Day One-Hundred-Twenty, Mr. & Mrs. Smith. And the Little Smiths.

Find me now in a warm soft bed, guest of the good Smith family. I enjoyed a fine dinner of meat and potatoes and a big piece of cake for dessert. With strawberries. Outside it is meant to dip well into the thirties. I couldn't have picked a nicer night to have friends in Iowa.

It is late, though. We stayed up talking. Tomorrow we go to church. I don't know when I've looked scruffier. I will shock the congregation. Though not by my manner; I am always polite. And it should be interesting. I ain't real religious myself. And that's understating things.

I was on the road by eight-thirty. That's not too awfully bad. I could have started walking hours before. I'd had an awful dream. Too awful, perhaps, to recount here. It sat me up in my bed. Only the warmth of my new fleece pants convinced me to go back to sleep.

Gosh, they're nice. They're just a bit bulky. They're kind of a trick to pack. But worth the effort; I'm certain of it. They let me laugh at the cold. From the waist down, at any rate. I'm warm up top as well. And wear a warm stocking cap that covers my ears and fastens under my chin. Only my face remains exposed, though less so than you might imagine. With some wriggling I can zip my good bag right up over my head.

It gets a little hard to breath in there, but that just helps me sleep. And it does get moist but that's a small price to pay to retain my most vital warmth. And when my dreams are light it is easy to imagine that I am zippered up inside my pack. Like a papoose or a very old woman on her way to Ubasuteyama.

I woke again at seven-thirty. That means a soggy tent. I can no longer leave my vents open. I had better get used to it. And my tentpoles were unspeakably cold. I should invest in some mittens. Or gloves, at least. I've been hesitant. I know they won't last long. I have a fine habit of losing the things. I've never owned a pair for more than a week.

I do find gloves from time to time, along the edge of the road. But I never think to pick them up for fear they contain a hand. I've seen trunks, too, treasure chests. You'd think they were full of gold coins. But I do not try to open them. I am sure there is death within.

A good ten or more miles took me to town, Holstein, Iowa. And another mile on top of that. It is some distance off the road. I had my burger in the local cafe. My waitress was brusque and grumpy. Not just to me, to everyone. It was noon and the place was crowded. I took a place in the corner and watched the folk, Iowans at play.

Football was the topic at hand. They seem to revere the game. "Them politicians need to play more football." It is a noble game. And, it was agreed, a likely cure for the ills in Washington.

Competion. Victory. Paying whatsoever it costs. Bending the rules. Conspiring to humiliate your opponent. Taking No Prisoners. Pre-game boasting. Post-game excuses. Trysts with cheerleaders. Locker room talk. Rabid fans. Fistfights among the spectators. Drug use. Prison time. Trick plays. Egos. Retiring to become an announcer. Equating it somehow with patriotism. Selling your autograph. Whoring what at one time may have been pure to so many corporate sponsors.

"Them boys needs to play more football." That'll man 'em up. Meanwhile print up some bumper stickers, I'M STUPID AND I VOTE.

As I was leaving a small boy pointed at me and looked me dead in the eye. "Hobo!" he said and I laughed aloud. But that doesn't excuse his bad manners.

It was too an interesting choice of words. It is what I've been calling myself. But then I chose the word carefully. It has an antique charm. One wonders where a boy of five would get the vocabulary. Or the courage.

Perhaps from his doting grandfather. Idiot. Football fan.

Quite uninfluenced by this commentary, I set out to find a barber. I was scheduled to go and stay with the Smiths. It seemed the right thing to do. They're such a clean and attractive family. They're used to me, of course. But what of their neighbors and family friends. What of their reputation. I would keep my long hair; I like it that way. I've earned my shaggy beard. I thought I'd just clean it all up a little. Every little bit helps.

There is no barber in Holstein, Iowa. There was a beauty salon. I would have gone there. What do they care. Give the ladies something to gossip about. But they were closed. I hiked back to the road, looking like a diminutive Sasquatch.

Not far up the road I met four little kids. They ran to the road to greet me. They demanded to know just what I was doing. I explained as well as I could. They were small but unafraid. They gave me their frank opinion. "You walk too much."

