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.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Day One-Hundred-Forty-Four, Jeff City

It stormed all night, lightning and thunder. I was up until two or so. When I did fall asleep I slept until nine, just like the good old days. It has become my habit to wake with the sun. The sun did not rise today.

Oh, it was up there somewhere, I guess. You couldn't prove it by me. The sky stayed grey; it sprinkled some, but it never really rained. It was cold and gloomy and sad, but I maintained my good cheer. Anyone who knows me knows that I am all about Positive Thought.

I had a good spot, up on a cliff, overlooking the freeway. I could see them but they couldn't see me. I might have stayed there all day. But I did pack up and I did walk, twelve miles to Jefferson City.

Damn, it was hairy. These roads were not made with your good pedestrian in mind. There are on ramps and off ramps and interchanges for me to find my way through. It was all very mathematical, and demanded some strategy. I coped, you understand, but I found it all very taxing. My intellect is better suited to poetry and random, abstract thought.

There was a fine bridge across the Missouri. Two, as a matter of fact. Side by side with a bicycle path running along one side. Of course no one had thought to tell me about it. I crossed it on the shoulder. With cars and trucks muddying up my elbows and people staring at me.

"What's with that idiot?" they seemed to say. "Why don't he use the bike path?"

Next time I Walk Across America I will. Now I'm just glad to be alive. And unmolested by law enforcement, and not committed against my will. Fortune Favors the Bold, they say. You get bonus points if you're dumb.

So I've crossed the Wide Missouri once more, here as wide as it's ever been. And lined on both sides with autumn leaves with barge traffic in the middle. I quite like to see things moving on barges. It seems almost old-fashioned. It is nice to think that it is still a good way to get your goods to market.

Only upon seeing the capitol dome was I reminded that Jefferson City is the capital of Missouri. I guess I am meant to know these things. I am sure I did once. It is home to forty-odd thouand people, spread across high bluffs. It seems like an old city but it didn't exist when Lewis & Clark paddled by.

I was rather chilly by the time I got there. I had started to shiver some. I parked myself in a coffee shop and stayed there for three hours. Better it had been a laundromat, but laundromats don't serve quiche. I got barely the hint of a charge on my computer while I puzzled over my maps.

I do not know where I am going from here. The roads to the south are a mess. It is causing me a great deal of unease. I have never much cared for stress. Some people thrive on it, I know, but most of them are jerks.

It did not get any warmer while I was indoors. It took some courage to go on. I overheard people complain of the cold and thought how they don't understand. I am the cold. I live it. It seems to pour right out of my heart. Enjoy what little warmth there is or I'm going to make it snow.

Walking did not get easier as I worked my way out of the city. Traffic was heavy. There was no shoulder. I was walking on spongy grass. Which would have made a soft spot for my tent but was tiring to walk through. A sidewalk would have warmed my heart if not my brittle toes.

I stopped again at a McDonald's, not to eat but to recharge. I am still running on the faintest spark. If I disappear do know why. But suspect the worst; your groundless worries flatter me all to hell. We're all going to die sooner or later. I want to believe I'll be mourned.

I didn't make it but a few more miles. It was a seventeen-mile day. Plus a few more hiking to and fro. I'll try to do better tomorrow. But I still haven't the faintest idea where I'm going, nor do I know how to get there. I wish to heck the sun would come out. It makes things brighter somehow.

Find me again on the side of the highway, not too very far east of town. I have a bad feeling about the place but that may be the general gloom. I passed a WalMart a couple miles back. I may have to go there tomorrow. And see if they can sell me shoes. Mine have gone and exploded.

It will drop into the thirties tonight. It will be colder still tomorrow. And even colder the day after that. Then it is meant to be warm. We'll see, we'll see. I do miss the sun. I wish I knew where I was going. Goodnight.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Day One-Hundred-Forty-Three, Moisture

There was no warm breeze when I woke up this morning. It was in fact rather cold. Not in my sleeping bag, do understand. It was just lovely in there. But it was all I could do to unzip and climb out. It seemed a good day to stay in bed.

It was seven-thirty when I did get up. The sky was a swirling grey. But my little computer was glad to assure me that there would be no rain. My own dim sense predicted a downpour, but I deferred to their expertise.

There was a time in America when weather reports were delivered by bikini girls and comedians. All the real professionals were detached to the military. To ensure the success of rocket launches and landings on hostile shores. But like GPS and laser pointers, meteorology has filtered down. Now every TV weatherman has his own Doppler radar to play with. Add to that the Power of the Internet and I could not be in better hands.

