Day One-Hundred-Eighty-Seven, Wimoweh

Golly, but it was cold last night.  I woke up every few hours.  To curse my lot and pity myself.  And rub my toes together.  I still managed almost twelve hours' sleep.  I was haunted by awful nightmares.  A band of cycling Girl Scouts pushed me off a high bridge.  They were singing The Lion Sleeps Tonight, with sound effects, in three-part harmony.

Now I know how I'm going to die.  I knew there'd be a bridge involved.  The rest was a revelation.

They say it will be even colder tonight.  I am inclined to believe them.  It is plenty cold now and dropping fast.  It will be my coldest night yet.  But don't worry about me; I expect to be fine.  I'm wearing every layer I can.  Except for my raincoat.  That's the nuclear option.  For when I really want to fry.

I did not make remarkable progress today.  I was not on the road until ten.  And was slightly hobbled.  Shin splints, don't you know.  I've been fairly lucky with them.  Cause they sure do hurt.  It's like I've been whapped, hard and right on the shin.  And not some coquettish tap with a Japanese fan.  Something harder and more thuggish.  Like an iron bar or a billy club or those biscuits I had three days back.

It feels like I have broken a bone.  The pain is in fact muscular.  Which is good.  Muscle aches can be ignored, unless you're some kind of a sissy.  So I gritted my teeth and limped forward.  I got lots of ride offers.  Americans are a good people at heart.  We hate to watch each other suffer.

Unless of course there's money in it, or it takes our minds off other things.

I am walking on the wrong side of the road.  I keep my thumbs to myself.  I still feel bad when people double back, or when some poor trucker gives up all his momentum.  It's a bitch to get those things rolling again.  They've got a lot of gears to work through.  And schedules to keep and diesel to pay for.  Thank you, gentlemen.

Today a guy in a black pick-up pulled a dangerous U-turn.  And risked his life and that of his bride in an effort to help me out.  But I wasn't too sorry to turn him down.  He looked like an absolute fiend.

Less than a mile up I found store in Deer Park, Alabama.  It is a town of a dozen houses and, I'm told, a post office.  It is all packed in amongst scrubby pines.  This too is timber country.  The store itself is a plywood box.  They sell T-shirts and bedazzled handbags.  And donutty things in cellophane.  I had a "honey bun."  And a packet of cheese crackers.  And an icy Coke.  It wasn't exactly biscuits and gravy.  It cost almost as much.  I don't quite blame them.  I was glad they were there.  I needed the snack.

I limped another ten miles to Citronelle, or at least the north edge of town.  And stopped for a while at a gas station.  I don't remember what brand.  I had a Coke and plugged in a bit, for all the good it will do.

I'm sure Samsung hires some good engineers.  I'm sure they're all doing their best.  To push the far edge of technology and Make the World a Better Place.  No doubt they love their mothers and give to charity.  I'm sure they're the very best sort.

But they suck.

I met some friendly dump truck drivers.  They've seen me over the past few days.  And were all most encouraging.  A Mr. Rivers paid for my lunch.  And then some.  Bless his generous heart.  I've been a little cash poor.  From overindulging in the indoor life.  Not tonight.  I'm out in the cold.

Brrr.

I lunched in central Citronelle.  It must have been three by then.  I found a somewhat dingy cafe.  I hoped they might make me breakfast.  I wound up with a hamburger.  I've never been a great hamburger fan.  But they do give value for money.  They did not have any pie.

I like to tell people that when I'm done I'll never walk anywhere again.  But it ain't true.  I like walking.  I'll still take the odd ten-mile stroll.  But I'll never eat another hamburger.  Or speak to anyone who does.  Blech.

Unless it's a really good hamburger.  Never's an awfully long time.  I am hungry now and all this talk about hamburgers is really just making it worse.  Breakfast, though, is yet my favorite.  Breakfast is good food.  Mr. Kellog did us a disservice.  Cereal's not where it's at.

After lunch I met a drunken hitch hiker with blood crusted under her nose.  She greeted me like an old friend.  Turns out we had met before.  She was the woman in the black pick-up truck.  The guy driving was in jail.

