Day One-Hundred-Forty-Seven, Roadkill

Damn it was cold last night. That's all I've got to say about that. Next time it freezes, you sleep outside. Call me and we'll compare notes. Between us I'm sure we can weave the experience into some brand of poetry. But all on my own I'm bound to get nasty. I might just say something unkind. Or indulge a most unmanly self-pity that would not become me at all. I am grateful for this experience. Even when it sucks.

I did not wake up until eight-thirty. We might blame the cold for that. Because when it came time for my morning pee I thought I might just hold it in. And go back to sleep and my recurring dream about a fruitless search for a mensroom. It was uncomfortable but warm, or warmer than I would be outside.

I was too again in amongst the trees. The sun takes a while to get there. And I don't get my morning cue that it is time to wake up. I suppose I could invest in a watch. They go for a pittance these days. But I tend to find alarms alarming, when I can hear them at all. So I enjoyed ten and a half hours sleep, waking now and then to complain.

It was another low-milage day. That makes, what, five in a row? It is no way to run a railroad, I know. I'm tempted to blame Missouri. My path is not set out before me. The roads squiggle this way and that. And I never know when a town is a town or just a dot on the map. And no one I meet seems to know either. I am groping along in the dark. Which is bound to slow almost anyone if they are possesed of their wits.

And my new shoes are not helping much. They are not hikers but work boots. Which means they are heavy and do not much flex. They are calling on new sets of muscles. I have not, thank goodness, suffered injury, but I have been a little sore. I'm bound to get strong again in a few days. Until then I just gut it out.

But meanwhile there are hills to climb, and oh, what hills they are. I don't know the geologic history here but it must be something dreadful. There are high steep hills, each one an island. I have to climb every one. I never get to follow a ridge and smile down at the world.

There are views, though, of acres of forest. In there there must be some farms. But from up above all you can see are trees. Not that I've studied it much. My eyes have necessarily been on the road. It is darn scary out here. I've thought I might carry a spatula to remind me to keep focused. And to aid in my recovery if I let that focus lapse.

I expected a gas station three miles in. Someone said it was there. I thought I might have a few cups of cocoa, a reward for surviving the night. But there was nothing for more than ten miles. I stopped two or three times. My legs were sore and the hills were steep and I did not know where I was going.

You might say it is pretty country. It is wild and there are all kinds of trees. And the odd little farm or funny old house. It is even a pretty good road. For driving. If you had a Porsche or something; there are a lot of neat little twists. But these chipmunk-murdering maniacs don't drive foreign cars. They drive monster trucks. Which just might shine in the old mud-bog but which have no place on the road.

I like hotrods, don't get me wrong. I like it when people fix up their cars. But the goal should be to make them better, not immeasurably worse. A pick-up truck is just barely road-worthy out of the factory. It is built to haul heavy loads. Not to go fast or look pretty or handle especially well. Jack it up eighteen inches or more and it becomes useless for anything but offroad driving. Bunch of freakin' idiots.

I stopped once where an overgrown road disappeared into the trees. I was chewing up some cold bread and cheese when I met a silly cat. He was walking up the middle of the highway. He looked so complacent and proud. His tail was high, his ears were up. "Get out of the road," I said. I remembered a little chipmunk in Idaho, crushed by a monster truck.

"Meow," said the cat.
"Meow," I said.
"Meow," said the cat again.

And so he came up to visit with me, meowing the whole time. He was a talkative cat. He was missing an eye. He does not like extra sharp cheddar. But he seemed glad for the company. I was sorry when we said goodbye.

Probably dead now. I honor his memory.

Eventually, and at great personal risk, I made it to Drake, Missouri. Which is represented by a gas station and very little else. I had two war surplus sandwiches, heated in a microwave. And installed myself there for two hours to recharge and study my map.

I left Highway 50 after Drake and headed south on Highway 19. I was tired of being almost squished and bluffing my way past mean dogs. One of them nipped at me today. I pretended I didn't notice. He put a little rip in my pants but I did not want to escalate things. I think I could have taken him in a fair fight, but that's not why I'm out on the road. I'm all about Sweetness and Light. I refused to stoop to his level.

If I'd had a stick I would have whomped him on the noggin.