The grey day gave me a hash browns jones. I set out in search of breakfast. I walked four miles this way and that, misled by freeway signs. At one point I thought I'd ask a local. I saw a lady by her car. "Excuse me," I said, most becomingly. She jumped in and locked her door. To think I trimmed my glorious beard to put people like her at their ease. What a waste of chin whiskers. I'm lucky she didn't mace me.

I settled on a Pepsi at a gas station. Their coffee had a sour smell. And climbed down to Highway 63 and resumed my long walk south. Four or five miles to Deer Park, Missouri. To another gas station. A sign promised "home cooking" or "like Mom used to make" or something along those lines.

Mom, it seems, used to over-fry things in very old oil, heap it into stainless steel tubs and let them sit for two or three days under heat lamps in a dirty glass case. Mom is lucky the health department didn't shut her down.

The coffee was good, that's a rarity. Strong and thicker than her gravy. I had a very large cup and another and sat down to do some typing. And to recharge my computer, which didn't deserve it, the black-hearted little traitor. It had been behaving most abominably and had caused me all manner of grief.

I have read the diaries of the pioneers who made their way west in wagons. About their privations and awful disease, the losses they met on the trail. They would kindle their fires with arrows plucked from those they once held most dear. But one hardship they never faced was the Samsung Galaxy Tab.

I am being unfair, I suppose. It has held up fairly well. And too often in less than ideal conditions. It does seem to get the job done. But it is a monster pain in the ass and they really ought to mention that in their ads.

As I typed the grey skies disappeared and were replaced by something black. There were dramatic streaks of lightning at all points on the horizon. But I'd been there two hours. No one ever got rich just by sitting around. I covered my pack and strapped on my raincoat and headed out the door.

I made it all of two steps before the rain hit. I could have turned around. But I was in a mood for walking and more so for martyrdom. My next town was but seven miles off. I could get there in less than two hours. And show the people in passing cars that I was tougher than them.

It is hard to be tough in soggy socks. That's why we lost Viet Nam. My shoes once claimed to be waterproof but that was a shameful lie. GORE-TEX®, from the Latin, meaning pruny and brittle toes.

But I kept my head up, out of pride, misplaced and so far unearned. Four miles up I passed a roadside park which featured a picnic shelter. Where I sat for three hours and watched the storm and wondered if it would have killed them to ground the tin roof against lightning.

And I ate some beef and what I think were carrots and handsful of M&M's. And put on dry socks and stuffed my feet into thoroughly soggy shoes. But it ain't like I was just lounging around. I was hopping up and down the whole time. And trying to dry myself from within by thinking the warmest of thoughts.

I remembered sitting under a bridge east of Billings, amongst snakeskins and animal bones. It was a hundred and something that afternoon. There are all kinds of ways life can suck.

The rain stopped and I ambled on. I feigned enthusiasm. It wasn't there but if you'll excuse the expression, it pays to bullshit yourself. Positive Thinking and all that rot. The lightning was spectacular. And I knew I'd regret my blasphemies if it were to strike me dead. If there were time, at any rate. I wondered how much it would hurt.

I ate Mexican food for lunch. I did not learn the town's name. Ashville or Ashcan or something like that. I was too cold to care. It never got out of the forties today. There was no sun in the sky. But you will perspire; my T-shirt was wet and clammy against my skin. Some lady at a sporting goods store in Sioux City tried to sell me some fancy shirt that isn't clammy in cold weather, but it cost fifty bucks. And I didn't believe her.

It was by then four-thirty and I had not yet got much walking done. It had stopped raining so I hit the road and hammered out eight more miles. Traffic was fast and heavy and visibility was low. I had to keep focused on every oncoming car, watching where they were in their lane. And trying to predict which idiot was going to squish me flat.

The speed limit is 70 here. That means everyone goes 85. What they don't understand is just because their engine will get them that speed doesn't mean their piece-of-crap cars have the suspension to control it. Add in slick roads, the odd crosswind and an oh-so-interesting cell phone conversation and what you've got is attempted murder.

Of me.

You know, I've gathered unto myself some very kind-hearted supporters on this trip. God-fearing people, willing to overlook my more obvious failings and to see the better James within. So I'm hesitant to admit that one day I am going to meet one of these idiot drivers and bloody his fool nose.

Unless he's real big. I ain't a madman.

It meant a lot of staring into headlights, and squinting to spot the idiots who left their headlights off. It rather left me hyp-mo-tized, like those fellows who sort our mail. They often go on shooting sprees. All I'll ever do is gripe.