I could not agree more. It was, they informed me, their mother's birthday. Join me in wishing her well. She's got great kids and that's worth something. I expect she's a pretty good mom.

I was then pleased to meet Anna and Wyatt. Anna had made me a sandwich. There's no better way to win my affection. They brought a banana too. And some cucumber slices and a can of cold Coke. They're taking good care of me. I stuffed everything into my pockets and trusted them with my tent.

That is five punds out of my pack but it is more than that. It was a symbol of my dedication. I had to make it that last dozen miles or I would be homeless indeed. But I had all the fuel I needed and the promise of dinner as well. I am awfully fond of the family Smith. I bet I'm the most irredeemable friend they've got.

I was in good spirits but my feet were sore. It's some pretty hard walking here. It's a busy road and where there is a shoulder it is heaped with sharp gravel. I'm sure it will settle in by spring but I'll be gone by then. For the time being it is like running on sand. It robs my forward motion.

But the day was nice and not too too windy. It is pretty country, this. That is if you like cornfields. I didn't think I would. But I do. They're a sign of prosperity. We need all of that we can get. And the wind blowing through the drying stalks makes a pleasing sound like rain. The rolling hills keep things interesting. It never gets too steep. And the clouds were unnaturally beautiful, each fluffy and distinct.

And there is a vast wind farm up and running, the first I have seen close up. Great towers, fifty of them, one-hundred-fifty feet high. White, with three great blades, each about ninety feet long. They turn at about fifteen RPM. I don't think they're a danger to birds. Any bird dumb enough to get hit by one was probably destined to die.

There is some debate locally about how practical or efficient these things are. I'd have to see all the data. But instinctually I quite like them. Alternative energy thrills me. And they'll get better as they build more. These engineers are nobody's chimp. I just like the idea of pulling power directly from the air. And they're pretty, though they do make you dizzy if you stare at them too long.

Dawn is fast approaching. It will not do to sleep in church. I hope the preacher is dynamic enough to be interesting, but not so dynamic that he wants to Save me, specifically, then and there.

I MET TOO four high school men. They were cheerful and polite. It may be too soon to give up altogether on the future of this nation.

(DUDES! Send me a picture.)

AND I WAS HONORED to meet my very first roller derby team, gassing up in Holstein. They are DC/DC, the Dakota City Destruction Crew, and I wish them a successful season. They were, too, pretty and kind. That's what politics needs.

(LADIES! Send me a picture.)

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Day Ninety-Eight, Civilisation

I woke mysef up at six o'clock. Eight o'clock wouldn't have killed me. But I had pitched my tent on a working farm. Farm folk keep early hours. There was no pressure on me, do understand. I was made to feel quite at home. But I wanted to show them that city boys can wake with the cock, if you will.

It looked as if they had been up for hours. I could smell muffins baking. I was treated to a very fine breakfast and a hot shower before that. And some good conversation and gentle encouragement. I wanted for nothing more. Thank you most kindly, Doris and Beverly. You spoiled me, bless your good hearts.

Come nine o'clock I was back on the road, for all the real good it did. All this soft living had left me weak. I walked less than two miles. It was my chief ambition to make it over the hill so they couldn't see me from the house. A big part of Walking Across America, at least for me, consists of sitting in the shade and feeling sorry for myself.

Less so today, for I was packing muffins; apple and zucchini, if it pleases. It delighted me, at any rate. And there was a great smell in the air. Autumn, I believe it is called. In my old age it's my favorite season. It had cooked off by ten or so, but it was very nice while it lasted.

Even then it was not such a very hot day. It never got past the low-eighties. There was something of a headwind but I could not blame it for my thorough lack of strength. I could never seem to go more than a couple of miles without stopping for a break. In my own defense, I was a bit sleepy and Nebraska is hilly as hell. I think I was getting it mixed up with Kansas. One or the other is flat.

Both states are famous for their tornadoes. I ran into one today. Out of an entirely cloudless sky. It must have been fifteen feet high. Rather pitiful, as tornadoes go, but you have to admire its ambition. Even the cows were laughing at it, but it went swirling on. I was hit by something similar in India once. That one sandblasted me. But India is a fairly gritty country in even the best of conditions.