"He crashed his truck on purpose and punched me in the face."

What a rotten guy.

"Why'd he do that?"  I ain't Oprah, but it's polite to show some concern.

"Because he's an abusive ------------."

They will behave that way.  I was glad I wasn't riding with him.  At the same time, I should have been.  I couldn't have stopped him from crashing his truck, but if I'd lived I might have stopped him from punching that poor drunken woman.  Punching her twice, at any rate.  Sometimes I'm slow to react.  I've had people punch me five or six times before I knew I was in a fight.

It's embarrassing.

Of course I might too have got myself stabbed.  Or shot or gnawed on or something.  There are lots of hillbilly stereotypes.  Some folks just choose the wrong ones.  I like the one where folks are kind, uneducated but with good common sense.  Proud but at the same time neighborly, and can play the banjo real well.

Anyone can shoot meth and beat up a girl.  The five-string banjo takes skill.

I just stepped out for my evening pee.  Damn it's cold out there.  I mean, Jimminy.  It's almost humorous.  It's like a practical joke.  But the stars are pretty.  The air smells good.  It was a very pretty day.

I am in some trees behind a church.  I found this spot in the dark.  I wanted to squeeze in a few extra miles.  I was ashamed of myself. 

I've rejoined Highway 45.  The one I'd been walking for weeks.  If I'd had any sense I'd have never left it.  I would be in Tampa by now.  And I never would have been locked in a patrol car.  Damn that still pisses me off.  But I had to go and get creative.  I guess I was addled by rain.

Tomorrow I'll get close to Mobile, Alabama, at least as close as I can.  And still find a decent place to camp.  My tent will be sopping wet.  From my expiration, but I won't mind.  It will be a balmy thirty by then.

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Day One-Hundred-Sixty-Two, Hilltop

The fog rolled in while I was typing last night. It was thicker still in the morning. Pea soup, like they say, which reminded me, my mother makes a fine pea soup. Which is not the ideal walking food, but warms you from the inside out.

I could have done with a bowl or two. Damn it was cold outside. Usually you can shake it off but the fog makes it stick to you. And your tent. My own tent was sopping wet and remains so even now. And my tentpoles were something evil. The kind of cold they have in Hell.

It was tempting to stay in my tent all day. I was fairly slow packing up. I had a nice spot between the railroad and the woods. No one could see me there. Which in the end is what got me up. I think it's a Saturday. At the very beginning of deer season. I heard several rifle shots. Not very nearby but close enough. A good bullet will go for miles.

Or until it hits something.

I would take my chances on the road. Fog's not ideal for walking. But I have a very wide shoulder here and the drivers are well-behaved. I made my way to Sharon, Tennessee, a few miles down the road.

I cannot tell you what road I'm on. It keeps changing its name. 45 or 43 or 372. Or Main Street or Broadway or God-knows-what. I think it is all the same. In any case, it veers around Sharon. I left it to walk through town.

First impressions mean everything. I've always resented that. I don't think the very Magic of James is easily seen at a glance. But Sharon left a positive stamp. The fog was just cooking away. But remained in the corners and with the sun shining through, it seemed like a magical town. With tidy houses and Nature all about, small but with a friendly downtown. I asked a courteous stranger for directions and made my way to the cafe.

It's the same awkward moment every day. First impressions again. In a small town everyone knows each other. I stand out like a fart in church. I ain't huge but I do fill most of a doorway. Then there's my day-glo hat. And my shaggy beard and my awkward bearing. And my red raincoat. Everyone turns and looks at me. Forks stop halfway to mouths. I am a timid creature at heart. It makes me feel like an ass.

I make friends soon enough but not this time. Every table was full. So I turned abruptly and walked back out. They'll be talking about me for weeks.

I made my way to City Hall, in a modest storefront next door. I asked a very nice man who looked like Lyndon Johnson if there were anywhere else to eat. I was hoping he was the mayor. I like meeting mayors. It makes me feel important. But he was just a Baptist preacher, moonlighting as a clerk.

