Day One-Hundred-Forty-Six, Nanook

The autumn leaves here are perhaps less beautiful than I have led you to believe. Of course I never meant to deceive you. I have limited powers of description. I say autumn leaves and leave it at that. I let you form your own picture. Likely of the leaves in, say, Vermont, with their vivid reds and yellows.

There are reds here, and yellows, as well. Here and there you might see an orange. But the predominant colour, such as it is, is something you might call rust. In all of its shades, don't get me wrong, but none of them particularly vivid. They all have a vaguely muddy tinge. Any postcard would be touched up.

Which is not to say they're not nice to see. There is some variety. And it may be yet early. Many of the trees remain a stubborn green. But some are altogether bare. I couldn't say which is which. You might be better served in this case by someone who knew something of Nature.

For me a tree is a tree is a tree. Same with birds and anything furry. Nor am I able to well describe the features of the land. Or the clouds or the sky or anything too much to do with Nature. But I wonder if those who can write of such things are really getting it right. Or if they're just better at taking credit for the pictures we form on our own.

This morning I woke in amongst the trees. The sky was once again blue. Bluer, perhaps. Looking up through the trees everything was in sharp focus. Every beetle, every twig, the rusty leaves, the very sky itself. The air was today amazingly clear. That is what cold looks like.

Not the damp cold of the past few days. That's Nature's way of cheating. I can make you cold on a summer day by pouring water on your head. This was a real cold, an honest cold, a cold without pretense. Dangerous, perhaps, but beautiful. I've known some women like that.

Fewer than you'd think, if I may digress. Most beautiful women are good. They grow up free of the vanity that comes from being ugly. They accept their Beauty as a matter of course. They'll admit to it if you ask. It is ugliness in its forms that causes all your pain.

As I was saying, it was a beautiful day. Everything was so well defined. I passed a Chevy dealer on way into town. Even it was pretty. The road, the dirt, the cigarette butts. It was all beautiful.

I breakfasted at the Linn, Missouri McDonald's. It was the closest place to my tent. And as lovely as things were out of doors I wanted to warm my toes. It was cheap and not so awfully bad. Their biscuits were a little doughy. And I was soon after hungry again. It did not stick to my ribs.

One thing rather interested me. It was teeming with old people. Whom I usually enjoy talking to, but these old folks were busy. They were playing bingo. Dozens of them. At McDonald's. At eight a.m. A few of them looked like they wanted to talk, but they stayed true to their game.

I had sausage and eggs and pancakes and a biscuit. It came on a styrofoam tray. It reminded me so much of airplane food I kept my elbows tucked in. Like a T-rex eating corn on the cob. Like a grown man in economy class.

They have an odd take on hash browns. They came as a sort of wafer. It tasted fine. It was duly crispy. It just looked a little odd. Like the food they give our brave astronauts, who wash it all down with Tang.

Poor, miserable, space-exploring bastards.

I found a supermarket next door and re-upped my bread and cheese. That place was full of old people as well; banned from bingo, I guess. For what indiscretion, I dared not ask. They complained quite a bit of the cold. But I didn't. I know if I'm cold, it's my very own fault.

From there I hiked up to Linn proper. I had been I guess in the suburbs. Linn was up on the top of the hill. I don't know how many people live there. It is home to a large technical college, training airplane and diesel mechanics. And others, one is bound to suppose. I am too cold to look it up.

Their second industry in funeral homes. They bookended my laundromat. Which itself is scheduled to be torn down in order to make room for a third. I suppose it makes bargain shopping easy, having them all together like that. But I don't like to think too much about death. Death, thank you, makes me sad.

And afraid. Not least as I walk east on fabulous Highway 50. It's a pretty road, winding over steep hills, separated by deep hollows. Narrow, though, with blind corners and no shoulder to speak of. And traffic moving at eighty per. I did not spend much time looking at scenery. It was all I could do to look after myself. It was a scary day.

I usually get the sense that most drivers, whatever their skill or ineptitude, would just as soon not squish me dead. Not so here. Here they all think I'm an idiot for walking on their road. If I were to die it would confirm their belief and make them feel better about themselves.

It is not though for me to build their self-esteem. Let them go on in self-loathing. The speed limit here is sixty, I believe. That must be a population control thing. Anywhere else it would be forty, I swear. Folks would go fifty and live. Here they drive at seventy-five. I bet there are all kinds of wrecks.

You know whom I am becoming ever more disgusted with? People with jacked-up trucks. They'd be fine for stadium races or exhibitions at county fairs. But hey're too tall to be of much use on the farm and they bounce all over the road. And they instill in their drivers a sort of swagger that I don't think is wholly deserved. Bunch o' puny little compensatin' chipmunk-murderin' morons.

Not too many miles up the road I stopped at a saloon for a burger. The Shack, it was called. "It looks like a shack." But on the inside it's real nice. And it was warm in there and the food was good and the people were kind to me. There seem to be fewer saloons these days. It reminded me of warmer times.

I lingered there as I had at McDonald's. As I did at the laudromat. I don't think I made fifteen miles today. I was dreading what was up the road. Nightfall. That's what was scaring me. The putting up of my tent. For tonight is the first night of all my trip that's going to drop below freezing. And me outdoors. What an idiot. Nobody knows how I suffer.

But I found a good spot for my tent. I'm bundled up and zippered in. There's every chance I'll be perfectly fine. So far, I say, so good.


IT HAS SINCE been confirmed that there are indeed armadillers in Missouri. They started showing up five years ago, as part of a great migration. But as far as I know, no one has ever seen a live one. One theory has it that Texans scrape them off their own highways, then throw them out their windows, like frisbees, on their way through this state.

THE COYOTES are howling, like most nights, only a bit nearer by. And the cows are mooing bitterly about how cold they are. And there are plenty of critters in the dry leaves, all around my tent. Skunks, as likely as not. I saw a pretty one today. He was white and black instead of black and white. It was a good look for a skunk.

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