Highway 19 has some advantages. I'm at least headed south again. And traffic is a little lighter. Drivers, more considerate. But there is no shoulder whatsoever. When someone comes I have jump in a ditch. And there have been some nasty hills. And I'm guessing there will be more dogs.

"You ain't from around here," a fellow told me yesterday. Thank you, no sir, I'm not. The dogs seem to have the same suspicions, like I've come to bust up their still. Live and let live, that's my motto. Now how to make them all understand.

It was spur of the moment, heading south. I am following no kind of plan. We'll see, I guess, how it works out. I am camped maybe five miles from a pretty big town, behind a sort of gravel pit. Or heavy equipment storage yard. Or a dump for toxic waste. There is here a very strong solvent smell. I'm feeling a bit doped up.

It was getting dark when I moved in. I'd found a better place. But when I got there it was full of old tombstones. And corpses, one assumes. I am not afraid of zombies. I'm immune to supernatural events. But I can get creeped out like any man. I turned around and kept walking.

This place seemed too good to pass up, but there was a fellow here. I figured he was looking for things to steal. I went and introduced myself. Ordinarily I would leave him to his trade, but it was getting dark. I figured I should have priority since mine was the purer cause.

Turns out he was Mr. Ellis. Turns out he owns the place. I am now camping with permission. Which is sometimes nice. It eases my stress. It was awfully decent of him. And more than relieves me of any compulsion to contact the EPA.

I HEAR the coyotes howling again. I had a peculiar thought. Maybe they are the same band each night. Maybe they're following me.

I SAW an owl. He was handsome. But I saw no wisdom in his eyes. He wore a fairly vapid expression. That was disappointing.

THEY'VE GOT bugs here that look like sticks. Not kind of like sticks. Just like sticks. Stick bugs, I call them.

IT IS ten degrees warmer than it was last night. And bitter, bitter cold.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Two, What's For Dinner

[FIND ME AT A GAS STATION, FIVE MILES SOUTH OF COLUMBIA, MISSOURI, RE-TYPING THIS WHOLE BLASTED ENTRY. DAMN SAMSUNG AND DAMN VERIZON AND DAMN THE GODS OF TECHNOLOGY. THERE IS NOT AN ENTRY ON HERE THAT WOULDN'T PROFIT FROM SOME THOUGHTFUL EDITING. BUT I AIN'T GONNA BOTHER. KNOW IT IS OUT OF SPITE. YOU GET IT AS IT POURED OUT THE FIRST TIME, WITH ME SHIVERING IN MY TENT, ROAD-WEARY AND TYPING WITH MY THUMBS.]

I was told, I forget now by whom, that Missouri is warm south of I-70. This has since been contradicted by many dozens of people, but I hold it to be true. Believe the lies that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy and free.

It was awfully warm when I woke up, like a late spring afternoon. It was yet some minutes before seven o'clock. The sun was barely up. But I was caressed by balmy breezes. It was upwards of sixty degrees. And with me more than twenty miles north of that magic I-70.

It was a spectacularly beautiful day for walking. I set out in just a T-shirt. My legs were strong and my feet weren't unhappy. I've been having some nice luck there. In order to be on one end or the other of Columbia, Missouri, this would have to be either an eighteen or a twenty-seven mile day. I ate a cheese sandwich and then ate another and decided on twenty-seven.

As far as I knew there would be no civilisation between me and the city. I found a restaurant ten miles in. On the side of the road sort of up on a bluff. I wasn't so terribly hungry. But I knew I could do with something to drink. Cheese do make a boy thirsty. And my little computer needed a boost. I waded my way through the crowd.

For this was a wildly popular cafe. I had trouble finding a seat. I don't recall just what it was called. I know it began with an H. Heur's or Huerer's or something like that. Hooters, possibly. I ordered a cheeseburger out of habit and drank seventeen Cokes.

It was rather an ugly cheeseburger but it tasted plenty good. Toasted buns, I swear that's the secret. It came with crinkle-cut fries. Crinkle-cut fries are an abomination. I cannot be clearer than that. But it was nutty popular. People just love the place. I don't even think it was near a town. They did not have much of a sign. The decor did not in any way inspire and the waitresses were overworked. But they must be doing something right. I should have asked more questions.

That's why I so like eating in saloons. In a bar people talk to each other. But at a cafe I just sit at a table, all by my lonesome self. I did meet some nice people as I was leaving and was pleased to talk to them some. But talking to people at their tables seems to me bad form. Even if they talk to me first. I climbed back on the road.

