Day Two-Hundred-Twenty-Nine, Old Folks at Home

Find me on the far edge of a vast orchard, east of Chiefland, Florida.  I've hidden myself in a thick strip of wood.  I'll be easier to see come the dawn.  I've been waiting too long to set up my tent.  I've been taking camping for granted.  I keep walking until it is too dark to see, on the assumption that I'll find a spot.

And so far I have.  Every night.  All the way across this country.  See that patch of trees by your house?  There may be hoboes in it.  Which would upset you, I gather.  You might not know why.  You would figure they were up to no good.  That they'd steal your chickens or make off with your kids or teach your dog bad habits.  That they'd start a fire or stink up the place or lower your property values.

But of course you wouldn't confront them.  You'd have the sheriff do that,  Which is why, please do understand, I prefer to keep myself hid.  What nobody knows is unlikely to hurt them.  I will be gone soon enough.  I mind my own business.  I pick up my trash.  You'll never know I was here. 

Ideally.  It is harder sometimes.  I have a bright yellow tent.  They do that on purpose.  The idea is to make your tent life more cheerful.  It was noticed that returning veterans were often in a foul mood.  "It's the tents," thought the manufacturers of camping goods.  "We must make ours bright yellow!"

Or orange or pink or, if you're lucky, a ridiculous shade of blue.  Their intentions are good, but between you and me, I'd prefer something olive drab.  I don't like to draw attention to myself, at least not when I am asleep. 

There are camouflaged tents but that wouldn't do.  It creates the wrong impression.  It makes you look a little too creepy, like you're building a sniper's nest.  I would prefer a quiet shade of green.  Brown wouldn't be so bad.  A duller yellow to blend into the world without trying too hard.

A lot of hoboes sleep under bridges.  I avoid that when I can.  They are noisy, dirty, dusty places.  They're the first place the sheriff looks.  But they do keep you out of the rain.  Most hoboes do not have tents.  I do.  I'm living large.  It smells a lot like tom cat.

And I've gotten pretty good at tucking it in to this little corner or that.  I shift underbrush; I pull up weeds; I hide in amongst the trees.  But I'm almost always close to the road.  You could see me from a passing car.  Or you could if you knew where to look, and if I did not have hobo skills.

But I'm not wholly comfortable with where I am now.  I did not like last night much either.  I much prefer the odd patch of woods.  This clearly belongs to someone.  I'm pretty sure I could explain myself, but it would be hard to do at gunpoint.  I tend to be somewhat less eloquent when my feelings are hurt.

It was raining when I woke up.  Not hard, but hard enough.  I stayed in my tent for as long as I dared before climbing back on the road.  My road in this case was a bicycle path.  I had it all the way to Old Town.  And even with the rain it wasn't as humid as it was yesterday.

Until I was about five miles in.  I had two or three more to go.  When the skies opened up.  I really got pissed on.  I was soaked all the way to my shorts. 

This is not merely a colorful phrase.  My shorts were sopping wet.  The rest of my clothes are polyester.  They dry fast enough.  But I prefer natural fibres around those bits that I hold most dear.  But it can lead to chafing and the odd rash.  Speaking hypothetically.

Google mentioned a Hardee's in Old Town.  I was delighted to find a cafe.  Next door you can get bail bonds.  I ordered my usual breakfast.  Biscuits and gravy and sausage and eggs.  They didn't have hash brown.  But they did come up with some fried potatoes.  They were nearly as good.

Gosh, I was pleased.  It has been too long since I started a day out right.  And a good couple, the Bells I believe, went and picked up my check.  Thank-you.  That made my day.  Again not for the obvious reasons.  I need all the cash that I can get, but it is better still to be believed in.

I stayed there for a couple of hours, recharging and drying off.  It was just a bit seedy, forgive me for saying, but everyone was really nice.  The lunch crowd was there by the time I left.  I'd had thirty-two cups of coffee.  Which, along with everything else, put a real spring in my step.

I walked to Chiefland in less than three hours.  That's almost a jogging pace.  My road took me along, and eventually across, the Suwannee River of song.  Swanee, Suwani, if you prefer.  It looks like the Amazon.  With jungly woods on either side.  It's a handsome stretch of water.  I bet it's teeming with crocodiles.  I wouldn't swim in it for ten million bucks.

Once across I had a straight shot to Chiefland.  I walked all the way in the ditch.  The grass was too long but I was feeling fit.  There was plenty to see.  Boarded up motels, motels hanging on, tire shops for sale.  A few old houses, a few vacant lots and miles and miles of trees.

