Day One-Hundred-Forty-Six, Nanook

The autumn leaves here are perhaps less beautiful than I have led you to believe. Of course I never meant to deceive you. I have limited powers of description. I say autumn leaves and leave it at that. I let you form your own picture. Likely of the leaves in, say, Vermont, with their vivid reds and yellows.

There are reds here, and yellows, as well. Here and there you might see an orange. But the predominant colour, such as it is, is something you might call rust. In all of its shades, don't get me wrong, but none of them particularly vivid. They all have a vaguely muddy tinge. Any postcard would be touched up.

Which is not to say they're not nice to see. There is some variety. And it may be yet early. Many of the trees remain a stubborn green. But some are altogether bare. I couldn't say which is which. You might be better served in this case by someone who knew something of Nature.

For me a tree is a tree is a tree. Same with birds and anything furry. Nor am I able to well describe the features of the land. Or the clouds or the sky or anything too much to do with Nature. But I wonder if those who can write of such things are really getting it right. Or if they're just better at taking credit for the pictures we form on our own.

This morning I woke in amongst the trees. The sky was once again blue. Bluer, perhaps. Looking up through the trees everything was in sharp focus. Every beetle, every twig, the rusty leaves, the very sky itself. The air was today amazingly clear. That is what cold looks like.

Not the damp cold of the past few days. That's Nature's way of cheating. I can make you cold on a summer day by pouring water on your head. This was a real cold, an honest cold, a cold without pretense. Dangerous, perhaps, but beautiful. I've known some women like that.

Fewer than you'd think, if I may digress. Most beautiful women are good. They grow up free of the vanity that comes from being ugly. They accept their Beauty as a matter of course. They'll admit to it if you ask. It is ugliness in its forms that causes all your pain.

As I was saying, it was a beautiful day. Everything was so well defined. I passed a Chevy dealer on way into town. Even it was pretty. The road, the dirt, the cigarette butts. It was all beautiful.

I breakfasted at the Linn, Missouri McDonald's. It was the closest place to my tent. And as lovely as things were out of doors I wanted to warm my toes. It was cheap and not so awfully bad. Their biscuits were a little doughy. And I was soon after hungry again. It did not stick to my ribs.

One thing rather interested me. It was teeming with old people. Whom I usually enjoy talking to, but these old folks were busy. They were playing bingo. Dozens of them. At McDonald's. At eight a.m. A few of them looked like they wanted to talk, but they stayed true to their game.

I had sausage and eggs and pancakes and a biscuit. It came on a styrofoam tray. It reminded me so much of airplane food I kept my elbows tucked in. Like a T-rex eating corn on the cob. Like a grown man in economy class.

They have an odd take on hash browns. They came as a sort of wafer. It tasted fine. It was duly crispy. It just looked a little odd. Like the food they give our brave astronauts, who wash it all down with Tang.

Poor, miserable, space-exploring bastards.

I found a supermarket next door and re-upped my bread and cheese. That place was full of old people as well; banned from bingo, I guess. For what indiscretion, I dared not ask. They complained quite a bit of the cold. But I didn't. I know if I'm cold, it's my very own fault.

From there I hiked up to Linn proper. I had been I guess in the suburbs. Linn was up on the top of the hill. I don't know how many people live there. It is home to a large technical college, training airplane and diesel mechanics. And others, one is bound to suppose. I am too cold to look it up.

Their second industry in funeral homes. They bookended my laundromat. Which itself is scheduled to be torn down in order to make room for a third. I suppose it makes bargain shopping easy, having them all together like that. But I don't like to think too much about death. Death, thank you, makes me sad.

And afraid. Not least as I walk east on fabulous Highway 50. It's a pretty road, winding over steep hills, separated by deep hollows. Narrow, though, with blind corners and no shoulder to speak of. And traffic moving at eighty per. I did not spend much time looking at scenery. It was all I could do to look after myself. It was a scary day.

I usually get the sense that most drivers, whatever their skill or ineptitude, would just as soon not squish me dead. Not so here. Here they all think I'm an idiot for walking on their road. If I were to die it would confirm their belief and make them feel better about themselves.

It is not though for me to build their self-esteem. Let them go on in self-loathing. The speed limit here is sixty, I believe. That must be a population control thing. Anywhere else it would be forty, I swear. Folks would go fifty and live. Here they drive at seventy-five. I bet there are all kinds of wrecks.

You know whom I am becoming ever more disgusted with? People with jacked-up trucks. They'd be fine for stadium races or exhibitions at county fairs. But hey're too tall to be of much use on the farm and they bounce all over the road. And they instill in their drivers a sort of swagger that I don't think is wholly deserved. Bunch o' puny little compensatin' chipmunk-murderin' morons.

Not too many miles up the road I stopped at a saloon for a burger. The Shack, it was called. "It looks like a shack." But on the inside it's real nice. And it was warm in there and the food was good and the people were kind to me. There seem to be fewer saloons these days. It reminded me of warmer times.

I lingered there as I had at McDonald's. As I did at the laudromat. I don't think I made fifteen miles today. I was dreading what was up the road. Nightfall. That's what was scaring me. The putting up of my tent. For tonight is the first night of all my trip that's going to drop below freezing. And me outdoors. What an idiot. Nobody knows how I suffer.

But I found a good spot for my tent. I'm bundled up and zippered in. There's every chance I'll be perfectly fine. So far, I say, so good.


IT HAS SINCE been confirmed that there are indeed armadillers in Missouri. They started showing up five years ago, as part of a great migration. But as far as I know, no one has ever seen a live one. One theory has it that Texans scrape them off their own highways, then throw them out their windows, like frisbees, on their way through this state.

