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And it was probably good for me. I am glad I missed all that rain. I am fragile, a paper flower. I wilt when I get wet. Today was in fact a beautiful day, a bit breezy but the weather was clear. My motel was a bit on the stuffy side. There is some merit in fresh air. It was a good day for walking.
From Kirksville south Highway 63 becomes a four-lane road. Divided, with wide shoulders and traffic moving fast. But it's not so bad; there aren't many cars and there is a bumpity strip. Which conditions drivers to keep out of my lane and alerts me when they do not.
I've been refining my peace sign. I've loosened it some and am involving more of my arm. At the top of the arc I give it a little flick. It seems that way much more friendly. I blush when I think of the miserable peace signs I was flashing back in Idaho. But I'm getting there. It has taken months of practice. It really is an art.
You see, you want to communicate friendliness but at the same time nonchalance. If you're too stiff it seems almost agressive, too loose and it's political. Your timing must be right, as well. And some people just get a nod. Others get a wave or a tip of the hat, but the peace sign is the top prize. It goes only to drivers who make a special effort not to squish me dead.
And people who flash me a peace sign first. And people in Volkswagen vans. And to anyone whose car I particularly like, or which for some reason makes me laugh. And to cops and official vehicles and to any old hippie I see. But it is a mark of honor and I don't just throw it around.
I had a ten-mile hike to La Plata. I met another man on the road. He has been in prison for meth and has "worked in all fifty-two states." And has shot a man and has been to sea on the crew of a merchant vessel. And is a boxer and knows kung-fu and grew a pot plant twenty feet tall. He has loved and lost and loved again. His brother is a deviant.
He was on his way to Columbia, MO, on what for me would be a five-day walk. I do not think he intends to stop, nor is he hitchhiking. He's just walking, walking; I don't think he was high. He was quiet and did not twitch. And seemed like a nice person, reasonable if not too too bright. We walked together for six miles. It was nice to have someone to talk to.
I ducked off the road at La Plata. I let him go on ahead. I had a piece of peanut butter pie so he could have a headstart. He walked a little slow for me, and conversation was running out. Who knows but I may see him again. I'll endure if I don't. But I do like to meet interesting people. That really is the point.
In my heart I want to be Charles Kuralt, though he travelled in higher style. I want to meet every nut in America and hear every one of their stories. And people do open up to me, maybe only because I'm on the road. It gives you something of a license to ask all manner of questions. They know that before I get too annoying I will be again moving on.
Fifteen miles ought to do it, I figured. I didn't leave Kirksville til noon. I managed eighteen and got up my tent before the sun went down. My hobo skills took me off the highway. I'm on Old Highway 63. Which is but a narrow gravel road, a shadow of its modern self. I am camped on the very edge of it. So far three cars have gone by. Moving fast, I don't think they noticed me. They were not looking out for a tent.
I am kept company by a thousand crickets and a less than dignified owl. It sounds like he's hooting through a kazoo. It takes all kinds in the woods. There is too a mean-spirited squirrel, and a bird I would just as soon shoot. His song sounds like somebody jumping on a rusty old bed.
It might be a frog, I've seen plenty of those, obnoxious green little thing. You'd think he'd go off and hibernate. It is rather nippy tonight. I expect I'll survive but my nose is cold. I needed this wake-up call. I'll get my nine hours and wake up at six and hurry myself to the south.
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