Day One-Hundred-Eighty-Four, Drowned Rats

It rained last night.  Cats.  Dogs.  Buckets.  Bathtubs.  Barrels.  But I didn't care.  I was too wiped out.  My tent does leak just a bit.  Especially when I leave my windows open.  I'd neglected to batten down.  I thought the fresh air might do me some good.  As it turned out it did not.

But it stopped at six-thirty or so, and stayed stopped until almost seven.  By which time I was back on the road to Bolinger, Alabama.  Three miles off.  No considerable distance.  Though it did seem further in the rain.  By the time I hit the first gas station I was soaked to the shorts.

My new shorts, my discount underpants.  I'm still making my mind up about them.  They don't preserve my modesty as well as I'd hoped, but they are, well, flattering.  I suppose you should lead with what assets you have.  I may just find a bride yet.

I settled into the gas station and had me some biscuits and grits.  It was my first food in a day or so.  It still was not very good.  But I choked it down and plugged in my computer and studied my map for three hours.

I'm in a mess.  It is going to get cold.  Damn cold, maybe twenty-five degrees.  For three, maybe four days in a row.  And tomorrow it is supposed to snow.  It looks like I'm headed to Mobile again.  I wish to golly I had known.  I've come miles out of my way.  And once there I may or may not have the bridge I need to cross the bay.  If not, I double back 150 miles.

My little computer's still pissing me off.  In Mobile they might fix it.  But I doubt it, the dipshits.  It's not why I'm headed there.  I'm trying to stay near towns.  So if I indeed freeze myself solid I'll have somewhere indoors to thaw.  And drink cocoa with marshmallows and cuddle up in front of a fire.  With someone who loves me, if only for a while.  I'll leave her one of my toes.

I made it a mile from the gas station, a third of a mile perhaps.  I figured I really ought to have lunch.  Breakfast had failed to satisfy.  So I had some catfish, which I don't much like.  It is better with cocktail sauce.  I know it's a beloved local fish but it tastes like an old canvas tent.

My day without food did not do me good.  It's left a void in me.  It's as if there's a gear with missing teeth in the machine that is my digestion.  It's affecting me emotionally.  My innards have turned against me.

The catfish did very little help.  I searched for something more benign.  But when in Rome you eat lasagne.  In Alabama everything's fried.

I was hoping it would stop raining.  It didn't.  It wasn't too cold.  But I was still in awful shape when I got to Millry, Alabama.  I resigned myself to a low-mileage day.  I stopped in a laundromat.  It was supposed to be in the forties tomorrow and I had nothing dry to wear.

They've revised the forecast.  Now they say the fifties.  And they're no longer predicting snow.  Which is good of them.  I was concerned.  It may not even rain.  Breakfast is thirteen miles away.  That's a pretty good jog.  Almost as far as I walked today, in the rain, every step.

I DON'T dislike grits.  Even pasty gas station grits.  They helped me choke those biscuits down.  In the future when I'm really rich, I'll have grits once in a while.

IT IS MEANT to be thirty-seven tonight.  That's up from twenty-eight.  I like this trend.  The cold seems to bother the locals more than it does me, and it bothers me a lot.

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Day One-Hundred-Eighty-One, Thanks

It is meant to be fairly cold tonight, thirty-seven or so.  But I am not intimidated.  Our brave Pilgrims suffered worse.  As will I in a couple of days.  Again it will drop below freezing.  Winter. Just when I thought I was free, it pulls me back in.

I should be forgiven for thinking I had it beat.  It was nearly eighty out there.  And seemed every bit like a summer day.  I saw a chameleon.  Or some kind of lizard.  I wasn't alarmed.  I'm sure the snakes are still all abed.  They don't have hands to rub together when the weather turns cold.

The sky was blue when I left my motel.  I was there until check-out time.  Wondering if the holiday would excuse another day off.  I was still not well rested.  I'd had two sleepless nights, nursing my little computer.  It really ought to be euthanised.  Or put up for vivisection.

But I had to move.  It was too nice a day.  I did get a few things done.  I had a professional tidy my hair and invested in new underpants.  My earlier shorts have quite worn through, either from friction or stink.  And they're all that preserves my modesty on the rainier days.  Still it is a regretable expense.  I wish I could do without.  In the future when I'm really rich I'm not going to spend a dime on underpants.

I didn't spend much.  I got them at a discount underwear boutique.  That's the beauty of these larger town.  You can save if you've got time to shop.  I was less fortunate with my haircut.  That was done at the Walmart salon.  Behind glass so the waddling hoards could stop by and gawk at me.  I felt like a puppy in a pet store window, having his glands sqeezed.

A haircut is an intimate act.  I have a neurosis or two.  I'm shy around waiters.  I can't buy toilet paper.  I am afraid of vending machines.  And it takes some courage to get my hair cut, even when people aren't watching.  She wanted nine extra dollars to prune my beard.  I decided to let that grow.

