Day One-Hundred-Five, Grit

I woke earlier than the previous day, but not so very early at all. I do not remember precisely what time. Eight-thirty or so, I guess. That's Central Time, you understand. Maybe that isn't so bad.

When I woke up my tent was a mess. There is little I can do about that. Fishing out the things I need means unpacking everything else. I have a two-man tent but I'm a man and a half. My gear fills every other corner. But this morning the clutter just bothered me. I like a tidy home. I'm not obsessive about it but even bad housekeepers sometimes just get fed up.

But it did not spur me to action, though it all packs up well enough. I was tired of this daily task of folding and unfolding my life. I just could not find the will; I wasted an hour feeling sorry for myself. And the out of doors were no more inviting. There was cactus outside my tent. And bugs and snakes and tortoises and lizards and other things that creep. The cows that had cheered me the night before had wandered off somewhere. And my shoelaces were matted with prickle burrs. Nobody knows how I suffer.

Or cares, for that matter. Hell, I signed up for this. Eventually I got going. And though I never know what sort of day it will be, I should have taken it as a sign. When I can barely find the strength to pack up my tent the walking is going to be hard.

Still I was strangely optomistic. That sure didn't last long. My toes were sore and I just felt sticky and like I had sand in my pants. Which I did, I only realise now. These are the Sand Hills, after all. And the wind blows all manner of grit into every nook and cranny. Of course I was uncomfortable. I was being abraded by my own shorts.

And it was humid. And my pants don't fit. They bunch up under my belt. And my innards had started a gurgling that would define the rest of my day. I'll spare you the details but imagine the worst. It was a bit worse than that.

I've been admonished not to talk about pooping so much. No one's being cheated but you. Walking Across America is all about pooping, whether you want to know it or not. It was my chief concern before leaving home, that and mean old dogs. But the dogs have all been nice to me. I guess we'll leave it at that.

There have, come to think of it, been a few mean dogs. But I've hit upon the magic word. When one is coming to chew on you, address him firmly as Dog. All dogs get called Dog from time to time, usually when they've something wrong. It startles them and makes them think, "Gee, that guy knows my name."

Early on in this trip I had a big dog run half a mile just to come bite me. But he tuckered himself on the way to the road. By then he could barely bark. More recently two big dogs started brawling over which one would bite me first. They were still chewing on each other when I disappeared over the next hill.

So dogs have not really bothered me. That just leaves the other thing. Which you do not want to hear about. Your loss, I say, your loss.

The Cowboy Trail that I was so big on last night was less impressive today. The crushed gravel was a little too thick and robbed some strength from my stride. And it veered far away from the highway across some fairly uninteresting farm land. I could see my path streching miles ahead. There were few pleasant surprises.

I was too somewhat burdened by the fact that I was not sure where I was going. I had no map. I hoped I was following Highway 20 but it was miles out of sight. I very much wanted to reach Wood Lake, Nebraska which was twenty miles off. My fear was that I was being led into still more remote parts of the state from which I might never return.

Here and there where I could get a signal I tried to use Google Maps. The trail is not marked but on satellite view I thought I could just make it out. So I kept my faith and kept walking, just a few miles at a time. I stopped for tinned weeners. I stopped to poop. I stopped to feel sorry for myself. Once I crawled under an old trestle and had a one-hour nap. Balanced on my backpack with snakes all about. Nobody knows how I suffer.

The snakes around here are not so long but they have very big heads. And nasty expressions. If I had more time I'd tie them all into knots. But as I am racing winter all I can do is squeal like a little girl and race away on my tippy toes.

There are too more of those rat-tailed turtles, striped lizards and hideous toads. Bless Nebraska, the people are kind but their wildlife is ugly as hell.

Two mountain bikers passed me while I was in hiding, still packing up my tent. They had matching outfits, a guy and a girl. They're usually the worst kind. The girl might say hi; the guy will just growl. There are a lot of jerks in that sport. But those were the only other people I saw. I had the Cowboy Trail to myself.

It seemed little used after ten miles in. There were weeds sprouting up through the gravel. Daisies and the odd bit of cactus and some sort of shrub I don't know. I think some of it may have been underwater not too many months ago. Big parts of America flooded this year. Nebraska may have gotten off light. But when I reach the Missouri I'll know for sure. I hear conflicting reports.

I knew Wood Lake was twenty miles off, but that's if I stuck to the highway. I desperately wanted to reach that town. I was down to a few tins of weeners. And a bag of raisins which I did eat but which did not do my digestion any good. And there was some chance I would drink up my water which can make me very cross indeed.

Eventually the trail got back to the road. Which road, I couldn't be sure. But it was 20 though my little computer refused to tell me how far I had to go. I figured ten more miles. It was now six o'clock. No more pooping around.

I was helped by the fact that late in the day is when I can walk at my best. It is not as hot and my feet go numb which is not such a bad thing at all. I spotted a water tower halfway there. By then it was getting dark. But there was most of a moon so I gambled that I would not be forever lost.

For my trail left the highway again. It came into town the back way. This is another dying town. There were trees but no people about. It was really quite spooky. There was a downtown but really no signs of life. I worked my way down Main Street in the dark past a number of boarded up shops. And a haunted house or two. I was a little too hungry to care.

Some passing trucks showed me the way to the highway. There was though nothing there. I had counted on there being a saloon where I could get myself fed. Otherwise it would be twenty more miles. I was prepared to walk that in the dark.

Leaving town, disappointed, I found a Pepsi machine. Calories are calories; I ain't proud. I figured I'd buy ten or twelve cans and live on that overnight. But I found myself outside a cafe, closed, but there were people inside. I knocked.

I knocked again. They seemed to be debating whether to answer. God knows I am looking a little scruffy these days. A brave woman answered the door. I begged her to sell me food, anything. I was hoping for some stale bread. Tinned weeners really come to life when wrapped up in stale bread.

Instead Miss Elsie, that's her name, heaped up a plate from what was left of a buffet. Beef and fish and jello salad, two tomatoes, a radish, cole slaw and a baked potato. I am not sure I could have got more on the plate if I heaped it up myself. And she directed me to the town park, which is where you find me now.

Wood Lake claims eighty citizens. Elsie did not seem convinced. I got the feeling she thought they'd inflated that number, though she didn't say so outright. They do have a lovely little park, no showers but there is electricity. Which means all the world to me in this electronic age.

It was great food. I can hardly wait until breakfast. I bet their hash browns are great. There is no better way to start a long walk. I am glad Wood Lake remains.

LET ME PUT this in terms you'll be comfortable with. The key to a successful Walk Across America? Moist towlettes. Lots of them.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4