Day One-Hundred-Ten, The Green Mile

I slept fairly well in my marijuana patch. I do not remember my dreams. I woke up at seven to a blustery day. The skies were grey and the winds were blowing. It had rained at some point during the night. Again I packed a soggy tent.

Which I resent. It weighs more wet. And seems somehow less a home. It had never dried out from the day before, nor is it much better now. And my tent poles made my fingers very cold and sore from their every exertion. It reminded me of the early days of this trip when I was young and did not know better.

I had given some real thought to staying in bed all day. I had bread and cheese and plenty of water and even a maple bar. I bought four of them the night before. Three went for a late hour snack. For our international friends, maple bars are a maple-themed pastry. In Nebraska they are marketed as Long Johns, which recalls the Clarence Thomas hearings.

But despite my big city sophistication, I was a little nervous about being camped in a pot patch. I suspected, and it has since been confirmed, that this is nothing more than ditch weed, a likely remnant of the days when the United States government actually encouraged farmers to grow hemp. It is everywhere. Still I imagined DEA agents zipping down on me from helicopters and otherwise endeavoring to make me feel poorly about myself.

So I climbed out of my thicket, very stealthily; I likely looked guilty as hell. And crossed Highway 20 and set off once again down the venerable Cowboy Trail. Which has suffered some on this stretch, perhaps from flooding, and has been repaired with some very sharp rocks.

Which were not, this one day, my chief concern. It was cold and it threatened to rain. I was wet from my effort to take down my tent and was feeling a bit snoofly. There was a sliver of blue sky long miles to the east. I tried to let that thought cheer me. It is good that it is not at all in my nature to feel sorry for myself.

For a mile or two my trail was lined with pot. Blooming and healthy and grand. It was like taking a walking tour of Jamaica, only it was bitter cold. And it didn't smell much like marijuana, insofar as I have had it described to me. It seems that if the Great State of Nebraska is going to go to all the trouble to plant Cannabis all over hell, they would have chosen a better breed. It is my understanding that you can get the seeds by post from somewhere in the Netherlands.

Soon enough I arrived at Inman, Nebraska. I'd been told to expect nothing there. It is a town of some 148 people, and there is more to it than is broadly known. There is a saloon, closed in the mornings, and a smallish grocery store. Guarded by a very ugly little dog and offering coffee for sale.

Or for free, I was pleased to discover. I sat down for fourteen cups. It was cozy in there, out of the wind. I chatted a bit with the locals. Inman thrived at one point in time. It is a great producer of hay. They had three grocery stores and a railroad. It has faded just a bit since. I was reminded, only briefly, of that scene in The Outlaw Josey Wales where, after facing all manner of hardship, he arrives in Texas and finds the last few citizens of a once thriving town sitting around the saloon.

"First the silver run out, then the people run out, then the whiskey run out, then the beer run out."

I hike another mile down the trail and sat down to buns and cheese. Damn it was cold and in the words of Forrest Gump, that's all I've got to say about that.

I continued on to Ewing, Nebraska. I don't remember how many people live there. 300 or so. It isn't huge, but appears to be fairly thriving. The saloon where I popped in for my lunch was very nice indeed. Too nice for me, a sort of sports bar like you find all over America. I am better accustomed to out-and-out dives and remnants from the 1890s. I straightened my collar and ordered a burger. It was huge and good.

What's the deal with crinkle-cut fries? Does anyone think they're good? They're an offense unto Nature and an inexcusable way to misuse the noble potato. Seriously. Save 'em for school lunches and prison cafeterias. I apologise for my passion but, damn, this is America. Learn how to cut up and fry a potato or go back to Russia where you belong.

By then I had managed seventeen miles. My next town was ten miles off. I figured what the hell so here I am, after a twenty-seven mile day. I can't say much about Clearwater, Nebraska. I rolled in after dark. It is home to 348 people, said a sign on the edge of town. Which is enough to support all manner of businesses. Find me now in the park.

It is thirty-some degrees outside, and little warmer in my tent. My fingertips are sore from typing. I believe I'll wrap this up here. Thank you.

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Day One-Hundred, Lazy Sundays

I managed to sleep until eight o'clock. I guess I'd done tuckered myself. One of these days I may have to invest in a smallish alarm clock. I had one for a while before it dropped dead. It never did me much good. I never could hear the little thing. It was talking to itself.

My bag kept me warm as advertised. It is made out of baby ducks. But I was haunted by dreams in which I was cold, and very cold indeed. No ducks were harmed when they made my computer. It suffered mightily. The battery died; it refused to turn over and complained a great deal once it did. I will have to sleep with it stuck to my chest. I once tried to warm pizza that way.

By eight it was a beautiful day; an autumn day, nonetheless. It was sunny and cool and as good a day for walking as I could ever hope for. Autumn days make me happy, which in turn makes me sad. As would explaining why. I'll fill you in one of these days when I've got joy to spare.