So it's eighteen miles for the day; kind of weak, I know. I have until the day after tomorrow to get five-hundred miles south. Then the temperature drops to a point where I no longer fear the rain. Only the Yeti and cold-blackened toes. Thank Heaven for that small blessing.

It is raining now. Vigorously. There is a spectacular storm. With but the merest heartbeat or two separating flash and explosion. I am camped in a beautiful spot, on a high rock cliff overlooking the freeway. It is pretty here, a dozen miles from Jefferson City. There are trees and deep valleys. "Hollers" I think they may be called. I only wish it were warmer.

MANY YOUNG people go into meteorology for the sole purpose of getting on TV. The same is true of journalists and, believe it or not, chefs. And politicians and Hollywood wives and the odd serial killer. I used to want to be on television, but now I'm less sure. I don't know that I'd like the company.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Day One-Hundred-Twenty-Eight, Old Age

There must be dozens of men, Larry King comes to mind, whose day began just like mine. The aching back, the hacking cough, a slackness about the jowls. The weak muscles and wobbly knees. The cruelly misshapen toes. And pruny fingers and baggy eyes. I was never a handsome man. But what beauty youth offered is now lost to me. I'll have to get by on my wits.

Such is life, such is life. It could have been worse. At least my tent stayed dry. I've taken to sleeping with my windows open. It's worth whatever it costs. Let the frosts whiten my beard and take all the snap from my skin. Let peeping squirrels and curious raccoons catch me in awkward positions. I've been outdoors too long to care. I've earned my every wrinkle. So what, who cares, I'm almost glad that no one will ever love me.

I hiked into Redfield by ten o'clock. When I got there no one was home. The streets were deserted; the restaurant was closed. It was a little bit spooky. I finally met Larry and his shy smiling wife. "Everyone's in church," he explained. He had had enough of that business when he was just a kid.

They were having a yard sale, waiting for that post sermon rush. And just after that the shops would open. I went to wait in the park. There I could plug my computer in. I spent some time looking at my map. I'll be damned if I know where I'm going any more. There are too many roads to choose from. Montana made most of my decisions for me. The Midwest puts it all on you.

The reason I stayed north as long as I did is that I had hoped to visit Dubuque. Dubuque, Iowa on the Mississippi. I spent my childhood there. It was not such a very happy childhood, but that is not Dubuque's fault. I thought it would be fun to see my old house, to maybe visit my school. I wanted to borrow a bicycle, to spend some days riding around. I wondered if it might not be cathartic, in one sense at least.

In fact I'd half planned to winter there, to pick up my trip in the spring. But spring comes slow to Dubuque, Iowa. I'd have been there six months. And while I have taken a day off here and there, much more would seem like cheating. Anyone can Walk Across America if they do it in little chunks.

I still might have managed a day or two. In the end I chickened out. It wasn't nostalgia that frightened me. It was this chill in the air. It is cold now but bearable. I couldn't endure much worse. Or I could but I certainly would not care to. Now I am headed south.

Just to where I could not say. Maybe Arkansas. I have not heard of it anything good. I could go to Tennessee. There are 1,352 guitar pickers in Nashville. Some of them must be nice.

They don't eat breakfast in Redfield. I settled in for lunch. Pork and extra mashed potatoes. Broccoli salad with bacon and raisins. Some kind of casserole. It did not much move me but the people were nice. Soon Larry turned up. He brought me a warm shirt and a pair of gloves. I gratefully turned him down.

We talked a bit. Larry's a giant. He's maybe six-foot-five. And laughs all the time. I wish I were as cheerful, even just once in a while. He was a mechanic for a lot of years but had to quit because his hands cramped up. Arthritis, the doctors call it. He's two years younger than me. Worked harder, though, I don't doubt it. He has too some medical training. First-aid stuff, slapping on band-aids. He stalks the Raccoon River Trail. When people crash their bikes he's there to help them. I guess it happens all the time.

In summation, he is a big laughing giant of a man who gets his greatest joy from helping people. Cyclists, no less, a detestable class. I am yet only me. Cheers Larry, you're an American hero. We're lucky to have you here.

Leaving town a German shepherd came very close to, how shall I say it, making me the last of the Pierces. A rope stopped him short, within a fang length or so. He meant to snap them off. I do not exaggerate. It left me rather shaken. Not that they're of any real use to me. It's the principle of the thing.

My trail was especially pretty through here. The path is lined with trees. The leaves are changing color and the air is fresh. It was really a pleasant walk. Here and there was a bench where I'd stop and stare at the trees just a little too long. I was spoiled only by the vast number of snakes who had come out to enjoy the warm day. And dozens of like-minded cyclists, vermin of a kind.

