Day Eighty-Seven, Recumbo

I was up at six, as has become my habit. I had not been asleep long. Three, four hours, not one minute more. Far less than is decent or correct.

I had the damnedest time falling asleep. I had been too long on the road. And I was especially cheered by my victory over the once great state of Montana. And the weather was fine, in spite of the storm. It was a balmy sixty-five degrees. It has been so cold at night of late that I thought winter had already come.

The storm only briefly threatened to kill me. The winds were hard on my tent. But the lightning was never too near too long and a little rain never hurt anyone. I have been through proper monsoons, I tell you. I have seen it raining frogs.

When my rainstorm ended I sat outside my tent, staring up at the stars. It is something I don't do often enough. They're awfully pretty these days. And there was lightning on every horizon, sheets that lit up the sky. And bolts like you would see in a time lapse photo, but happening in real time. There was no thunder that I could hear. It looked like Alzada was getting hammered.

To the southeast was the town of Belle Fourche. You could see it ten miles away. A searchlight somewhere was sweeping the sky. I thought about walking again. But a little sleep now and then in good for a boy. I finally turned in around three.

In the morning I was not at all well. My every muscles was tired. Not sore but worn out and my feet hurt a bit. I had come by it honestly. I had damaged one blister leaping over the fence. The rest was good wholesome ache.

There were antelope grazing not too far off. I was afraid there would be cows. They love me, you know; they'd be all over me like so many puppy dogs. I just did not have the time. The weather report got another one right. It was in the high nineties today.

Back on the road I had no strength at all. I found a tree after three miles. I breakfasted on weeners and sardines and the last of my hsmburger buns. And half a gallon of Gatorade that I had been saving for a special occasion. A trainload of kitty litter rumbled by. It seemed to be struggling some.

I took some convincing to get moving again. It was too hot to go or stay. And I had to climb a steep hill to the road. It took almost all that I had. But soon I ran into a friendly cyclist. There are one or two, it seems.

His name is Lee. He began in Alaska. He is on his way to New York. Or Chicago. Or Miami. Or Mexico. He has time to make up his mind. He rides sixty or seventy miles a day. That ain't too too awfully bad. He travels light; he's only got one shirt and seems to live exclusively on carbs. Wiry fellow, and tall, tall. He had a spectacular nose.

He is from California but grew up in New Zealand. His accent comes directly from there. And he is not your typical cyclist. He rides a recumbant bike. With a chair for a seat and his legs out in front and his handlebars somewhere beneath him. And he actually slowed to talk to me. Not typical at all.

I sped to a four or five mile pace. He slowed as much as he could. I talked; he listened; he talked a bit too. We practically flew into town. It was a long hot stretch I was rather dreading. I did it in record time.

He didn't, of course; it was good of him. He is an intersting guy. And a Bolshevik, just like me. We Bolsheviks get lonesome sometimes. On the edge of town we found a spot in the shade and sat there for too long a time. It was nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands.

As it was, we rather cheated ourselves. We were huddled behind a gas station. Turns out Belle Fourche has a couple nice parks. There were much better places to sit. He did let me ride his bicycle. That was nice of him. It was remarkable comfortable, but scary to stop or turn.

I am afraid I wasted too much of the day, but I did enjoy our talk. When we parted ways I found a coin laundry and spent three more hours there. I was getting a little stinky in my old age, and my last shirt had gritted up some. And my computer was woefully undercharged. These are things that need to be seen to.

I did meet a nice biker from California and Kentucky, and everywhere in between. He retired from his job making quarters for the mint, but was a little too young for just fishing. So he rides around with his grey ponytail. He reminded me of Tommy Chong.

I didn't get moving until six o'clock. I still hadn't had a proper meal. But I decided to skip it and save the expense. Good food does not grow on trees. And I am sorely in need of shoes. I'll eat when I get hold of them.

I haven't had much appetite lately. That's one way to save a buck. I can lose another ten pounds without looking ill, maybe twenty without getting sick. I am still dropping maybe two pounds a week. Maybe I'll try three or four.

I did suffer a minor disaster leaving Belle Fourche. It came on all of a sudden. I was struck by the symptoms of what on the Subcontinent I called maharaja's revenge. I won't trouble you with all the details. Just know it could have been ugly. And a crying waste of the five dollars it cost me to wash my clothes.

I can't say I've yet fully recovered. Tomorrow I'll get some pills. I haven't been poisoned; it's the water round here. It's a mineral thing. On a brighter note, I think I have found another use for bentonite. Keeps a fellow regular, it do.

Explosively so.

I wasn't sure I was going to find anywhere to camp. Belle Fourche rather spreads out some. And Spearfish is a dozen miles over the hill. Their suburbs meet in the middle. In the end I found a great spot. Someone has camped here before.


BELLE FOURCHE is pronounced "Bell Foosh", which is French for "beautiful foosh." Explanations have been offered, but I am still not sure what a "foosh" is. I'm not sure I want to know. Recall that it was the French who named the Grand Tetons, or "Big Tits". To my more sensitive readers, I apologise. I merely aim to inform.

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Day Eighty-Six, Wyoming! South Dakota!

It took me two months to cross Montana. I've picked up the pace a bit since. I was in and out of Wyoming in a long afternoon. Find me now camped in South Dakota. That's the Midwest, to anyone keeping track. The West itself has been won.

