Day One-Hundred-Eighty-One, Thanks

It is meant to be fairly cold tonight, thirty-seven or so.  But I am not intimidated.  Our brave Pilgrims suffered worse.  As will I in a couple of days.  Again it will drop below freezing.  Winter. Just when I thought I was free, it pulls me back in.

I should be forgiven for thinking I had it beat.  It was nearly eighty out there.  And seemed every bit like a summer day.  I saw a chameleon.  Or some kind of lizard.  I wasn't alarmed.  I'm sure the snakes are still all abed.  They don't have hands to rub together when the weather turns cold.

The sky was blue when I left my motel.  I was there until check-out time.  Wondering if the holiday would excuse another day off.  I was still not well rested.  I'd had two sleepless nights, nursing my little computer.  It really ought to be euthanised.  Or put up for vivisection.

But I had to move.  It was too nice a day.  I did get a few things done.  I had a professional tidy my hair and invested in new underpants.  My earlier shorts have quite worn through, either from friction or stink.  And they're all that preserves my modesty on the rainier days.  Still it is a regretable expense.  I wish I could do without.  In the future when I'm really rich I'm not going to spend a dime on underpants.

I didn't spend much.  I got them at a discount underwear boutique.  That's the beauty of these larger town.  You can save if you've got time to shop.  I was less fortunate with my haircut.  That was done at the Walmart salon.  Behind glass so the waddling hoards could stop by and gawk at me.  I felt like a puppy in a pet store window, having his glands sqeezed.

A haircut is an intimate act.  I have a neurosis or two.  I'm shy around waiters.  I can't buy toilet paper.  I am afraid of vending machines.  And it takes some courage to get my hair cut, even when people aren't watching.  She wanted nine extra dollars to prune my beard.  I decided to let that grow.

Today was Thanksgiving as you no doubt suspect.  That's why they fed you so well.  I could not spend the day with my family.  Some have you have been sorry for me.  But I'm fine.  What is cloud and what's silver lining is not always perfectly clear.

There was a holiday mood on the streets.  There were few people about.  Even at Walmart when I went to buy cheese.  Everywhere else was closed.  So I did feel some small self-pity.  I would not get properly fed.  But I would be nourished on martyrdom.  That's how I got so big.

I guess I do look like a hobo.  People looked out from passing cars.  As I stumbled down the edge of the road.  It was the same sad condescension.  I did my best to look forlorn so someone would give me pie.

I tell you, though, it's a slippery slope.  You can choose what mood to be in.  I just so happen to know what it's like to be in a months long depression.  There's a Beauty in sadness, don't get me wrong.  I value the education.  But better you should pretend to be happy, whether you are or not.

So it was in high spirits that I hiked out of town.  Higher still minutes later.  I had come across an open Waffle House, my new favorite restaurant.  They've got eight kinds of hash browns.  Eight.  And they serve breakfast all day long.  And pie.  And their coffee has a vaguely maply flavour.

So does their syrup.  And everyone's friendly.  And you get to watch them cook.  I'm going to have my wedding breakfast in a Waffle House.  I'll have them cater the reception.  All I am lacking is the bride.  I hope she likes waffles.

I didn't have any waffles myself.  I ordered my usual.  Which is, in review, biscuits and gravy, two eggs, sausage and hash browns.  Which turned out to be an awful lot.  I had not walked much the day before.  I hadn't earned my appetite.  I still finished up with pie.  It is Thanksgiving after all.  Think of those suffering Pilgrims.

It was all uphill from there.  I had quite overstuffed of myself.  But up I went for ten or twelve miles on Highway 145.  Which is the old road.  45 is the new.  They are more or less braided together.  Crossing each other several times.  I moved to 45 at the end.  It looked like it offered more places to camp.  The old road has too many houses.  Find me now in a private wood, eight miles north of Quitman, Mississippi.

A bit deeper in the woods than I like to be.  Remind me to wear my hat.  It is usually the last thing I put on, right before I ship out.  But it is a four-day weekend in hunting season.  I believe I will break protocol.