As a sort of social experiment I greeted them all with a warm hello and a smile. Maybe a third of them greeted me back, but you could tell their hearts were not in it. Most just rode on with a look of disdain, as if I were the one wearing foo-foo shorts. Does riding a bicycle make you a jerk, or are jerks just drawn to the sport?

There were some old folks on shopping bikes. I'm not referring to them. I mean the ones who take themselves seriously, who think they are better than me. When someone says hi you say hi back--that's just a Law of Nature. Especially when you are sharing a trail or the shoulder of some remote road. They think they're so blasted heroic for riding their bike twenty miles.

"But, ooh, it's so hard! Our bottoms are sore!" I'll just bet they are.

Excuse me.

I dillied and dallied, as they used to say. I juggled walnuts and watched the red squirrels. But in spite of myself I eventually made it to Adel, Iowa. It is a bustling town of some three-thousand people, big in the brick industry. And farming, of course, and the equipment for that. There were very few places to eat. All I really wanted was a coffee shop. I needed to recharge my computer. I had been to long studying maps and reading about Tennessee.

I finally wound up in a Subway. I had a tuna sandwich. Which could have been worse but honestly, I really hate the place. I weep when I think of all the good sandwich shops Subway drove out of business. And I am disgusted with the American people who just cannot tell the difference.

The secret to making a good sandwich is this: balance. So too is the Secret of Life. Not too much gin, not too much vermouth. It is as simple as that. Subway overloads their sandwiches with watery, flavorless vegetables. Their bread is doughy and the annoy their customers with a series of impertinent question. "Do you want this flavorless vegetable or this flavorless vegetable?" With no thought as to proportions. And their seats are hard and their soda fountains get the mix all wrong.

Their marketing is deceitful and offensive (see Product Placement) and their franchise agreements are exploitative of the American Dream. Hey, Subway! Sponsor my walk! I'll go from town to town telling everyone how much you suck.

But the girls behind the counter were pretty. It's all part of their Evil Plan.

At Adel I left my trail. That's always so hard to do. But from there it was headed straight into Des Moines, where I do not want to go. It may be in Iowa but it's a metropolis. It would take me two days to walk through there. And big city folks are not hobo friendly. They think I've come to rob them.

So I took off south on Highway 169, up and over steep hills. Which there are all kinds of in Iowa, no matter what anyone says. And stopped well short of a twenty-mile day. I had found a nice place to camp. I'm a bit snuffly. I thought I needed the rest. Every little bit helps.

My little computer promised me it would not be as cold as it was last night. My little computer lies. It is evil cold out there. But I've got the place to myself. I dug through some woods and found myself on the edge of a motocross track. Which has not been used for a couple of weeks. You can tell by the state of the grass. I like to be well off the road on cold nights, so no one can see my shame. Suffering robs you of dignity, ask any poor person you know.


THESE RAGBRAIers, a different class of cyclist, come up in conversation from time to time. The word most often used to describe them? "Maniac." By far.

COLD NIGHTS make the stars beautiful. I noticed when I went out to pee. If I had had an empty Gatorade bottle I never would have seen.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Day One-Hundred-Seventeen, Iowa!

I have for decades suffered from insomnia, and not the usual kind. It is not so much that I can't fall asleep. It is more that I just don't want to. My mind is most active in the wee hours. It is when I get my boldest ideas. Thousands of them. I am overwhelmed by the noise. And I am plagued by many regrets. When I can I look for distractions.

I compose dialogues and doggerel rhymes. I calculate cube roots. Once not so very long ago I tried to Name All Fifty States. I was not successful. I had to put on the light and reach for a pencil and paper. I wrote them all down alphabetically. I pictured the map in my mind. But over the next two days I could never come up with more than forty-nine.

I began to suspect a conspiracy. Conspiracies do exist. They tell us there are fifty states, but has anyone checked to see? I was ashamed of myself when I figured it out. I'd gone and forgotten Nebraska.

I guess it means something to football fans but it is often overlooked. It just isn't so very arresting. It's the Delaware of the Midwest. But Nebraska will forever have a special place in my heart. I walked just about the length of the state. I enjoyed the time I spent there. The walking was good, the people were kind and the prices were not too too high. And I swear to golly, a good dozen people stepped up to buy me lunch.

Which did even more than lighten my heart. It saved me a great deal of money. And kept me fed and happy and healthy. And made me fond of all things Nebraska. Disparage that great state in my presence and I will give you what for.