Live oaks for the most part, with and without moss.  This climate is hard on wooden buildings.  Old houses and shops seem to almost melt until they're again part of the woods.  It would drive me nuts.  I'd be out there every day bleaching the funge off my siding.

I was in Chiefland for an hour or two.  I never got a sense of that town.  It seems to be all suburb and no substance.  I was in a Burger King.  There may be more to it somewhere.  It took a long time to walk out.  I gave myself an hour.  That was just enough.  I put up my tent in the dark.

I've got to walk nineteen or twenty-five miles tomorrow.  It has to do with the spacing of towns.  There is some science at work here.  Perhaps a bit more than you'd guess.  Ideally I would set out early.  That is not going to happen.  It is coming up on eleven o'clock.  These reports don't type themselves.

HOSTESS has declared bankruptcy.  Through no fault of my own.

I SAW AN enormous bird today.  It appeared to be some kind of buzzard.  It appeared to be following me.  It did not say why.

I FOUND on the road a butterfly knife, a kind of elaborate switchblade.  It was of no imaginable use to me so I threw it away.  I also found a marijuana pipe.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Five, Fo Fum

Find me in a Subway--in a Walmart, no less--sheltering from the storm. Or at least the cold. I've been here a while. It may or may not be raining. But you know you've taken some wrong turns in life when such as this becomes your Oasis.

I woke up I guess at seven or so. I couldn't be sure of the time. My little computer was so low on juice I didn't dare turn it on. And there was no sun to go by. The sun has gone south, a lot faster than I can travel. Squinting in the gloom I studied my map and reached no very cheerful conclusions.

I did too have a look at my shoes. They were worse than I thought. They had suffered a catastrophic failure and were about to fall off my feet. I could tape them up and hope for the best. Or I could hike back into town. Or I could see what Walmart could do. I decided to give them a shot.

I got hiking boots for thirty-five bucks. You'd think I would be better pleased. It is a fraction of what I have been paying. But them high-dollar shoes have not always been kind. I am hoping these will be worse. Because if I don't suffer, and suffer indeed, I'll know that I've been paying too much.

They don't have to take me further than Cape Girardeau, the next good-sized town on my road. I'll be damned if I know how I'm going to get there. I'm pretty sure it will be cold. But this is the price I pay, I know, for goofing around in Montana.

I wasn't really goofing around. I was doing my very best. It is just that my best was pitiful. I'll do a lot better next time. A few more twenty-five mile days early on, and I'd be sunning it on the gulf coast. I hear the hotels are cheap down there. Because of all the tar.

I bought too a few more pairs of socks. It was that or find a laundry. And one of those magical undershirts that are supposed to keep you dry in the cold. It didn't cost fifty bucks, it only cost ten, plus a two-dollar premium. For being of abnormal size. I'm a towering giant down here.

Fear me.

I got some underpants of the same material, if I may say "underpants" here. Underpants, underpants. Underpants, Ha! I'm tired of censoring myself. Bear with my off-color outbursts. This is a grown-up blog. But I will not describe the particular chafing which compelled me to buy new shorts.

So in the end I spent as much as I would to sleep in a motel. Which is a shame. It's awful cold. I'd like to sleep indoors. Though I did stay warm enough last night. I'll credit my teddy bear pants. Handmade by my dear friend Marne. Thank-you. You are a hero.

But it will be colder still tonight, and evil cold tomorrow. Well below freezing. Cryogenic. Cry, cry again. It will be a nice test of my resolve, and of my sleeping bag. It is made out of ground-up ducks. Let's hope they did not die in vain.

So it's ten-thirty now and all I've accomplished is to walk a mile and a half. The wrong way. But I bought new boots, Walmart boots, and breakfasted at the in-house Subway. I had some sort of breakfasty concoction, and between you and me, it wasn't bad. Now I'm drinking cup after cup of their coffee and dreading whatever's to come.

That's the morning report, at any rate. Peace.

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

It's four-thirty now. For the last lonesome hour I've been at a gas station. In Loose Creek, Missouri. My road has narrowed somewhat. There is here an Ozarky vibe. I feel foreign and city slick. Everyone looks like Randy Quaid. Whom I've always admired, but still, but still. I'm the only one who ain't kin.

I've been wearing my raincoat to break the wind. Underneath my fleece shirt is sopping. GORE-TEX®. GORE-TEX®, pshaw. It's a conspiracy. They are trying to give me the sniffles.

