Day One-Hundred-Seventy-Seven, Scooby Snacks

I had some vague notion of packing up in the dark and getting a very early start.  I'm not altogether sure why.  I'm not feeling any more ambitious than I ever have.  Certainly no more energetic.  But these short days are starting to bother me.  I always have a bit more to give.  But when the sun goes down I have to put up my tent or risk not finding a spot.

As it was I slept until six o'clock.  I was in no jolly mood to wake up.  I'd fallen asleep listening to Nicholas Nickleby and it had come to pervade my dreams.  I got my ten hours but they weren't wholly restful.  I'd have been glad to go back to sleep.  But a boy's got to walk.  I've still got miles to go.  This ain't no Sunday stroll.

I was walking by seven or so.  The experts had promised no rain.  But there was plenty of fog.  It was kind of neat.  This is Sunday and traffic was light.  My highway is wide, four lanes divided.  I had it almost all to myself.  With pine forests on either side of the road and grey skies low overhead. 

It was surreal.  It looked plenty cold but it was warm enough.  Not toasty but I was in just a T-shirt and shivered only when I stopped.  So I didn't stop.  I walked my thirteen miles to Scooba, Mississippi in one heroic chunk.  Listening to America's Top Forty.  God help this blighted nation.  Of all the derivative overproduced crap.  The eighties offered better music.  It was hosted by Ryan Seacrest, that poster boy of bland banality.

My poor NPR had faded away.  They can't afford the big towers.  Because you have not yet sent them your checks.  Get on it.  They need the money.

I settled into a gas station in Scooba, population six-hundred or so.  Which is where you find me now, getting a head start on my daily report.  Samsung sucks so there's no way I can type it all up tonight. 

I had two-thirds of a gas station pizza, made by my new friend Andrea.  She's five-foot-nothing and a bit goofy.  She wants to be a cop.  Waste of human goodness if you want my opinion.

All sources say it ain't gonna rain.  Looking out it is hard to believe them.  But I don't really have much say in the matter.  Moving on.  Moving on.

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

It never did rain but it might as well have.  It was humid as hell.  The swampy bits.  My shirt is soaked through.  I'm sweating like a guilty chimp.  I remain dressed here in my tent.  I'm hoping to dry my clothes some.  By means of my very body heat.  By means of the Love in my heart.

The sun was up there somewhere I guess.  It never did show itself.  There were patches of clear blue sky.  It was up in the seventies.  But overcast.  It felt like fog but that was just old-fashioned steam.

The pine trees continue to line the road.  It is all one vast tree farm.  There are sections which have been recently logged.  Others have been replanted.  Even the big trees are not very big.  I think most of them get ground up.  To make paper or pizza crust.  They're pretty to look at I guess.  But not what I expected from Mississippi.  I thought there'd be more hanging moss.

My road seems to move mostly uphill.  I crossed a few stagnant rivers.  Beside the road are little canals which smell like something bad.  Strange chemicals or solvents or something.  It was starting to hurt my brain.  Someone upstream is up to no good.  The Gulf has suffered enough.

I passed the town of Electric Mills.  Its water tower said Porterville.  Which I think is yet to come.  They need to get their story straight.  Besides the water tower there was a trailer park and what may have been a lumber mill.  Electric no doubt.  Now that is technology worth bragging about.

These woods today are brimming with hunters, on both sides of the road.  I don't know if they are meant to be here, but I won't tell if they don't.  I think I've figured out how to hunt deer.  It is not what I imagined.  I thought you stalked them through the woods.  It is easier than that.

You get what's called a deer stand.  It's like a little tree house.  You set it up near a clearing and settle in to watch TV.  And drink vodka tonics and smoke cigars and otherwise abuse yourself.  Eventually a deer will poke out his head and if you're paying attention you shoot him.