Washington, I was already fond of. Montana kicked my ass. I was just a few days in Idaho and but a long afternoon in Wyoming. In South Dakota I stuck to the pretty parts; I can't speak for the rest of the state. But Nebraska is now a part of me and me a part of it. I couldn't be better pleased.

I woke up in Homer and had a nice breakfast. I didn't go overboard. I had woken up several times with a very strong urge to throw up. You cannot, it seems, run a railroad on hotdogs and onion rings. And other things fried and a can of beer and a two- or three-day-old donut. I was fighting back a powerful wooze but I did not want to mess up their park. They had been so kind to let me stay. It would not have been at all proper.

A good hearty breakfast settled me some. I climbed back onto the road. And hiked thirteen miles, almost nonstop, to South Sioux City, Nebraska. North the whole way, you understand. That's just how things worked out.

It had been my intention to rejoin Highway 20 and follow it across the bridge. But at that point it had teamed with an interstate. It wouldn't accomodate me. So I had to keep moving, five miles north to what is known as the Pretty Bridge. It lights itself up blue at night. This afternoon it was just sort of bridge colored.

I had wanted to walk east into Iowa. The Pretty Bridge runs north and south. Before I crossed I stopped to use the mensroom at McDonald's. A fellow gets used to the wilderness life. You can pee anywhere. City walking involves strategy and a lot more self control.

I haven't been in a McDonald's for years. I remembered I quite like their shakes. But they're different now; they're not as good. I ordered a burger, as well. A mushroom Swiss, from their luxury line. Good Jimminy, it was foul. How on earth do they stay in business. They ought to be ashamed of themselves.

I did meet some nice people. Being Nebraskans, they insisted on buying me lunch. I am afraid I repaid them by shocking them speechless by telling them a dirty joke. Sorry. It wasn't obscene, I swear to you, and it illustrated a point. But I too soon forget that not everyone has lived my Godless life.

One fellow there was 88 years old. In 1942 he was ready to get drafted. He thought he should see a bit of America first so he spent thirty dollars on a Model A and drove it to California. I wish I could have heard more about it. It was a bold thing to do. This was, you remember, before decent roads and mechanical reliability.

He worried his mother and when he got home his draft board made him 4f. "We want to win this war," they told him. "Go home. We don't want you."

Or that's how he tells it. He got the last laugh. He's old but still going strong. And has within him that peculiar bug that makes people Walk Across America. And climb high mountains and create art and now and again fall in love.

The wide Missouri is not too too wide at the point where I crossed it. It was a whole lot bigger than it was in Montana. It was wider a few months back. A nice city park on the Iowa side was pretty well wiped out. I crossed through it on my way into town. Some workmen told me to leave. I was just following the sidewalk. It's not my fault I tresspassed on their soggy park. Put up a sign, for Heaven's sake. Some welcome to Iowa.

That bit of Sioux City has little to offer, now that their park is gone. There's what looks like a basketball stadium. The rest is industry. Stinking and decrepit. There are piles of debris and smoke from a rendering plant. The cracked and crumbling concrete streets reminded me of New Delhi.

I had a pretty rough five miles overland to get to the shopping mall. A nice girl at the Ramada Inn gave me fantastic directions. Not many people have that skill. She could see it from my situation. Walking is much different than driving a car. I would have been lost without her.

But even with her good help and her handy map it was not such easy going. Sioux City, Iowa's almost as big as Spokane and it is not designed for walking. You have to get creative in spots and the people in passing cars look at you like you're a weirdo.

I hit the mall and bought shoes in record time. They had an excellent selection. Every brand of hiking boot. I got the best ones I could afford. And if they don't work out they'll be dead in a month. That's just the nature of things. I left my Nebraska boots behind. They had walked as far as they could.

I was all but ready to sleep indoors, but I found again Highway 20. I made it to the edge of town and am camping hobo style. Civilisation surrounds me. They don't know I'm here. I am a man with skills.

It is meant to be another cold night. I am inclined to believe them this time. But I'll survive. I always do. Like the cockroach, only taller.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Day One-Hundred-Twelve, Shrouds

I woke up betimes but did not leave my tent. It was not cowardice; it was calculation. I was sure the sun would come out. It did not. It was another blustery day. I set out in search of breakfast.

Across the Trail I found the Udder Cafe, or Shoppe or Place or something. You'll know it when you see it; it's on Highway 275 and painted to look like a cow. And they put up a fairly impressive breakfast. The people are friendly and kind.

