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Find me on the far edge of a vast orchard, east of Chiefland, Florida. I've hidden myself in a thick strip of wood. I'll be easier to see come the dawn. I've been waiting too long to set up my tent. I've been taking camping for granted. I keep walking until it is too dark to see, on the assumption that I'll find a spot.
And so far I have. Every night. All the way across this country. See that patch of trees by your house? There may be hoboes in it. Which would upset you, I gather. You might not know why. You would figure they were up to no good. That they'd steal your chickens or make off with your kids or teach your dog bad habits. That they'd start a fire or stink up the place or lower your property values.
But of course you wouldn't confront them. You'd have the sheriff do that, Which is why, please do understand, I prefer to keep myself hid. What nobody knows is unlikely to hurt them. I will be gone soon enough. I mind my own business. I pick up my trash. You'll never know I was here.
Ideally. It is harder sometimes. I have a bright yellow tent. They do that on purpose. The idea is to make your tent life more cheerful. It was noticed that returning veterans were often in a foul mood. "It's the tents," thought the manufacturers of camping goods. "We must make ours bright yellow!"
Or orange or pink or, if you're lucky, a ridiculous shade of blue. Their intentions are good, but between you and me, I'd prefer something olive drab. I don't like to draw attention to myself, at least not when I am asleep.
There are camouflaged tents but that wouldn't do. It creates the wrong impression. It makes you look a little too creepy, like you're building a sniper's nest. I would prefer a quiet shade of green. Brown wouldn't be so bad. A duller yellow to blend into the world without trying too hard.
A lot of hoboes sleep under bridges. I avoid that when I can. They are noisy, dirty, dusty places. They're the first place the sheriff looks. But they do keep you out of the rain. Most hoboes do not have tents. I do. I'm living large. It smells a lot like tom cat.
And I've gotten pretty good at tucking it in to this little corner or that. I shift underbrush; I pull up weeds; I hide in amongst the trees. But I'm almost always close to the road. You could see me from a passing car. Or you could if you knew where to look, and if I did not have hobo skills.
But I'm not wholly comfortable with where I am now. I did not like last night much either. I much prefer the odd patch of woods. This clearly belongs to someone. I'm pretty sure I could explain myself, but it would be hard to do at gunpoint. I tend to be somewhat less eloquent when my feelings are hurt.
It was raining when I woke up. Not hard, but hard enough. I stayed in my tent for as long as I dared before climbing back on the road. My road in this case was a bicycle path. I had it all the way to Old Town. And even with the rain it wasn't as humid as it was yesterday.
Until I was about five miles in. I had two or three more to go. When the skies opened up. I really got pissed on. I was soaked all the way to my shorts.
This is not merely a colorful phrase. My shorts were sopping wet. The rest of my clothes are polyester. They dry fast enough. But I prefer natural fibres around those bits that I hold most dear. But it can lead to chafing and the odd rash. Speaking hypothetically.
Google mentioned a Hardee's in Old Town. I was delighted to find a cafe. Next door you can get bail bonds. I ordered my usual breakfast. Biscuits and gravy and sausage and eggs. They didn't have hash brown. But they did come up with some fried potatoes. They were nearly as good.
Gosh, I was pleased. It has been too long since I started a day out right. And a good couple, the Bells I believe, went and picked up my check. Thank-you. That made my day. Again not for the obvious reasons. I need all the cash that I can get, but it is better still to be believed in.
I stayed there for a couple of hours, recharging and drying off. It was just a bit seedy, forgive me for saying, but everyone was really nice. The lunch crowd was there by the time I left. I'd had thirty-two cups of coffee. Which, along with everything else, put a real spring in my step.
I walked to Chiefland in less than three hours. That's almost a jogging pace. My road took me along, and eventually across, the Suwannee River of song. Swanee, Suwani, if you prefer. It looks like the Amazon. With jungly woods on either side. It's a handsome stretch of water. I bet it's teeming with crocodiles. I wouldn't swim in it for ten million bucks.
Once across I had a straight shot to Chiefland. I walked all the way in the ditch. The grass was too long but I was feeling fit. There was plenty to see. Boarded up motels, motels hanging on, tire shops for sale. A few old houses, a few vacant lots and miles and miles of trees.
Live oaks for the most part, with and without moss. This climate is hard on wooden buildings. Old houses and shops seem to almost melt until they're again part of the woods. It would drive me nuts. I'd be out there every day bleaching the funge off my siding.
I was in Chiefland for an hour or two. I never got a sense of that town. It seems to be all suburb and no substance. I was in a Burger King. There may be more to it somewhere. It took a long time to walk out. I gave myself an hour. That was just enough. I put up my tent in the dark.
I've got to walk nineteen or twenty-five miles tomorrow. It has to do with the spacing of towns. There is some science at work here. Perhaps a bit more than you'd guess. Ideally I would set out early. That is not going to happen. It is coming up on eleven o'clock. These reports don't type themselves.
HOSTESS has declared bankruptcy. Through no fault of my own.
I SAW AN enormous bird today. It appeared to be some kind of buzzard. It appeared to be following me. It did not say why.
I FOUND on the road a butterfly knife, a kind of elaborate switchblade. It was of no imaginable use to me so I threw it away. I also found a marijuana pipe.
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