Day Two-Hundred-Thirteen, Homecoming

Find me in my tent some small distance east of Crestview, Florida.  In amongst the pines and palmettos.  The Panhandle's made of sand.  It smells like springtime.  It smells like Japan.  It's raining and my windows are open.

I did not leave the Knightens' until two o'clock.  It may well have been two-thirty.  Before I found the courage to strap on my pack and head back out on the road.  And to say my goodbyes.  That's never fun.  I kept it as brief as I could.  I am in their debt.  They must realise that.  I'll get them back one of these days.

I am not sure the long rest did me much good.  The bones in my feet are all crunchy.  I probably gained eight or ten pounds.  I never did get much sleep.  But that will all take care of itself.  I am happy to be walking again.  I haven't got far yet to go.  Florida is much bigger than it looks on a map, but it does not intimidate me.

I will lighten my pack when I turn right and start heading south again.  I am carrying an extra five or more pounds of wooly cold weather gear.  I've been winter camping since I hit Iowa.  It is nice to be warm once again.  There will be one or two more cold days, but nothing like I faced before.  It's a stroll from here.  Alligators be damned.  Let them be afraid of me.

It is, as I said, raining some now.  It is meant to rain hard all night long.  But I'll be dry enough, if not perfectly so.  It ought to clear up in the morning.  The weather here is Hobbity.  It is always fairly humid.  There are eerie fogs and violent rains.  It is warm overall.  Magical, if it pleases you.  An odd kind of paradise.

I'll be less generous when I get rained on.  My opinions can change.  It is storming abroad but I'm warm in my tent.  It nice to be home again.  It might smell like tom cat but I don't mind.  Home is a matter of heart.

Tomorrow I'll put in an honest day.  I've got Christmas cookies to chew on.  And a penguin mascot and half a ton of the very finest fruit cake.  I don't know what to expect from the road before me.  I did glance at the map some time back.  But it doesn't matter.  I'm headed east.  Sooner or later I'll stop.

Goodnight, everyone.  Dream well.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Seven, Riding a Buck

My tent was on top of one high bank where the road had been cut through a hill. I was on the edge of a clover field. There was a golf course across the way. The grass was cut short all around me. I had a fine view of the sky. In between rains I'd poke my head out and commune a bit with the stars.

It was a very warm night by recent standards. The moon was all but full. And I had that odd sort of energy that comes from too many Pepsis. In fact I had some trouble falling asleep. The traffic was fairly loud. And amplified by the walls of my hill. I was nonetheless up by six.

Six. I worry about myself. The sun was nowhere to be seen. But it was warm and the rain had stopped. I stared a bit more at the stars. And a fog came rolling up the hill, faster than I can walk. A Dickensian fog, most impressive. You couldn't see thirty feet.

It was neat but impractical. It would not let me dry my tent. And made me just a tiny bit nervous about heading back down to the road. The human reaction to a very thick fog is to drive as fast as you can. To lessen the time it takes you to get to a place where you can see.

I am now on Highway 63, really a pretty good road. I am all but ready to retract my remarks about highways in Missouri. The shoulder is wide and beautifully paved. I did not walk very far. At the top of the next hill half a mile away I found a BP station.

With tables in back where the locals gather to have their morning coffee. They were all very nice to me. They're getting harder to understand. I ain't exactly in Dixie yet but I am noticing a shift in accent. One old man told me that when I get done I really should "ride a buck." I thought it was some sort of hillbilly slang. I was ready to be offended. I made him repeat it, to see if he dared. Write a book, he meant.

I don't know much about book-writin'. It looks hard.

It is pretty here, rolling hills; they cut the grass short by the road. The fog steamed off and left a beautiful day. I jogged on to Queen City, Missouri. And had the meatloaf special at the diner/grocery store. There I met the sheriff. He was twice my size and carried gag handcuffs. And an enormous pistol. He was introduced by a crazy woman who did not seem so crazy at all. She was awfully friendly. That is bound to make you an object of suspicion.

I had now enjoyed two long breaks but it was early yet. I walked on past Greentop, a very small town, and Sublette, which I didn't notice. The plan was to stop on the edge of Kirksville. Plans can come undone.

On the edge of that town I found a fine spot. But the sun was still high in the sky. A little ambition is good, they say. I thought I'd put in another five miles.

But I misunderestimated Kirksville, Missouri. It's a metropolis. Seventeen-thousand people; it doesn't sound like much, but I tell you it went on for miles. And miles and miles and soon it was dark. My eyes aren't what they once were. Images blur in my little computer and I cannot see well in the dark.

I tried to walk where the headlights weren't. I thought for sure I'd be squished. My glow-in-the-dark hat has passed its half-life. Eventually I found a sidewalk.

I quite like sidewalks but not this time. Kirksville was refusing to end. I just wanted to get back out in the country and find a place for my tent. I thought the moon might do me some good. Last night it was plenty bright. But here it was obscured by clouds. There was lightning on the horizon.

I did see a few possible spots, behind some boarded up businesses. But my hobo sense warned me off. It may have been cowardice. But hobo skills are as much about instinct as they are about being bold. Something about the scene warned me off. I decided to give it a pass.

