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I walked all of, what, eighteen miles today. You do the best that you can. And rarely much better. Not me, certainly. I almost always fall short. I am a man of enormous potential. It is hard to compete with myself.
It was bitter cold last night, down in the forties or so. Which a month ago would have had me dancing. Now it just numbs my toes. We Floridians thrive on warm weather. Cold is our kryptonite.
And I was tired, tuckered out. At least I think I was. I slept through the very worst of it and woke up at seven o'clock. Which is earlier than I start most days. I should wake up at five-thirty. Or whenever it is the sun comes up. It's been weeks since I've seen a sunrise. But I much prefer sunsets. They're warmer, more friendly. They make fewer demands of me.
It was nippy this morning. I have faced much worse, but I thought I'd left that nomsense behind me. I had even considered lightening my pack by giving my long johns to the poor. Not that they would brighten their lives, the misshapen holey things. But in any case I'm keeping them, at least for another week.
I've been complaining in my casual way about overdevelopment. But that small patch of woods where I'd hidden my tent was on the edge of civilisation. Today and tomorrow I am back in the bush. I can't say I'm too awfully glad. I'm lugging around tons of food and water. It's like being in Montana again. Only cooler and a bit more humid, with a lot more cars to avoid.
Some four miles in I found Rosie's restaurant, tucked in among the orange groves. Where everything's cooked by Rosie herself. I was sure glad to find the place. I'd resigned myself to gas station food. Yesterday I ate at Denny's. But you've got to find a proper cafe if you really want to get fed.
I ate as much as I possibly could, my usual plus toast. It might be days till I eat well again. I did not want to waste the chance. And I really liked the place. It was packed full of locals. Local locals, not the imported brand. There aren't many of them left.
I wound up staying three or four hours. It was just such a nice place to be. The weather warmed up; we sat around talking on the front porch. I was in no hurry to get back on the road. My computer needed its charge. And I knew I had a long bleak stretch ahead. Most of it is still there.
Flat with acres of palmettoes, tightly bunched together. And dry grass that prickled my ankles and worked its way into my socks. There was a canal running along side the road. I didn't see any gators. But I could feel their eyes on me. It put a little spring in my step. And once I heard an enormous splash. Something huge hit the water. It didn't slide in all sneaky like. It did a belly flop. I did not stop to investigate. I did not stop to change my shorts.
"I'm sick and tired," says one old man, "of Yankees coming down here and complaining about our gators. If you don't like them you should go home."
I expect he felt the same way when Yankees came down here to complain about Jim Crow. I told him that if I were to complain at all, it would be about him and his kind. I said it smiling. He was delighted. He was just looking for a fight.
I've often thought I'd make a fine curmudgeon, when I get old enough. I thought I would someday slide into the role of the Grumpy Old Man. But there's enough sourness in this sad world. I want to be a Positive Force. So the next time some old fart flips me shit, I'm just going to headbutt him.
I met another one on the porch. I set him off my saying good morning. "Obama wants to take away my guns!" I hope Obama does. Not everyone's. Just his. He sounds like lunatic.
At length I reached a gas station, my last for a couple of days. A nice lady this morning sent me off with a sandwich, but I added quite a bit to that. Convenience store food, cellophane donuts, power bars and Corn Nuts and such. If I starve it won't be my fault. I got too a ton of water. And Gatorade. It put my pack up at something like fifty pounds. Which is damn heavy given its current state. I wound up sitting there for a while.
To psych myself up. I was just being weak. My computer was already charged. But I did not want to climb back out on the road. It's what slowed me down in Montana. Anticipation of misery. I just made tomorrow worse. My next stop is now twenty-four miles off. At least I will have no excuses. There is no place to stop. It's just pines and palmettoes, gators and feral hogs.
I'm camped in the feral hog's stomping ground. I guess they are meaner than snakes. I saw one earlier, in the canal. I guess he had been there a while. So gator is saving him for his kunch. He must have weighed two-hundred pounds. That's a small one. He looked mean, even though he was dead.
There are around here hundreds of them. I hear they breed like bunnies. Their ancestors were domesticated, but then one day they rebelled. Like Orwell predicted. They've grown their teeth extra long. They travel about in ravening packs. I think I hear them out there now.
One goid thing, the stars are pretty. I'm miles from any town. And may be for some days to come. I'm sticking to the center of the state. Or not. I'm unsure. Miami's a mess. There are two-hundred miles of town. And everyone assures me I will be killed. The interior has its dangers too.
If I do survive, you'll hear from me. If not, so be it. I rather like the irony of dying this far in. I'd like better to live, don't get me wrong. We'll see. I promise. We'll see.
CHEERS TO the nice lady who bought me a sandwich. I got your photo but I don't know your name.
NEXT STOP, Yeehaw Junction. Really.