I sat down to a mere breakfast and a half. I was not in a two breakfast mood. I chatted some with Don and Scott, local Republicans. Gosh, but it was cozy in there. I was willing to stay there all day. There were lots of old folks who are always so kind. Friend Scott it seems paid for my breakfast. Thank you, sir.

I quite liked Tilden. I can't say just why. It is just a nice little town. There are maybe a thousand people or so and every one of them was nice to me. And the very next day was the Ribs Festival, a great barbeque in the streets. I imagine there would be beer, as well. I was offered a warm place to stay. But the road, the damnable road, has its first claim on me.

Winter.

I continued on my Cowboy trail. I couldn't say what time it was. My one watch died just east of Wenatchee and the sun was nowhere to be seen. There were roiling black clouds, low to the ground. It kept things pretty dark all day. It was as if it were perpetually seven p.m. and just about to get dark. It is disorientating. I did keep me moving. I was sure it would very soon rain.

It did not. Nor did it snow. I would not have been surprised if it did. There was no smell of snow in the air but it did have a grey snowy feel. What houses I passed had bedsheets and blankets spread over their vegetable gardens. I suppose it is just a matter of time before they place such a shroud over me.

Five miles on I passed Meadow Grove. I couldn't say if I stopped. With all due respect to the good people there, these towns are quite running together. Ah, now I remember, another nice little town, very small indeed. I asked if they had a laudromat. They did not. I moved on.

I am down to my last pair of shorts and the socks that hurt my feet. And, as everything has been damp, there has been a most unpleasant smell. A mustiness, overlayed with ammonia. I am hesitant to claim it as my own. Yet I am sure other people assign it to me. It precedes me wherever I go.

Stinking Across America. Please follow my adventures.

There was a laundromat on the east end of Tilden. I knew I must not stop there. I was in danger of spending the next six months there. It was all so cozy and warm. And I was determined to make it to Norfolk, Nebraska, twenty-two miles away. I'd had a very late start but that mattered not. There was nowhere to rest on the trail. Nowhere out of the wind and cold. There was nothing to do but walk.

You work up a sweat whether it's hot out or not. You have to keep that heat going. If you stop for more than a very few minutes you'll be very cold indeed. You'll get cranky. You'll feel sorry for yourself. You, I mean. Not me.

The Cowboy Trail split wide from the highway and took me to Battle Creek. I was surprised to see it was thriving town of some one-thousand souls. It is well off the road, kind of hidden back there. They don't much seem to mind. They have got a bustling seed corn plant and a brand new library. And a new high school. Folks from Norfolk are moving there to escape from big city life.

I should have stopped and had some lunch. But it was by then four o'clock. And they had fed me so very well in Tilden I didn't need any more. So on I went in the grey and gloom, with twelve more miles to go.

Five miles later my trail died. I guess a bridge was out. They spend a fortune maintaining the thing and I'm the only one who uses it. I found myself on a narrow farm road. I had no idead where I was. The corn was so high beside the road that I could not see anything.

I figured it out. I asked directions. I took good advice from Google. And made it to the edge of Norfolk, where I was detained by the law. Pulled over, rousted, forced to explain. Looked on with broad suspicion. I tell you it is disheartening and no proper welcome to town.

The guy was real nice about it. Someone had called me in. A red raincoat and a yellow hat. It suggest terrorism. Deputy Schmitz, I think he was called. He wore Coke-bottle glasses and a special pin that made him a firearms instructor. He was self-effacing and very polite, like the Canadians you see on TV.

Still, I object. I don't like producing ID. Pedestrianism is not a crime. And I was headed to a motel. Those Law & Order reruns aren't going to watch themselves.

I checked in to the EconoLux some time later. It is nice to be indoors. I enjoyed a three-minute swim in their very small pool and sat a bit in their spa. And had three baths and five showers and spread out my gear to dry. Life's good.

And I took full advantage of their generous Walking Across America discount. Let's give 'em a small plug here. EconoLux. Norfolk, Nebraska. The finest hotel in the world.
Goodnight.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Day One-Hundred-Eleven, Misery

I am hauling ass across Nebraska. I am tearing up the roads. Winter has inspired me and made me fleet of foot. I might wish I'd put in more miles when the weather was warm, but I did do the best that I could. I can honestly say I walked as far as I could on every day of this trip.

Some days I did not walk a step. That was the best I could do. I may have been sidelined by injury or suffered a weakness of sorts. Of muscle, perhaps, or even of spirit. Perhaps of character. I am not a very active person. I'm not cut out for this sort of thing. I'd rather quit than do anything hard. I am lucky that some things come easy.

