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I was slapped awake in the wee hours when a fog rolled up on my tent. It brought with it the stink of a paper mill. It's a smell you may not know. And not one I can begin to describe. Imagine the worst kind of fart. But on an industrial scale and beefier. It should I guess take me back.
They made paper up the road from where I was born, on the Columbia River. It is probably the first thing I smelled in this world. It made me who I am today. Neurotic, angry. Gven to fits. Cowardly and alone.
Of course my family gets some of the credit. You'd have to meet that bunch. The rest of the blame I take on myself. It's the gentlemanly thing to do.
I did not let it spoil my appetite. I ate two cellophane donuts. And a bag of licorice gumdrops, made to look like teddy bears. None of it was very good. I wish I'd enjoyed it more. Because as it turned out, that would be the last food I got today.
Five- or six-hundred calories. I try not to get less than six-thousand. Walking Across America is hungry work. I didn't do so well yesterday either. Starvation doesn't suit me. It makes me cross. It makes my legs cramp up. My gums recede and my pants don't fit right. I feel sorry for myself.
A mile out of camp I did pass a shop. I ducked my head in for a bit. But it was so dirty, the selection so poor. I was sure I could do better up the road. This is Florida, after all. No one goes hungry here.
Except me, it turns out. This is a bleak stretch of road, pleasant enough in its way. Timber country. Vast tracts of pines in various stages of growth. And hundreds of log trucks hauling them north to squeeze the stink out of them. And turn them into toothpicks and toilet tissue and other things wonderful. Disposable chopsticks and beauty bark. I don't think they'd be much good for lumber. They are, by Pacific Northwest standards, kind of spindly.
Now and again I would hit a curve. For the most part my road ran straight. Four lanes, divided, with a narrow shoulder. It does have a broad right of way. But the yellowed grass is a challenge to walk on. It is longish and grabs at my shoes. So it was walk in the street and step aside whenever a car came by.
Remember I'm wounded. I've got a nasty blister. I'm working on one bad toe. These misfortunes never come singly. All of my parts work together. When one bit goes my whole sorry system falls into misalignment. Today's sore ankle is tomorrow's earache. That's just how it goes.
A little nutrition might have done me some good. I'd had hopes for Salem, Florida. About fifteen miles from where I began. There was a gas station there. And another gas station and a small motel. Even a general store. Now all of it's closed, overgrown, falling in. I got water at the post office.
From a rusty tap on the side of the building. Their indoor water is for feds. I did get good news. There's a store, I was told, six miles up the road.
Hungry. Sad. Sore. Tired. I had six more miles left in me. And I was buoyed by a certain optimism. I have learned to lie to myself. I walked eight. I walked until dark. No joy. I may have missed it. Or maybe I was lied to by my government. I wish I could have more faith.
Find me now camped in another swamp. There is a logged off patch right next door. But it was too exposed and too lumpy. This swamp is fairly dry. But it clearly spends some of the year underwater. I learned something new about gators. When it goes dry they can hibernate. I might be camped on one now.
I THINK CONGRESS should close all the post offices that make hoboes drink rusty water and keep all the good water for themselves.
THERE ARE beautiful sunsets in Florida. Must be all the paper mills.
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