Day One-Hundred-Three, Breakfast of Champions

I never know from day to day just how far I am going walk. I start in the morning and go until dark. I take long and frequent breaks. Some days a mere twelve miles is a struggle. Today I did twenty-eight.

Which is a pretty good chunk out of the map, but not such a good idea. It tires my muscles and troubles my feet. It makes this bilge hard to write. It has taken me the better part of an hour to type as far as this.

"So what," you might say. "Take a rest. Fill us all in tomorrow. We're not reading it, anyway." Let that be your fault, not mine. Walking Across America means nothing to me until I can tell the story. Whether anyone hears it or not, I am soothed by the sound of my voice. And I like to believe I have something to offer, poor gift though it may be.

I was hoping to learn to Live in the Moment, to experience some brand of Zen. "It is the journey, not the destination" has never made sense to me. Oh, I'm not an idiot. I can reason it out. But I've never felt it in my heart. I remain saddened and embarrassed by my past, and terrified by my future. Nothing in the present seems very much better, unless I am eating ice cream.

On that bright note, I'll unfold my day. I got an early start. The road crew boys across the park were up before daylight. And my father was lurking somewhere about, the one I hadn't spoken to in twenty-three years. I was going for the even quarter century. Now I have to start all over.

Damn.

The Indian tacos I had for dinner were not treating me well. Their searing cramps and loud rumblings had kept me up half the night. My body has grown accustomed to burgers and very little else. I was suffering mightily from what the Japanese, a polite people given to euphemism, call "a stomachache."

But bless that tough town of Cody, Nebraska, their park is well-equipped. And beside the mensroom there was a shower, my second in as many days. But I am not spoiled. This shower was icy icy cold.

I managed, though. Bracing, they call it. I started my day quite braced. And ate a breakfast burrito with my dad at a concrete picnic table. Lest you fault the poor man and see the breafast burrito as another form of abuse, I don't doubt he meant well in this case. Cody is not set up for breakfast. He did the best that he could.

Thus nourished I was out on the road some time before eight o'clock. Which to many of you, those who work, may not seem early at all. But I've got gear to pack and maps to study, and nearly every eight o'clock I've seen in the last twenty years has come at the end of a very late night. Eight for me is like your four-thirty. I am not a morning person.

I planned one long run to Kilgore, Nebraska, fifteen miles away. But after seven I stumbled across the town of Nenzel, population 13. Thirteen. There is a newish ranch house with four cars parked out front, and a gas station with a good sized tree growing where the pumps used to be. A saloon that didn't look too long closed and a boarded up general store. And a very well kept Catholic church. And a park, recently mown with a Coke machine across the street. I took off my shoes and drank two Mountain Dews, a Squirt and a can of root beer. And read the Smithsonian magazine I've been lugging around since Hot Springs.

Good times, good times. I was there for two or three hours. I liked Nenzel. You could probably buy it for the price of a new pick-up truck.

I would call it James. James, Nebraska. And appoint myself Justice of the Peace.

I didn't get to Kilgore until three-thirty. Ninety-nine people live there. "They counted the dogs," confessed Phil, owner of the gas station/store. And saloon. I had thirty-three Pepsis and a microwavable sandwich.

"Gut busters," the bartender in Cody called them. There's some rivalry there. But her Indian tacos too did some damage, though they tasted a good deal better.

Phil has "Phil" tattooed on his forearm. He is a very nice man. I got him to dish the dirt on Ted Turner, the Viggo Mortensen of the Sand Hills. It seems Mr. Turner's buffalo scheme is driving up property taxes. And land values, too, but the only buyer out there is Ted Turner himself. Shame, though. It's pretty country if you like this sort of thing.

It was coming up on four-thirty. I had walked only fifteen miles. A mile later it was five-thirty. I have entered the Central Time Zone. In Cherry County, Valentine, the county seat, is an hour ahead of the other towns. And they lord it over everyone.