I saw a cross country cyclist, my first in a while. They prefer a more northerly route. I was cranky so I flagged him down. I wanted to ask why they are always such dicks. But he wasn't a dick. He wasn't a he. He was Christine from Vermont. She is riding from Maine to Oregon, all on her delicate lonesome.

We talked some. I liked her fine. She had a grip like a longshoreman. I am sure she can take care of herself. She drinks whisky and smokes cigars. She is a Bolshevik. She is not very big but it sounds like she eats just as much as I do, which made me feel better. I've been ashamed of myself since I met Lee, the recumbant cyclist who eats nothing but dirt clods and bark.

But two friendly cyclists out of hundreds does not change my opinion of the breed. These two are unique, recumbant, a girl, those exceptions that prove the rule. Cyclists are dicks.

I muddled on, never resting long. These short days are doing me in. I would much rather take three or four six-mile walks than two ten- or twelve-mile ones. There is too the challenge of charging my computer which demands one very long break. Which I could just as well do at the end of the day if I can get used to camping in the dark.

I met on the road a Mr. Daniel Long Soldier. He stopped to offer me a ride. We chatted a bit on the side of the road. I could very well have been squished. But it was worth the risk; he was interesting. He makes traditional bows. They are rather rough but more or less like the ones from centuries ago. And long, not the stubby little bows I saw at the Custer museum. They didn't start making those until they got horses. The long ones are hard to ride with.

He said he got a buffalo with one of his bows. He must be a very good shot. Unless you hit him in just the right place it would probably just piss him off. They don't seem like the very friendliest creatures, even when you're not sticking them with arrows.

Mr. Long Soldier is too a Jehovah's Witness. He witnessed at me a bit. I didn't mind; I liked how he talked. And he kept it folksy and fresh. He was quick to admit that even he had enjoyed a sinful youth. He did not expect to save me then and there. His own salvation had taken years. I am hoping to run into him again a few more towns down the line.

I took my last rest on the county line. There was a nice park there. In the middle nowhere, a patch of grass and a big old cottonwood tree. And a swinging bench, much like a porch swing. It was a very nice place to sit. And put there, it seemed, for my own convenience. Nebraskans are a thoughtful bunch.

Somehow or other I made my quota, or did not come up too far short. I arrived in Hay Springs after seven o'clock, and not too much before dark. I needed fed and got a burger at the local saloon. It was good but it was crowded in there. But I got the dope; it turned out I could camp in the city park.

The woman at the gas station shared my understanding of the distinction between camping and what I do. Camping, of course, is not allowed, but if you aren't making s'mores it's OK.

"We don't have any police here, anyway. No one will say anything."

So here I am and glad to be here. It is not a bad little park. A couple of acres on one end of town. I didn't mind doubling back. There are all sorts of trees and even some light, which is a help in putting up my tent. And there are showers next to the pool. Those may be closed for the season. But I don't mind. Three showers in three days; I might develop pretensions.

Perspectives change as you work your way east. I was warned this was a very small town. "There's nothing there," I was told earnestly. But I am no longer in Montana. A small town in Nebraska has six or eight hundred people and a main street with angle-in parking. And businesses thriving and boarded up. And places to eat and a park.

Small towns in Montana are nothing more than a very small dot on your map. I have developed the habit of asking people if the next town up the road is "a real town," meaning can I get water and food there. That has until now been a fair question, but as far as I can tell, all the towns in Nebraska are real. And not so very widely spaced, either. This soft living is going to make me weak.


HAY SPRINGS, NEBRASKA has recently celebrated the 125th anniversary of its founding. Congratulations, Hay Springs.

A REAL ESTATE database informs us that detached houses here go for about forty-six grand, and that rents average $248/month. Reasonable. The main industry is farming, followed closely by ranching. There are no other industries.

THE SICKLY corn I've been seeing is supposed to look like that. It is designed to grow in dry weather. Like those free seeds Monsanto gives to Africa so they can sell them their patented fertilizer.

EVEN HERE people are concerned about the pine beetle. Let's just hope the spectacularly beautiful women of the U.S. Forest Service are keeping on top of things.

I CAUGHT ANOTHER reflection of my beard today. I have gone quite hobo-chic. It scares some folk but I'm keeping it. I earned it. It's mine.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4