QUITMAN.  Quitman.  Quit, man.  It could mean anything.  I'm going to need my Message From God to be something less obscure.

MY MOTHER, a trained zoologist and veterinary physician, says that if I am attacked by a gator I should thumb him in the eyes and kick him in the groin.  Gators though were never her specialty.

THANKSGIVING.  I am thankful.  For all manner of things.  But I won't mention them.  It would be too much like bragging.  I am thankful to be on this trip.

"Chicks dig me because I rarely wear underwear, and when I do it's usually something unusual."

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Day One-Hundred-Sixty-Nine, Wildlife

I didn't sleep at all well last night. It was cold and my back was sore. Which is just about what you might expect from sleeping in a tent. But it's usually not so bad. I expect this was just a fluke. Something to help me appreciate the comforts of hobo life.

At some point in the very wee hours I heard a blood-curdling scream. Like something out of a horror movie, not a half-dozen yards from my tent. I was startled but not frightened. It did gnaw at me some. I couldn't imagine what in God's nature could possibly sound like that.

Then it hoo-hooed, which suggests owl. That was a coyote trick. Other coyotes soon after answered. From all points on the compass. Near and far. I was surrounded. There must have been dozens of them. I left them to their foolishness and tried to fall back asleep.

Which I did eventually, but not as soundly as I would prefer. It was all I could do to crawl out of bed, late at seven o'clock. After what should have been ten hours' sleep. Only three or four really counted. It was the sort of morning where you don't feel like making your bed.

But I can't indulge in that luxury. Everything has to get packed up. It is tedious and oddly stressful. I'm never sure everything will fit. Add mud or rain or rifle fire and it gets to be no fun at all. At least the sun was up by then. I wasn't too awfully cold.

A ways up the road was a gas station. I could have walked by without coffee. But there was too a truckers' cafe. The Jake Break, I think it was called. The waitress was kind, as was everyone there. This is Mississippi. I ordered the Hungry Man Breakfast. Plus biscuits and gravy. Plus pie.

A boy has got to keep fed.

I spent an hour or two trying to fix my computer. It is worse than ever before. Any more I might say about that would not be fit to print.

From there it was on towards Booneville. I was making very good speed. It was neither warm nor cold. My legs were strong. I was listening to NPR. I bought a little radio in Corinth. It did not cost much at all. And it even works if I am careful to hold it at exactly the right angle.

Halfway there I split from my highway and picked up 145. Which is the road that used to be. It should take me to Tupelo. Where I hope to find a Verizon office. That's where they sell these things. And where they will tell me that they cannot help. And where I'll be cuffed for assault.

I stopped once on the edge of Booneville. This blasted computer again. And had me a gas station hamburger. The ladies who made it were nice. No great chefs, mind, but good people. I could refill my Coke for free. And did so until I got shivery and started hiking again.

To a Wendy's, not a mile up the road. I had another hamburger. Just to be polite. I needed somewhere to sit and plug in my computer again. Samsung, by the way, sucks, sucks. Make time to tell all your friends.

It was my good hope to get some miles in. It was a pretty good walking day. But with only an hour of daylight left I was five miles short of my quota. I thought about checking into a motel to work on my computer some more. But the one cheap place didn't have any phones. I do like to call my mother. Or have her call me. I am a good son, no matter what stories she tells.

Thirty bucks a night. Run by Indians. All the motels here are. I smell the incense and the lime pickles and it's like being in Delhi again. Which is no clear recommendation. Delhi is fairly unclean. And the service is spotty and the people are brusk. Lizards live under your bed.

Florida. It frightens me. It's being overrun by snakes. Rock pythons. They eat people. They've had alligators all along. It seemed like such a good idea. Seattle to Miami. Across this vast country diagonally. I'm having second thoughts. The best route down takes me through a stretch known as Alligator Alley. Somehow I don't like the sound of that. It sounds vaguely gatory.

Booneville, by the way, was a pretty big town. How big I cannot now say. I daren't waste power looking it up. Samsung, you should all know, sucks. It was getting quite dark when I got out of town. It went on for miles and miles.

