Day One-Hundred-Fifty-Nine, Dozer

My very first thought in planning this trip was that I would need a companion. Lewis had Clark, after all. It's a big country to travel alone. I wondered who I could get to go with me. I made a short list in my mind. A couple of old girlfriends, an Internet stranger, my friend Dozer the Dog.

Dozer was not my very own dog, but he needed to get out of town. He had recently disgraced himself by eating a little girl. He'd swallowed her whole; he coughed her right up. A quick rinse and she was fine. But it wasn't the first time he'd done such a thing. A long walk might do him some good.

In some ways he would be the ideal companion. I was still a little scared at the time. Not of snakes or bears but lunatics. Dozer would have them for lunch. And a good hundred pounds of dog will really warm up a tent. But I did not want to take him away from his family. I did not want him hit by a car. I did not want to carry his food and water and worry about him all the time.

I learned today that Dozer has died. Suddenly and too too young. He was big and ugly and dumb as a post. He used to bite everyone. He would beg for carrots and then spit them out. I loved him. He was my friend.

This is Kentucky. Harder men than me have wept over some old hound. But I still felt just a little foolish weeping over my breakfast. And wondering if my waitress would be offended if I asked her to give me a hug.

I fell into conversation with a very old man. I did not share my sad story with him. He was all but ninety years old. He's lost a friend or two. We talked about the sad state of politics. He's a "dyed-in-the-wool Democrat." And has worked for years in Africa, helping them improve their crops.

It's a bit condescending to say "sharp as a tack." Some old people do fade. But nothing got past this old codger. I sure like talking to him. About Africa in the 1960s. He worked for USAID. And a couple of universites. I have seen Born Free twice.

I wish I could have talked to him longer. I think it was time for his nap. Before he left he paid my check and gave me some parting advice. "Give the waitress a good tip." I was only too glad to comply. "A man should always have something invested in his breakfast."

That was in Bardwell, Kentucky, six miles on from my tent. And perhaps the friendliest little town that I have been to yet. People were eager to welcome me and anxious that I should like their state. And I do. It is pretty here and was as warm as a summer day.

My road wound in and amongst the trees. Many of them are still green. But there are too the yellows which have been lacking and some very fine shades of orange. There are a few small farms. I crossed a few creeks. There are some beautiful hills. Kentucky is an awful nice place. I risked my life to get here.

I walked on through Arlington. I stopped and had some pie. And a cheeseburger while I was there. I was going to eat less today. Which always sounds like a good idea, but I was hungry again. As I am now. Let's change the subject. I do have a case of the poops.

I blame myself. It comes from washing my face without properly rinsing my beard. And then whenever I eat or drink the soap gets into my food. And lubricates, as it were. It makes my tummy uneasy. I mention this only to prevent my friends from making the same mistake.

I'd hate to think it was the pie. I had two pieces today. Pie is Nature's Perfect Food. And in Heaven it's all you get.

It was on from there to Clinton, Kentucky, a fairly good-sized town. But I did not get to study the matter. It was by then getting dark. So I marched on through. I am in the woods, ten miles from Fulton. It is expected to rain tomorrow and that is just fine with me.

I've got it all worked out. I wake up and walk almost all the way to Fulton. Three miles short it starts pouring. I am soaked and forlorn. I check into a motel and doctor my feet and take a four-hour bath. And don't feel the slightest bit guilty about it. A boy can't walk in the rain.

I SAW GRITS on the menu for the very first time. I'll order them one of these days. I don't know if I'll like them or not. Maybe I'll just order one.

DOZER was not a mean dog, he just took his guard dog duties very seriously. And being a little bit nearsighted, he'd err on the side of caution. Bite 'em all and let God sort 'em out. That was Dozer's motto.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Nine, Che

I woke after seven and packed on a hurry. I did not much like where I was. They probably don't shoot every trespasser here, but I'd hate to be that one in three.

I grumbled my way back up the road. I really wanted a shower. You sweat like a chimp when you're bundled up. You smell decidedly worse. But I've done used up this month's motel funds. And there are no truck stops on these roads. So imagine my surprise and delight to find one in Cuba, Missouri.