With a burst of strength. I was surprised. I was worried I'd eaten too much. But the few kind words I got on my way out the door really put a spring in my step. As did the Cokes, I rather suspect. There's power in sugar and caffeine. The sun was still out. I took off like a rocket and walked another ten miles.

The land is prettier here, as well. I don't want to hurt any feelings but it has been sort of ugly these past few days. The fields have all been harvested. The trees are a rusty brown. The grass is dead and the landscape itself is nothing but flat and plain. But here there are hills and the road winds a bit. Here and there it is cut through rock. I like a little variety. I don't move so very fast.

Greater Columbia is home to some 160,000 people. It is by all accounts a pretty nice town. People are friendly and educated. They tend to vote on the Left. But I was afraid I'd get stuck in there and have to stay in a motel. Which would cut sharply into my food budget and delay my next day's start. Cable TV can mesmerize me. I don't sleep well in soft beds.

But I needn't have worried. Highway-63 goes politely around the edge of town. It's a shame, really. Columbia is the first city I might have actually liked. Bozeman was OK, I guess, but Spokane was a hole. A Scoutmaster was rude to me, a fat guy in tasselled socks. I try to laugh off that sort of thing. I was not rude back. But a not so very small part of me wishes I had kicked his ass.

Billings was snotty. Sioux City was awfully hard to walk through. But here inside the city limits I was still in the trees. Highway-63 is crazy big here. It has expanded to six lanes wide. I feel a little foolish walking here, but I guess it's my legal right. Nobody yelled at me, at any rate, but they looked at me like I was nuts. And there were lots of on and off ramps to negotiate. I did have to pay attention.

I was met on the side of the road by the Gallup family, Darren and Ada and Madison. I had met them at the cafe. I did not know them at first. They brought me all manner of treats. Coconut M&M's, which I've never had, but which sound very good indeed. And healthful fruit and vegetables and seventeen pounds of beef.

I was sorry about the beef; it must have cost a fortune. But I am since informed that Ada has powerful connections in the Missouri beef industry. I can more or less speak Japanese. Maybe she can get me a job. That was the big thing twenty years ago, selling beef to the Japanese. I guess they sell it to the Chinese now. I've been to China. Didn't like it.

I am chewing on a hunk of beef now. Thank you, kind Gallups!

My only regret regarding their kindness is that they did not catch me in a sour mood. Nothing better cheers me than encouragement along the road. But I'd been fairly sunny all day long. That is my misfortune.

I was well on pace for a thirty-mile day. I quit after twenty-five. Or twenty-four, I cannot be sure. It was a silly mistake. I've been nervous about the sun going dowj before I find a place to camp. Today I quit almost two hours early. I guess I misjudged the time.

I guess I am still in Columbia, some two miles south of I-70. In another hobo spot, tucked in on the side of the road. With traffic zipping by. It really is awfully loud. But I'll sleep well. I always do. I'll dream about the ocean.


MY TOOTHPASTE has exploded inside my pack. I can tell by the smell. I'll inspect the damage tomorrow. It is more than I can cope with right now.

MY LITTLE COMPUTER was threatening thirty degrees for next Wednesday. Then it went up to thirty-six. Now they are saying thirty-four, but Tuesday is supposed to drop to thirty-two. Why do they toy with me so?

I SAW TWO coyotes today, one live and one dead. I hear them almost every night but these are the first I've seen. Handsome fellows, both of them. One a little more so.

THIS IS WHERE you would have me qualify my earlier remarks by stating that I have nothing but the greatest respect for the Boy Scouts of America. Well, I don't. One hopes the FBI is keeping an eye on them, like it would any paramilitary organisation.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-One, Moberly, More Moberly, Most Moberly

I woke up alongside a barbed wire fence, on which there were two signs. JACKSONVILLE SEWAGE TREATMENT, said the one. The other said, NO TRESPASSING.

That first sign was enough for me, though it guarded a sweet little pond. It must get tempting on summer days, or when the catfish are jumping. I know it was lovely the night before. The moon was mirrored in the sludge. You must look for Beauty where you find it and try not to smell too hard.