Then there was a stretch of really big houses, deep among acres of land. Then medium houses on five acre lots. Then small houses jowl to cheek. Then the medium houses again. Then some trailer parks. Then I crossed a highway. By then it was dark. I thought about turning around.

Or walking all the way through the night, but there are some narrow bridges. It wouldn't do for me to get sqooshed. What would the gators eat? So I relied on my hobo skills. I found a wonderful spot. By the light of the moon, diffused by clouds. I really do have a gift.

I'm in a bowl, surrounded by river. I'm sure it is sometimes a pond. But the banks will protect me from rifle fire and hide me from passing cars. I may have some trouble getting out of here. And I'll get awfully wet if it rains. But it was just what I needed when I needed it and I found it in the dark.

It will be in the fifties tonight. I'm not too far bundled up. And I can leave my windows open which really helps dry my tent. I hear crickets and owls and passing trucks. There are varmints in the underbrush. And the coyotes are howling not too far off. I should sleep just fine.


I CAN'T spell Mississippi without chanting the letters to myself. I always put an extra 'S' in the middle. It just seems so much more rhythmical that way. Then I have to go back and erase it.

"PEOPLE THINK hillbillies are white, but there are black hillbillies, too."

I COULD really go for some Indian food. A fellow gets tired of burgers. But consistent and predictable digestion is the key to a successful walk.

SAMSUNG sucks.

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Day One-Hundred-Five, Grit

I woke earlier than the previous day, but not so very early at all. I do not remember precisely what time. Eight-thirty or so, I guess. That's Central Time, you understand. Maybe that isn't so bad.

When I woke up my tent was a mess. There is little I can do about that. Fishing out the things I need means unpacking everything else. I have a two-man tent but I'm a man and a half. My gear fills every other corner. But this morning the clutter just bothered me. I like a tidy home. I'm not obsessive about it but even bad housekeepers sometimes just get fed up.

But it did not spur me to action, though it all packs up well enough. I was tired of this daily task of folding and unfolding my life. I just could not find the will; I wasted an hour feeling sorry for myself. And the out of doors were no more inviting. There was cactus outside my tent. And bugs and snakes and tortoises and lizards and other things that creep. The cows that had cheered me the night before had wandered off somewhere. And my shoelaces were matted with prickle burrs. Nobody knows how I suffer.

Or cares, for that matter. Hell, I signed up for this. Eventually I got going. And though I never know what sort of day it will be, I should have taken it as a sign. When I can barely find the strength to pack up my tent the walking is going to be hard.

Still I was strangely optomistic. That sure didn't last long. My toes were sore and I just felt sticky and like I had sand in my pants. Which I did, I only realise now. These are the Sand Hills, after all. And the wind blows all manner of grit into every nook and cranny. Of course I was uncomfortable. I was being abraded by my own shorts.

And it was humid. And my pants don't fit. They bunch up under my belt. And my innards had started a gurgling that would define the rest of my day. I'll spare you the details but imagine the worst. It was a bit worse than that.

I've been admonished not to talk about pooping so much. No one's being cheated but you. Walking Across America is all about pooping, whether you want to know it or not. It was my chief concern before leaving home, that and mean old dogs. But the dogs have all been nice to me. I guess we'll leave it at that.

There have, come to think of it, been a few mean dogs. But I've hit upon the magic word. When one is coming to chew on you, address him firmly as Dog. All dogs get called Dog from time to time, usually when they've something wrong. It startles them and makes them think, "Gee, that guy knows my name."

Early on in this trip I had a big dog run half a mile just to come bite me. But he tuckered himself on the way to the road. By then he could barely bark. More recently two big dogs started brawling over which one would bite me first. They were still chewing on each other when I disappeared over the next hill.

So dogs have not really bothered me. That just leaves the other thing. Which you do not want to hear about. Your loss, I say, your loss.

The Cowboy Trail that I was so big on last night was less impressive today. The crushed gravel was a little too thick and robbed some strength from my stride. And it veered far away from the highway across some fairly uninteresting farm land. I could see my path streching miles ahead. There were few pleasant surprises.