THE COYOTES are howling, like most nights, only a bit nearer by. And the cows are mooing bitterly about how cold they are. And there are plenty of critters in the dry leaves, all around my tent. Skunks, as likely as not. I saw a pretty one today. He was white and black instead of black and white. It was a good look for a skunk.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Five, Fo Fum

Find me in a Subway--in a Walmart, no less--sheltering from the storm. Or at least the cold. I've been here a while. It may or may not be raining. But you know you've taken some wrong turns in life when such as this becomes your Oasis.

I woke up I guess at seven or so. I couldn't be sure of the time. My little computer was so low on juice I didn't dare turn it on. And there was no sun to go by. The sun has gone south, a lot faster than I can travel. Squinting in the gloom I studied my map and reached no very cheerful conclusions.

I did too have a look at my shoes. They were worse than I thought. They had suffered a catastrophic failure and were about to fall off my feet. I could tape them up and hope for the best. Or I could hike back into town. Or I could see what Walmart could do. I decided to give them a shot.

I got hiking boots for thirty-five bucks. You'd think I would be better pleased. It is a fraction of what I have been paying. But them high-dollar shoes have not always been kind. I am hoping these will be worse. Because if I don't suffer, and suffer indeed, I'll know that I've been paying too much.

They don't have to take me further than Cape Girardeau, the next good-sized town on my road. I'll be damned if I know how I'm going to get there. I'm pretty sure it will be cold. But this is the price I pay, I know, for goofing around in Montana.

I wasn't really goofing around. I was doing my very best. It is just that my best was pitiful. I'll do a lot better next time. A few more twenty-five mile days early on, and I'd be sunning it on the gulf coast. I hear the hotels are cheap down there. Because of all the tar.

I bought too a few more pairs of socks. It was that or find a laundry. And one of those magical undershirts that are supposed to keep you dry in the cold. It didn't cost fifty bucks, it only cost ten, plus a two-dollar premium. For being of abnormal size. I'm a towering giant down here.

Fear me.

I got some underpants of the same material, if I may say "underpants" here. Underpants, underpants. Underpants, Ha! I'm tired of censoring myself. Bear with my off-color outbursts. This is a grown-up blog. But I will not describe the particular chafing which compelled me to buy new shorts.

So in the end I spent as much as I would to sleep in a motel. Which is a shame. It's awful cold. I'd like to sleep indoors. Though I did stay warm enough last night. I'll credit my teddy bear pants. Handmade by my dear friend Marne. Thank-you. You are a hero.

But it will be colder still tonight, and evil cold tomorrow. Well below freezing. Cryogenic. Cry, cry again. It will be a nice test of my resolve, and of my sleeping bag. It is made out of ground-up ducks. Let's hope they did not die in vain.

So it's ten-thirty now and all I've accomplished is to walk a mile and a half. The wrong way. But I bought new boots, Walmart boots, and breakfasted at the in-house Subway. I had some sort of breakfasty concoction, and between you and me, it wasn't bad. Now I'm drinking cup after cup of their coffee and dreading whatever's to come.

That's the morning report, at any rate. Peace.

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It's four-thirty now. For the last lonesome hour I've been at a gas station. In Loose Creek, Missouri. My road has narrowed somewhat. There is here an Ozarky vibe. I feel foreign and city slick. Everyone looks like Randy Quaid. Whom I've always admired, but still, but still. I'm the only one who ain't kin.

I've been wearing my raincoat to break the wind. Underneath my fleece shirt is sopping. GORE-TEX®. GORE-TEX®, pshaw. It's a conspiracy. They are trying to give me the sniffles.

It has not topped forty-five today. I'm beginning to think it might not. Nor will it for a couple more days. Hot diggity damn but it's cold. Every time I smell wood smoke I think of fires I've known and shed a lonesome tear.

So here's the plan: I walk on to Linn and stop just short of town. Then if I am feverish tomorrow I can check into a motel. If not I'll do laundry and eat hash browns and climb back out on the road. Though I rather wish I could have a shower. Don't love me less, but I stink.

Good news, good news. My little computer has upped it's prediction for tomorrow. It has dipped as low as twenty-eight. Now it's at thirty-four. We'll see, we'll see. It's a lesson to young walkers. Don't dilly-dally in Montana.

******************

Now it's back down to thirty again. Poop.

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I hiked six or seven miles into Linn. It was daylight but it was dark. My road is narrow and traffic moves fast. I was ready to dive for the ditch. But the trees are pretty and I like these steep hills. They take my mind off the cold.

I could not find a good place to camp. "Oh, darn," I thought to myself. "Now I'll have to get a room and take three or four hot baths. And eat pizza and watch TV and sleep in a proper bed. With the baseboard heater going full blast and the cooler running on low."

But that misfortune did not befall me. I found a nice place for my tent. Not five-hundred yards from the edge of town, in amongst the trees. If it were less perfect I could have ignored it, but I've got my hobo pride. I put on dry clothes and climbed into my sack. Who knows but I might survive.

I did not make too much progress today, maybe seventeen forward miles. I was busy backtracking and buying shoes and trying in vain to get warm. My new shoes rather sliced up my feet but I am well used to that.

Tomorrow I'll get some washing done. Linn has a McDonald's. I can all but see it through the trees. That means it's a pretty big town. And so will have a laundromat. I'll blow two hours there. Which will make tomorrow another short day. I'm too cold to care.

I SAW ANOTHER one of those furry rugby ball beasties. I think they might be woodchucks. They are slow and clumsy and look kind of dumb. They are my woodland brothers.

FOR TWO OR THREE days I have seen a new beast, crushed on the side of the road. So well crushed I could not guess what they once were. My best guess was dinosaurs. But I think, and I know I'm awful far north, they might be armadillers. Or really big turtles with long tails. Or dinosaurs.

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