Day One-Hundred-Nine, Nature's Bounty

I packed up a very soggy tent. It had not rained overnight. But an hour or two before the Dawn's Early Light the sprinklers did come on. I would like to think they were on a timer, that it was not a deliberate attack. Because otherwise I slept undisturbed in the Atkinson city park.

It is my practice, when weather permits, to keep my windows open. It prevents condensation and brings in some fresh air. I need all of that I can get. Take a whiff of my poor little tent and you'd think I was keeping a cat. You get a little stinky when you're on the road. My conscience is more or less clean.

The deluge had stopped by the time I got up. I went out in search of breakfast. I'd been told my best bet was the cafe/stockyard on the far edge of town. It's where the cowboys gather between auctions. You can eat there if you'd like. The prices are good, the service is friendly and the food is agreeably big. I contented myself with just one breakfast and a double order of hash browns.

I like a crispier hash brown myself. But beyond that I cannot complain. They could, I suppose, make the coffee a bit stronger, but that is a regional thing. It does make me worry about Middle America. The bars close at ten o'clock.

I lingered a bit to mingle with the staff and recharge my little computer. I was back on the Trail at ten-thirty. It was not such a very early day. I was in no jolly mood for walking, anyway. I think the humidity is at fault. That and ill-fitting pants. No one knows how I suffer. I am doing it all for you.

I am Walking Across America so you don't have to. I am freeing you for higher things.

It was an easy ten miles to Emmet, Nebraska. Easy may not be the word. It felt like a very unpleasant six miles. There is something to be said for that. Emmet is a dozen or so neat houses and a repair shop for farm equipment. There was to the Hay Company/Post Office. They had a soda machine. I went in and got myself a can. I felt like some sort of crook. There was no one at all at home. I could have helped myself to stamps.

It was a Royal Crown cola. It tasted like bugspray. I drank it anyway. It is my understanding that they stopped making RC as part of the compromise by which we extricated ourselves from the Viet Nam war. So it did have nostalgic value. My only regret is that they were out of Fresca.

I ate Swiss cheese and hot dog buns, the same thing I'll have tomorrow. I have been carrying around two last cans of weeners but I've had about enough of them. It has cooled down some; I can buy proper cheese. It doesn't last too too long. But overwarming sharpens the flavor and makes it easier to chew.

Then it was on to O'Neil, Nebraska, a city of some twenty-four thousand. I did not get to see much of it. I just wanted to get out of town. A Gotham like that is no place to camp and it was getting late. I replenished by bun and cheese supply and climbed back on the Cowboy Trail.

I made it another three or four miles, which is where you find me now. Camped in a thicket behind some kind of antenna, in a marijuana patch.

"Oh, James, you're so silly!" you want to say. Am not, I quickly respond. I am wholly serious. I am camped among the pot. There are no men with shoguns, no punji sticks. It shows no signs of cultivation. It is just sort of growing here, and growing fairly well. If I were more mobile I'd take some with me, for scientific evaluation. But I am not so equipped; I'll let it be. Pot never hurt anyone.

Peace.

MY LITTLE radio tells me it is going to dip into the thirties again tomorrow night. And that there'll be frost. If only I had something to smoke.

ONE STATE MOTTO, no doubt there are others, is "Living in Nebraska is Fun!" How many other places can make that claim. How about a little respect.

I AM COLD, even tonight. Nobody knows how I suffer.

CONTACT ME and I'd be delighted to send you the coordinates of where the grass grows green. This offer is not available to law enforcement. Marijuana prohibition is ridiculous, you know it yourselves.

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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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