Day Two-Hundred-Fourteen, Chautauqua

Defuniak Springs, Florida was founded as a resort town.  People came from all over to attend lectures and swim in their little pond.  They don't come much now but it's holding up.  I am camped in the center of town.  Or not too far off.  Hobo style.  Nobody knows that I'm here.

That took some doing but I've got skills.  I'm awfully glad that I do.  I was afraid I might get stuck in a motel.  I hadn't meant to come quite this far.  There is not always room for my tent in a city.  Indoor living takes cash.  I'm only two days stinky.  I want to really get ripe before I spring for a shower.

I walked almost two dozen miles today.  I do not know what I was thinking.  I've been too long off the road.  I'm in no kind of shape.  I'm going to be sore tomorrow.

Hell, I'm sore now.  If that's okay.  I'm hesitant to mention these things.  You want Beauty and Magic, a new sense of God, from your walker across America.  It's a Spiritual Journey, you want me to say.  You don't want to hear about pooping.  Or blisters or Samsung or my odd aches and pains.  Tell us more about the sunsets.

There are sunsets, sure.  You have them where you are.  And I've gained an insight or two.  But I was not entirely thoughtless or vapid when I was living at home.

What makes this unique is the blisters, the bone-crushing pain in my feet.  The not knowing where I'll find my next food or water or where I will set up my tent.  The rest is a scenic holiday.  I've met some awful nice folks.  What wisdom I've gained is of no use to you.  Conjure your own philosophies.

That said, I did have a very nice day.  I was in pain most of the time.  My feet hurt like they did in the days before my arch supports.  I'm hesitant to mention them, as well.  They sound like an old man thing.  But they were for many thousands of miles the very saving of me.  Maybe they've worn out.  Or maybe I have.  Podiatry is a black art.

I was up early in a very nice spot.  I got a solid nine hours.  Or think I did.  I don't remember a thing from the time my head hit the pillow.  Or the balled up sweatshirt that takes its place.  I'm roughing it out here.

I had cookies for breakfast and again for lunch.  I'm afraid they are almost gone.  I'm chewing on a fruit cake now.  I wish every day were Christmas.

I walked in the ditch most of the day.  It was a nice ditch as ditches go.  The grass was short and the ground was smooth.  It kept me off of the highway.  Which has a nice shoulder but I was not in the mood to keep an eye out for traffic.  Sometimes it is nice just to walk without worrying about being murdered.

I must say they went quickly, these many long miles.  It is nice to be walking again.  There were low purple clouds.  The trees around here are covered with hanging moss.  The breeze blows warm and cold.  The sun came and went.  I did not put on my warm shirt.  I didn't want to get it all sweaty.  I knew I would need it tonight.

It is down in the thirties again.  Life ain't all sunshine and daisies.  But I am snug in my teddy bear pants.  I'm glad I did not send them home.  I've got a few more miles before I'm in the Florida that you like to see on TV.  The one with the palm trees and the bikini girls.  The one where the weather is fine.

There is a beach here.  The whole state is beach.  Florida is made out of sand.  So is Nebraska if you're keeping track, at least when you get up north.  It has made my tent just a little bit gritty.  I'm feeling it in my teeth.  But such is life, such is life.  I cannot complain.  It's the price I pay for adventure.

"DIBBITY dibbity dibbity-dibbity Pensacola.  Dibbity dibbity dibbity-dibbity eighty-two years old!"  -- spoken by a very old man at a gas station in a strong Florida accent.

CHEERS TO Miss Deborah who made my lunch.  She is a grandmother.  And younger than me and much better looking.  She got a running start.

"You must have broken some hearts," she told me.  I don't think I have.  If I did, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to.  If it helps, I'm lonesome as hell.

SOMEWHERE in these woods live the "goatf***ers."  There's a whole tribe of them.  They keep getting themselves hauled into court for loving their goats too much.  As long as it's consensual, I offered.  I have libertarian views.  No, I was told.  There was psychic damage.  "They really messed those goats up."

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Day One-Hundred-Ninety-Six, Florida!

