Day One-Hundred-Sixteen, D'oh!

Again I slept until eight o'clock. I had been up fairly late. And I had put up my tent on what looked soft lawn but was in fact some very hard ground. It like to have bruised my tender bits and caused me all manner of suffering.

I was all packed up by nine or so and walked back up through town. It was my pleasure to meet the mayor's wife and/or girlfriend. She came out of her home to wish me well. I respond well to encouragement. It was a nice way to start the day.

A paved road took me to Highway 77, where I had breakfast at a gas station. It wasn't exactly the biscuits & gravy of better days, but I managed to get myself stuffed. I had a donut and a pre-made sandwich of sorts, and some coffee, and some Coke and a hot dog. Junk food, I suppose you would call it. It all burns up just the same. Indeed the hot dog was pretty good. I could have eaten nine of them.

Highway 77 is a well-used stretch. There were all kinds of trucks. It runs up the middle of that big square of land that makes up the Omaha and Winnebago Indian Reservations. There is corn and soybeans and quite a few trees. There's a river somewhere about. The road passes over rolling hills. It winds about just a bit. Past well kept farms and friendly cows. It was not such a very bad walk.

In the morning it was threatening to rain and even did for a spell. But by afternoon the sun came out to reveal a not unpleasant fall day. Five or six miles took me past Walthill, the principal city of the Omaha. But I wasn't so hungry and it was a ways off the road. I'd got a late start. I moved on.

So I can't tell you anything about the people who live there. The Omaha are one brand of Sioux. Their farms look prosperous. It's a trim little town. I'll visit next time I Walk Across America.

Another seven miles took me to Winnebago, Nebraska, of the Winnebago tribe. Unlike most of the Indians in this part of the country, they are not Sioux. They started out on the far edge of Wisconsin and then were shoved into Minnesota. Then into another part of Minnesota until they finally wound up here. The government took away half the land they had promised the Omaha and gave it to them. It's kind of an Israel/Palestine thing. They've been at war ever since.

Or at least they don't very much like each other, neighbors though they may be. These days they're just sort of cold to each other. I don't think much brawling goes on. Then again, it might. In the end it comes down to whose stories you want believe.

Winnebago the town is doing alright. They've got a beautiful hospital and 900 people and they have their very own casino. That's where I had my lunch. More junk food, I'm afraid to say. I did half charge my computer. And left the place with plenty of time to get to Homer, within striking range of Sioux City.

But I ran into the Briggs Brothers in the parking lot. They invited me to their car for a beer. I thought, what the hell; they were interesting. They are men in their sixties. One of them looks like Larry David, the other like Ben Kenobi. Or like the two distinct halves of my very own soul. It was like having a beer with myself.

They were up to the casino to gamble. I enjoyed talking to them. We had three conversations, all at once, huddled in their little car. They were most hospitable. A good time was had by all. I left an hour later, bleary eyed and dry mouthed, with a jones for some onion rings. And feeling most philosophical and in the jolliest humor. I had a not unpleasant seven-mile stroll to the village of Homer, Nebraska.

Homer is a town of some 400 people. That's about as many as it needs. It is fully contained with hundreds of houses. Their Main Street is up and running. 400 seems to be the magic number for creating a vibrant community. I bellied up at Bob's Saloon and ordered some onion rings.

Bob hadn't given much thought to naming his bar when he applied for his liquor license. You've got to name it something, he was told. "Uh... Bob's Saloon?" And so it was sealed. I think it's a good name for a bar. Bob is a large and friendly fellow. I wish him every success.

Onion rings are something of a luxury for me. They cost more than fried potatoes. And usually you get only four or five. Not at Bob's, I say. They brought me a heaping basket of them. Just what I needed, when I needed it.

I spoke too with John, a local businessman and master wood turner. He filled me in on things. He has the distintion of being the only person born in Homer, Nebraska. Recently, at any rate. Most folks are born in Iowa. That, you see, is where the hospital is. He, though, was born in town. I did not ask about the circumstances. Now I wish I had.

Find me now camped in Homer Park. I do not have official permission. But everyone I spoke with thought it would be fine. I expect this will be my last night in Nebraska. I will rather miss the place.

HIGHWAY 77 has a smooth wide shoulder, littered with dead raccoons. And pieces of them, thoroughly sqooshed. And the front half of a skunk.

COYOTES are howling not so far off. It really upsets the dogs.

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