Day Two-Hundred-Twenty-Six, Gojira

I saw my first crocodile today.  The first of many, I'm told.  I was looking down on him from a bridge.  All I could see were his eyes.  I cannot say whether he saw me.  I rather suspect that he did.  There is power in Evil.  Not as much as it thinks, but more than in you or me.

There are good people in Florida.  Most try to put me at my ease.  And fail, God bless them.  I have a good mind.  I overanalyse things.

"If you don't bother them, they won't bother you."  Who's to know what gators find irksome?  Or how very quick their tempers are, or just what might set them off.  Trundling by when they're trying to sleep.  The very dullness of my teeth.  The length of my legs, the cut of my jib.  Camping in their sacred wood.

"They're fairly inactive in the winter months."  It was seventy-eight degrees today.  I'm getting sunburnt.  I'm all asweat.  It seems plenty warm to me.  What do they care if it's January.  The calendar means nothing to them.  And even if they murder me now they won't eat me until May.  They like their meat aged.  They're funny that way.  That takes yearlong planning.

"Jesus will look after you."  Good Christians die all the time.  In awful ways.  Jews, as well, and we all know God likes them best.  But who knows, He may have plans for me.  Perhaps I'll inspire a tract.  On just what happens to Atheists.  They think they're so friggin' smart.

"You almost never read about gator attacks."  Almost never, indeed.  And yet everyone seems to know someone who met their end that way.  Or at least lost a limb or their sense of humor.  I'm sure some victims are never missed.  Serial killers like prostitutes.  Gators are partial to hoboes.

"You'll be fine if you stay away from the water."  Humour me by calling up your map.  I'm on Highway 98/27/19, just south of Perry, Florida.  Let Google show you my world from space.  Zoom in.  See those little blue dots?  Count them and multiply by 25,000.  That's how many gators there are.

There's just one of me.  I'd like to keep it that way.  No fraction less will do.  While you have your maps open, take a look at my road ahead.  I am pointed more or less at Orlando.  Lookee there, more blue dots.  And each one teaming with crocodiles, every one of them hungry. 

But I'll likely survive.  I always do.  I'll be around for a while.  If anyone else had lived my life, he would be dead by now.  By his own hand if nothing else.  I still have things I want to do.  I'll be fine.  I got past the grizzlies.  I got past the rattlesnakes too.

Of course Florida has bears and snakes as well.  It has prison work farms.  And wildcats and poisonous spiders, street gangs and dangling chads.  I'll finish with a walk across a very long bridge.  I'm glad I saved this state for last.

Positive Thinking might help a bit.  It is all I really had today.  It was hot.  I was hungry.  I've got blistered feet.  It was Montana all over again.  And I've lost another strap on my pack, a small but crucial device.  The last of two that kept it cinched up and took the weight off my shoulders.  Walking has gotten more difficult.  I'm glad I've got the strength of ten men.

I was again late getting back on the road.  I'm inclined to blame the weather.  I thought it was raining but it was just fog, condensing when it hit the trees.  I was blind for my first five miles.  It's Sunday; traffic was light.  I like fog; it's magical.  Especially in these trees.

But it did little to distract me from my wounded feet.  Every step brought real pain.  And I had fifteen miles between me and Perry and my first shot at some food.  I ate up all I had last night.  I'm lucky I wasn't eaten by bears.  I suppose the crocodiles might have got them.  None of us are safe.

Nine miles in was a highway rest stop.  I don't see many of them.  They tend to be on the interstates.  Lady volunteers give you coffee.  And donuts if the gods are smiling.  They accept cash donations.  This place had a Coke machine.  Calories are calories.

It was very well kept but kind of spooky.  There was still some fog.  And it is surrounded by a wire topped fence.  It looked something like a prison.  But I got plugged in for an hour or two, and made friends with LaDonna, who looks after the place.

She has a neat job if you can look past the fact that she has to pick up after strangers.  Few of them remain strangers for long.  LaDonna's a people person.  She has a warm greeting for everyone.  It's a good place to meet people.  Most are good, and if they are not, she will, in keeping with corporate policy, take them outside the fence line before kicking their ass.