Not Life by any reasonable stretch. But I am doing the best that I can. And I've never thought about giving up. I am going to live forever.

That is if I don't freeze to death or die of pneumonia. Already I'm fighting a case of the snoofles. I blew my nose three times today. You try doing that with a long shaggy beard. It tests your dignity. Yet still I persist in looking good. But only through shear force of effort.

Today began as yesterday ended. It was bitter cold. Here's an idea for young engineers: heated tentpoles. From the nation that brought you aerosol cheese, that should be nothing at all. And very much appreciated. Damn those things get cold.

I was up before the dawn at six. I packed up a soggy tent. And a cold one, as well. Striking camp today was a very unhappy process. Rumor said it would warm up some. The rumors in this case were wrong. It was every bit as cold as the day before. Damn the weatherman.

But I was buoyed by an unwonted optimism. I was sure things would get better soon. There was a glorious sunrise, the first I've seen on this trip. All it wanted was warmth. On brittle toes I reached the local cafe and ordered myself two breakfasts.

Not by way of experiment. I wanted two breakfasts. I was not trying to impress anyone. And as it remained cold and overcast I called for a piece of pie. Sour cream and raisin, if you're keeping track. It was a bit sweet for me. I'd hate to think I am losing my taste for the finer things, ice cream and pie and such. As soon as I find a Meaning of Life it as quickly fades away.

Know that it was nothing less than heroism that got me back on the cowboy trail. A lesser man, a brighter man, would have given up there and then. But I plodded on in the blustery cold. I did not feel sorry for myself. I thought only of other people, and how they should be feeling sorry for me.

Nine or ten miles took me to Neiligh (pronounced Neely), population I don't just now care. A goodish town of some very few thousands. It took me broadly off my trail. I hit the library and tried to get warm but the cold was too deep by then. I don't think I'll ever be warm again. I have suffered a frost burned soul.

I monkeyed around with their computer a bit and added a few points to my long neglected route map. That I cannot maintain from the road. It will have to wait until the end of my trip. If anyone's still interested at that point. My interest will then be fading.

There is a motel in Neiligh, Nebraska. Hell, there are two of them. And yet I made the bold decision to continue walking on. After which it started to rain.

Not so hard. Just enough to lubricate the cold in the air. To allow it to thrust deeply within me. To make me its prison whore. I would apologise for that metaphor if I could describe the experience any other way. I walked on.

Past Oakdale, Nebraska. I did not bother to stop. It was some hundred yards out of my way and I was in no mood for company. I popped into a gas station for a half gallon of Gatorade. I chatted with the man at the till. He is originally from Newark, New Jersey. His life had taken some turns. Something of a wanderer himself, he's been stuck in Nebraska for seventeen years.

"Do you like it here?" I asked.
"No," he said. I noted his eloquence.

Raining harder now, I walked on. I made it to Tilden by dark. Tilden has maybe a thousand people and looks down on Oakdale. Though it gives them a grudging respect for having invented the toothbrush.

"If it had been invented anywhere else we would call it the teethbrush."

Fair enough. I was in the saloon for some root beer and fellowship. The long bar was divided more or less in two with a good wide gap in the middle. At one end sat the young men of the town. At the other sat the old farts. I pushed in amongst the farts, good-hearted gentlemen all.

I learned about Viet Nam and North Omaha and other such dangerous places. And shared theories about Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon and Bob Barker to boot. It seems L. Ron Hubbard was born in Tilden, quite by mistake, it seems. But Scientologists offered a million dollars to build to him there a shrine. It would bring jobs, increase tourism. The town fathers told them to piss off. They've got little use for "Moonies."

You don't hear much about the Moonies any more. I hope they're alright.

When I left the saloon it was really raining. Buckets. Cats. Dogs. On my way to the park I was stopped by the sheriff. "You must be Bobby," I said. In these small towns we all get to know each other. We're a big happy family.

Bobby's a big boy with a broad nose and an authoritative dent in his forehead. I don't doubt he made Tilden proud on the football field. That's important in these parts. But now he's gone on to serve and protect. Bless him, he was not rousting me. He thought I looked cold and wet and lost. Not in my town, said he.

I refused his offer of a ride as cheating, so he rolled next to me at three miles an hour to the football field, unlocked the mensroom and kept his high beams on me for five minutes while I put up my tent. Polite, honest, friendly and helpful, I hope he runs for governor one day. I will drop whatever I'm doing to work on his campaign.