I was too somewhat burdened by the fact that I was not sure where I was going. I had no map. I hoped I was following Highway 20 but it was miles out of sight. I very much wanted to reach Wood Lake, Nebraska which was twenty miles off. My fear was that I was being led into still more remote parts of the state from which I might never return.

Here and there where I could get a signal I tried to use Google Maps. The trail is not marked but on satellite view I thought I could just make it out. So I kept my faith and kept walking, just a few miles at a time. I stopped for tinned weeners. I stopped to poop. I stopped to feel sorry for myself. Once I crawled under an old trestle and had a one-hour nap. Balanced on my backpack with snakes all about. Nobody knows how I suffer.

The snakes around here are not so long but they have very big heads. And nasty expressions. If I had more time I'd tie them all into knots. But as I am racing winter all I can do is squeal like a little girl and race away on my tippy toes.

There are too more of those rat-tailed turtles, striped lizards and hideous toads. Bless Nebraska, the people are kind but their wildlife is ugly as hell.

Two mountain bikers passed me while I was in hiding, still packing up my tent. They had matching outfits, a guy and a girl. They're usually the worst kind. The girl might say hi; the guy will just growl. There are a lot of jerks in that sport. But those were the only other people I saw. I had the Cowboy Trail to myself.

It seemed little used after ten miles in. There were weeds sprouting up through the gravel. Daisies and the odd bit of cactus and some sort of shrub I don't know. I think some of it may have been underwater not too many months ago. Big parts of America flooded this year. Nebraska may have gotten off light. But when I reach the Missouri I'll know for sure. I hear conflicting reports.

I knew Wood Lake was twenty miles off, but that's if I stuck to the highway. I desperately wanted to reach that town. I was down to a few tins of weeners. And a bag of raisins which I did eat but which did not do my digestion any good. And there was some chance I would drink up my water which can make me very cross indeed.

Eventually the trail got back to the road. Which road, I couldn't be sure. But it was 20 though my little computer refused to tell me how far I had to go. I figured ten more miles. It was now six o'clock. No more pooping around.

I was helped by the fact that late in the day is when I can walk at my best. It is not as hot and my feet go numb which is not such a bad thing at all. I spotted a water tower halfway there. By then it was getting dark. But there was most of a moon so I gambled that I would not be forever lost.

For my trail left the highway again. It came into town the back way. This is another dying town. There were trees but no people about. It was really quite spooky. There was a downtown but really no signs of life. I worked my way down Main Street in the dark past a number of boarded up shops. And a haunted house or two. I was a little too hungry to care.

Some passing trucks showed me the way to the highway. There was though nothing there. I had counted on there being a saloon where I could get myself fed. Otherwise it would be twenty more miles. I was prepared to walk that in the dark.

Leaving town, disappointed, I found a Pepsi machine. Calories are calories; I ain't proud. I figured I'd buy ten or twelve cans and live on that overnight. But I found myself outside a cafe, closed, but there were people inside. I knocked.

I knocked again. They seemed to be debating whether to answer. God knows I am looking a little scruffy these days. A brave woman answered the door. I begged her to sell me food, anything. I was hoping for some stale bread. Tinned weeners really come to life when wrapped up in stale bread.

Instead Miss Elsie, that's her name, heaped up a plate from what was left of a buffet. Beef and fish and jello salad, two tomatoes, a radish, cole slaw and a baked potato. I am not sure I could have got more on the plate if I heaped it up myself. And she directed me to the town park, which is where you find me now.

Wood Lake claims eighty citizens. Elsie did not seem convinced. I got the feeling she thought they'd inflated that number, though she didn't say so outright. They do have a lovely little park, no showers but there is electricity. Which means all the world to me in this electronic age.

It was great food. I can hardly wait until breakfast. I bet their hash browns are great. There is no better way to start a long walk. I am glad Wood Lake remains.

LET ME PUT this in terms you'll be comfortable with. The key to a successful Walk Across America? Moist towlettes. Lots of them.

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