I had eleven more miles to Crookston, population ninety-eight. That's one less than Kilgore, you'll notice. There's some rivalry there. Crookston did not include dogs in their number, which is a shame; I met a nice one there. A black German shepard, three feet tall at the back. Man, that was a big dog. He was chained to a tree in front of a trailer. I made sure of that before I approached.

A man was out there wrenching on his truck. I wanted to know if there was a park. There wasn't and that's good. Sooner or later this soft living is going to make me weak.

[Something middle-sized is grunting outside my tent. I'm thinking feral pig. Meaner than snakes, feral pigs. Ignore him and he'll go away.]

Sean was the man. We chatted a bit. He had a bitchin' Camaro. He introduced me to his dog who tried to eat my hat. Loveable pup, though. Three years old. He maintains a puppy enthusiasm. It is neat seeing a 120 lb. dog jumping into the air like that. On all four feet, like Pepé Le Pew, when he is very much in love.

Crookston too is fading fast. Such is the way of things. The railroad needed these towns every ten miles to replenish their water and coal. And it was a good deal in the horse and buggy days for the ranchers to have a town. But now I'd guess only every third one will survive. And it isn't all Ted Turner's fault.

Sean turned me on to a good camping spot. I must have missed it in the dark. And after twenty-seven miles I figured I may as well go thirty, if only to see what it's like. But, though my hat does glow like a beacon in the dark, I got a premonition that I was going to be sqooshed dead.

I ain't big on ESP, but sometimes you trust your sixth sense. So here I am camped on the side of the road, on what was once a railroad track. It is officially designated a hiking trail, but no one uses it. No one. Not just because it runs across northern Nebraska, but also because it is covered with jagged ballast that bruises your feet and would shred bicycle tires. It was a nice thought, though.


I CONFESS I don't like ice cream as well as I once did. Eventually all my joys will fade. Then there will be just me.

LOW FLOW toilets are a nice thought, but no one is conserving anything if you have to flush them four times. And that's not to mention the emotional toll.

IT WOULD, I suppose, given my strength and conditioning, not be sporting to beat the crap out of a seventy-five-year-old man. Funny, though, the thoughts you have when you walk.

COYOTES HOWLING, as they do most nights. I like it but it upsets the cows.

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Day Ninety-Three, Purple Cows

There was a thunderstorm in the very wee hours, at or around my tent. I learned the secret of dealing with these things in Japan. You might call it my brand of Zen. There there are earthquakes almost every week. If you let yourself be afraid you'll go mad. You must accept the fact that you are going to die. That brings with it a certain peace. If you live it comes as a pleasant surprise. And if you don't there is no harm done.

I lived.

In the morning it was raining again. I spent my first hour indoors. Then it was back on the road after some minor difficulty finding my way to the trail. These Black Hills are a very pleasant place to camp. You can disappear into the trees anywhere. But, and I have done the same thing tonight, I disappeared a little too far.

I like Nature. I am glad it exists. But I have never felt any compulsion to experience it, if you will. Camping has never appealed to me. I am glad to see it from my car. Or read about it or see it on TV. I too much like the indoors. But on this trip I have often been happiest when I am far from any trail.

Not too far, you understand. I have no keen sense of direction. I can hear the traffic over there somewhere and that is just fine with me.

Last night I stopped walking just in time. In another mile I began to see homes. And a mile after that I found myself in beautiful downtown Custer. A nice little town from what I could see. I guess it has been there a while. Now it does its best to appeal to tourists, like Deadwood on a much reduced scale. In Deadwood they stage gun battles in tbe streets. In Custer they sell T-shirts.

And breakfast, I was happy to see. I had sausage and eggs and hash brown potatoes, perhaps Nature's most perfect food. I had a cinnamon roll on top of that. And forty-three cups of coffee. I discovered too late a breakfast buffet, hidden far in the back. I could have massacred a breakfast buffet.

Back on the George S. Mickelson Trail, I was a little confused. The sun in the sky said I was headed south, but it felt all the world like I was headed north. I know most of my weaknesses; I trusted the sun. Everything worked out fine.