Find me now in a patch of woods, just off Highway 63. I walked twenty-five miles and could have gone on, but I could not see what was up ahead. It looked like there were some houses or something. I might not find a place for my tent. Good enough is good enough. I don't like to camp in the dark.

I spent a diverting half-hour clearing a space, waiting for the sun to go down. This is one of those spots where I cannot be seen, so long as it isn't daylight. I pulled up saplings and moved sticks and stones. I cut back the prickle bushes. I invited the snakes to go away and come back after I've gone.

Missouri is a snaky state. I am wading through the things. They wrap themselves around my ankles and put extra weight on my knees. They seem to harbor some affection for me. They follow me wherever I go. I don't want to hurt their detestable feelings but I wish they'd just leave me alone.

I spent most of my morning hiking into Moberly, Missouri, a fairly good-sized town. I couldn't say how many people live there; they've got a Walmart and likely a mall. It is depressed, not to say depressing. Their chief industry is check-cashing. I saw a fairly decent house on sale for forty-nine grand.

But I do like that name, Moberly. It pleases me. It is fun to say. Moberly. Moberly. Moberly, Missouri. It sounds so friendly and comfortable. Maybe just a bit overweight. And I've long been fond of -ly words that are not adverbs, like lovely and comely and such. Slatternly, beastly, womanly, kindly. Moberly, Missouri.

It was a twelve or thirteen mile walk into town. When I got there I was all but starving. My meatloaf sandwich from the day before had pretty well worn off. And the cheesecake, too, and the cherries on top. I thought I might keel over dead. I am a big eater as a rule; I'm a man of large appetites. And I like to have them met when I can. When I can't it makes me all grumpy.

Moberly gets four highway exits. 63 is like a freeway here. I took the first one because it promised food, but the food was two more miles off. I finally wound up at a Hardee's. I don't much care for fast food. But I had a big burger and two "apple pies" and two-and-a-half gallons of Coke.

And everyone was real nice to me, just like at a real restaurant. I was there for two-hours. They sang Happy Birthday to some old guy. A kid invited me to a dinner party, I think because he thought I was homeless. If you absolutely must eat at a Hardee's, go to the one in Moberly.

Moberly. Moberly, Moberly. Say it. Moberly. It's a nice name.

I got some charge on my computer, but not nearly enough. If I drop out of sight tomorrow, know there's a chance I'm not dead. You might say a few good words about me anyway. I don't object to being eulogised.

I took the scenic route through town. There wasn't so much to see. I bought some bagels and something called "farmers cheese", which between you and me sounds gross. Like some kind of fungus you might pick up from standing in topsoil all day. Or rubbing elbows with livestock. Anyway, it was on sale.

I retook my highway and headed south. People are driving fast. The road takes itself very seriously here, and is not so pedestrian friendly. But there's a good wide shoulder with bumpity strips. I'll be off it in a couple of days. Now I don't really have much choice. I'm headed to Columbia, Missouri.

Which is huge, I think. I'd just as soon go around, but I've got to cross the Missouri. It seems all I do on this trip is cross the Missouri River. I must have crossed it a dozen times in Montana, once or twice where it was six feet wide. And it had me trapped in Nebraska and made me walk forty miles north. But here it divides the state in two, and there are only so many ways across.

Charles Kuralt said that America is defined not by its highways but by its rivers. And he was cool with that. But he was well paid and widely beloved and rode around in a bus.

Tomorrow will have to be a very short day or an impossibly long one. Columbia is twenty-some miles off. I either have to pull up short or try to blast all the way through. I have limited hotel funds and would like to save them for a thirty-degree night.

Speaking of which, my little computer was threatening thirty degrees Wednesday night. But it took some smalk pity on me and upped its estimate to thirty-six. Which is still damned cold but less likely to kill me.

"I hear it's warmer south of Columbia," I told a woman. I'm sure there was hope in my voice. She rolled her eyes, inhaled sharply and laughed right in my face.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Two, Leadbelly

As has been my habit this last couple days, I woke before seven o'clock. 6:58, or thereabouts. It really was dreadfully early. But I am going to sleep earlier, too. My whole schedule has gone mad. I once calculated that I am very best off when I sleep until just past eleven.

But my hobo lifestyle will not allow it. I am sleeping on borrowed ground. And have more or less committed myself to walking a bit every day. This is one of those projects that demand steady effort, like saving for retirement. Or so I'm told. It is nothing to me. I've never had a job.