But even with the full force of the law behind me, my tent filled with buckets of water. I sopped it up as best I could. Life's not so great right now. Cold, cold, damn the cold and all the bad decisions which led me to this point in my life. Goodnight.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

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.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

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.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Day Ninety-Nine, Brrrrr

At some point in the very wee hours the wind started blowing. Hard. Enough to threaten my poor little tent. Enough to trouble my sleep. It was not raining. There was no storm. It was just a good healthy wind. It had me pinned down. My bodyweight was the only thing saving my gear.

But I was, again, in a city park. I wanted to be up and out early. I pictured old men feeding pigeons and kids flying kites. A hobo might give them the creeps. You have to think about other people if you look anything like me. Look at the Sasquatch; he keeps to himself. It is simple consideration.

I stayed in bed and listened for sirens. At seven I finally unzipped. It took a good effort, I promise you, but I finally got everything packed. I still had all of the park to myself. The kids were in their storm cellars. As were the old men and likely the pigeons and anyone with any sense.

There was a man across the way, struggling with his own tent. I recognised it as the luxury version of mine, designed to endure higher winds. But that doesn't make it any easier to take down. I thought I'd offer my sympathy. Or even my help, if it came to that, though one does so hate to meddle.

He seemed to have it under control. He was Wayne from Sioux City, Iowa. After many long years as a cyclist he had upgraded to a smart BMW. Which is probably why he was nice to me. Cyclists can be somewhat unpleasant. We chatted a bit about life on the road. It is nice to meet people who understand.

Then it was off to the local cafe for a big plate of biscuits and gravy. That's my go-to meal but more often than not it tastes like classroom paste. But this man was a wizard; good gosh, it was good. A very pleasant start to my day. And noticably cheaper, thank goodness for that. Civilisation does have its advantages.

So I was fairly cheerful when I started walking. The wind had not yet died down. But I had a full belly and a good outlook. It was not hot at all. It was a fairly easy twelve miles to the next town down the road. Rushville, Nebraska, it called itself. Today they were having a parade.

For which I arrived two hours too late. Too bad; I rather like parades. One day I'll be honored with ticker tape. I can hardly wait. But today all I saw were a few heaps of litter. The marching bands had all gone home. A trailer marked "Shriners" passed me on the highway but there was nary a clown.

It has become quite fashionable in recent years to proclaim a hatred or even a fear of clowns. Let it be known that I hated and feared clowns before it was cool. I did, nevertheless, once want to become one. Self-loathing takes many forms.

There was in the park a classic car show. It was a thinnish collection. I love cars but nothing there much moved me. There was a pretty Corvette. But it was all of three years old. The second best was a Ford pickup. Maybe a '74. There were some older cars but my own neglected heap is better than most of them.

They did have a BBQ up and running but I moved on into town. Where a grumpy fat man served me a burger. It was good but not dramatically so. It was, however, noticably cheaper than similar fare up the road. I do like Nebraska prices.

I had about had it with Rushville. I never did get my computer charged. I was ready to leave. The town seemed to have peaked in 1935. What residents remained were off watching football, a game that bores me goofy. But it's huge here, even high school games. And the Corn Huskers started their season today. I guess that's why they had a parade.

[This is to replace a paragraph in which I explained, with some passion, why football is a stupid sport. But I am vulnerable out here and cannot afford to offend anyone. Especially the kind of idiot that likes football.]

On my way out of town I popped in at the Rushville Historical Museum. I enjoyed talking to the gentlemen there, but the story of the town itself is one of sad decline. The gentlemen rather seemed to know it.

Still leaving town I hit the grocery store to stock up on weeners and buns. And deodorant which I forgot to buy. I nice old man did give me money. I don't know how old. Very, I'd guess. But I do know he was nice. And he thought Walking Across America was a good idea and wanted to help out. I am moved by his support.

Not just the cash, you understand; though believe me, it really helps. It is just nice to meet folks from time to time who don't think I am an idiot. I am not an idiot, you know. Insofar as these things can be measured, I am actually fairly bright. I just do stupid things.

With alarming consistency.

From there it was another ten miles up the road. That's about the extent of my day. The weather was good and I was strong. I could have done five more miles. But those extra miles add up over days. They make my feet feel trod upon. And weaken my arms and puts kinks in my spine. This is a long-term project.

Find me now camped just off the road, five miles outside of Gordon, Nebraska. I am wearing my thermals and wrapped in my bag. The temperature is in the thirties. For our international friends, that's like 4-degrees Kelvin.


THE HORSES in Nebraska have so far been as encouraging as the cows. I thought horses were uppity creatures but in fact they are very nice. Montana horses are uppity. Washington horses are downright snotty. But Nebraska horses are very nice.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4