Day One-Hundred-Eighty-Two, 秋の味覚

Find me in the woods south of Shubuta.  Funny name for a town.  It sounds like a Kyushu delicacy.  Something you'd get in the Fall.  Come to think of it I dated a Shubuta once.  We were engaged for almost an hour.  But bless her heart, she let me off the hook.  She was perfect in every way.

I woke up in somebody's vast back yard.  That will teach me to camp in the dark.  I went undiscovered but woke up fairly sore.  I'd slept on some knobbly roots.  I did a little better today.  At least I think I did.  It was dark again but I'm on a soft bed of pine needles and fallen leaves.

Quitman, Mississippi was eight miles off, or maybe closer to nine.  But I didn't mind.  I was trying to enjoy my last good day for a while.  Tomorrow it is supposed to rain.  After that it is going to get cold.  And rain some more, or so they say.  I'm not looking forward to it. 

I prefer days more like today.  It was up in the seventies.  A little too warm, in point of fact.  It put me in a summery humour.  Which juxtaposed nicely with the autumn leaves.  There were carols on the radio.  There are worse places to winter than Mississipi.  There are worse places to walk.

I stopped for breakfast on the edge of Quitman.  I stopped for lunch a half hour later.  Breakfast was a 32-ounce cup of coffee at a place called Cups & Cones.  Ice cream is their specialty.  It wasn't as warm as all that.  Today was their very first day in business.  I wish them the very best.

"Y'all come back soon," they told me when I left.  As soon as I reasonably can.

I think they have a good concept.  Their coffee is very well sized.  For our international friends, thirty-two ounces is something just short of nine litres.  I had too something called a scone.  I've always wondered about them.  Scones it turns out are blueberry muffins, mashed into a triangle shape.  Who knew.

Quitman is not such a very big town.  I had lunch at the butcher shop.  It was that or Hardee's.  I had baked beans and a scoop of potato salad.  And some kind of shredded meat, piled high on a bun.  "Moose meat," I think she called it, but I can be wrong about that.

It was not so good.  It tasted just like the beans.  Even now they are conspiring.  To do awful things to my digestion.  I'm running low on moist towlettes.  I will not share any further details if you promise to send me your good thoughts.

I was on the old highway for most of the day.  I did a few miles on the new.  They were at that point one and the same.  I was disappointed with the shoulder.  It used to be there.  You can tell.  But they've let it weed over.  There are still some patches of sharp little rocks.  They were most unkind to my toes.

The day before last I spent an hour trimming away the dead bits.  And gathering them and throwing them away.  I am not an animal.  Though they may have had a place in the James museum, right next to my baby teeth.

The problem is I trimmed too much.  One so does like to be thorough.  But I left myself with pretty pink skin which is not yet used to life on the road.  And inclined to complain.  And feel sorry for itself.  It took me back, it did.  To the very earliest weeks of this trip.  When I was in constant pain.

You would have quit.  I didn't.  I've got nothing else to do.

I am worried too about my right foot.  My bones are turning to pudding.  I think if I went and got it x-rayed the doctor would tell me to stop.  But I think it is a lot like my backpack.  It can go any time.  But with a little luck and favorable winds it will carry me to Florida.

Meanwhile I'm popping aspirin.  It is two dollars a bottle.  All the fancy medicines cost something like eight or nine bucks.  A fellow can get his beard trimmed for that kind of money.  I refuse to brook the expense.  The opiates are even more.  In the future, when I'm really rich.

Tomorrow I turn left towards Alabama.  I don't believe I'll go to Mobile.  It is just too big a town and there may be a trick to getting across the bay.  I could write and ask but screw it.  I really am sick of bridges.  You don't know how close I came to dying on my way across the Ohio.

The little bridges are almost as bad.  I crossed two or three tonight.  It was almost dark.  It took muscle contol.  I had baked beans for lunch.  Tomorrow I angle up Something-or-other Bridge Road.  I don't like the sound of it.  These bridges are narrow.  People pass on them as a point of hillbilly pride.  I dislike heights; I've got forty pounds on my back and the railings are even with my knees.

Mom, if I die and if you don't want it, send my banjo to my friend Simon.  Give my horns to Larry.  Donate my papers.  Stuff my cat and bury him with me.  Call your new cat James Harry Pierce.

A FEW DAYS ago I passed Minnow Bucket Road.  I think that's a wonderful name.

ARMADILLERS have tails.  Armored like the rest of them.  They sure are a weird little critter.

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Day One-Hundred-Seventy-Four, Eskimo Farts

Twenty-eight degrees.  I feel cheated.  Twenty-seven and I'd be indoors.  That was the line I drew in the frost and I can't go back on it now.  It would make me look weak.  Indecisive.  You'd lose all respect for me.  A little cold air never hurt anyone.  Except for the people it has killed.

