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That first sign was enough for me, though it guarded a sweet little pond. It must get tempting on summer days, or when the catfish are jumping. I know it was lovely the night before. The moon was mirrored in the sludge. You must look for Beauty where you find it and try not to smell too hard.
Find me now in a patch of woods, just off Highway 63. I walked twenty-five miles and could have gone on, but I could not see what was up ahead. It looked like there were some houses or something. I might not find a place for my tent. Good enough is good enough. I don't like to camp in the dark.
I spent a diverting half-hour clearing a space, waiting for the sun to go down. This is one of those spots where I cannot be seen, so long as it isn't daylight. I pulled up saplings and moved sticks and stones. I cut back the prickle bushes. I invited the snakes to go away and come back after I've gone.
Missouri is a snaky state. I am wading through the things. They wrap themselves around my ankles and put extra weight on my knees. They seem to harbor some affection for me. They follow me wherever I go. I don't want to hurt their detestable feelings but I wish they'd just leave me alone.
I spent most of my morning hiking into Moberly, Missouri, a fairly good-sized town. I couldn't say how many people live there; they've got a Walmart and likely a mall. It is depressed, not to say depressing. Their chief industry is check-cashing. I saw a fairly decent house on sale for forty-nine grand.
But I do like that name, Moberly. It pleases me. It is fun to say. Moberly. Moberly. Moberly, Missouri. It sounds so friendly and comfortable. Maybe just a bit overweight. And I've long been fond of -ly words that are not adverbs, like lovely and comely and such. Slatternly, beastly, womanly, kindly. Moberly, Missouri.
It was a twelve or thirteen mile walk into town. When I got there I was all but starving. My meatloaf sandwich from the day before had pretty well worn off. And the cheesecake, too, and the cherries on top. I thought I might keel over dead. I am a big eater as a rule; I'm a man of large appetites. And I like to have them met when I can. When I can't it makes me all grumpy.
Moberly gets four highway exits. 63 is like a freeway here. I took the first one because it promised food, but the food was two more miles off. I finally wound up at a Hardee's. I don't much care for fast food. But I had a big burger and two "apple pies" and two-and-a-half gallons of Coke.
And everyone was real nice to me, just like at a real restaurant. I was there for two-hours. They sang Happy Birthday to some old guy. A kid invited me to a dinner party, I think because he thought I was homeless. If you absolutely must eat at a Hardee's, go to the one in Moberly.
Moberly. Moberly, Moberly. Say it. Moberly. It's a nice name.
I got some charge on my computer, but not nearly enough. If I drop out of sight tomorrow, know there's a chance I'm not dead. You might say a few good words about me anyway. I don't object to being eulogised.
I took the scenic route through town. There wasn't so much to see. I bought some bagels and something called "farmers cheese", which between you and me sounds gross. Like some kind of fungus you might pick up from standing in topsoil all day. Or rubbing elbows with livestock. Anyway, it was on sale.
I retook my highway and headed south. People are driving fast. The road takes itself very seriously here, and is not so pedestrian friendly. But there's a good wide shoulder with bumpity strips. I'll be off it in a couple of days. Now I don't really have much choice. I'm headed to Columbia, Missouri.
Which is huge, I think. I'd just as soon go around, but I've got to cross the Missouri. It seems all I do on this trip is cross the Missouri River. I must have crossed it a dozen times in Montana, once or twice where it was six feet wide. And it had me trapped in Nebraska and made me walk forty miles north. But here it divides the state in two, and there are only so many ways across.
Charles Kuralt said that America is defined not by its highways but by its rivers. And he was cool with that. But he was well paid and widely beloved and rode around in a bus.
Tomorrow will have to be a very short day or an impossibly long one. Columbia is twenty-some miles off. I either have to pull up short or try to blast all the way through. I have limited hotel funds and would like to save them for a thirty-degree night.
Speaking of which, my little computer was threatening thirty degrees Wednesday night. But it took some smalk pity on me and upped its estimate to thirty-six. Which is still damned cold but less likely to kill me.
"I hear it's warmer south of Columbia," I told a woman. I'm sure there was hope in my voice. She rolled her eyes, inhaled sharply and laughed right in my face.
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