Today was Thanksgiving as you no doubt suspect.  That's why they fed you so well.  I could not spend the day with my family.  Some have you have been sorry for me.  But I'm fine.  What is cloud and what's silver lining is not always perfectly clear.

There was a holiday mood on the streets.  There were few people about.  Even at Walmart when I went to buy cheese.  Everywhere else was closed.  So I did feel some small self-pity.  I would not get properly fed.  But I would be nourished on martyrdom.  That's how I got so big.

I guess I do look like a hobo.  People looked out from passing cars.  As I stumbled down the edge of the road.  It was the same sad condescension.  I did my best to look forlorn so someone would give me pie.

I tell you, though, it's a slippery slope.  You can choose what mood to be in.  I just so happen to know what it's like to be in a months long depression.  There's a Beauty in sadness, don't get me wrong.  I value the education.  But better you should pretend to be happy, whether you are or not.

So it was in high spirits that I hiked out of town.  Higher still minutes later.  I had come across an open Waffle House, my new favorite restaurant.  They've got eight kinds of hash browns.  Eight.  And they serve breakfast all day long.  And pie.  And their coffee has a vaguely maply flavour.

So does their syrup.  And everyone's friendly.  And you get to watch them cook.  I'm going to have my wedding breakfast in a Waffle House.  I'll have them cater the reception.  All I am lacking is the bride.  I hope she likes waffles.

I didn't have any waffles myself.  I ordered my usual.  Which is, in review, biscuits and gravy, two eggs, sausage and hash browns.  Which turned out to be an awful lot.  I had not walked much the day before.  I hadn't earned my appetite.  I still finished up with pie.  It is Thanksgiving after all.  Think of those suffering Pilgrims.

It was all uphill from there.  I had quite overstuffed of myself.  But up I went for ten or twelve miles on Highway 145.  Which is the old road.  45 is the new.  They are more or less braided together.  Crossing each other several times.  I moved to 45 at the end.  It looked like it offered more places to camp.  The old road has too many houses.  Find me now in a private wood, eight miles north of Quitman, Mississippi.

A bit deeper in the woods than I like to be.  Remind me to wear my hat.  It is usually the last thing I put on, right before I ship out.  But it is a four-day weekend in hunting season.  I believe I will break protocol.

QUITMAN.  Quitman.  Quit, man.  It could mean anything.  I'm going to need my Message From God to be something less obscure.

MY MOTHER, a trained zoologist and veterinary physician, says that if I am attacked by a gator I should thumb him in the eyes and kick him in the groin.  Gators though were never her specialty.

THANKSGIVING.  I am thankful.  For all manner of things.  But I won't mention them.  It would be too much like bragging.  I am thankful to be on this trip.

"Chicks dig me because I rarely wear underwear, and when I do it's usually something unusual."

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Five, Fo Fum

Find me in a Subway--in a Walmart, no less--sheltering from the storm. Or at least the cold. I've been here a while. It may or may not be raining. But you know you've taken some wrong turns in life when such as this becomes your Oasis.

I woke up I guess at seven or so. I couldn't be sure of the time. My little computer was so low on juice I didn't dare turn it on. And there was no sun to go by. The sun has gone south, a lot faster than I can travel. Squinting in the gloom I studied my map and reached no very cheerful conclusions.

I did too have a look at my shoes. They were worse than I thought. They had suffered a catastrophic failure and were about to fall off my feet. I could tape them up and hope for the best. Or I could hike back into town. Or I could see what Walmart could do. I decided to give them a shot.

I got hiking boots for thirty-five bucks. You'd think I would be better pleased. It is a fraction of what I have been paying. But them high-dollar shoes have not always been kind. I am hoping these will be worse. Because if I don't suffer, and suffer indeed, I'll know that I've been paying too much.

They don't have to take me further than Cape Girardeau, the next good-sized town on my road. I'll be damned if I know how I'm going to get there. I'm pretty sure it will be cold. But this is the price I pay, I know, for goofing around in Montana.

I wasn't really goofing around. I was doing my very best. It is just that my best was pitiful. I'll do a lot better next time. A few more twenty-five mile days early on, and I'd be sunning it on the gulf coast. I hear the hotels are cheap down there. Because of all the tar.

I bought too a few more pairs of socks. It was that or find a laundry. And one of those magical undershirts that are supposed to keep you dry in the cold. It didn't cost fifty bucks, it only cost ten, plus a two-dollar premium. For being of abnormal size. I'm a towering giant down here.

Fear me.

I got some underpants of the same material, if I may say "underpants" here. Underpants, underpants. Underpants, Ha! I'm tired of censoring myself. Bear with my off-color outbursts. This is a grown-up blog. But I will not describe the particular chafing which compelled me to buy new shorts.

So in the end I spent as much as I would to sleep in a motel. Which is a shame. It's awful cold. I'd like to sleep indoors. Though I did stay warm enough last night. I'll credit my teddy bear pants. Handmade by my dear friend Marne. Thank-you. You are a hero.