It has not topped forty-five today. I'm beginning to think it might not. Nor will it for a couple more days. Hot diggity damn but it's cold. Every time I smell wood smoke I think of fires I've known and shed a lonesome tear.

So here's the plan: I walk on to Linn and stop just short of town. Then if I am feverish tomorrow I can check into a motel. If not I'll do laundry and eat hash browns and climb back out on the road. Though I rather wish I could have a shower. Don't love me less, but I stink.

Good news, good news. My little computer has upped it's prediction for tomorrow. It has dipped as low as twenty-eight. Now it's at thirty-four. We'll see, we'll see. It's a lesson to young walkers. Don't dilly-dally in Montana.

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

Now it's back down to thirty again. Poop.

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

I hiked six or seven miles into Linn. It was daylight but it was dark. My road is narrow and traffic moves fast. I was ready to dive for the ditch. But the trees are pretty and I like these steep hills. They take my mind off the cold.

I could not find a good place to camp. "Oh, darn," I thought to myself. "Now I'll have to get a room and take three or four hot baths. And eat pizza and watch TV and sleep in a proper bed. With the baseboard heater going full blast and the cooler running on low."

But that misfortune did not befall me. I found a nice place for my tent. Not five-hundred yards from the edge of town, in amongst the trees. If it were less perfect I could have ignored it, but I've got my hobo pride. I put on dry clothes and climbed into my sack. Who knows but I might survive.

I did not make too much progress today, maybe seventeen forward miles. I was busy backtracking and buying shoes and trying in vain to get warm. My new shoes rather sliced up my feet but I am well used to that.

Tomorrow I'll get some washing done. Linn has a McDonald's. I can all but see it through the trees. That means it's a pretty big town. And so will have a laundromat. I'll blow two hours there. Which will make tomorrow another short day. I'm too cold to care.

I SAW ANOTHER one of those furry rugby ball beasties. I think they might be woodchucks. They are slow and clumsy and look kind of dumb. They are my woodland brothers.

FOR TWO OR THREE days I have seen a new beast, crushed on the side of the road. So well crushed I could not guess what they once were. My best guess was dinosaurs. But I think, and I know I'm awful far north, they might be armadillers. Or really big turtles with long tails. Or dinosaurs.

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Day Ninety-Four, Suck and Blow

There were thunderstorms in Montana. They rolled in almost every day. But they would pass in five minutes, rarely more than ten. I barely even got wet. Let alone struck by lightning or soaked to my shorts. They were a nice break in the day.

So I did not much mind the morning rain. It was a nice excuse not to walk. I squirted some cheese on a hamburger bun and listened to Morning Edition. Seven or eight, it's the same to me. I would still get an early start. And I was up in the woods; no rancher was going to run me off of his land.

So I settled in to wait out the storm. I made another cheese sandwich. And another and one more after that. I ate up all of my food. But this is South Dakota and when it rains it means to rain all day. I took a nap and drank half my water. I crawled outside for a pee. My mountain was surrounded by clouds. It was by now one PM.

Thing is, I was hungry. My water was low. Hot Springs was eighteen miles away. I couldn't last up there forever. I thought about walking back to Pringle. But they'd laugh at me; I do have my pride. I headed southeast in the rain.

In fact, I waited until it had stopped. It stopped for all of two minutes. By the time I got my gear packed up you would think I had fallen in a pond. And it was cold, bitter cold. My pack weighed a ton. I thought about putting my tent back up.

I hadn't used my raincoat for weeks. It is heavy to carry around. But I strapped it on and worked my way down the hill. It was awfully slippery. There was lichen covering every stone. The algae bit can get slick. And years of bone dry cow pies were every last one reconstituted. At the barbed wire fence I put a gaping wound in the back of my one left hand.

I must have hit a vein or something. You have never seen so much blood. I must have lost a quart and a half. Perhaps as many as two. For our international friends, that is nineteen litres, or enough to fill a small pool.

It is a lovely road, this 385, wide and not too well travelled. It snakes up and over some beautiful hills. I didn't enjoy them as much as I should have. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. I worried about my computer. I keep it wrapped up but it was in with my gear and three or four gallons of water.

If it dies I cannot afford to replace it. I am not walking for the thrills. I am walking to meet girls and record my thoughts, at least the ones fit for wide distribution. I have kept a lot back, the juicy bits. For those you will have to wait. But even these fairly benign reports mean all the world to me. If a tree falls and no one's there to hear it, you might as well just stay home.

