Day Eighty-Nine, Dead Wood

It was cold last night, up in these hills. I got a small case of the snoofles. A lesser man would have got the pneumonia and by now would be several hours dead. I can cope with a snoofle or two. That's why God put sleeves on our shirts.

I was up at seven. I meant to wake up at six. That's life without an alarm. I was some distance in among the pines. There was not much sunlight back there. Which means I rolled up a soggy tent. My fingers were cold and brittle.

I took my time climbing out of my tent. I thought I owed myself breakfast. I cracked open a can of smoked weeners. Good golly, but they were foul. They were different than my usual brand. They cost a good fifteen cents more. I ate every last one of them. I wanted to throw them away.

I wasn't too eager to climb back over the fence that had nearly emasculated me. But when I did I had no problems. I guess last night I lacked spring. Which is not so say I was so bouncy today. Not this morning, at least. My legs were just a bit noodly and I had a big hill to climb.

And oh, what a hill; it went up up up up. It got my heart going, I tell you. I had drunk up my water so by pack was light, but I was sweating like a chimpanzee. A sweaty chimp, not the regular kind. It was almost embarrassing.

It was hot. I swear you could hear the rocks cracking where the cut went through for the road. And the steel guardrails were twisting and shifting and pulling against their bolts. With the whistling of tires on the concrete road it made quite the symphony. Which is good because I think my little radio has died. It sure lightened my load while it lasted.

At the top of the hill, a few miles up, was a monument of some kind. It marked the place Preacher Smith was murdered in eighteen seventy-something. Shot, it is said, by Indians. They never found out just who. I suppose the poor Indians just got the blame. It was probably a disgruntled parishoner.

Preacher Smith, said the plaque, came here to save souls among the miners of the Black Hills gold rush. He had his work cut out for him. Deadwood, the local metropolis, was a town founded on avarice and thievery, and sustained by liquor and prostitution.

Now it is tourism. There are historic buildings and cowboy shows, bus tours and statues and such. All of it commemorates their rich history of avarice, thievery, liquor and prostitution. With the odd murder thrown in. Wild Bill Hickock was gunned down here.

Deadwood was founded in the 1870s upon the discovery of gold. No one much minded that this was Indian land, by the Treaty of Laramie. No one but the Indians, of course. It was for Custer to deal with their complaints, which he did with terrible efficiency. Until the Little Big Horn, that is. Call it karma if you'd like.

Tomorrow they're having a free rock 'n' roll and classic car show. I almost want to stick around. A little loud music might do me some good, and I do love the classic cars. I was hoping to see one or two here today. I was pleased to see one red Corvette.

A sixty-three, the split-window, one of my most favorite cars. It was beautifully restored, but to be driven, not as a museum piece. It was piloted here from Billings by Darryl and his wife, whose name I do not immediately recall but whose beauty will haunt me forever. And their little dog Coney, a homely little thing, chubby but with a great heart. I talked to them for the better part of an hour, about their car and other important things. I thank them for making the time.

I then stopped in to the tourist office to check and recheck my route. I left more confused than ever. But I pulled up a bench in the shade outside which is where you find me now. Typing these words with sausagey thumbs and recharging my little computer.

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I met too a group of retired folks, over here from Wisconsin. I like old people and mid-westerners. They're always so pleasant and kind. They told me they were Conservatives. I told them I was a left-coast Socialist. I am not, precisely, but I am Left of Obama. They did not too much mind. They said I looked young for forty-two. They could not see me blush through my sunburn but I could not conceal my smile.

It broadened when they bought me lunch.

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I met some more folks on my way to get fed, three college kids from Oshkosh. Folks from Wisconsin are thick on the ground. This is their Riviera. They were Bret and Derek and Rodeo--that's his "trail name". The other guys had trail names, too, but they are not fit for publication.

I would ordinarily be hesitant to greet college kids, and outdoorsmen can be a humorless lot. But I guess in the last thousand miles or more I have earned my place in that crowd. They had just finished a three day hike through the Badlands, a region I took pains to avoid. Take a moment and Google "Badlands" if you cannot imagine why.

They were fully offroad, and even off trail for three long thirsty days. My adventure involves much more suffering, I believe, but theirs could have done them in. And they were nice to me which you don't always get from college kids these days. I salute them.

Salute.

And, get this, I met Norman the Briard, the most famousest dog in America. Google him if you don't believe me. I tell you this dog is a star. Rather acts it, to tell the truth. He was just a little aloof. He has been on Good Morning America and David Letterman and all kinds of local TV. I have seen him myself. He rides a scooter. He is pretty good at it.

He's a big fluffy thing. He wears a ponytail like a lot of that Hollywood crowd. He did condescend to have his picture made with me, and his family is real nice. They travel around with him in a camper and wait outside while he promotes dog food. It ain't a bad way to see America. Better than walking, I reckon.