That is unlikely to happen to me.  Mine is a passionate nature.  I am warmed by my depth of feeling and by my boundless sense of romance.  And my two pairs of socks and my thermal underwear and my custom made teddy bear pants.  And my two fleece pullovers and a hat that ties under my chin.  I've got my bag made out of ground up ducks and an empty Gatorade bottle.  I'm as prepared as I can possibly be.  If I freeze to death it's not my fault.

I expect to be fairly uncomfortable.  I am a little shivery now.  But I am not yet feeling sorry for myself.  Do you feel sorry for me?  Well you damn well should.  It's freezing out here and I'm probably going to die. 

They'll dig me up in five-thousand years.  I will be well-preserved.  They will study my clothing and stomach contents.  I will come to define my age.  Twenty-First Century Man, they will say, was bearded and wore his hair long.  He was by nature a wanderer.  He lived on biscuits and gravy.  He communicated by means of a primitive electronic device which, their technologists will affirm, sucked.

National Geographic will put me on their cover.  I'll be displayed under glass.  T-shirts bearing my likeness will be sold in museum gift shops.  Anthropologists will build their careers on theories as to why I bottled my urine. 

You ask why; I say why not.  It really is cold out there.  Don't judge me until you've walked 2500 miles in my ill-fitting moccasins.

I was perfectly willing to stay in a motel.  I've been doing a lot of that these days.  I checked two papers and looked at a TV.  The weathermen all agreed.  Twenty-eight, they said.  Not twenty-seven.  Miserable conformist bastards.  Not one had the courage to give me an excuse to move myself indoors.

I could be watching Law & Order right now.  I could be taking a bath.  I could be eating pizza and talking to my mom on the phone.  Think how sad she'll be when I freeze to death.  She'll be out of sorts for a week.  Think of my lonesome banjo going forever unplayed.

It has never been played particularly well as it is.  And now it never will be.

I could walk to the highway and put up my thumb, but that would not be sporting.  It is for me to endure this pain.  Who knows, I just might live.  There have been people frozen almost stiff who went on to live happy lives.  The trick is to thaw them slow.  Make a note of that.  Thaw me slow.  Like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Planning happy Thanksgivings, are you?  Be thankful you're not me.  I'm cold.

It'll be warmer tomorrow night.  Then it will be in the forties.  So all I have to do is survive for another 12 hours or so.  Hell, I can do that.  I think the point here is that I am going to be uncomfortable.  Which I should be used to by now.  I've suffered as few others have.  Have you ever flown across the Pacific in economy class?  I'd rather be here now.  Of course on the plane I do drink quite a bit.  I should have procured a bottle.

I used to know some Polacks.  I am not being unkind.  That is what they called themselves.  They drank their vodka neat.  At room temperature and by the pint.  I remember one snowy evening.  We were on the veranda in our T-shirts, sharing jokes and singing songs.  I was not the slightest bit cold.  It was like magic.

But all I've got is Gatorade.  I must be careful not to mix up the bottles.

I was cold this morning as well.  I slept until almost seven.  The sun was out but it was not warm.  It was though a beautiful day.  The sky was blue and the air was clear.  It was windier than I like to see.  I took my time packing up.  My tent poles stung my fingers.

It had dropped to thirty-seven or so.  It must have been forty by then.  I had slept with my windows open in order to dry out my tent.  It worked, thank goodness.  If it had not I would be in much worse shape now.  As it is I expect it to fairly ice over from the steam of my breath.

I'm steamy.

I had a twelve-mile walk to town.  I was completely out of water.  And I had breakfasted on Corn Nuts.  It left me a little parched.  But I figured I could make the hike in three hours.  I was wearing my lucky warm socks.  And half hoping I'd be stopped by the State Patrol.  I've got more to write about them.

Six or seven miles in I found a cafe, one of them Mennonite concerns.  Simplicity, Economy, and Modesty; that's what they're all about.  And baking, God bless them.  They fed me fairly well.  I had biscuits and gravy and a blackberry roll with a half pint of cream cheese frosting.  And coffee.  It was the last time I ate.  I wish I were back there now.

The Amish, I believe, spun off from the Mennonites.  They weren't hard core enough for them.  The Mennonites too believe in non-violence.  So do I, in certain moods.  Other times I just really want to hit someone.  I almost never do.

I'd like to hit Newt Gingrich, but I don't think that's fair to him.  Try as I might, I cannot distinguish him from Pat Robertson. 

I reached West Point, Mississippi well fed.  It took away my reason to be there.  I drank Sweet Tea at a McDonald's and tried to recharge my computer.  Which is misbehaving again.  The cold isn't doing it any good.  But I've got other worries now.  I am cold.

West Point made little impression on me.  It seemed like a pretty big town.  There was a lot of traffic at any rate.  It was hard to get around.  I stuck around as long as I dared then headed south again.  For another eleven miles.  I more than met my quota today.