It's funny, I always thought Baptist preachers were mean. Maybe it's just the ones on TV. I don't mean as they are portrayed in drama. I mean the ones with their very own shows. But this guy was helpful and had kind eyes. I hope he likes my Baptist joke. It is either the basis for a fine sermon, or my ticket to the fiery pit.

There was another place on the edge of town, where it meets the highway again. Everybody was friendly there. A nice man picked up my check. He told me I was walking for a reason. He said someday it would all make sense. He figures it is all part of God's plan for me. I would like to believe that he's right.

I left there in a very fine mood. It helps when people are kind. And the fog was gone and as promised, it was a beautiful day. My feet were happy and my road was good. My pack felt fairly light. I hiked five short miles to Greenfield to get some laundry done.

Their one laundromat had since closed down. I personally blame the Chinese. And most of the shops in their small downtown had put themselves up for sale. It would have been wrong to leave that sad town without having one piece of pie.

The pie cafe was full of hunters, all decked out in their gear. Camouflage jumpsuits and orange baseball caps. I've never seen so many at once. Let's hope they all know what they're shooting at. There are Jameses abroad in these woods.

I moved on, still in a very fine mood. My feet were a little warm. All I've got left is my extra-warm socks. I had to stop several times. And take off my shoes to cool them off. It was up in the 60s today. Sweaty feet can get blistery. I have blisters enough.

I walked past Bradford and Idlewild, "where the men are idle, and the women are wild." I planned to stop just short of Milan, My-lun to its friends. I had to be careful not to get too close. The Army makes its bullets there. Their woods are patrolled by genuine soldiers. They shoot people on purpose.

As it was I did not make it that far. I stopped at a gas station. Known as Hilltop. It is run by one good Deepak Chopra. An Indian American, in Tennessee via New Delhi. Where I lived for a few short years. We had plenty to talk about. He is just my age but a married man. His daughter is pointed at Harvard.

Deepak's known as Romy in these parts. Deepak was too hard to say. And somehow he has managed to establish himself as a Pillar of the Community. He greets most of his customers by name. The others he calls "my friend." Because sooner or later they are going to be. He is just that sort of guy.

I met Spencer, a Bradford cop. I wish I had gotten his picture. He was huge and armed and dressed all in black. He had a very fine nose. We talked for a while. He's an insightful man. I was glad for the chance. I have never talked to a cop before without him running my license.

I thought it might be easy to be a cop here, but no, they've got their share of crime. Not counting traffic atrocities, meth the biggest thing. He did not, however, make the boastful claim that Bradford is the Meth Capital of the World. Almost every other town does. Someday a competent authority ought to settle that matter for good.

They can't all be the Meth Capital. Better they should be ranked. Number two might want to try harder. Number one might want to coast. Those that are further down the list might just want to give up for good. We cannot all be champions. Some races are better not run.

I met Joe, a mountain of a mountain man. He used to work for Boeing. And Tommy, a "gun-totin' redneck" who is going to nursing school. And Carmen and her mom or grandmom, and a girl in a short skirt. And a number of deer hunters, all of whom seem to have met with success.

I was there for five hours. Friend Romy kept giving me pop. And a couple of sandwiches. He'd have given me more if I'd asked. Poor fellow, he wants to be a millionaire. He is a good businessman. But doesn't have that mean-spiritedness which too often leads to success. People can't pay for gas, he opens his wallet. He gives candy to the kids. He greets like a brother every odd hobo that comes limping up the pike.

Find me now camped behind his station, next to the diesel tanks. It coming up on one a.m., but I think I get an hour back. Or lose an hour. I forget just which. Daylight Savings boggles my mind.


I THINK this morning's hash browns were fried up in butter. Interesting.

I KNOW it's ungodly, but between you and me, I've always wanted to punch Pat Robertson in the face.

THANK YOU, Mr. Boaz, pronounced "Boze", for making sure I stay fed. And for his prayers. I'm not sure they'll take. But every little bit helps.

AND THANKS to Romy, mine excellent host. God Bess America.

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