She took me to see her pet, Ellie May, a gator who lives in the back.  In a very small  drainage pond.  She was hiding today.  As were her five offspring.  It is troubling that they are so hard to see and can live in so little water.

LaDonna used to have a cat there, as well.  It seems to have disappeared.  God only knows what became of it.  One of life's mysteries, I guess.

I enjoyed talking to her.  I could have stayed there all day.  But I needed to get myself fed.  It is food that drives the machine.  The next six miles were not pleasant.  I was in nine kinds of pain.  I didn't get into down until four o'clock.  I made my way to a pharmacy.

It smelled like feet.  They make paper nearby.  I meant to buy moleskin.  And some fancy pain pills.  I forgot them both.  Tomorrow is going to suck.  I did buy some candy.  I'd eat it now but the bears would hear the cellophane.

At Perry I faced a fork in my road.  I had no clue which way to go.  In the end I followed my tummy.  It took me directly south.  Where I got stuck at a Burger King.  I'd had my heart set on Waffle House.

But one makes do.  It was getting dark.  It was a race to get out of town.  If I hadn't spent up my motel budget I would have stayed indoors.  Instead I found this place in the woods, two-hundred yards from that gator.  Coyotes are howling not far off.  I hope they scare off the bears.

Happy dreams.

"AND RACCOONS!" -- added by a helpful stranger to my list of wild animals that might kill me.  There are feral hogs, as well.

DANGLING CHAD would make a fine porn name.  I offer it for your use.

LITTLE DEBBIE-brand Fruit Pies are not as good as Hostess Fruit Pies but they are cheaper and they come in a box.  I don't know if Dolly Madison makes a fruit pie, but she does make Zingers, which, as far as I can determine, are Nature's Perfect Food.  In the future when I'm really rich, I'm not going to eat anything but Zingers.

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Day One-Hundred-Twenty-Seven, Ab

There was frost on the ground when I woke up. My tent had stayed fairly dry. I was hoping it would. I took a chance. I slept with my window open. I expel a lot of moisture overnight. I verge, almost, on the steamy. It is, you might say, my passionate nature. It does get the better of me.

My throat is sore; my nose still drips. My legs are a little weak. But it would have been worse if I'd been compelled to put away a wet tent. It is worth a little extra chill at night for some extra comfort in the morning. Some very little comfort, that is. My tentpoles snap at my fingers.

Heated tentpoles. Seriously. All credit will go to you. That is if you can get them into production some time in the next three weeks. And send me a set. Keep your riches. Money will not keep me warm.

People do ask me where I'm going. I've never known what to say. Anywhere on the Atlantic coast would make this trip a success. But Florida is sounding better and better to me. Cuba, better still. Rum drinks with little parasols. Palm trees and steel drum bands. I can frolick in the surf and show everyone my ab.

"Don't you mean 'abs'?" No, I don't. Shut up. Stop trying to hurt my feelings.

I had thirteen miles to Panora, Iowa, named I guess for Lake Panorama. Which is in itself a funny name. I was not consulted. But that is where my breakfast was. I set out in a hurry. More than anything I wanted to wrap my hands around a warm coffee cup.

It was not a spectacularly cold day. The sun was out and shining. But once I convince myself that I am freezing it takes a while to change my mind. And I was hungry. Nothing will restore your good health like a heap of hash brown potatoes. And biscuits. And a couple eggs. And some sausage if no one is watching.

Halfway there I saw Yale, Iowa. I'd been told there was nothing there. But it looked like a good enough little town, about a mile out of my way. I flagged down a farmer and asked him if there was a restaurant in town. There is, he said. Right on Main Street. He drove off before I could kiss him.

I was too late for breakfast. I had a hamburger. Everyone was real nice. The kindly waitress gave me free cake, icy cold from the fridge. That's the way to serve cake, by the way. Try it, you'll see that I'm right.

I got too some very good news. I could pick up the Raccoon River Trail. Which was headed more or less the same way as me, at least for a day or so. And is paved just like the last trail was. There are no half measures in Iowa.