Genius.  There's no better way to describe it.  I'm at a new level of hobo skills.  A flat patch of ground, thick in the city.  Invisible even from space.  Under a warming streetlight, no less.  I ought to get a prize.  Or a gold-plated medal.  Or a certified check.  I ought to teach a class.  For new hobos just starting out.  I could build a cabin up here.

Sure I drew blood climbing in.  I don't know how I'll get out.  And traffic is loud.  I'm overlooking a freeway but that only makes it better.  Thousands of people driving by without the first clue that I'm here.

Genius.

Yet, as too often happens these days, I did not get much walking in.  It would be tempting, and not unjust, to blame the Samsung corp.  They conspire against me.  They blister my feet.  They give me indigestion.  They make me spend too much money on pie.  They cover my tent with ice.

I know our men had it rough at Valley Forge.  Winters in Korea were no fun.  But those were brave soldiers; I'm a poet at heart.  I'm not cut out for discomfort.  I was meant to winter in front of a fire, sipping cocoa and warming my toes.

I got plenty wet walking back to the road.  I had to walk through some very tall grass.  Which was wet with melted frost and alive with crocodiles.  And far ain'ts and pythons and possums and such.  I did not pick my way through.  I ran across as fast as I could and wound up soaked to the shorts.

But remained cheerful.  I generate heat.  I am a passionate man.  My shorts were dry by the time I got to the State Line gas station.  Three or four miles up the road.  I was glad it was there.  But not very.  I'd have preferred a cafe.  I was in no mood for heat-lamp biscuits.

Happy Day.  I'll tell you a secret about the State Line. They cook up real food there.

"This is Alabama," they explained.  They try to keep their men fed. 

I had the best breakfast I've had in months.  It was better than Waffle House.  Or as good, at any rate, and a very nice surprise.  The eggs were great.  I think they squeeze them from chickens of their very own.  The nice lady there called everyone Honey.  She called me Sweet Pea.

Which was all I want from my breakfast place.  There were lots of nice people to talk to.  A few too many perhaps.  My chief ambition in loitering there was to type yesterday's report.  I didn't get it done until noon or so, only a half a day late.

The State Line is not on the state line.  I had a couple miles to go.  Down and across a river or two, on this same narrow road.  I stopped when I got to the Florida sign.  It's my custom to take a photograph.  Idaho.  Montana.  Wyoming.  South Dakota.  Nebraska.  Iowa.  Missouri.  Illinois.  Kentucky.  Tennessee.  Mississippi and Alabama.  I got 'em all.  But not Florida. 

Because Samsung sucks.

Worse yet, and it is hard not to blame them for this, I had forgotten my charger.  Plugged into a wall is about the only way I can make my computer work these days.  So it was back up the hill to the State Line.  I took my old seat and ordered lunch.

Chicken pot pie.  It was OK.  It wasn't as good as breakfast.  And the good ladies there had sent my charger ahead.  A man was meant to find me on the road.  He didn't, though.  Now I need a new one.  They'll probably want fifty bucks.

It was a nice gesture.  Everyone meant well.  He must have missed me when I stopped to pee.  It is my usual practice to get well off the road.  I don't want to frighten the ladies.  Or hurt the fellows' self-esteem.  So much for my good intentions.  Now I've got to find a Verizon shop.  Won't they be happy to see me.

The whole misadventue cost me time.  I left the State Line again at two-thirty.  More or less resigned to getting stuck in another motel.  Which made this spot a special blessing.  I found it in the dark.  And saved myself forty bucks and a sleepless night.  So what if it's just a bit cold. 

I'm in Florida now.  Break out your map.  I walked here from Washington State.  That's an impressive hike.  The rest is pudding.  I have conquered the United States.

WOULDN'T IT BE ironic if I were eaten by an alligator.  Half the people I talk to think I will be.  I understand.  They are projecting their own fears.  It is mere coincidence that they always seem to line up so well with mine.

I WISH Phil Spector had put out two Christmas albums.  Seriously.  I can't get enough.

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Day One-Hundred-Eighty-Eight, Bre'er James

Where to camp.  Before I left home, that was my chief cause of stress.  And remains so, especially now that it gets dark quickly and soon.  But it is too some of the best fun I have, now that I've got hobo skills.  It's a point of pride the clever places I've found to put up my tent.