I hear they suck.

My back did not threaten revolt today. I still fear for my second best knee. I thought I had pulled a thigh muscle but I guess it was just a cramp. My nose still snoofles but I'm used to it. I can remember no other time. All in all I'm remarkably healthy for a boy of my age and experience.

Six comparatively painless miles took me into Lucas, Iowa. Or outside of it to a gas station just up the hill from town. I grabbed a seat and plugged in my computer. And ate a burger that tasted like fish and some fries that tasted like paste. And two donuts, the second one for luck. They weren't so very good either. And it all did something strange to me. I have not been hungry since.

I think I've been stoppered or bricked up somehow. I am filled too with some dread. Dams burst and fortresses crumble. Disasters happen every day. Consistent and predictable digestion is the key to a happy walk.

No one should eat at gas stations. A good many people do. Truck drivers, the younger ones, eat there as a matter of course. I sat there for two hours, watching them poison themselves. I almost wanted to say something but my moral authority was gone. And will be for as long as I carry that burger, perhaps for the rest of my life.

I could I guess have had bagels cheese. I still carry them in my pack. But other than that I didn't have any choice. Lucas ain't much of a town. I'm certain it means well but there isn't much there. I might as well have been in Nebraska.

I liked Nebraska. Nebraska was good to me. No hard feelings there.

From there I marched another ten miles, onward to Chariton. I was walking tall and strong. I still wound up covered in dust. It is these blasted gravel shoulders. They are hard on more than my feet. A great column of dust follows every truck like some malevolent djinn. There is not a thing I can do to avoid it. It even goes up my nose. And into my ears and hair and mouth. It filters right through my clothes.

It was my further misfortune to catch up with a dump truck that was applying more of the stuff. I was worried even for passing cars. He had quite obscured the road. And was rolling along at about my pace. I was in that cloud for half a mile.

About when I hit Chariton the sun went behind a cloud. It wasn't cold but it looked like it was. I thought of checking into a motel. I have been ten days without a shower. I had grit in my pants. But it was expected to be warm tonight. I would hate to waste that indoors. So I resigned myself to a wet nap bath and went to a Hardee's restaurant.

Hardee's, for our international friends, is a fast food burger restaurant. I think they only exist in the Midwest. I liked them when I was a kid. But they have changed the menu and I wasn't hungry. I ordered some fries to be polite. And a great big Coke and sat in a far corner where I could plug in my computer. I left after an hour or so. I think I was creeping them out.

Then it was to a HyVee, that's a supermarket, for a few more jugs of sports drink. I didn't need anything else, though I do worry about my cheese. It was fairly warm today. It's gone a little bit squooshy. I'll have a slab for breakfast tomorrow and let you know how it turns out.

Next door I found a Pamida, a Walmart sort of place. So I was told; I didn't know. It was started by Pam and Ida. I went in and bought six pairs of socks and tried them on in the parking lot. The socks I was wearing I threw away. All of my old socks are dying.

My new socks were made by Fruit of the Loom. I am not wholly impressed. They are rough and thinnish. I should have known. I had one of their t-shirts once. And their briefs never fit me right. Something about the fly design. I always tended to escape. Like a naughty monkey from a flimsy cage. With mischief on his mind.

From Chariton I turned south. I am letting the season choose the course that I take. Whenever I have a good road south, that's the way that I'm going. It is not so cold now, and hasn't been, but I cannot afford to get complacent. As soon as it gets below freezing I quit. My whole trip will end in failure. It will at least be delayed until spring. I am nobody's snowman.

I put in another eight miles. I was walking until after dark. I cut it fairly close but I was sure I would find a pretty good place for my tent. I sensed it; I could not explain how. You'd need to have hobo skills. Which I do. I am camped comfortably between trees, on the edge of a meadow.

At least I think so. It was awfully dark. I may be in someone's front yard. All will be revealed in the morning, whether at gunpoint or not.

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Day One-Hundred-Fourteen, Sun

I was asleep for a good nine hours. I could have slept nine or ten more. It wears you out, avoiding work and shirking responsibility. And shoe shopping. That one's a killer. It'll bring a strong man to his knees.

