Day One-Hundred-Ten, The Green Mile

I slept fairly well in my marijuana patch. I do not remember my dreams. I woke up at seven to a blustery day. The skies were grey and the winds were blowing. It had rained at some point during the night. Again I packed a soggy tent.

Which I resent. It weighs more wet. And seems somehow less a home. It had never dried out from the day before, nor is it much better now. And my tent poles made my fingers very cold and sore from their every exertion. It reminded me of the early days of this trip when I was young and did not know better.

I had given some real thought to staying in bed all day. I had bread and cheese and plenty of water and even a maple bar. I bought four of them the night before. Three went for a late hour snack. For our international friends, maple bars are a maple-themed pastry. In Nebraska they are marketed as Long Johns, which recalls the Clarence Thomas hearings.

But despite my big city sophistication, I was a little nervous about being camped in a pot patch. I suspected, and it has since been confirmed, that this is nothing more than ditch weed, a likely remnant of the days when the United States government actually encouraged farmers to grow hemp. It is everywhere. Still I imagined DEA agents zipping down on me from helicopters and otherwise endeavoring to make me feel poorly about myself.

So I climbed out of my thicket, very stealthily; I likely looked guilty as hell. And crossed Highway 20 and set off once again down the venerable Cowboy Trail. Which has suffered some on this stretch, perhaps from flooding, and has been repaired with some very sharp rocks.

Which were not, this one day, my chief concern. It was cold and it threatened to rain. I was wet from my effort to take down my tent and was feeling a bit snoofly. There was a sliver of blue sky long miles to the east. I tried to let that thought cheer me. It is good that it is not at all in my nature to feel sorry for myself.

For a mile or two my trail was lined with pot. Blooming and healthy and grand. It was like taking a walking tour of Jamaica, only it was bitter cold. And it didn't smell much like marijuana, insofar as I have had it described to me. It seems that if the Great State of Nebraska is going to go to all the trouble to plant Cannabis all over hell, they would have chosen a better breed. It is my understanding that you can get the seeds by post from somewhere in the Netherlands.

Soon enough I arrived at Inman, Nebraska. I'd been told to expect nothing there. It is a town of some 148 people, and there is more to it than is broadly known. There is a saloon, closed in the mornings, and a smallish grocery store. Guarded by a very ugly little dog and offering coffee for sale.

Or for free, I was pleased to discover. I sat down for fourteen cups. It was cozy in there, out of the wind. I chatted a bit with the locals. Inman thrived at one point in time. It is a great producer of hay. They had three grocery stores and a railroad. It has faded just a bit since. I was reminded, only briefly, of that scene in The Outlaw Josey Wales where, after facing all manner of hardship, he arrives in Texas and finds the last few citizens of a once thriving town sitting around the saloon.

"First the silver run out, then the people run out, then the whiskey run out, then the beer run out."

I hike another mile down the trail and sat down to buns and cheese. Damn it was cold and in the words of Forrest Gump, that's all I've got to say about that.

I continued on to Ewing, Nebraska. I don't remember how many people live there. 300 or so. It isn't huge, but appears to be fairly thriving. The saloon where I popped in for my lunch was very nice indeed. Too nice for me, a sort of sports bar like you find all over America. I am better accustomed to out-and-out dives and remnants from the 1890s. I straightened my collar and ordered a burger. It was huge and good.

What's the deal with crinkle-cut fries? Does anyone think they're good? They're an offense unto Nature and an inexcusable way to misuse the noble potato. Seriously. Save 'em for school lunches and prison cafeterias. I apologise for my passion but, damn, this is America. Learn how to cut up and fry a potato or go back to Russia where you belong.

By then I had managed seventeen miles. My next town was ten miles off. I figured what the hell so here I am, after a twenty-seven mile day. I can't say much about Clearwater, Nebraska. I rolled in after dark. It is home to 348 people, said a sign on the edge of town. Which is enough to support all manner of businesses. Find me now in the park.

It is thirty-some degrees outside, and little warmer in my tent. My fingertips are sore from typing. I believe I'll wrap this up here. Thank you.

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