Find me now in a briar patch.  Sometimes I outthink myself.  But it was getting dark and I am very close to Mobile, Alabama.  In fact it was dark when I got up my tent.  I had some yard work to do.  Clearing a four-by-seven foot patch with an off-brand multi-tool.

The pliers work best.  They don't do all the work.  I'm fairly riddled with thorns.  And I am going to have the damnedest time getting back to the road.

I always do.  I always forget how I got in there in the first place.  Short-term memory loss, they call it.  I don't care; I've got my wits.  I'll figure it out.  I'm not new at this.  I've camped in briar patches before.

It is supposed to be some degrees warmer tonight.  Between you and me, I'm not feeling it.  If anything, I'd say it was colder.  Confound these winter gods.  They won't be happy until my throat is all scritchy and my beard is matted with snot.

I had some trouble falling asleep last night.  It was less the cold than the pain.  Life in a tent is no feather bed at even the best of times.  But I had been walking all day with a limp.  That will send the whole system askew.  New muscles kick in to compensate.  I was feeling it as far north as my shoulders.  Which just as quickly infected my neck.  Which soon enough addled my brain.

Everything works when everything works.  I am but one vast machine.  With clockwork gears and valves and pistons, to extend a metaphor too far.  But I was better today.  I'm running like a top.  More or less.  It could have been worse.

I was slowish getting back on the road.  I was not sure I'd get fed.  So I set off expecting the worst and got a bit better than that.  I found Dottie's Country Store in Gulf Crest, a town they leave off most maps.  But they took me in and filled me with coffee and cellophane donuts and chat.

Dottie's the boss.  She's been married to Harvey for pert-near 46 years.  And God bless her for it; he's an ornery old cuss.  He was very kind to me.  They let me sit in and talk at them for almost two hours.  I met their regular customers and Daisy, their silly little dog.  Four-and-a-half pounds of viciousness that is hard to take seriously.

You can be cute or you can be tough.  Few of us manage both.  I am but a rare exception, in this and other things.

Dottie has gone and got herself robbed.  They shot her poor son in the face.  Without any permanent damage.  It did derail his life.  He quit drinking and fighting and settled down.  He gave over his life to the Lord.  He took it as a sort of a sign.  I can see how you might.

If someone shot me in the face I know what I'd do.  I'd scream like a little girl.

When I left they loaded me down with pecans.  Dottie shells them herself.  I don't know that I've ever been any place where you can pull nuts right off trees.  Thailand, I guess, and California.  Parts of Oregon, maybe.  Still, I really like the concept.  I want my own pecan tree.

Pecan pie, by the way, can be very good, but don't think it's some ancient tradition.  It was invented not too awfully long ago as a scheme to sell more Karo syrup.  Stand informed.

I left Dottie's in a jolly mood.  I tell you, I am easy to manage.  All you've got to do is be nice to me and I can do anything.  Be mean and I will squish you like a bug.  By God I will. 

But as for Walking Across America, a little kindness goes an awfully long way.  One random stranger wishing me luck and I'll be lucky all day.  I took off like rocket.  Lucky I did.  It was a fairly hard walk.  I have been on Highway 45 for weeks, in all of its iterations.  From four-lane divided to country road.  It is narrow here.  But heavily travelled.  There's no shoulder to speak of.  I spent much of my time in the ditch.  Which means I have to step higher and cross rougher ground.  And keep my eyes wide open.

I lunched at Cheapo's in Chunchula.  At least I think that's what it's called.  I am in no position to look it up.  Because Samsung sucks.

Burger again.  I swear I've lost the taste.  I did manage to get fed.  And they were all very nice to me.  They gave me the last piece of peach cobbler.  Someone had boxed it up.  To take home after work, one supposes.  I'm sorry; I needed it more.  It is cake and pie and Love which sustains me.  I need all I can get.

I hammered out another six or seven miles.  I'm sure walking strong these days.  I've got aches and pains.  One bad toe.  My backpack is killing me.  I guess the point is I'm used to it.  And the sun shines.  The Gulf Coast is less than ten miles off.  Which means that in the most generous terms, I have Walked Across America.

Now it's your turn.

BRRR.

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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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