On my way out of town I met Emily, a very pretty girl with glasses. She has a blind dog called Lizzie who very much liked how I smell. Emily may have been less impressed. I guess it does not really matter. She was too young and what's left of my heart is somewhere in South Dakota. In a USFS evidence bin, guarded by one pretty ranger.

I beleve she is in fact a hydrologist, a perfectly honorable career. But making her a forest ranger appeals to my poetic sense. It is my heartbreak, after all. I'll interpret it however I please.

The Raccoon River Trail is lined with trees, at least as often as not. I had a fairly good walk to Panora, blowing my nose as I went. On the edge of town was a little hut with an outlet for my computer. I sat there for an hour or so, contemplating my navel.

'Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve.

I found too a grocery store where I bought some bagels and cheese. I may or may not have some long stretches coming up. When I can I like to keep fed. And then I went across the street and had another burger.

I wasn't so very very hungry. I just wanted to sit down indoors. People do sometimes die of exposure and I feel sorry for them. It just sounds so lurid, the sort of thing men are arrested for. If overeating myself can save me from that indignity, I say it must be done.

It was PJ's, one of these 1950s diners I run into from time to time. The food was OK, I guess. But I was very impressed with the man working there. He was spectacularly cheerful. And energetic and better than that, he had fantastic hair. Like Einstein if Einstein rode his motorcycle to work, putting on his helmet halfway there. I don't think I've seen better hair on a man. I should have taken his picture. To show my own barber next time I go in. "Make me look like that."

I continued down the trail through the town of Linden, which I did not stop to see. And moved on just as much after that as I needed to to make my quota. No heroism today. I have a drippy nose.

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Day One-Hundred-Twenty-Five, Blow

I managed twenty-five miles today, maybe more or not too much less. It was a good solid day in either case, and goes to show you never can tell. My feet were as sore as yesterday, my legs as rubbery. I took I think as many breaks but somehow I burned up the miles. It is I guess one of Life's Mysteries. It is not for me to ask why.

I was camped not far from a windmill, maybe one-hundred yards off. And as I went to sleep it wasn't so noisy. Because it was barely moving at all. But as I slept the wind picked up and the thing really started to roar. It wasn't too bad but it sounded very much like a passenger jet flying by.

And by and by and by and by. That was disconcerting. It gave me that sense of dissatisfaction you get from a stifled sneeze. Or when you hear the angry screech of tires and not the inevitable crash. It did get me thinking, about airplanes of course. They're much quieter than they used to be. But I wondered if the sound I've been blaming on engines is at least as much made by the wings.

There's a metaphor in there; I'm certain of it. It's yours if you find it first.

My little computer promised blue skies. It soon after started to rain. I'm never sure who to believe in these cases, the weatherman or my own eyes. I used to, on sunny days, ride my motorcycle to work. It was not unusual for me to show up sopping wet. Just out my window it would be raining, but the weatherman said it was not. He knows better than I do, I'd think, and off I'd go into the storm.

There's a Life's Lesson there; I'm certain of it. It's yours if you find it first.

It never did rain hard but I was concerned. I've got to keep an eye on these things. I do have a raincoat, and a cover for my pack, but I hate to dig them out. But if I wait too long they do little good. Too soon and I get myself sweaty. I've got a minute or so to make that decision. I like to debate these things. But the rain had just about stopped when I got to Maple River Junction.

There was an odd little farm on the edge of town, rather an untidy place. But interesting. There were chickens and geese of every shape and color. And tiny little horses with matted manes and a number of pot-bellied pigs. And some dogs and a goat or two. The fences were not very good. They could have escaped whenever they wanted. They stayed because it was home.

I bellied up at Little Gus's, the only shop in town. It is a bar but at ten a.m. everyone was drinking coffee. The nice lady treated me to a cup or two and a couple of cans of Coke. It was too a museum of taxidermy. It was nonetheless cozy in there. The people were friendly; I could have stayed forever. Instead I climbed back on the trail.

And hike another five miles to Carroll, a town of more than ten thousand. Which I never would have guessed, the way I came in, I guess through the back door. I asked a grumpy man at a tractor shop where I could get myself fed. "There's a Denny's three blocks up." I was hoping for something better.

