Day One-Hundred-Seventy-Four, Eskimo Farts

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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Day One-Hundred-Sixty-Two, Hilltop

The fog rolled in while I was typing last night. It was thicker still in the morning. Pea soup, like they say, which reminded me, my mother makes a fine pea soup. Which is not the ideal walking food, but warms you from the inside out.

I could have done with a bowl or two. Damn it was cold outside. Usually you can shake it off but the fog makes it stick to you. And your tent. My own tent was sopping wet and remains so even now. And my tentpoles were something evil. The kind of cold they have in Hell.

It was tempting to stay in my tent all day. I was fairly slow packing up. I had a nice spot between the railroad and the woods. No one could see me there. Which in the end is what got me up. I think it's a Saturday. At the very beginning of deer season. I heard several rifle shots. Not very nearby but close enough. A good bullet will go for miles.

Or until it hits something.

I would take my chances on the road. Fog's not ideal for walking. But I have a very wide shoulder here and the drivers are well-behaved. I made my way to Sharon, Tennessee, a few miles down the road.

I cannot tell you what road I'm on. It keeps changing its name. 45 or 43 or 372. Or Main Street or Broadway or God-knows-what. I think it is all the same. In any case, it veers around Sharon. I left it to walk through town.

First impressions mean everything. I've always resented that. I don't think the very Magic of James is easily seen at a glance. But Sharon left a positive stamp. The fog was just cooking away. But remained in the corners and with the sun shining through, it seemed like a magical town. With tidy houses and Nature all about, small but with a friendly downtown. I asked a courteous stranger for directions and made my way to the cafe.

It's the same awkward moment every day. First impressions again. In a small town everyone knows each other. I stand out like a fart in church. I ain't huge but I do fill most of a doorway. Then there's my day-glo hat. And my shaggy beard and my awkward bearing. And my red raincoat. Everyone turns and looks at me. Forks stop halfway to mouths. I am a timid creature at heart. It makes me feel like an ass.

I make friends soon enough but not this time. Every table was full. So I turned abruptly and walked back out. They'll be talking about me for weeks.

I made my way to City Hall, in a modest storefront next door. I asked a very nice man who looked like Lyndon Johnson if there were anywhere else to eat. I was hoping he was the mayor. I like meeting mayors. It makes me feel important. But he was just a Baptist preacher, moonlighting as a clerk.

It's funny, I always thought Baptist preachers were mean. Maybe it's just the ones on TV. I don't mean as they are portrayed in drama. I mean the ones with their very own shows. But this guy was helpful and had kind eyes. I hope he likes my Baptist joke. It is either the basis for a fine sermon, or my ticket to the fiery pit.

There was another place on the edge of town, where it meets the highway again. Everybody was friendly there. A nice man picked up my check. He told me I was walking for a reason. He said someday it would all make sense. He figures it is all part of God's plan for me. I would like to believe that he's right.

I left there in a very fine mood. It helps when people are kind. And the fog was gone and as promised, it was a beautiful day. My feet were happy and my road was good. My pack felt fairly light. I hiked five short miles to Greenfield to get some laundry done.

Their one laundromat had since closed down. I personally blame the Chinese. And most of the shops in their small downtown had put themselves up for sale. It would have been wrong to leave that sad town without having one piece of pie.

The pie cafe was full of hunters, all decked out in their gear. Camouflage jumpsuits and orange baseball caps. I've never seen so many at once. Let's hope they all know what they're shooting at. There are Jameses abroad in these woods.

I moved on, still in a very fine mood. My feet were a little warm. All I've got left is my extra-warm socks. I had to stop several times. And take off my shoes to cool them off. It was up in the 60s today. Sweaty feet can get blistery. I have blisters enough.

I walked past Bradford and Idlewild, "where the men are idle, and the women are wild." I planned to stop just short of Milan, My-lun to its friends. I had to be careful not to get too close. The Army makes its bullets there. Their woods are patrolled by genuine soldiers. They shoot people on purpose.

As it was I did not make it that far. I stopped at a gas station. Known as Hilltop. It is run by one good Deepak Chopra. An Indian American, in Tennessee via New Delhi. Where I lived for a few short years. We had plenty to talk about. He is just my age but a married man. His daughter is pointed at Harvard.

Deepak's known as Romy in these parts. Deepak was too hard to say. And somehow he has managed to establish himself as a Pillar of the Community. He greets most of his customers by name. The others he calls "my friend." Because sooner or later they are going to be. He is just that sort of guy.

I met Spencer, a Bradford cop. I wish I had gotten his picture. He was huge and armed and dressed all in black. He had a very fine nose. We talked for a while. He's an insightful man. I was glad for the chance. I have never talked to a cop before without him running my license.

I thought it might be easy to be a cop here, but no, they've got their share of crime. Not counting traffic atrocities, meth the biggest thing. He did not, however, make the boastful claim that Bradford is the Meth Capital of the World. Almost every other town does. Someday a competent authority ought to settle that matter for good.

They can't all be the Meth Capital. Better they should be ranked. Number two might want to try harder. Number one might want to coast. Those that are further down the list might just want to give up for good. We cannot all be champions. Some races are better not run.

I met Joe, a mountain of a mountain man. He used to work for Boeing. And Tommy, a "gun-totin' redneck" who is going to nursing school. And Carmen and her mom or grandmom, and a girl in a short skirt. And a number of deer hunters, all of whom seem to have met with success.

I was there for five hours. Friend Romy kept giving me pop. And a couple of sandwiches. He'd have given me more if I'd asked. Poor fellow, he wants to be a millionaire. He is a good businessman. But doesn't have that mean-spiritedness which too often leads to success. People can't pay for gas, he opens his wallet. He gives candy to the kids. He greets like a brother every odd hobo that comes limping up the pike.

Find me now camped behind his station, next to the diesel tanks. It coming up on one a.m., but I think I get an hour back. Or lose an hour. I forget just which. Daylight Savings boggles my mind.


I THINK this morning's hash browns were fried up in butter. Interesting.

I KNOW it's ungodly, but between you and me, I've always wanted to punch Pat Robertson in the face.

THANK YOU, Mr. Boaz, pronounced "Boze", for making sure I stay fed. And for his prayers. I'm not sure they'll take. But every little bit helps.

AND THANKS to Romy, mine excellent host. God Bess America.

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