I'd put my tent in amongst the trees. Gosh it got dark back there. The fog and the rain quite obscured the stars. It wasn't so awfully cold. Still I was slow in packing up. Some days you just don't have the strength. It really is a pain in the ass. I've got to get me a valet. Or a Sherpa. Or a positive attitude and a more energetic soul.

Despite the promises of almost a week the sun was nowhere to be seen. The world was shrouded in a thickish fog that did not quite reach the ground. My road took me more or less due east, up and down rolling hills. Up. Then down. Then up again. Each looked quite like the next. There was no sense of progress. There was plenty of corn. And one or two friendly cows.

I stopped several times, every mile or two, to eat more bread and cheese. And to break the monotony. You get bored after a while. And somehow my pack felt lopsided. My back was bothering me some. It didn't hurt but it felt like it might. I've been fairly lucky so far. The only injury I've suffered is a broken heart. Trust me, you get used to that.

And I bear no grudges. I have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for the brave men and women of the United States Forest Service. They work hard, mean well, have beautiful eyes and smile that would melt your heart.

Some hours in, I sensed the sun. I couldn't see it but I knew it was there. And ten minutes later it had cooked off the fog and revealed a clear blue sky. Ornamented here and there with white fluffy clouds of the sort a child might draw. It was beautiful. I thought I might cry. It was by then one p.m.

And I was out of water. I've been carrying the same superfluous half-gallon since Valentine. But today I drank it up with eight more miles to town.

Now you can walk eight miles without water. You can walk it without shoes or socks. But I can be highly suggestible when it comes to dying of thirst. I start thinking I might and my throat goes dry and soon it starts to swell shut. If I'd had anything else on my mind I wouldn't have noticed at all.

I stopped at a friendly farmhouse. A nice lady filled up my jug. Her husband had a grand moustache. They had a lot of cats. Being so close to the highway, the poor things often get squished. So rather than risk one day being without, they like to keep a few in reserve.

From there it was down the road to Pilger. It was a mile out of my way. But I had a burger in the saloon. Everyone was real nice. But I couldn't linger. I was back on the road in something under an hour. And I no longer need thirty-nine Cokes, now that it's not so hot.

I left Pilger (pronounced Pill-grrr, not Pill-jurr) on a back road. Dirt. It was lined with corn. There were very few cars but every one slowed so the people inside could stare. I was starting to feel just a little self-conscious, like I had cheese in my beard.

I had grown quite accustomed to my Cowboy Trail. A dirt road's the next best thing. It is strange after so many days on my own to have traffic roaring by. My favorite place to walk is still on sidewalks. I hardly meet those at all. If I were an Internet billionaire, I'd build a sidewalk across America.

And no one could use it but me.

And people I like. And people I would like if I ever met them. And people I hate just a little. And their friends.

I am now on Highway 51 east, or camped artfully beside it. It is getting harder to find good spots. It is lucky I've got hobo skills. Safe, not too cold and invisible, fifteen feet off the road.

It is not a very well travelled road, not on late Sunday afternoons. I hope it is every bit as empty tomorrow. There is no shoulder at all. I am almost out of cheese. My next meal is yet sixteen miles away. Unless I want to eat tinned weeners, which between you and me, I don't.


MY DIRT Road took me past several feed lots. It let me avoid several more. They are stinking and awful places. The cows--steers, I guess they are--look at me pleadingly. The food's good but they don't like it there. They want me to let them go.

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Day One-Hundred-Six, Nutrition

My little computer does have its moods. It won't tell me where I am. But I do have a fairly good idea. I walked twenty-six miles today. On the Cowboy Trail. Yippee ki yay. Git along, little Dostoyevsky.

I breakfasted at the same cafe that fed me so well last night. Biscuits and gravy were the special today. I added two eggs and hash browns. "Would you like then," said my very pretty waitress, "just a half order of biscuits?"

"Certainly not," said I. I've gone thirty years without eating breakfast but I'm making up for it since. There is no finer start to a walking day than to eat yourself into a sweat. There was that boy Lee, the recumbant cyclist, who eats nothing but cow chips and grass. But he is him and I am me. I thrive on calories.

I slept well but not long in the town park. I felt a duty to pack up early. I was overlooked by two or three houses and one somewhat pensive cow. I couldn't let them see me as weak or lazy. I may be but I have my pride.

