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Twenty-eight degrees. I feel cheated. Twenty-seven and I'd be indoors. That was the line I drew in the frost and I can't go back on it now. It would make me look weak. Indecisive. You'd lose all respect for me. A little cold air never hurt anyone. Except for the people it has killed.
That is unlikely to happen to me. Mine is a passionate nature. I am warmed by my depth of feeling and by my boundless sense of romance. And my two pairs of socks and my thermal underwear and my custom made teddy bear pants. And my two fleece pullovers and a hat that ties under my chin. I've got my bag made out of ground up ducks and an empty Gatorade bottle. I'm as prepared as I can possibly be. If I freeze to death it's not my fault.
I expect to be fairly uncomfortable. I am a little shivery now. But I am not yet feeling sorry for myself. Do you feel sorry for me? Well you damn well should. It's freezing out here and I'm probably going to die.
They'll dig me up in five-thousand years. I will be well-preserved. They will study my clothing and stomach contents. I will come to define my age. Twenty-First Century Man, they will say, was bearded and wore his hair long. He was by nature a wanderer. He lived on biscuits and gravy. He communicated by means of a primitive electronic device which, their technologists will affirm, sucked.
National Geographic will put me on their cover. I'll be displayed under glass. T-shirts bearing my likeness will be sold in museum gift shops. Anthropologists will build their careers on theories as to why I bottled my urine.
You ask why; I say why not. It really is cold out there. Don't judge me until you've walked 2500 miles in my ill-fitting moccasins.
I was perfectly willing to stay in a motel. I've been doing a lot of that these days. I checked two papers and looked at a TV. The weathermen all agreed. Twenty-eight, they said. Not twenty-seven. Miserable conformist bastards. Not one had the courage to give me an excuse to move myself indoors.
I could be watching Law & Order right now. I could be taking a bath. I could be eating pizza and talking to my mom on the phone. Think how sad she'll be when I freeze to death. She'll be out of sorts for a week. Think of my lonesome banjo going forever unplayed.
It has never been played particularly well as it is. And now it never will be.
I could walk to the highway and put up my thumb, but that would not be sporting. It is for me to endure this pain. Who knows, I just might live. There have been people frozen almost stiff who went on to live happy lives. The trick is to thaw them slow. Make a note of that. Thaw me slow. Like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Planning happy Thanksgivings, are you? Be thankful you're not me. I'm cold.
It'll be warmer tomorrow night. Then it will be in the forties. So all I have to do is survive for another 12 hours or so. Hell, I can do that. I think the point here is that I am going to be uncomfortable. Which I should be used to by now. I've suffered as few others have. Have you ever flown across the Pacific in economy class? I'd rather be here now. Of course on the plane I do drink quite a bit. I should have procured a bottle.
I used to know some Polacks. I am not being unkind. That is what they called themselves. They drank their vodka neat. At room temperature and by the pint. I remember one snowy evening. We were on the veranda in our T-shirts, sharing jokes and singing songs. I was not the slightest bit cold. It was like magic.
But all I've got is Gatorade. I must be careful not to mix up the bottles.
I was cold this morning as well. I slept until almost seven. The sun was out but it was not warm. It was though a beautiful day. The sky was blue and the air was clear. It was windier than I like to see. I took my time packing up. My tent poles stung my fingers.
It had dropped to thirty-seven or so. It must have been forty by then. I had slept with my windows open in order to dry out my tent. It worked, thank goodness. If it had not I would be in much worse shape now. As it is I expect it to fairly ice over from the steam of my breath.
I'm steamy.
I had a twelve-mile walk to town. I was completely out of water. And I had breakfasted on Corn Nuts. It left me a little parched. But I figured I could make the hike in three hours. I was wearing my lucky warm socks. And half hoping I'd be stopped by the State Patrol. I've got more to write about them.
Six or seven miles in I found a cafe, one of them Mennonite concerns. Simplicity, Economy, and Modesty; that's what they're all about. And baking, God bless them. They fed me fairly well. I had biscuits and gravy and a blackberry roll with a half pint of cream cheese frosting. And coffee. It was the last time I ate. I wish I were back there now.
The Amish, I believe, spun off from the Mennonites. They weren't hard core enough for them. The Mennonites too believe in non-violence. So do I, in certain moods. Other times I just really want to hit someone. I almost never do.
I'd like to hit Newt Gingrich, but I don't think that's fair to him. Try as I might, I cannot distinguish him from Pat Robertson.
I reached West Point, Mississippi well fed. It took away my reason to be there. I drank Sweet Tea at a McDonald's and tried to recharge my computer. Which is misbehaving again. The cold isn't doing it any good. But I've got other worries now. I am cold.
West Point made little impression on me. It seemed like a pretty big town. There was a lot of traffic at any rate. It was hard to get around. I stuck around as long as I dared then headed south again. For another eleven miles. I more than met my quota today.
I didn't notice for the first couple hours, but I've been walking steadily uphill. Which I almost prefer if it's not too steep. It seems to suit my stride. And I came to a stretch with no houses at all. It was easy to set up my tent. I think I'll stay here until the sun is well up. I hate being cold in the morning.
I haven't the vaguest where my next town is. I'll hit Macon the day after tomorrow. I'm hoping there will be something between here and there. It's possible I'll want a snack. I didn't put any food in my bag. It seemed heavy enough.
IT HAS BEEN a while and I'm not dead yet. My nose is a little runny though. Which is an awful hardship, I know, but unlikely to earn me a medal.
IF I DO last the night, twenty-six becomes my new minimum temperature. Damn.
VODKA is in fact a Polish drink. You'd be forgiven for thinking it's Russian. They stole it. At least that's what the Polacks tell me.
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