My backroad crossed I-44 there. It was a gimungous place. With dozens and dozens of diesel pumps, a restaurant and a half-dozen showers. And a barber shop and a laundromat and a smoking lounge/Bible chapel. I cannot tell you how good it feels to get clean once in a while.

I had too an enormous breakfast and loitered for long hours. In a plush chair, watching football on the widescreen TV. Two teams were playing. They did this and that. It was I'm sure very exciting. I am not really much of a fan. I'd look up from time to time. Mostly I read Wikipedia. If Americans spent more time reading Wikipedia and less time watching football, we'd all be better off.

And better at Jeopardy. Except the football questions. Of which there are few.

I was there a lot longer than I needed to be. I was in love with that chair. A chair and a shower, it was almost as good as staying in a motel. Walking on these dangerous roads is really wearing me out. I've got to keep my eyes open. I can't get my rhythm down. Just when I get some forward momentum I've got to jump into the ditch.

It is my own fault, I know. I could have planned my route better. Or you could have. I couldn't. Planning's not what I do best.

[A critter was wandering by my tent. I never know what they are. Skunks, I figure. This one's a possum. I got my spotlight on him. Didn't seem to bother him in the least. I wonder if possums is mean. If he tries to chew his way into my tent I am going to whomp him with my boot.]

And I probably should have doubled back into, what was it, Columbia for proper boots. Walking flat footed is tiring. I've still got ten days in these things. They are wearing quickly but evenly. Clomp, clomp, clomp.

At one or two I squeezed out the door and down the road to a Walmart. I've got a forty-mile stretch coming up and I wanted to stock up on food. And water. And Gatorade. It added twenty pounds to my pack. And just like it was in Montana, I'm feeling it in my toes.

I bought bread and cheese. And donuts. Guess how long they lasted. Not very. And I think they gave me the poops.

Cuba didn't seem like such an awful town. I kept forgetting what it was called. I'd see signs cheering on Cuba's teams and raising money for Cuba's orphans. That's big-hearted, I'd think. But though they may think globally, their actions are strictly local.

It was out of town on the same narrow road. I longed to be back in my chair. But three miles in the road opened up. It turned pink and there was a shoulder. The right of way was wide as well. I could see the glorious sky. If I had not been so far hammered down I am sure it would have cheered me up.

But it didn't. Not overmuch. My legs were just too sore. And I could see ahead the very steep hills between me and Steelville, Missouri. My pack weighed a ton but I kept walking. But only because I'm a hero.

Steelville is home to 1500 people and sort of buried in the trees. It bills itself as the Float Capital of Missouri, which no doubt refers to their booming, if seasonal, river rafting industry, but which rather put me in the mind of the oldest established permanent floating crap game in New Yawk.

Still paranoid about my upcoming foodless days, I added to my stock at a Subway. Yes, a Subway. Sandwiches are cheap this month. I hate to be a demanding customer but I talked the young woman through every step of the process. She was maybe sixteen, petite, and either a serious beer drinker or twenty months pregnant. She had a herpes sore on her lip.

I then loitered outside a convenience store, trying to get information on my road ahead. No one was very helpful but I was surprised at how friendly they all were. It was only later I realised they were drunk.

I am now in the Mark Twain National Forest which is sort of splattered in sections across the map of southern Missouri. I thought it would be a grand place to camp. But it is as thoroughly populated as any other part of the state and when it got dark I found myself camping in a wisp of trees between no less than three houses. If I can get out of here without being yelled at or shot, it will be a miracle.

Tomorrow I'll do what I can to wake early and resume my hungry road. It has narrowed again but there is a small shoulder, maybe eighteen inches wide. And who knows, it may be a federal crime to murder me in a National Forest. I wonder who I can ask. If only I had an intimate relationship with some kind of forest ranger.

I SANG in the shower. Beautifully. My voice sounded great off the tiles. A sort of booming baritone that might bring tears to your eyes. I sang Christmas songs. I only know Christmas songs.

WHERE THE ROADS are narrow and blind, people drive like maniacs. Where they are wide and safe, they creep along under the speed limit. This is not a trick of perception. It is a fact.

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