Day One-Hundred-Forty-Seven, Roadkill

Damn it was cold last night. That's all I've got to say about that. Next time it freezes, you sleep outside. Call me and we'll compare notes. Between us I'm sure we can weave the experience into some brand of poetry. But all on my own I'm bound to get nasty. I might just say something unkind. Or indulge a most unmanly self-pity that would not become me at all. I am grateful for this experience. Even when it sucks.

I did not wake up until eight-thirty. We might blame the cold for that. Because when it came time for my morning pee I thought I might just hold it in. And go back to sleep and my recurring dream about a fruitless search for a mensroom. It was uncomfortable but warm, or warmer than I would be outside.

I was too again in amongst the trees. The sun takes a while to get there. And I don't get my morning cue that it is time to wake up. I suppose I could invest in a watch. They go for a pittance these days. But I tend to find alarms alarming, when I can hear them at all. So I enjoyed ten and a half hours sleep, waking now and then to complain.

It was another low-milage day. That makes, what, five in a row? It is no way to run a railroad, I know. I'm tempted to blame Missouri. My path is not set out before me. The roads squiggle this way and that. And I never know when a town is a town or just a dot on the map. And no one I meet seems to know either. I am groping along in the dark. Which is bound to slow almost anyone if they are possesed of their wits.

And my new shoes are not helping much. They are not hikers but work boots. Which means they are heavy and do not much flex. They are calling on new sets of muscles. I have not, thank goodness, suffered injury, but I have been a little sore. I'm bound to get strong again in a few days. Until then I just gut it out.

But meanwhile there are hills to climb, and oh, what hills they are. I don't know the geologic history here but it must be something dreadful. There are high steep hills, each one an island. I have to climb every one. I never get to follow a ridge and smile down at the world.

There are views, though, of acres of forest. In there there must be some farms. But from up above all you can see are trees. Not that I've studied it much. My eyes have necessarily been on the road. It is darn scary out here. I've thought I might carry a spatula to remind me to keep focused. And to aid in my recovery if I let that focus lapse.

I expected a gas station three miles in. Someone said it was there. I thought I might have a few cups of cocoa, a reward for surviving the night. But there was nothing for more than ten miles. I stopped two or three times. My legs were sore and the hills were steep and I did not know where I was going.

You might say it is pretty country. It is wild and there are all kinds of trees. And the odd little farm or funny old house. It is even a pretty good road. For driving. If you had a Porsche or something; there are a lot of neat little twists. But these chipmunk-murdering maniacs don't drive foreign cars. They drive monster trucks. Which just might shine in the old mud-bog but which have no place on the road.

I like hotrods, don't get me wrong. I like it when people fix up their cars. But the goal should be to make them better, not immeasurably worse. A pick-up truck is just barely road-worthy out of the factory. It is built to haul heavy loads. Not to go fast or look pretty or handle especially well. Jack it up eighteen inches or more and it becomes useless for anything but offroad driving. Bunch of freakin' idiots.

I stopped once where an overgrown road disappeared into the trees. I was chewing up some cold bread and cheese when I met a silly cat. He was walking up the middle of the highway. He looked so complacent and proud. His tail was high, his ears were up. "Get out of the road," I said. I remembered a little chipmunk in Idaho, crushed by a monster truck.

"Meow," said the cat.
"Meow," I said.
"Meow," said the cat again.

And so he came up to visit with me, meowing the whole time. He was a talkative cat. He was missing an eye. He does not like extra sharp cheddar. But he seemed glad for the company. I was sorry when we said goodbye.

Probably dead now. I honor his memory.

Eventually, and at great personal risk, I made it to Drake, Missouri. Which is represented by a gas station and very little else. I had two war surplus sandwiches, heated in a microwave. And installed myself there for two hours to recharge and study my map.

I left Highway 50 after Drake and headed south on Highway 19. I was tired of being almost squished and bluffing my way past mean dogs. One of them nipped at me today. I pretended I didn't notice. He put a little rip in my pants but I did not want to escalate things. I think I could have taken him in a fair fight, but that's not why I'm out on the road. I'm all about Sweetness and Light. I refused to stoop to his level.

If I'd had a stick I would have whomped him on the noggin.

Highway 19 has some advantages. I'm at least headed south again. And traffic is a little lighter. Drivers, more considerate. But there is no shoulder whatsoever. When someone comes I have jump in a ditch. And there have been some nasty hills. And I'm guessing there will be more dogs.

"You ain't from around here," a fellow told me yesterday. Thank you, no sir, I'm not. The dogs seem to have the same suspicions, like I've come to bust up their still. Live and let live, that's my motto. Now how to make them all understand.

It was spur of the moment, heading south. I am following no kind of plan. We'll see, I guess, how it works out. I am camped maybe five miles from a pretty big town, behind a sort of gravel pit. Or heavy equipment storage yard. Or a dump for toxic waste. There is here a very strong solvent smell. I'm feeling a bit doped up.

It was getting dark when I moved in. I'd found a better place. But when I got there it was full of old tombstones. And corpses, one assumes. I am not afraid of zombies. I'm immune to supernatural events. But I can get creeped out like any man. I turned around and kept walking.

This place seemed too good to pass up, but there was a fellow here. I figured he was looking for things to steal. I went and introduced myself. Ordinarily I would leave him to his trade, but it was getting dark. I figured I should have priority since mine was the purer cause.

Turns out he was Mr. Ellis. Turns out he owns the place. I am now camping with permission. Which is sometimes nice. It eases my stress. It was awfully decent of him. And more than relieves me of any compulsion to contact the EPA.

I HEAR the coyotes howling again. I had a peculiar thought. Maybe they are the same band each night. Maybe they're following me.

I SAW an owl. He was handsome. But I saw no wisdom in his eyes. He wore a fairly vapid expression. That was disappointing.

THEY'VE GOT bugs here that look like sticks. Not kind of like sticks. Just like sticks. Stick bugs, I call them.

IT IS ten degrees warmer than it was last night. And bitter, bitter cold.

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