Then you go to your truck to get your little four-by-four.  You pull it around on a trailer.  You rumble over to where your deer is waiting and hoist him up on a winch.  Electric.  You musn't overstrain.  Then you drive him to a "deer processor."  Who turns him into steaks and sausage that you may or may not eat.  If he's extra pretty ("pointy" in hunters' lingo) you have his head stuffed and you hang it up on your wall.  And brag about it. 

I tell you these deer are all over me.  They huddle around me for safety.  I spend half my life chasing them off.  I could kill one with a big stick.  But I worry what it might do to my karma, which ain't in real good shape as it is.

I ate up the rest of my pizza right after I put up my tent.  There was plenty of it but it had to be done.  It does not pay to procrastinate.  I've got some fig newtons and a donut left.  And a little bag of gum drops.  So I'm doing alright.  Don't worry about me.  I'll make it to the next gas station.

MY LITTLE mp3 player finally died.  It's been holding on by a thread.  So now I can't listen to Nicholas Nickleby any more.  Oh, demmit.

SOME OF them Mennonite gals is good looking.  I'm thinking of signing up.  Though I wonder if I wouldn't have a brighter future in the United States Forest Service.

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Day One-Hundred-Seventy, Guntown

Find me in a Subway outside of Baldwyn at ten-thirty in the morning. It is a bit earlier than I usually like to type my daily reports. But there's an electric outlet here. I have to type when I can. My battery is unreliable. Because Samsung sucks.

I'm not sure what time it was when I woke up. The sun had not been up long. I had had some trouble falling asleep. Stress, don't you know. Over the state of my little computer. It's bound to affect my health. And will be fully explored when this goes to court. Keep one eye on the legal journals. For James v. The Samsung Corporation, Which As Everyone Knows, Sucks.

It was fairly warm but windy. A deer was kazooing nearby. Or a hunter who was trying to sound like a deer. I wore my yellow hat packing up. And my bright orange hunting vest. One so dislikes to take chances. I really don't want to get myself shot before I reach Florida.

Then it won't really matter so much. How can you talk that way? I tell you, it's all about poetry. This story needs a conclusion. I limp into Miami and then I go home? That will not do at all. I need to Fall in Love or be Born Again or Felled by a Hunter's Bullet. Drama is what this adventure's been lacking. I'm only thinking of you.

I'll try to linger long enough to type up that final scene. And I'll forgive my murderer, but never the Samsung Corp. Because they suck. They should admit as much in all their advertising. We are Samsung, they could say, and we suck.

I had an eight mile hike to Baldwyn, Mississippi, population God-knows-what. Not so very many dozens. It is a fairly small town. But I was glad to be there. I was starving to death, or at least to grumpiness. And was much looking forward to my biscuits and gravy and eggs and sausage and toast. And hash browns. And pie, of course. I think good nutrition is key.

"Not on Sunday," said a grumpy old man when I asked if there were anywhere to eat. I asked several other people as well. The answer was always the same. I knew it would be; I just wanted to hear them say it. I liked how they looked at me. As if I were the Devil himself for even suggesting such a thing.

It left me with a bitter choice. The next town was ten miles off. Or I could head back north a bit and join the big highway. I took that option. A boy's got to keep fed. Otherwise a boy can get cranky.

At the highway I was spoiled for choice. McDonald's, a gas station, or Subway. Mooshy burgers or breakfast burritos or, God help us, Subway. I went to the gas station first. There was nowhere to plug in. So I tried McDonald's but that was no good, so now here I am. Subway is the Samsung of the American sandwich industry.

It has blossomed into a beautiful day. It was cloudy this morning. Cloudy in layers of latticework with blue sky filling the gaps. It gave the heavens depth and dimension. It did too threaten to rain. So I'm glad to see the plain old blue sky, even if it is less interesting.

From here I'm back on 45, having backtracked a bit. Which is fine; I have to be careful to stop short of Tupelo. Which is too big to invite tent camping. I'll walk into there in the morning. If I haven't been shot, skinned and tanned, and made into moccasins.