I didn't notice for the first couple hours, but I've been walking steadily uphill.  Which I almost prefer if it's not too steep.  It seems to suit my stride.  And I came to a stretch with no houses at all.  It was easy to set up my tent.  I think I'll stay here until the sun is well up.  I hate being cold in the morning.

I haven't the vaguest where my next town is.  I'll hit Macon the day after tomorrow.  I'm hoping there will be something between here and there.  It's possible I'll want a snack.  I didn't put any food in my bag.  It seemed heavy enough.

IT HAS BEEN a while and I'm not dead yet.  My nose is a little runny though.  Which is an awful hardship, I know, but unlikely to earn me a medal.

IF I DO last the night, twenty-six becomes my new minimum temperature.  Damn.

VODKA is in fact a Polish drink.  You'd be forgiven for thinking it's Russian.  They stole it.  At least that's what the Polacks tell me.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Five, Poof

It was still dark when I woke up. I packed up in record time. Then sat where I was for an hour or two, eating my bread and cheese. It was a beautiful day, warm and fine. I hated to ruin it by walking.

But as it turned out I was strong today. I jogged into Centerville, Iowa. And had my daily hamburger at the Bluebird Family Restaurant. The waitresses were kind to me. I had too pumpkin pie. Which on the whole is overrated but it hit the spot at the time.

The owner promised to make me famous on his Facebook page. Great Customers I Have Known. He interviewed me and took my picture. That'll sharpen some appetites. But I was flattered by their interest. Not everything has to make sense.

There was a kid there playing with a yo-yo. He is a Great Customer too. And it seems the champion of the Iowa State Fair. He wasn't giving any kind of performance. He was just messing around. But he was a wizard with that little thing. I have never seen anything like it. But in the end it's just a yo-yo, and I think a waste of talent. He ought to go into neurosurgery. Or learn to play the banjo.

I wandered over to the library to look at a Missouri map. I have no clear idea where I go from here. Missouri is a mess. The roads all go squiggling this way and that, and none go the way that I'm headed. And the hillbilly vibe is strong enough here that Missouri just has me scared. My glib sophistication may not serve me down there. I may get dragged from a truck.

But I'll worry about that as soon as it happens. The library itself was nice. It is a hundred years old and topped with a dome made wholly of stained glass. It is a great ugly building from the outside, but impressive nevertheless. And seems to scream literacy where that call may not often be heard.

I hit the supermarket for more bread and cheese. I am tiring of that meal some. There was a time early on when I was fully convinced that Pop-tarts were my miracle food. But I got sick of them in short order. Then it was yogurt pretzels. Now the very thought of them makes me sick. I did manage to get some bagels. Though it is possible I was deceived. They look like bagels; it says bagels on the bag, but they're really just bagel-shaped bread. And not even such good bread at that. It sticks to the back of my teeth. But it could be worse; I could be back to buns and potted meat.

I bought too some sports drink. It is of an off brand. It may have fermented some. I am less than inebriated but it tastes just faintly of gin. Or maybe what prisoners make in their toilets from things bought in the canteen. And it rather seems to make me thirsty. I think they are missing the point.

It was a discount supermarket. The lady asked if I wanted a plastic bag. I usually say no but they do come in handy to keep this item dry or that. Sure, I say and she says I can have one. "That'll be eleven cents."

After that I didn't want it any more, but I paid her anyway. You wouldn't guess it but I do have my pride. I didn't want her to think I'm cheap. But I did find a nickel some ways down the road. So it is almost half paid for. I'm glad I didn't want a shopping cart. Shopping carts cost a quarter.

It all reminded me very much of domestic airline travel. Which is in itself a good argument for a high-speed rail system.

The road got narrow just east of town, with a very narrow shoulder. Which droppped so steeply away that if I had had to dive I may have broken my neck. It was a little hairy but my legs were strong. I was in a fine walking mood. I put in another ten or twelve miles and then, poof, it got dark.

I long for the days when I had some warning. It makes camping something of a trick. If I walk until sundown as I like to do I have no time to put up my tent. Today though I found a goodish spot, deep in amongst some trees. But my tent will be soggy in the morning and there are all sorts of creatures about. I couldn't say which but I can hear them. I saw one of them today. It was furry and shaped like a rugby ball and walked by me quite unafraid. I could distinguish no features. It had a tail. Beyond that I've got nothing to offer.

And I am certain there are dozens of snakes about. There are sure a lot of them on the road. Dead to a man but there've been hundreds of them. Hundreds of them, I swear. This is the snakiest stretch I've met, curse their vile slithering hides. I am certain their cousins are at this moment trying to crawl into my tent.

And the coyotes are howling some ways off. I've come to see them as friends. They give my life some atmosphere. They're there more often than not. Maybe three nights in four I hear them singing, from the very start of this trip. Say what you will of America, we've got plenty of coyotes.

It's a Halloweeny sort of place this. The moon is bright through the trees. Which have lost their leaves and make eerie shadows on every wall of my tent. But it doesn't bother me in the least. My fears are of a more practical kind.

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