There was a box in the park for donations. I did not leave them anything. I wanted to but I am poor. I do hope they understand. A mere dollar would be seen as insulting. Any more might cut into my lunch. In the future when I am really rich I'll have my man cut them a check.

I do hope they still exist in the future. These small towns are fading fast. Wood Lake, Nebraska I'll always remember because it's so spooky at night. I was honored to sign their guest book and am pleased to thank them here.

I left the cafe on Highway 20. I'd had quite enough of the trail. But there it was, taunting me. I climbed on after a mile. The gravel slows me just a bit and it is crawling with all sorts of snakes. But nobody else was using the thing. I felt sort of sorry for it. It is easy to lure mountain bikers to the Black Hills. Nebraska is more of a stretch. You need to have a keen eye for Beauty. You may need to be ugly yourself.

There are advantages too to a trail. I am less likely to be squished. And today it ran right along the road. I had no fear of losing myself. I stopped a few times but after eleven short miles I arrived in Johnstown, Nebraska, population 48.

"That's an old sign," said my new friend Dolly. "We've got fifty-three now." It seems they've enjoyed a small baby boom, and the old folks are all in good health.

Dolly was in charge of the L Bow Room, Johnstown's finest saloon. And the one business still up and running in town. Dolly is something of a talker. So am I, truth be known, but I was glad to give her the floor. She had every bit of the bounce and the rhythm that makes conversation fun.

Perhaps closer to my mother's age than my own, she has experienced some tragedy. She has lost some loved ones and then she got herself squished like a bug in a head-on collision. But she has one o' them indomitable spirits. She brings joy, I suspect, to everyone she meets. I wish I could be more like her.

My own life has been free from tragedy but is tragic nevertheless. In the dramatic sense. Fatal flaws and all that. It is nobody's fault but my own. There have been some comic elements, as well. But all the best jokes hurt like hell.

It had been three hours since my big breakfast. I had a cheeseburger. Even if I did not have this affinity with cows, cheeseburgers are not my favorite food. But they are cheap and rich with calories and digest predictably. Dolly, however, grills one heck of a burger. Someone should give her a prize.

I had but nineteen Pepsis and so did not loiter long. Nor had I done so at breakfast. There had been, you'll recall, electricity in the park and my computer was all charged up. As was I at this point. I walked another ten miles and arrived in Ainsworth, Nebraska.

I don't know how many people live in Ainsworth. I came in the back way. But it is big, maybe three-thousand people or more. And I'd heard they had a lovely park with showers and everything. And twenty-one miles is a good solid day. It couldn't have been better placed.

But I wasn't in a real big-city mood. I had been too long on the trail. When I lived in Japan there were probably a thousand people in my apartment building, but I've gotten used to towns of eighty or so. And it was still daylight and I wasn't hungry. And I felt just a little bit like walking.

Which ain't so common, believe it or don't. Usually it's something of a slog. I figured I'd be cheating myself if I didn't put in another five miles. Not seven, mind, though I had plenty of time. That might just leave me sore. But twenty-six is a very good day without too much pressing my luck.

I found a grocery store and bought food so I would not suuffer tomorrow. A big box of donuts and a good hunk of cheese. Sue me, I spoil myself. My next town, I thought, was seventeen miles off, which would leave twelve for tomorrow. I know I can get a little bit cranky when I start my day unfed.

But the Cowboy Trail veered away from the highway, headed towards a town I thought I would miss. So breakfast may be just a couple miles away. I am chewing on my cheese right now. Gluttony, you'd call it, though I am still losing weight. It was a medical choice. I could still lose another fifteen pounds, but there's time enough for that.

At twenty-six miles I threw up my tent. In a rather rotten spot. It is snaky as hell and the crickets make a din. There are cows making all kinds of noise. And turkeys, hundreds of them. I'd somehow thought they were rare. But I think they would be easy to catch. They walk everywhere they go. Like little emu in great thundering herds. Turkeys rarely travel alone.

I guess I am out of those famous Sand Hills. It is sandy but fairly flat. There are fewer ranches and more and more farms. I am entering corn country. The scenery changes so gradually that it takes me a while to notice.

THERE ARE TREES here too, and in the evening they are shrouded in great clouds of bugs. Skeeters or something, millions of them, swirling like black cyclones. And it is humid. Buggy and humid. America's Breadbasket.

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