Man, I tell you, it was pissing down. It takes much of the fun out of walking. But at the same time I was enjoying my martyrdom. There is a joy in feeling sorry for yourself. And, like I said, it was bitter cold. I glared at each passing car. I like driving, warm on a cold rainy day. I wanted to give each one the finger.

I am not speaking metaphorically. I really wanted to do it. I thought somehow it wojld cheer me up. In the end I controlled myself.

A couple of miles took me to Wind Caves National Park. I confess I had never heard of it. It is a few thousand acres of mixed grass praire, more or less as it once was. From the Mississippi the Rocky Mountains, from Mexico to Canada. Wind Caves now is all that is left. It is, trust me, beautiful.

Beautiful. Really. And it smelled fantastic, I guess because of the rain. Like a cross between a really fancy shampoo and Willie Nelson's bus. There were roiling clouds flinvg the sky. The whole place had a Hobbit vibe. It was cold and rainy and magical. Maybe it was the contact high.

Entering Wind Caves you cross a cattle guard. That is, for our international friends, a series of bars placed over a pit. It works as well as a fence. Cows worry about breaking their ankles. So do I, as a matter of fact. The most likely way I will injure myself is crossing a cattle guard.

There were too a number of warning signs. "Watch Out for Buffalo. They'll Kill You Just As Soon As Look At You." "Buffalo=Death." "If You See a Buffalo, Lock Your Doors and Drive Away Fast."

I really wanted to see a buffalo. I've got no use for the nanny state. They couldn't scare me; what are they? Just cows, after all. Cows love me, I will have you now. I am a hero to cows. And while there were once sixty millions of them, there are now just five-hundred or so. But to see just those thundering over the praire would be quite a moving sight.

All I saw were praire dogs. I am rather fond of them, too. But most of them had a little more sense than to be standing out in the rain. And there were a few drowned snakes; good riddance, I say, vile and hateful beasts. But no buffalo. I was feeling let down. I kept my eyes on the horizon.

So I almost missed the one buffalo, eating pansies by the side of the road. Rather startled me, she did. A big gal, too. Not fifteen yards away. The warning signs all flahed back to me. I was just a.little bit scared. Manfully, I'll have you know, but this was a government warning. I was preparex to see them on the next hill, not standing a short pass away.

I gave her all the space I could. The road was narrow there. I don't really want to be trampled to.death, no matter what I might say. I was too worried she would follow me. She is but a cow at heart. But she didn't and I passed unscathed. Her friends were waiting over the hill.

A good dozen of them. They were lying down, except for one grumpy bull. There are no fences in the National Park. I had his full attention. I was wearing a bright red raincoat. He scraped his front hoof on the ground. Some tourists pulled up to take his picture and his vanity won out.

Even domestic bulls don't like me, jealous cratures that they are. A big old bearded buffalo would not hesitate to mash me flat. I was even concerned about the cows. They have not been bred to be gentle. There is an intimacy in the act of milking which they have never experienced. For all I know they are meat-eaters. For all I know I am prey. And they've just got them running around loose. God bless America.

Even without the adrenaline boost I was making good time. It was either make it all the way to Hot Springs or drop dead on the way. Or get awfully cranky, at the very least. The boy has got to keep fed. And I got a ridiculously late start. And it was still raining.

Wind Cave, by the way, is named for its caves, which underlie most of its praire. There are a hindred-some miles of passages down there, and one or two good-sized lakes. They breathe, too, in and out. Apparenty with some force. I do not know the mechanics at work. The visitor's cented was too far off my road. It is, nonetheless, my favorite National Park. I hope to return one day.

In a Land Rover, with rhino bars. And a couple of kids as bait.

I did make it all the way to Hot Springs, in one long long soggy run. It was dark and I was beat to hell. I was chafed and had a case of the snoofles. I spent some money that I don't have to check into a hotel.

It was my intention not to, you know. I have been inspired by Lee, the recumbant cyclist. He never sleeps indoors. He has only one shirt. He sleeps under parked cars and eats pinecones. But he is tougher than me, what can I say. I was starting to shiver.

I needed a hot bath and to dry out my gear. I needed to eat and take a hot shower. I've got laundry to do and I've got groceries to buy to prepare for tomorrow's walk. I did get a fairly good deal on a very comfortable room. Whereas I have been trying boyish charm, today I was all business. Listen buddy, I said to the little man, it is late and late in the season. Give me half price or I am out of here. He did not know I was bluffing.

G'night.

CHEERS to the generous man on the road, who helped fund this luxury. A little soft living will do me some good. Don't be ashamed of me.

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