Day One-Hundred-Fifteen, Fame

I slept ten full hours. I guess I was tired. My tent site was lumpy as hell. But as sometimes happens, the lumps were well placed. I woke up at eight o'clock.

To another beautiful day. There was not a cloud in the sky. I could see high above a few airplanes, headed for this place or that. I suppose I've flown over Nebraska myself, and never really paid it much mind. But today I felt sorry for those sorry souls. Nebraska is the one place to be.

It took its time climbing into the eighties. It was nice to be uncomfortably warm. I had a sixteen mile walk into Bancroft, Nebraska. My next source of nourishment. But it wasn't so bad; the weather was fine and my little radio is working again. I got NPR out of Omaha. It really made the time fly.

For intelligent programming and good interviews, you really can't beat NPR. You don't have to wait until pledge time, you know. Go ahead, send 'em a check. For the Car Talk guys alone. Them boys is a national treasure.

A mile short of Bancroft a truck pulled up. A nice lady gave me ice tea. She was Jo, with Blake, her strapping son. It was awfully decent of them. I don't know what profit there is in doing nice things for strangers. But we strangers do appreciate it. Most of us, I am sure there're some grouches, but nine times out of ten you win. Now I know I'm not the first one to think of it; Jesus went on and on about this sort of thing. But there is something to be said for Loving Your Neighbor, even if he does have a beard.

Jo did bring bad news, bless her generous heart, "The bridge is out, you know."

I did not, as a matter of fact. It is the bridge I was making for. There was some flooding a while back. It made something of a hole. I knew it was a possibility. I just put it out of my mind. I try not to dwell on the negative. This time it came back to bite me.

I decided to ponder it all over lunch at the Bancroft pub and restaurant. It has a name; I don't recall it now. It's under new management. You can't miss it. It's on Main Street, a pretty good walk from my road. But I was ready for that investment. I was pretty hungry by then.

It is quite a big place, bigger than need be in a town of 400 people. There was a very pretty girl behind the bar and four older gents playing poker. They turn up there every afternoon. I spoke a bit with the winner. He had fleeced his companions for 35-cents. Let's hope they do better tomorrow.

They were supportive of and interested in this peculiar journey of mine. And thought it might be newsworthy. They phoned the local paper. I protested but somewhat weakly. It's high time I got some press. No Walk Across America is truly official until it appears in print.

The reporter turned up a minute later. She was, do forgive me, quite old. Or quite a bit older than what you'd think your typical newshound might be. But sh had a yellow pad and pen and asked me all sorts of questions. I answered while I was eating my lunch. I hope she doesn't report on my manners.

She was Ms. Vogt, pronounced "vote", especially at election time. That's at her insistence, not my own. I merely do the reporting. I don't know that what I'm doing is newsworthy, but I'll take her at her word. She took my picture and paid for my lunch. When I left she gave me a hug.

I don't know whether this all falls within the bounds of journalistic ethics, but I cannot help thinking that if young Woodward and Bernstein had adopted similar tactics they wouldn't have struggled so. And I was game and very much cheered. And, at the editor's discretion, soon to be a household word in one small town in Nebraska.

I will not, I don't think, let it go to my head. Fame is a fleeting thing. And I will have moved on by then. I am at this time headed north.

"North?" you ask. "You're a madman! Winter is coming, you know." And I thank you for your kind concern. North works out better for me. I've got places to go in Iowa, and I still very much need new shoes. Which I am hoping I'll find in Sioux City. I think that's a pretty big town. I hope I find them without hiking all over hell, but I'll let you know when I get there.

I stopped on the edge of town to replenish my bread and cheese supply. I got bagels and a brick of cheddar. At small town prices, it rather stung. But there's a cost to staying alive. Then it was north through the cornfields, again on dirt farm roads. All the locals know this shortcut. There were all sorts of cars. Most of the drivers were careful and polite, but some drove like Bo and Luke.

I was headed for Rosalie. Not many folks make it this far. It is a town of 200 people. I planned to put up in their park. A mile from town I met Ernie the Trashman. He really made me smile. He looked like a cross between Tom Arnold and Jack Elam. "You're a crazy f***er," he said.

Which ain't so far from the truth. I was glad to have met him, and glad for the welcome to town. I quite like these hidden communities, far from any highway. You would never guess that they exist, but somehow or other life goes on. They've got a water tower and a saloon. And a number of big mean dogs.

It was a chance to test my theory that any dog can be stopped in its tracks simply by saying "Dog!" in the right tone of voice. It worked three times, but I think two of them were on chains and the third was a coward at heart.

I made my way to the saloon to ask where the park was. People have such big beautiful lawns. And there are so many trees. The whole town's a park. The bartender was ugly and rude. He was kind of a big guy. He glowered at me. I'm kind of a big guy. I glowered back. I resented his effort to spoil my belief that Nebraskans are all nice people.

So it was with a heavy heart that I walked to the park. He had indicated it with a jerk of his thumb. And then at the park an electronic voice all at once started shouting at me. "You are tresspassing! You are tresspassing!" Again and again. I had tripped some kind of a sensor. It was like something out of Mission Impossible. Screw Rosalie, I thought.

It was by then getting dark but I didn't care. I wanted nothing to do with their snotty town. I figured I'd go camp in a cornfield. I headed back the way I came. And then when I was almost free of the place I heard a man shouting "Hey!"

Now what, I thought. I had had quite enough. Someone was going to get thumped. But it was one of the gents from the poker game. I unloaded my troubles on him.

"The bartender is always like that," he said. "We pretty much just ignore him. You can camp in the park as far as I'm concerned." That was not good enough for me.

"I'm the mayor," he added as an aside. I proudly shook his hand. And fell in love with Rosalie all over again. I have here some powerful connections. I am now camped comfortably in the park. I expect to have good dreams. Goodnight.


ROSALIE is on the Omaha Indian Reservation, but not many Indians live here. They sold off the land years ago and no one is offering it back. There are Indian towns, too, which I'll visit tomorrow. The Winnebago Reservation is right next door. I don't know anything about either tribe. I hope I find someone to ask.

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