****************
It was somewhere in the seventies but it never felt that warm. There were cooling breezes of 20 mph or so. Headwinds. They're almost always headwinds, no matter which way I point.

But I wasn't complaining. I was enjoying my walk. A little extra challenge made it fun. There are times that I would jog if I didn't have to carry my pack. But the road itself was not very good. There was a shoulder of sharp gravel. Which after some miles turned into soft grass. Which is harder to walk on still.

I abandoned the highway at a place called Guntown and hiked back to 145. It's a smaller road with no shoulder at all, but there are not many cars. A few mean dogs but that's about it. The trick is to be meaner still.

I cannot tell you much about Guntown. A thousand people live there. Which would make it a force in northern Nebraska, but it isn't very much here. I do not know why it's called Guntown. Something about guns, I'd guess. Its specialties are muffler repair and what looked like project housing.

Fairly nice project housing, as project housing goes. Everyone waved at me.

I stayed only long enough to wave back and then I continued south. Over a few blind hills but it wasn't so bad. There was a lot less wind back there. And the walking came easy; my mind was busy thinking about other things. Like how very pointless Life seems to be and how tired of it I am. And about the corrupting nature of lonesomehood. And just what it means to be me.

You know, that kind of shit.

I did eventually make it to Saltillo, which has maybe three thousand people. And is where Elvis Presley's mother came from. I want to call her Gladys, but I might be wrong. I stopped at a Hardee's restaurant to suck down some calories.

My burger was peculiar if not altogether bad. It was I thought overpriced. You can get better burgers at a saloon for a dollar or two less. But worse, I had misjudged the time. I had to eat in a hurry. Now I am a fast eater at the best of times, but I like to set my own pace. I wound up making myself somewhat sick, a condition that yet persists.

But I had to walk on. I had maybe half an hour to find a place for my tent. And was not at all sure I was on the right road. Traffic was just awful. I had to walk in a muddy ditch to keep from getting sqooshed. Uneven ground is hard on my feet. Hardee's is hard on my guts.

In the end I had to make use of the Force. And my renowned hobo skills. I think I did alright. I am in a clump of trees on the edge of a field, too close to someone's backyard.

I don't think I'm going to get shot here. I will wear my hat and vest. At least tomorrow is a weekday. My murderer may be at work.

Tupelo is maybe two miles off. I had to stop where I did. It is a city of fifty thousand, if the rumors are correct. And it is where I will be most of tomorrow. I hope to hit the Elvis museum. Elvis was born in Tupelo. Tupelo's reputation is made.

It may rain tonight but it shouldn't be cold. It may rain and be hot tomorrow. Which is what you expect from Mississippi, a certain humidity. I'm not too far from Alabama. I can shoot over any time. But so far Mississipi's been good to me. I think I'll walk south for a while.

SAY IT with me. Tupelo. What a neat name for a town.

LAST NIGHT I pooped and buried it. While I slept someone dug it up. Weirdos.

I DON'T THINK I'll ever kill myself. There must be a dozen people I'd rather see dead.

NEWT GINGRICH? Jesus Christ.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Nine, Che

I woke after seven and packed on a hurry. I did not much like where I was. They probably don't shoot every trespasser here, but I'd hate to be that one in three.

I grumbled my way back up the road. I really wanted a shower. You sweat like a chimp when you're bundled up. You smell decidedly worse. But I've done used up this month's motel funds. And there are no truck stops on these roads. So imagine my surprise and delight to find one in Cuba, Missouri.

My backroad crossed I-44 there. It was a gimungous place. With dozens and dozens of diesel pumps, a restaurant and a half-dozen showers. And a barber shop and a laundromat and a smoking lounge/Bible chapel. I cannot tell you how good it feels to get clean once in a while.

