanwhile I have spent up my budget for the whole trip and I am not even a third of the way done. I wish I could begin to describe to you how awful I feel right now. And it ain't even the blisters this time, it's the idea that all is for nowt.

Walking across a third of America is about as glorious as staying home.

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