I feel the same about late spring days. Summer can stand on its own. Winter I don't dare contemplate. It will be here soon enough.

I all but enjoyed my walk to town. It was a mere five or six miles. I was listening to Car Talk on NPR. Man, them guys make me laugh. They are joyous. I wish I could be like that. I wish we all could.

You don't have to wait until pledge week, you know. Go ahead, write 'em a check.

Gordon, Nebraska is not a big town; maybe a thousand people or so. About like Rushville but not in decline. But not really prospering, either. A grain elevator marks the center of town, and quite a big one, at that. I was pleased to make my way to the cafe for a hearty breakfast.

The Antelope Creek, I believe it is called. I was not wholly impressed. Town is off to the left but it was on the highway in what appeared to be an abandoned McDonald's. Posters and plaques covered the walls, letting you know it was a Christian establishment. "Cowboy by birth, Christian by the Grace of God." That sort of thing. Everywhere.

The one waitress was harried and mad. She was letting it show. The owner stood at the cash register, looking like Joyce Meyer. That is if Joyce Meyer (A) tarted herself up a bit, and (B) suffered from painful itching and swelling. The both of them greeted me at the door as if I were a hobo.

Now as I understand it, Jesus liked hobos. Loved them, as it were. He did not have much use for money lenders. He kept mum on restaurateurs. I abused them with extravagant courtesy. That'll learn 'em, thought I.

And I ordered two breakfasts. I was starving half to death and prices are low in Nebraska. I still spent less than I would have for one in Montana. Less still, after my tip. They could chew on my courtesy all they liked, but my change went back in my pocket. And their biscuits and gravy tasted like paste. My coffee cup was not refilled. It is folks like this, I tell you, I do, that give religion a bad name.

Then I went looking for Mr. Long Soldier, the artist I met two days back. I had his number but this is the Nineties. There are no pay phones anymore. So I walked to his house but he was not home. I tried the Jehovah's Witness Kingdom Hall. He was well into that, I remembered. I thought I might find him there.

I was not really dressed for church, and I am a little scruffy these days. I loitered outside until someone came out. It was Bobby, the Elder. Man, he looked sharp. He was so neatly pressed. And trimmed; I felt like a hobo. But he greeted me warmly and helped track down my friend and invited me to their church picnic.

Jehovah's Witnesses, 1. Snotty self-righteous cafe lady, 0.

The Jehovah's Witnesses have been around for a while. I know they pissed Hitler off. Which is not a bad thing. They are conscientious objectors and refuse to do military service. Which, I think, is marvelous, but it only really works if everyone on earth does the same thing. If anyone doesn't, we're in a mess. I am doing my part. I hereby refuse to do military service, unless they really really need me.

But if things get that bad, we're done for already. Better we should all work for Peace.

I'll read up on the Witnesses when I get a chance. They are just outside the mainstream. They seem to run themselves a bit like the Mormons, with no professional clergy. They too knock on doors but not just when they're kids. They keep at it all of their lives. The "Thy kingdom come" bit of the Lord's Prayer seems to be much of their focus. Sooner, rather than later. They keep a close eye on world events to find out just when that will be.

And, while it should be unremarkable in these 1990s, they have a nice mix of folks. Indian, Asian, black and white. Maybe a Latino or two. You don't always see that in other churches, and when you do they're self-conscious about it.

And while they were happy to share their Good News with me, there was no salesmanship. I told them I'd think it over and I will, and that was good enough for them. They are good people, kind and sincere. I wish them the best.

And they stuffed me full of some remarkably good fried chicken and thirteen different kinds of potato salad. And pie and chips and other things good. And coffee, not like them Mormons. And they were nice to me and I got to talk to Mr. Long Soldier. I don't think he is your typical Jehovah's Witness. He is straight up now but his sinful past is a little too fresh in his mind. He is grateful that he has at last been Saved, but still tells some funny stories.

I hung out there just a little too long. I am of course meant to be walking. And these cold nights are testing my resolve as no mountain or blister ever did. But I needed to get my computer charged and I like seeing how people live. We played a sort of horseshoe game with beanbags. No money changed hands. But if it had I'd have schooled them. I think I may be a natural.

Find me now near a field of sunflowers, not ten miles out of town. It was a rather poor walking day but I had things to do. Tomorrow there will be no such distractions. My next town is a long way off.


DANIEL LONG SOLDIER had a grandfather called Red Cloud, which is a pretty cool name, and another called Scared of His Horses, which made me laugh. At Crow Agency I was reading a memorial plaque and saw that some Indians do better than others with their names. For every Fights Like Bear and Iron Buffalo, there is a Giggles Like Woman and a Big Nose. I shudder to think what my Indian name would be. Fails to Meet Potential. Bitches About Feet. Weeps For No Reason. Dies Alone.

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