I met all kinds of other folk too. It is like Leavenworth, Washington. There is sort of a theme at work here. Only instead of Bavarian Village it is Wild West. There are people from all over the place, taking pictures and trying on hats. If I had more money and time, it might be a nice place to hang out. But I don't, so I ate a subsidized cheeseburger and headed south out of town.

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And met some luck, it turned out, or so I believe. I'll let you know tomorrow. I was walking south on a winding little road with no shoulder whatsoever. When across the street I saw a bike path. It looked like it went the same way. I stopped at a bakery (and casino, no less) to get the local skinny. Turns out it will carry me almost out of the state.

I took them at their word and followed it. Soon enough it turned west. This was made glaringly obvious by the sun shining bright in my eyes. I hate going west; it is good work undone. It headed north a bit, too. I was beginning to feel a little forsaken. I asked a man for directions.

He was Allen, out on his mountain bike. He had a heart attack last year. He spent the winter eating too much and feeling sorry for himself. Come the spring he decided he would just as soon live and now is out getting in shape. And doing well, it seems. I am happy for him.

I have spent most of my life eating too much and feeling sorry for myself.

For many years he worked in the mines, manning a hydraulic drill. Those things weigh at least a hundred pounds and bounce all over hell. He looks like a more or less average guy, but I bet he could crush my skull between his thumb and forefinger.

But he wouldn't. He is a very nice man and was most supportive of my adventure. He told me when and where to turn and put me back on my way. This is the Mickelson trail and I'll bet it is the very best way through the Black Hills. It follows the old Burlington Northern line, except where some trestles are gone. It is covered in gravel, but little gravel. Big gravel hurts my feet.

You are supposed to pay to use the trail. I didn't and I feel like a dog. Money is a little tight at this point. It seems no one else pays, either. That's what the honor system will get you, boy. You ain't at West Point anymore.

But it is a beautiful trail and well maintained. I think it is worth the funds. Montana Department of Fish and Wildlife, I admit that I owe you three bucks. You'll get it out of me sooner or later. Thank you for your kind patience.

The Black Hills are lovely, by the way. I think I was selling them short. I think I was conflating it with the Black Sea, where the Soviets had their drab resorts. But there is nothing second class about the Black Hills. It is really a nice place to be.

In fact, there was a moment a few miles back, when I stopped for my loaf and fishes, when I experienced the sensation of being exactly where I wanted to be. That may be nothing to you, but not counting, shall we say, romantic instances, I don't think I have felt that way a dozen times in my life.

It has since passed but I am not unhappy. I am well off the trail, high on top of a hill. I climbed up here at some personal risk. That's not to mention the cougars. All over the place and hungry for blood. Peoples are their favorite food. It rather recalls the bear warnings I've been getting all along.

I ain't afraid of cougars. I get along great with kitty cats.

I HAVE SINCE received a most gracious e-mail from Craig at the SDDOT. He and his friends are part of what is no doubt the most efficient and hardest working office in the state. I feel just awful about making snotty remarks about them yesterday. From now on I will count to ten and wait a week before making snotty remarks about anyone. Or try to. I am but human.

I COMMUNED with a chipmunk. He shared my crackers. We chatted for a brief while. Chipmunks love me. I am a hero to chipmunks.

THERE ARE the ruins of some old mines up here. I like finding the remnants of civilisation in the wilderness. It reminds me of Logan's Run.

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Day Eighty-Eight, Rattle and Hum

I slept until ten minutes after seven. I have been waking up at six. On these short winter days it is better that way, but I guess I needed the rest.

Still, in theory, I could have been back on the road by not much later than eight. But I didn't leave my tent until nine-thirty. Blame Satan himself for that.

For I was ready to go well before then. I put on my shoes and unzipped. The ground around me was covered with spiders of every size and description. I didn't give them a whole lot of thought. My attention was on the snake.

A rattlesnake, a good thirty inches long was making his way past my tent. He did not even notice me. I, though, noticed him plenty. He did not look unkind. He looked almost friendly. He seemed to be humming to himself. He looked as if he had some place to be, perhaps a pleasant lunch date.

Snakes are evil. I hope someone kills him with a stick.

When I did climb out I packed quickly, I tell you, standing on tippety toes. And I was across the thirty yards to the road in three or four bounding strides. It was ninety by then but I was ice cold. My voice was a little squeaky.

I walked down the hill to Spearfish, South Dakota. I can't say I much liked the road. Four lanes, divided, like an interstate, but here and there a crossroad. Plenty of people waved at me but I had others gesturing for me to walk in the tall grass next to the shoulder. With the snakes. I should have offered a gesture of my own. I know one for every occasion.

The state patrol rolled by twice. They were not that much put out. They did not stop and yell at me. I'll accept that as tacit approval.