I had too an enormous breakfast and loitered for long hours. In a plush chair, watching football on the widescreen TV. Two teams were playing. They did this and that. It was I'm sure very exciting. I am not really much of a fan. I'd look up from time to time. Mostly I read Wikipedia. If Americans spent more time reading Wikipedia and less time watching football, we'd all be better off.

And better at Jeopardy. Except the football questions. Of which there are few.

I was there a lot longer than I needed to be. I was in love with that chair. A chair and a shower, it was almost as good as staying in a motel. Walking on these dangerous roads is really wearing me out. I've got to keep my eyes open. I can't get my rhythm down. Just when I get some forward momentum I've got to jump into the ditch.

It is my own fault, I know. I could have planned my route better. Or you could have. I couldn't. Planning's not what I do best.

[A critter was wandering by my tent. I never know what they are. Skunks, I figure. This one's a possum. I got my spotlight on him. Didn't seem to bother him in the least. I wonder if possums is mean. If he tries to chew his way into my tent I am going to whomp him with my boot.]

And I probably should have doubled back into, what was it, Columbia for proper boots. Walking flat footed is tiring. I've still got ten days in these things. They are wearing quickly but evenly. Clomp, clomp, clomp.

At one or two I squeezed out the door and down the road to a Walmart. I've got a forty-mile stretch coming up and I wanted to stock up on food. And water. And Gatorade. It added twenty pounds to my pack. And just like it was in Montana, I'm feeling it in my toes.

I bought bread and cheese. And donuts. Guess how long they lasted. Not very. And I think they gave me the poops.

Cuba didn't seem like such an awful town. I kept forgetting what it was called. I'd see signs cheering on Cuba's teams and raising money for Cuba's orphans. That's big-hearted, I'd think. But though they may think globally, their actions are strictly local.

It was out of town on the same narrow road. I longed to be back in my chair. But three miles in the road opened up. It turned pink and there was a shoulder. The right of way was wide as well. I could see the glorious sky. If I had not been so far hammered down I am sure it would have cheered me up.

But it didn't. Not overmuch. My legs were just too sore. And I could see ahead the very steep hills between me and Steelville, Missouri. My pack weighed a ton but I kept walking. But only because I'm a hero.

Steelville is home to 1500 people and sort of buried in the trees. It bills itself as the Float Capital of Missouri, which no doubt refers to their booming, if seasonal, river rafting industry, but which rather put me in the mind of the oldest established permanent floating crap game in New Yawk.

Still paranoid about my upcoming foodless days, I added to my stock at a Subway. Yes, a Subway. Sandwiches are cheap this month. I hate to be a demanding customer but I talked the young woman through every step of the process. She was maybe sixteen, petite, and either a serious beer drinker or twenty months pregnant. She had a herpes sore on her lip.

I then loitered outside a convenience store, trying to get information on my road ahead. No one was very helpful but I was surprised at how friendly they all were. It was only later I realised they were drunk.

I am now in the Mark Twain National Forest which is sort of splattered in sections across the map of southern Missouri. I thought it would be a grand place to camp. But it is as thoroughly populated as any other part of the state and when it got dark I found myself camping in a wisp of trees between no less than three houses. If I can get out of here without being yelled at or shot, it will be a miracle.

Tomorrow I'll do what I can to wake early and resume my hungry road. It has narrowed again but there is a small shoulder, maybe eighteen inches wide. And who knows, it may be a federal crime to murder me in a National Forest. I wonder who I can ask. If only I had an intimate relationship with some kind of forest ranger.

I SANG in the shower. Beautifully. My voice sounded great off the tiles. A sort of booming baritone that might bring tears to your eyes. I sang Christmas songs. I only know Christmas songs.

WHERE THE ROADS are narrow and blind, people drive like maniacs. Where they are wide and safe, they creep along under the speed limit. This is not a trick of perception. It is a fact.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-One, Darkness

You'll remember I met young Anthony, under a bridge in Montana. He was walking west from Long Island on his way to Oregon. I expect he finished weeks ago. He was making pretty good time. He could walk as many as thirty-five miles in a single day.

