Day Ninety-Eight, Civilisation

I woke mysef up at six o'clock. Eight o'clock wouldn't have killed me. But I had pitched my tent on a working farm. Farm folk keep early hours. There was no pressure on me, do understand. I was made to feel quite at home. But I wanted to show them that city boys can wake with the cock, if you will.

It looked as if they had been up for hours. I could smell muffins baking. I was treated to a very fine breakfast and a hot shower before that. And some good conversation and gentle encouragement. I wanted for nothing more. Thank you most kindly, Doris and Beverly. You spoiled me, bless your good hearts.

Come nine o'clock I was back on the road, for all the real good it did. All this soft living had left me weak. I walked less than two miles. It was my chief ambition to make it over the hill so they couldn't see me from the house. A big part of Walking Across America, at least for me, consists of sitting in the shade and feeling sorry for myself.

Less so today, for I was packing muffins; apple and zucchini, if it pleases. It delighted me, at any rate. And there was a great smell in the air. Autumn, I believe it is called. In my old age it's my favorite season. It had cooked off by ten or so, but it was very nice while it lasted.

Even then it was not such a very hot day. It never got past the low-eighties. There was something of a headwind but I could not blame it for my thorough lack of strength. I could never seem to go more than a couple of miles without stopping for a break. In my own defense, I was a bit sleepy and Nebraska is hilly as hell. I think I was getting it mixed up with Kansas. One or the other is flat.

Both states are famous for their tornadoes. I ran into one today. Out of an entirely cloudless sky. It must have been fifteen feet high. Rather pitiful, as tornadoes go, but you have to admire its ambition. Even the cows were laughing at it, but it went swirling on. I was hit by something similar in India once. That one sandblasted me. But India is a fairly gritty country in even the best of conditions.

I saw a cross country cyclist, my first in a while. They prefer a more northerly route. I was cranky so I flagged him down. I wanted to ask why they are always such dicks. But he wasn't a dick. He wasn't a he. He was Christine from Vermont. She is riding from Maine to Oregon, all on her delicate lonesome.

We talked some. I liked her fine. She had a grip like a longshoreman. I am sure she can take care of herself. She drinks whisky and smokes cigars. She is a Bolshevik. She is not very big but it sounds like she eats just as much as I do, which made me feel better. I've been ashamed of myself since I met Lee, the recumbant cyclist who eats nothing but dirt clods and bark.

But two friendly cyclists out of hundreds does not change my opinion of the breed. These two are unique, recumbant, a girl, those exceptions that prove the rule. Cyclists are dicks.

I muddled on, never resting long. These short days are doing me in. I would much rather take three or four six-mile walks than two ten- or twelve-mile ones. There is too the challenge of charging my computer which demands one very long break. Which I could just as well do at the end of the day if I can get used to camping in the dark.

I met on the road a Mr. Daniel Long Soldier. He stopped to offer me a ride. We chatted a bit on the side of the road. I could very well have been squished. But it was worth the risk; he was interesting. He makes traditional bows. They are rather rough but more or less like the ones from centuries ago. And long, not the stubby little bows I saw at the Custer museum. They didn't start making those until they got horses. The long ones are hard to ride with.

He said he got a buffalo with one of his bows. He must be a very good shot. Unless you hit him in just the right place it would probably just piss him off. They don't seem like the very friendliest creatures, even when you're not sticking them with arrows.

Mr. Long Soldier is too a Jehovah's Witness. He witnessed at me a bit. I didn't mind; I liked how he talked. And he kept it folksy and fresh. He was quick to admit that even he had enjoyed a sinful youth. He did not expect to save me then and there. His own salvation had taken years. I am hoping to run into him again a few more towns down the line.

I took my last rest on the county line. There was a nice park there. In the middle nowhere, a patch of grass and a big old cottonwood tree. And a swinging bench, much like a porch swing. It was a very nice place to sit. And put there, it seemed, for my own convenience. Nebraskans are a thoughtful bunch.

Somehow or other I made my quota, or did not come up too far short. I arrived in Hay Springs after seven o'clock, and not too much before dark. I needed fed and got a burger at the local saloon. It was good but it was crowded in there. But I got the dope; it turned out I could camp in the city park.

The woman at the gas station shared my understanding of the distinction between camping and what I do. Camping, of course, is not allowed, but if you aren't making s'mores it's OK.

"We don't have any police here, anyway. No one will say anything."

So here I am and glad to be here. It is not a bad little park. A couple of acres on one end of town. I didn't mind doubling back. There are all sorts of trees and even some light, which is a help in putting up my tent. And there are showers next to the pool. Those may be closed for the season. But I don't mind. Three showers in three days; I might develop pretensions.

Perspectives change as you work your way east. I was warned this was a very small town. "There's nothing there," I was told earnestly. But I am no longer in Montana. A small town in Nebraska has six or eight hundred people and a main street with angle-in parking. And businesses thriving and boarded up. And places to eat and a park.

Small towns in Montana are nothing more than a very small dot on your map. I have developed the habit of asking people if the next town up the road is "a real town," meaning can I get water and food there. That has until now been a fair question, but as far as I can tell, all the towns in Nebraska are real. And not so very widely spaced, either. This soft living is going to make me weak.


HAY SPRINGS, NEBRASKA has recently celebrated the 125th anniversary of its founding. Congratulations, Hay Springs.

A REAL ESTATE database informs us that detached houses here go for about forty-six grand, and that rents average $248/month. Reasonable. The main industry is farming, followed closely by ranching. There are no other industries.

THE SICKLY corn I've been seeing is supposed to look like that. It is designed to grow in dry weather. Like those free seeds Monsanto gives to Africa so they can sell them their patented fertilizer.

EVEN HERE people are concerned about the pine beetle. Let's just hope the spectacularly beautiful women of the U.S. Forest Service are keeping on top of things.

I CAUGHT ANOTHER reflection of my beard today. I have gone quite hobo-chic. It scares some folk but I'm keeping it. I earned it. It's mine.

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