So, forgive me, I am in a motel. And barely three days stinky. And so blasted sore and road weary it will be a trick to start walking again. There is a bathtub but I was too tired to soak. It's a damnable waste of money. Goodnight.

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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-Thirteen, Tonight

I woke up at seven o'clock, remarkable for a motel. I did not get to sleep until two or three. Again, that's fairly early. I could have done with more sleep, but that's how it goes. I'll make up for it tonight.

I availed myself of the free continental breakfast. Of that I have little to say. They were very kind to me at the EconoLux. It's the finest hotel in the world. But I feel for those folks on the continent. They really don't eat so well.

Even with my quick start I was in my room until a minute past checkout time. I couldn't help it. It was so warm in there. I could not tear myself away. I was on my bed watching the Weather Channel, entertaining dark thoughts. The sunshine they've been promising me for days did not appear on their radar.

It was foggy outside and threatening rain. It remained that way all day. No doubt the black clouds were up there somewhere, hovering just out of sight. It was not too too cold but it was windy. I walked over to the mall.

Norfolk, Nebraska is a goodish town, home to twenty-four thousand people. Which is, comparatively speaking, a metropolis and the biggest town I've been in for months. In the small towns they're inclined to welcome me, as a curiosity if nothing else. In Norfork I felt a little bit silly walking around with my pack. And my baggy clothes and my safety hat and my own version of a beard. Children stopped and stared open mouthed until their mothers hustled them away.

I felt sillier still in a shopping mall. Malls have their own set of rules. People dress up to go shopping, whether they admit it or not. What's worse is that though I was thoroughly bathed, I was wearing my same stinky clothes. Anyone wondering if I was a hobo need only have taken a whiff.

It is a small mall. I went to every shoe store, then every shoe store in town. No joy. The shoes I am wearing are melting right off my feet. They are not paining me or upsetting my stride, but I fear they may be on the verge of what the engineers call a Catastrophic Failure.

Duck tape. Duct tape. Zip ties and paste. Spit and baling wire. I'll MacGyver 'em if I have to. I'm going to be just fine.

I very much hate shopping for shoes. I know some people think it is fun. Women, I believe they are called. They're awful pretty but still. I can easily think of three or four things that I would rather do. Not least because new shoes bring with them a new hundred miles of pain. And they cost a lot more than anything should that wears out after a month.

Giving up on shoes I hiked to the laudromat. It is nice to have clean clothes. And it was warm in there. There were little kids zooming around on the carts. I have very faint memories of being bored out of my skull at laundromats. They are no place for children. But I've got to say I quite like them now. They're warm. There are chairs. It is soothing. And you meet the nicest folks, often a segment of the population you will not see anywhere else.

By then I figured it was time to eat. I popped into a bar for a burger. And thirteen Cokes, more out of habit than in any reflection of thirst. Nebraska was playing the Washington Huskies in some sort of football game. It is huge around here; everyone on the street wears red in support of their team. I actually attended the University of Washington. I didn't give a rat's ass who won.

Though now I hope that it was the Washington Huskies. Football fans give me the creeps. It is an asinine game, too slow of pace, that glorifies man at his worst. Baseball may be every bit as dull, but at least it is gentlemanly.

Then it was time to get out of Dodge. It was by then four p.m. If I'd stuck around a minute longer I knew I'd be back in the motel. I just can't afford it, money or time. I only wish that I could. I'll spent my last and best years watching TV with a banjo in my lap.

I headed up 275 in the cold and the fog and the wind and the dark. For no good Christian reason it had gone to four lanes, with no shoulder at all. That meant I had to walk in the grass with the prickle burrs and the snakes. The latter of which are frozen stiff, but they crunch unpleasantly under foot.

I crossed a river and the landscape changed. There were all at once hills and trees. That always makes me a little uneasy. I get used to things as they are. And I lose my rhythm in these big cities. I was sure I'd find no place to camp.

And the fog was getting thicker. It was getting dark. To the side I saw a sign, ROAD CLOSED. Some unpaved farm road, off into the trees. It should have said, JAMES! CAMP HERE!

So I did. It was only after I got my tent up that I realised it was just 5:30. Oops. I could have walked another ten miles. But it is raining now and I'm snug and well-fed. We'll worry about walking tomorrow.

NORFOLK is pronounced "Norfork" by old-timers, "Norfolk" by the newer breed. I was for a long time uncertain which one was correct. I was reluctant to pronounce it at all. I would call it "Uh, you know, that town up the road" or contract it into something like "Norf'uck". Which was embarrassing for everyone. Nobody knows how I suffer.

I PASSED a farmers' market, on the way to the mall and bought some fancy bread. And some zucchini bread from a very old woman. She was charging two dollars a loaf. It has to cost her twice that much to bake it and bring it to town. Damn it's good. I should have bought more, but I did not want to bankrupt the gal.

JOHNNY CARSON grew up here. He is still highly regarded. For our international friends, he is like our Winston Churchill.

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