It astounded me at the time. I was at something of a low point that day. But I'm better now and if I had more daylight I could do the same thing. Not every day, don't be a goose, but now and then I feel strong. But with these short days it is all I can do to put in a mere twenty miles. I worry that after a month or so it will be closer to fifteen.

I could wake before daybreak but that hardly seems right. I know it's done all the time. But I don't think the spiritual damage to me would be worth the extra hour. And I need to tent up before it gets dark if I hope to know where I am. Which leaves me twelve hours to eat and rest and recharge my little computer.

And walk, of course. I guess that's the point. But it's not all that I hope to do. I like talking to people and reading plaques and visiting small town museums. And staring into rivers and taking naps in the sun and crashing the odd church picnic. If it were all about walking I wouldn't have bothered. That would be no fun at all.

This morning I woke before seven o'clock but I was not on the road until nine. At Meggers farm I had the chance to recharge my little computer. Which really is a thorn in my butt, if you will excuse that expression. It's an obsession, a compulsion, a gnawing fear; and fairly necessary, at that. I like a nice type at the end of a day. It gives me a purpose in life.

I spread out my gear on the Meggers' lawn. I've been packing rather haphazardly. It was good to get everything back in its place and get my tent folded right. I spoke briefly with the family dog, a fireplug of a blue heeler. Short and squat and muscular, she smashed her skull into my face.

As a friendly gesture, I'm certain of it. She's overflowing with love. But it made me shy about meeting the horse, another muscular beast. If he had decided to head-butt me it would have left a dent. He was friendly, though, and at least as scared of me as I was of him. I patted him on his silly nose and brushed away some flies.

He looked a little sad when I finally left. I was wrong to make him my friend. These separations are hard on me. I no longer look cows in the eye. Whoever said it's better to have loved and lost did not have my regrets. I will make of my heart a stone, cold and hard and heavy. And covered all over with lichens and moss, a shelter for earwigs and grubs.

I had a ten-mile run to Osceola. I was in no kind of shape. I had an undefined pain in my back and my second best knee had a click. My small breakfast had failed to satisfy. I had to stop several times. It was a nice stretch of road. Winding with plenty of improving hills and not too too many cars.

And autumn leaves, perhaps not yet at their height. They still make a pretty good show. Not untinged with melancholy. Such is the Nature of Life. Or Beauty, in any case. Beauty will break your heart. Or you, its. It does not really matter. Everyone's feelings get hurt.

Osceola, Iowa is a town of some three-thousand souls. It wasn't where I thought it would be. In my effort to conserve my battery I had neglected to check my map. It was at the top of a hill and too far away. I was by then fairly hungry. And so I was cranky. I soon decided I did not like Osceola.

I liked it much better after lunch. I had an expensive hamburger. It was that or Mexican food at a place that looked, frankly, unclean. I did live in India for a few years. I'm no stranger to dysentery. But there are some experiences you need only have once. Much more than that is just greedy.

I had too a piece of chocolate pie. I was not impressed with the crust. But I felt it was important to stuff myself. I would only eat once today. Supplemented of course with bagels and cheese. I restocked at a grocery store. Fareway, if it at all interests you. I bet they can sell you an S.

I loitered a bit in the city park, still trying to juice my computer. It was full of screaming kids, out on a field trip. They were writing down the names of all the businesses in town. It was a lesson in consumerism. One place was called Clarks Furniture. Everyone wrote it down. What does the new generation care about the lowly apostrophe.

Did you know that every time I type an apostrophe or a semicolon or a question mark or a hyphen, I pretty much have to call up a menu screen? But I do it. Because I care about you.

My afternoon walk went a lot more smoothly. I put in another ten miles. I'd have been glad to give more but it was getting dark. I found a spot in a hayfield. There was a barbed wire fence but it wasn't so high. It's hard to believe they were serious.

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