Denny's, for our international friends, is a nationwide chain of restaurants. They have them too in Japan. They're clean and cheap, the food is good but unforgivably bland. I wanted something more soulful, more grease on my fried potatoes. And was pleased to find it was not "a" Denny's, but merely Denny's, no relation. Unless this one humble little cafe is the one that spawned the chain.

I had the special, roast beef and mashed potatoes and a few overcooked green peas. And a piece of pumpkin pie. The mashed potatoes were good. "They're instant," I later heard someone complain. Just like Mom used to make.

I quite like mashed potatoes, instant and otherwise. In the future when I'm really rich, I'm not going to eat anything but mashed potatoes. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, mashed potatoes. I'll have mashed potatoes for snacks. I'll have grand banquets for the finest folk and serve nothing but mashed potatoes.

[I am surrounded by someone or other, possibly raccoons. Now they are brawling amongst themselves. I'd just as soon not get involved. Raccoons, as a rule, do not attack, but they ain't scared of you either.]

I overheard some people at a neighboring table reminiscing about the various homeless people they have seen over the years. The were not directing this talk at me, but it was clear that something about my presence had introduced the topic. I made my way to a barber.

It was my intention to keep my long beard, to just trim it up a little. But the lady with the scissors would not hear of it. She was buxom and flattering. Any one of those things could have swung the debate. She pruned it down to almost nothing. And told me I was handsome. I gave her a tip.

I have some regrets; I liked my beard. But it had become a burden. I'd had to spend twenty minutes every morning combing the knots out of it. And it can get ugly, as on nights like tonight when my nose is running just like a faucet. Or when I sip soda, or when I eat soup or try to make a good first impression. I'm better of without it, I guess. I should have gathered up the bits. They could have had a place in the James Museum, right next to my baby teeth.

The wind by now was picking up, and up to forty miles an hour. Which is not enough to knock me off my feet, but enough to make me stumble and fall. It is harvest time; many fields are bare. There's a lot of dust in the air. And bits of corn and tumble weeds. I don't know where they come from.

I was soon headed down a more minor road, southbound once again. It took me to Willey, Iowa. I could see it from miles away. Across the cornfields, over steep rolling hills and through the thick dust in the air. Visible first was the tall steeple of their Catholic church. In the haze it looked like a castle. I felt nothing like a knight. Maybe a jester of sorts who tells jokes, until they lop off his head.

Beyond the church there was nothing in Willey. A feed lot and some kind of factory. And a dozen small houses and two enormous ones, maybe six-thousand square feet each. Right across the street from each other, the two richest men in town. I couldn't guess who they are trying to impress. Each other, one supposes.

There was nothing for me there. I was hungry again. I continued on to Deadham. Up and down hills in the howling wind, I was just a little bit tired. But not as worn out as I was yesterday, and I had come a lot more miles. Still I was happy to get to town. I needed me a snack.

No joy. The restaurant had closed, some three weeks before. I made my way to the one saloon and ordered a frozen pizza.

And fourteen Cokes. The pizza was good. They've really improved the technology. And they had Tabasco on hand. I think that makes all the difference. I sat down and ate the whole blasted thing. I could have stopped halfway. But there were three or four pieces still taunting me. I could not shrink from their challenge.

I got to talking to the fellows there. A few had seen me out on the road. It was good to be off my feet and I liked the mood of the place. Six-thirty is a good time in a small town bar. No one was really drunk. But they'd all had enough to make them friendly. I enjoyed talking to them.

Too much, it turned out. I overstayed. I was there until well after seven. Which left me very little daylight to turn down 141 and find a place for my tent. It got dark and I gave up. I will sleep right next to the highway. They'll be able to see me when the sun comes up. I hope nobody complains.

It is cold tonight but not too. I'm warm in my new furry pants. Tomorrow is meant to be nasty but I've got layers to add. But south is the watchword, south, south, to where the sun always shines. This cold does not wholly appeal to me. I'm running out of snot.

Excuse me.

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