There was almost no one else on the trail today. I guess it is not such a popular section. Three mountain bikes passed while I was up in the woods, eating weeners and hamburger buns. I did not regret not getting to meet them. They wouldn't have said hi anyway.

I ran into some local volunteers, packing up their rest tent from yesterday's 100-mile race. One runner, they said, excused himself there and walked up to town for a beer. Then he came back and ran the last thirty miles. He is seventy-nine years old.

They had until noon today to finish the race. Forty-some people dropped out. After a mere sixty or seventy miles. Quitters, you know, never win.

I walked slow today. I have got to break that habit. The days are getting too short. When I started, early summer and way up north, I had almost twenty hours of daylight to work with. I could goof off all day and do a ten-mile sprint after 7 PM. Now it is getting dark by then. I have got to walk when I can. If I don't get my tent up by eight o'clock, the snakes take all the good spots.

It was awfully hot early in the day. My trail was going past farms. Which meant less trees but more cheering cows, so there is good in everything. Not long after noon a thunderstorm rolled in, or threatened to, at any rate. I never got more than a few drops of rain. The lightning kept itself on the horizon. I was prepared for much worse. I holed up under a wooden shelter when I should have been putting in miles.

Eventually I made it to Pringle, SD. It is a two-tavern town. The second saloon may have been a cafe. I don't know; I stopped at the first. I was entertained by some good gentlemen, enjoying their beer on the porch. One fellow, Matt, treated me to three Cokes. The bartender bought me one more. His name was Jamie and he is a kid. I expect from him great things.

Matt, from Hot Springs via West Virginia, gave me all kinds of things. Some deodorant, mine is wearing thin, and a great big tub of tea. And a bottle of water and some electrical tape to repair myself in emergencies. And some kind encouragement and some good advice. Cheers, Matt, you are one of the best.

There was too, among the others, another man. His name I did not catch. He looked like Clint Howard and was covered in grease and he had sunburned himself to a turn. He was loud and drunk and exceedingly happy. I thought I might have to pop him one. But as I talked to him I learned he had some depth. He really weren't a bad guy.

I told him about the elk I saw yesterday. I was really just throwing him a bone. I expected him to say how he would have liked to shoot it. What he said surprised me some. He went on for a while about how beautiful they are. He taught me about their habits. He got serious and not just a little poetic, then he grinned and went back to his beer.

I left the saloon at six o'clock. I planned to do another six miles. A half mile in a pretty girl in a Jeep offered to give me a ride. When I declined she went back the other way. I figure it must have been a trick. The guys at the bar must have sent her to me in order to test my resolve.

I have a weakness for pretty girls. In glasses, better still. But I am walking now and deeply in love with a US forest ranger. I'm not sure how that is going to work out. I am somewhat handicapped in that I do not know her name. Nor do I expect to ever see her again. I am pretty sure she is not even a ranger, but rather some brand of biologist. Better still; that means she's smart. You can buy those hats anywhere.

And probably too young for me, though that has never stopped me before. I am possessed of a youthful vigor and a woeful immaturity.

At Pringle, by the way, I left the trail. I am now on 385. It is a beautiful stretch of road. I really like these Black Hills. And the folks are kind. No one in my presence better slander South Dakota. As I walked over the hill there were purple clouds to the east. I thought of Ogden Nash. I never saw a purple cloud. But I had very much hoped to see one.

I AM INFORMED that there is some chance that at some point during the night, I may be trampled by buffalo. I would not wholly object to that. I have no wish to die and I am not good with pain, but it would be one hell of a way to go. The topper on my biography, if you will. What ever happened to James, anyway? He was trampled by buffalo.

SOME MILES BACK I was fed peanut butter by Tom and Linda from Wisconsin. Tom is a jet pilot and very much looks the part. He has that confidence, almost a swagger, that you expect from that kind of man. I think it is worth noting that he is bad at reading maps and was, as a lad, kicked out of the Boy Scouts of America. I think it humanizes him. His wife, however, is flawless.

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