I have a letter in to the South Dakota Department of Transportation, asking if I can walk on the interstate. If necessary, that is, I don't relish the thought. They still haven't written back. Washington and Montana both gave me prompt answers. The Washington guy, I think his name is Ian, was even really nice about it. SDDOT, you do not impress. Pull out your thumbs and get snapping.

As it is I've found my own route out of Dakota. I am headed south through the Black Hills. It is said to be the prettiest part of the state, though not the flattest at all. From there I am headed across Nebraska. Gather your hills while ye may.

In Spearfish I had a burger for lunch, six waters and twenty-nine Cokes. I know I said I was going to starve, but I will be there soon enough. And it was cheap; it's a big enough town that prices are not too too bad. At a K-Mart I bought both weeners and fish and olives for when I have parties. And Gatorade for not too much more than tapwater. It is more refreshing and far less likely to give me the poppin' fizzies.

The real expense was brand new shoes. Good ones; I am taking no chances. So what if it means I must go without food. I am hoping my feet will be happy. If not ecstatic, at least quietly glad. And for the most part, uninjured. I chose carefully. I hope they last. But that will be up to the road.

After some miles my feet did hurt, but in new and intriguing ways. They do seem to be awfully hot, but that may not be their fault at all. It was a good 98 degrees today. That'll warm anyones toes. When I hauled out my arch supports the plastic was too hot to touch. Really.

My shoe consultant was a girl called Kayla, with a smile and a dimpled chin. And a low-cut blouse. I mention that in passing, apropos of nothing at all.

Spearfish, South Dakota is home to some 9000 souls and not a bad place at all. They've retained some of their prosperity. Real estate's doing OK. And farming and industry and tourism. Sturgis has done them some good. Those half million bikers spend enough money around here that most folks pretend that they like them.

They don't. I am certain of that fact. Though you won't find anyone to admit it.

"People in Spearfish are two-faced," said Jake, a man I met in the park. He is a Viet Nam vet and a former truck driver, a bit down on his luck, it seemed. But sober, rather opressively so. He seemed a bit mad at the world. He had, though, had some pretty rough breaks. I don't blame him at all.

He was sure the bad guys would get theirs in the end. "Karma," explained it all. I am something of a believer in karma myself, though I don't know if mine is good or bad. I guess I do put some good out in the world, but any negatve energy finds in me a place to grow.

While I was talking to Jake a little bug came and bit me hard on the arm. Karma. It still hurts. I don't think there was any venom involved. He just bit a big piece out of me. I squished him dead.

Karma.

I squeezed out of Spearfish on a frontage road. That was an unhappy stretch. There was no shoulder and traffic was moving fast and there were snakes all over the place. Every time a car came by I had to climb in amongst them and hope they accepted me as one of their own.

I stopped at a bakery (and wine bar, no less) to beg a few drops of water. It was an elegant place, wedged in amongst the car dealers and trailer hitch shops. I wish I had known it was there. I had already spent all my carb money on crackers. I even remember wishing that there were a bakery around.

C'est lovey. Belle Fourche. Grand Teton, s'il vous plait. At any rate, it smelled nice in there. Wide Mouth Frog, it is called. I got the feeling the baker lady didn't really believe I was Walking Across America, but she gave me a sugar cookie just in case.

It was a very good sugar cookie. Sugar cookies are easy to get wrong. They are deceptively simple, like Japanese food. The ingedients may be few. But the proportions are tricky, the timing precise. Any idiot can make syrupy teriyaki or a bad sugar cookie.

I bet her bread was pretty good, too. I wonder if this is still bentonite country. The water might be one of those secret ingredients that can't be reproduced anywhere else. They say Olympia beer owes its taste to the water, but I think in their case it is more about non-union labor and spotty quality control.

I eventually made it to Highway 85 and turned south into the Black Hills. Another fairly narrow shoulder. With bumpity strips cut in every forty feet. They are sharp and hard on my toes. Roads in South Dakota are made of concrete. The cars make a whistling sound. From the ridges cut in to let off the rains. Wet concrete can be slimy.

Concrete must be cheap in these parts. Or maybe the governor owns a concession. Or maybe the SDDOT never got around to reading the e-mail explaining the benefits of asphalt.

The Black Hills themselves are an odd bit of geography. Geology, should you prefer. They are proper mountains, but they're the same rolling plains, only taller and covered with trees. They are shrouded in haze and they do look black across the dry grass of the plains.

Find me now camped comfortably in the Black Hills National Forest. I did not get too far today. I went a mile more than I meant to. The State Patrol had a speedtrap set up across from the first good spot I found. I am not sure how legal it is to camp here.

But they have seen me walking now dozens of times. No interviews as of yet. This ain't Montana; they're out in force. It's weird seeing cops again.

I may have signed on for a few more hills than I bargained for. These are, I repeat, proper mountains. We'll let you know how it works out.


I RIPPED MY TROUSERS, right at the crotch, climbing a barbed wire fence. I am glad it is cold up here. It could have been much much worse.

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