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WIt is not, contrary to popular rumor, Day 195 at all. Technical problems, don't you know. It's the morning of Day 196. But it's not too late. I can still just recall the magic of yesterday.
It was cold, dammit. At least in the morning. I hadn't slept too awfully well. I shivered some and tossed and turned. I was haunted by awful dreams. In one the woman I loved married an idiot, fat with Art Garfunkel hair. Because he owned five electric razors. God only knows what it means. In another an aligator ate my cat. That one is easier to interpret.
It's no fun at all packing up in the cold. There are all kinds of zippers and snaps. All designed to send new kinds of pain shooting through my icy fingers. But I managed. I always do. There was a gas station a quarter mile away. Too far to do me much imkediate good, but I did not have to wait for my coffee.
And a breakfast biscuit at the attached Arby's. I bought one more for a stranger. A genuine hobo in real need. He rather put me to shame. I get treated like a hobo a lot these days. It's an impression I've been inclined to forgive. But sitting side by side I look for all the world like a soft living kid from the suburbs.
Which I am, but my hobo friend overlooked it. I guess he just thought I was new. And offered me all sorts of useful advice, none of which I hope to soon use. A lot of it had to do with eating garbage and getting the best bunk in jail. And defending yourself from the kinds of folks who beat up hobos just for fun. And steal their shit. Many are cops. The worst of them, he says, are in Florida.
Which is where I'm headed at long awful last. It took me a while to find my road. I spent a day or two zig-zagging about. I out-thunk myself. I got too creative. I put some faith in Google Maps. Until I finally admitted defeat and settled onto 90 east.
I-90 will take you all the way to Seattle. I've crossed it on this walk several times. I even walked it a bit in Montana. It's your most efficient route across the US. But this ain't I-90. This is State Highway 90. It's a different beast altogether.
It is two lanes wide with no shoulder. I spent most of my day in the ditch. Wading through tall grass over very rough ground. I'm feeling it in my weary old knees. There was too a psychic cost. I've developed an unreasonable fear of gators. I cringe at each shredded tire.
Or rotted stump or beer bottle. That's the thing about gators. They hide. They blend into their environment. That's how you know they're there. If you can't see them you're as good as dead. I tell you, it has raised my pulse.
I'm told they won't eat you all at once. First they drag you to their pond. And hold you underwater until you get thirsty. Then they stuff you somewhere. And let you rot for a week or two. Then they sip you through a straw. Or a length of reed or what they have handy. They grind your bones to make their bread.
There is too the threat of fire ants, "far ain'ts" if you prefer. I'm quick. They ain't manage to get me yet, but there sure are a lot of them. And mean as badgers, the arsonists. They've got a hill every ten feet. They may be the only thing there is keeping the gators in line.
I hiked as far as Elsanor, a wide spot in the road. There are two gas stations, one closed, one running. I was delighted to find they had food. Real food. Chicken gumbo with corn bread and turnip greens. I ate a mountain of it and I ate it fast. It was getting dark.
I'll tell you one thing about chicken gumbo. It digests at the speed of light. I was suffering severe abdominal cramps by the time I got up my tent. Or got it half up. I had to pause the procedure. I had some business to do. Oh, Lordy. It could have been ugly. It is lucky no one got hurt.
"Too cold for gators," or so I've been told. I guess they hibernate. The question is where. I still feel nervous setting up my tent in the woods. I think some of them just sleep in the woods. I slept right on top of one. I thought it was a log. It messed up my back. Gators are ornery critters.
And here I am, miles down the road in the small town of Seminole. On the state line. I'm at the gas station. It's where I enjoyed my breakfast. A proper breakfast. At a gas station. I couldn't have been better pleased. And the nice lady at the counter called me Sweet Pea a dozen times.
I FORGOT TO mention the pelicans. They are my new favorite bird. Or second, after penguins. They are just as ridiculous, but not nearly as well dressed.
LAST NIGHT the whole sky was sunset, not just a patch in the east. All fluffy pink clouds on a baby blue sky. Florida. Miami Vice.
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