Day Ninety-Seven, Getting My Feed On

I got up at six-thirty, early enough. My horse came over to wake me. She is what they call a people person. I guess she wanted to play. She would scamper forward, then back away as if she were waiting for me to throw a frisbee. I patted her on the side of the neck. I've seen cowboys do that in movies. I would have liked to give her an apple or something. She was a very nice horse.

She is the first horse I've really gotten to know. I was wrong in many of my assumptions. The night before I thought she meant to murder me. I don't think that was true at all. And she was not jet black but a sort of grey brown. And she was not a boy. At least I don't think so. I know you can check but it did not seem decent or right.

It felt wrong to pack up and walk away. I was worried she might be lonesome. There were no donkeys; I had imagined them. The cows were all far away. But I could not let myself get emotionally attached, not after the heartache of the Forest Ranger. She is miles behind me and out of my life. I am left with only the scar.

And I was a little too close to the side of the road. It wasn't as bad as I thought. But there were much better places not too far away that I could not see in the dark. I had too, the night before, eaten the fries I'd been saving. And I had woke up hungry with nineteen miles between me and the next town.

I never know from day to day how hard my next walk will be. Rest, food, and sleep, that's what it takes. Today I was short on all three. And it was hot, blasted hot, though in the mid-eighties. I've met balmier 100-degree days. I guess it has to do with humidity or wind or just how well I feel that day.

Today I felt awful though I was not ill. I just felt horribly weak. My legs did not have any spring in them. I was sorely in need of a snack. And a nap too may have done me some good but I would have woken up weaker than ever. And likely sunburned. There are no trees out there. It was just me, the grass and the snakes.

I decided to banzai the first dozen miles. Damn but the walking was hard. I got my radio working but could not find good tunes. It was hot and my stomach was growling. A couple in a Cadillac offered me a ride. I settled for a can of soda.

Birch beer, it was called. It was coldish, at least. It tasted like peppermint root beer. Like the old folks used to cure all that ailed them. It came with a bag of beef jerky. Which I am still finding hidden between my teeth, though it saved my life at the time. Three- or four-hundred calories are better than none. I had walked less than eight miles.

It felt like twenty. I was wiped out. I struggled to walk a few more. If this were Montana I'd have wanted to quit. I refuse to be defeated by Nebraska. Though in truth the landscapes are much the same, that same treeless rolling prairie. It is a tiny bit greener here, though not so you'd notice. The hills have a softer look. And here and there was a cornfield, looking about as healthy as I felt.

In two-mile runs I made it to Highway 20, which I will be following for quite some time. By then I was but three miles from Chadron, Nebraska. And I couldn't walk another step. I collapsed in the shade of a semi-truck. I had hoped to ask the driver for water. But he was asleep and I guessed he needed his sleep as much as I needed something to drink.

There was there one of those historical landmarks that pop up along my trail. I always stop to read them. A little learning is not so dangerous a thing. This one offered more complaints about the Treaty of Laramie. I can see why the Indians are pissed. It gave all the Black Hills to the Sioux and its offshoots, and much of the surrounding plains.

This was a mere fraction of the land they once held, but in the scheme of things not a bad deal. It would have let them continue their way of life without being pestered by settlers. The U.S., in fact, assured the Indians that if any wagons did show up, all they had to do was call the Army and they would come run them off.

This arrangement lasted two or three years until the discovery of gold. Then all bets were off. Wounded knee, Little Big Horn, Custer himself. We've been all over that story. But it was perhaps new to Ian and his bride, tourists here from Australia.

Now it has been my great pleasure to pick on Australians over the years. They are a fairly humorless race. But these good people gave me water and grapes and I think what's called a nectarine. I have never been better enamored of fruit. I'd never tasted anything so good. And they gave me some cookies that they called biscuits. Don't laugh, it's an English thing.

I've known many Australians, some good and quite a few others. I've got a very funny story about an Australian girl which is not fit for publication. We are a great deal more like Australians than either of us would care to admit. Both countries were founded by the Wretched Refuse, and on the slaughter of aboriginal peoples. I am struck, though, how many tourists come here to see those parts of the United States which look pretty much like Australia.

We do have other landscapes, you know. Pretty much anything you'd like.

Should it interest you, biscuits have tiny holes in them. Cookies, on the other hand, do not. As for newtons, your guess is as good as mine. It might bear investigation.

When they left I got some more water from some folks in an enormous camper. Bigger than an interstate bus, it was. I did not give them my card. Because I meant to speak ill of them here. I do not wish to hurt their feelings. Though they were prune-faced snots who only gave me water because they thought I was going to murder them.

I was, I guess, looking just a little bit rough, crusted with sweat and filth. And my beard may be just a bit out of contol, though I maintain a very fine manner. I can no longer blame anyone for thinking that I am some sort of creepy hobo. Though with a few words they should be just as assured that I am a polite and well-educated creepy hobo.

Not these folks in their too large bus. It took all manner of pleading and gestures get them to open their window a crack. They just sat looking back and forth at each other, beseechingly. "What'll we do?!"

If you are that terrified of Americans, you should have stayed home in Oregon. Pay someone to travel the highways for you and send you picture postcards. Not everyone out here's an axe muderer. And in a world of likely victims, not every axe murder wants to kill you. It is, frankly, arrogant to think otherwise.

Thus refreshed, I set out up the hill, at last on Highway 20. It was my fond hope to make it to Chadron not later than five o'clock. All day on the radio I had been hearing the owner of the local Ford dealership inviting us all to a party. "Burgers, beans and bratwurst," he promised, in honor of their golden anniversary.

And Pepsi cola. It sounded good to me, though I am a Coke man myself. Still money is tight and it would get me fed. Service stopped at seven o'clock. But I thought of those idiot Oregonians, terrified in their Winnebago. I began to experience one or two doubts. I began to feel self-conscious.

It was my good luck at four-thirty or so to find a truck stop with a shower. These things tend to run you five or six bucks. This one would be only three. Though the lady did hesitate before telling the price. I may have got the hobo rate. Or more likely, they save on overhead by never much cleaning the shower.

Still though it was wonderful. Gosh i was a stinky mess. I hurried to make myself as pretty as I could in time for the bratwurst party. Which was, it turned out, a full mile and a half up the road, on the far edge of town. Which put me safely up over my quota. I had not wished to walk that far.

I did feel a bit out of place, but still. I had two hamburgers. And three bratwurst and a big scoop of beans, some pasta salad and a mountain of coleslaw. It was a great deal more than I needed to eat. I wanted my money's worth. I've gone all scrawny; my pants don't fit and I cannot afford to buy more.

Chadron (pop. 5634) is maybe the biggest city I've been to since Billings, but everyone there knew each other. There had been cake but that was all gone. They were old. They ate it all up. I found a spot with the guys from the garage. I can talk about Fords all day long.

Man, I am stuffed.

Leaving, I met Doris and Beverly. They recognised me by my hat. They had seen me walking yesterday. They offered me a spot for my tent. Which is where you find me now, anticipating a thunderstorm. There is too the promise of breakfast tomorrow, and my second shower in as many days. Angels, these gals, I'm proud to tell you. I hope I am hungry by then.


CHEERS TO everyone who fed me today, both civilian and commercial. I don't know that I would have made it without you. Now the rest of you, get down to Wahlstrom Ford and by a new car today.

SAFEWAY SUCKS. I am too sleepy to get into it, but take it from me, they suck. They suck worse than Super 8 Motels, which really suck. That should tell you how bad they suck. They suck mightily.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4