Mastered. Conquered. Chastened. Crushed. Seized and brought sharply to heel. I've tamed it. I broke it. I have made it my own, to do with whatsoever I please. I crossed Montana from corner to corner. I think that gives me fair claim. I may go so far as to rename the state. I am thinking of calling it James.

I woke up early. I do that these days. I hadn't slept well at all. The ground was too flat. It had me confused. It's the lumps, you see, that define me. And as I was camped behind a truck stop, there was a great deal of noise. Passing trucks don't bother me much. I've slept on the railroad tracks. But a reefer just putt-putt-putting all night can really get on your nerves.

They sell little generators to keep a truck's systems running all night without running the engine. They cost more than ten-thousand dollars. A driver I met was bragging about his. He said it would pay for itself inside a year with reduced fuel costs. Makes sense to me. It is one of those things like an investment in infrasructure or a university education. My years in college have yet been a net loss, but I am the oddest exception.

I sat next to the Alvada coffee klatch and wolfed down some biscuits and gravy. It was all a bit pasty but I didn't mind. It's the paste that sticks it to your ribs. And the coffee was good and I enjoyed eavesdropping on the ranchers' conversation. They spoke of tractors and truck parts and hay. They all wore the right kind of hats. I knew most of them from the day before. It is a very small town.

I am not, though, in love with Alvada, Montana. I was primed to leave town. But I wanted to gas up my little computer for another few days on the road. And it said it would be in the nineties today. That turned out to be a lie. But it too much recalled that unhappy stretch that brought me from Billings to Hardin.

I had a very strong sense that today would be awful. I get that from time to time. Or more often than not. My pack would be heavy and some days the walking is hard. But I was back on the road by nine-thirty or ten. It really could have been worse.

It wasn't ninety or ninety-five. It was a cool eighty or so. And there was enough of a headwind to keep me refreshed without threatening to knock me down. And there were no tempting trees to rest under, just miles of rolling plain. Though most of it seemed to roll uphill. I am headed for the Black Hills. Home to Mt. Rushmore, though I'll give that a miss, unless it just happens by. Most of its magic was lost to me when I learned it was not a natural formation.

I was walking uphill across a desolate land. It wasn't hot but it was plenty hot enough. And my pack was heavy and my feet were sore. And for some reason I felt good. I set a blistering pace and maintained it all day. Today I walked twenty-eight miles. Twenty-eight. That's my longest day yet, and I swear I could have gone another ten. But it does get dark early in these winter months. And I did not want to push my luck.

It was an interesting road in its own barren way. There were a number of trees to the south. And mountains, high mountains, in the distance beyond. I believe I'll go around them. And there are antelope which are a nice change from deer. I was getting rather tired of them. My friend Wyatt calls them cantaloupe. He's seven and from Iowa.

It is worth noting here that in a very small way I am from Iowa myself. No one gets to slander Iowa but me or people I like.

A few miles outside of Alzada I crossed into Wyoming, Dick Cheney's adopted state. It is worth noting here that once he got drunk and shot his best friend in the face. Some people say he's an evil genius. I think they're at least half right.

The highway from there was not raised much at all. It looked as if it were painted across the surface of the grass. And the horizon was often suspiciously close, like those faked moon landing photos. I have always like Wyoming, believe it or don't, but I am beginning to wonder if it is not a government fiction.

I did not have much chance to investigate. I was through it in twenty short miles. I saw a few cows but fewer people. I did stop at a house to get water. The folks there were friendly and gracious and kind. I did not trouble them to ask their names.

As it turned out I didn't really need water. It is hard to know how thirsty I'll be on any given day. Sometimes I'll down a half a gallon as quickly as it were beer. Today I sipped but I still managed to put away almost two gallons.

Near the South Dakota border is the bentonite plant. That's the big industry there. It's a huge place, industrial, with all sorts of trucks and trains. It is owned by Haliburton. Google "no-bid contract."

I stopped by their fence. They had a few trees, likely bought with your tax dollars. I had a can of weeners on hamburger buns. I was hoping I'd be arrested. I thought it would make a nice little vignette. But it is Sunday and even patriots get at least one day off.

Bentonite, I had to ask, is a sort of impure clay. Kitty litter. They sell it by the ton. It is used for all sorts of things. They put it in make-up and candy bars. They use it to cast iron engines. The pump it into oil wells to seal the gaps, when they remember to bother. It is the clay you see on fireworks and model rocket engines. We can't live without the stuff. Who knew.

There doesn't seem to be much sport involved in mining bentonite. Half the state is made of the stuff. They just sort of scoop it up and dump it in trucks. I guess the factory is for picking the bugs out of it.

I passed then into South Dakota. I still had plenty of power. Several people offered me rides which always cheers me somewhat. It is hard to explain myself, yelling across a highway, but it is nice there are people reluctant to see me die out here. The joke was on them; I felt fine. One gentleman, a construction magnate from
Alaska, gave me a big jug of water. I had my own but it is from the tap, and here not particularly quenching. It's all that bentonite.

On the radio, which I much enjoy, they said there is going to be a hellacious thunderstorm at midnight. Weather reports are always wrong. But I swear to golly, at eleven fifty-nine a wind came up and blammo. It is well past my bedtime but I may be up a while in spite of myself. And if I am struck down, know I had a pretty good day.

MY FEET do need some surgery. I like to do it before I sleep to let my wounds dry out overnight. But it's too dark and I'm too tired. I already ate a can of sardines using my headlamp. That was gory enough.

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