But it will be colder still tonight, and evil cold tomorrow. Well below freezing. Cryogenic. Cry, cry again. It will be a nice test of my resolve, and of my sleeping bag. It is made out of ground-up ducks. Let's hope they did not die in vain.

So it's ten-thirty now and all I've accomplished is to walk a mile and a half. The wrong way. But I bought new boots, Walmart boots, and breakfasted at the in-house Subway. I had some sort of breakfasty concoction, and between you and me, it wasn't bad. Now I'm drinking cup after cup of their coffee and dreading whatever's to come.

That's the morning report, at any rate. Peace.

*****************

It's four-thirty now. For the last lonesome hour I've been at a gas station. In Loose Creek, Missouri. My road has narrowed somewhat. There is here an Ozarky vibe. I feel foreign and city slick. Everyone looks like Randy Quaid. Whom I've always admired, but still, but still. I'm the only one who ain't kin.

I've been wearing my raincoat to break the wind. Underneath my fleece shirt is sopping. GORE-TEX®. GORE-TEX®, pshaw. It's a conspiracy. They are trying to give me the sniffles.

It has not topped forty-five today. I'm beginning to think it might not. Nor will it for a couple more days. Hot diggity damn but it's cold. Every time I smell wood smoke I think of fires I've known and shed a lonesome tear.

So here's the plan: I walk on to Linn and stop just short of town. Then if I am feverish tomorrow I can check into a motel. If not I'll do laundry and eat hash browns and climb back out on the road. Though I rather wish I could have a shower. Don't love me less, but I stink.

Good news, good news. My little computer has upped it's prediction for tomorrow. It has dipped as low as twenty-eight. Now it's at thirty-four. We'll see, we'll see. It's a lesson to young walkers. Don't dilly-dally in Montana.

******************

Now it's back down to thirty again. Poop.

*******************

I hiked six or seven miles into Linn. It was daylight but it was dark. My road is narrow and traffic moves fast. I was ready to dive for the ditch. But the trees are pretty and I like these steep hills. They take my mind off the cold.

I could not find a good place to camp. "Oh, darn," I thought to myself. "Now I'll have to get a room and take three or four hot baths. And eat pizza and watch TV and sleep in a proper bed. With the baseboard heater going full blast and the cooler running on low."

But that misfortune did not befall me. I found a nice place for my tent. Not five-hundred yards from the edge of town, in amongst the trees. If it were less perfect I could have ignored it, but I've got my hobo pride. I put on dry clothes and climbed into my sack. Who knows but I might survive.

I did not make too much progress today, maybe seventeen forward miles. I was busy backtracking and buying shoes and trying in vain to get warm. My new shoes rather sliced up my feet but I am well used to that.

Tomorrow I'll get some washing done. Linn has a McDonald's. I can all but see it through the trees. That means it's a pretty big town. And so will have a laundromat. I'll blow two hours there. Which will make tomorrow another short day. I'm too cold to care.

I SAW ANOTHER one of those furry rugby ball beasties. I think they might be woodchucks. They are slow and clumsy and look kind of dumb. They are my woodland brothers.

FOR TWO OR THREE days I have seen a new beast, crushed on the side of the road. So well crushed I could not guess what they once were. My best guess was dinosaurs. But I think, and I know I'm awful far north, they might be armadillers. Or really big turtles with long tails. Or dinosaurs.

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Day One, Baby Steps

Ten miles from home I met a nice man, whacking weeds in front of his house.  "How far you going?"

I did not have the heart to tell him anything but the truth.  "I'm walking across America," I say.  At least, that is my intention.  Ask me again when I'm in Wyoming or so and I may be a bit more convincing.  This close to home I just felt foolish.

"Don't give up," he tells me.  Good advice, good advice.

I left home at maybe 6:30 or so, earlier than I needed to.   I had some idea to beat the rush of all the other people walking across America.  As it was, I didn't see any of them.  They must have left yesterday. 

I'll catch them, no doubt; I'm making good time.  I put in maybe 25 miles.  Not deliberately, you understand; I got a bit lost toward the end.  Eventually and with the help of GPS,  I arrived at the charmingly disordered home of my good friend Larry, his delightful bride, and their dozens and dozens of children.  I was hoping the kids would be impressed with this, my latest adventure.  They weren't.  They stretched a pair of Dora the Explorer underpants over my head and mocked me cruelly.

How am I holding up, you may want to know.  So far, so good, I guess.  I've got cuts on the front and back of both feet; both happened in the last 5 miles.  If I was a little better at reading maps, or had been blessed with any small sense of direction, I would have arrived here fresh as a daisy.  As it is, I'm limping a bit, which brings me to something of a dilemma.  Do I venture on into that cold unknown, or do I tarry here a while?

Larry and Shonna, his delightful bride, do keep a very nice pantry.  They've got a soft sofa and an enormous TV and their kids aren't as bad as all that.  And they've got a great dog and my feet are a bit sore and it is, after all, my birthday.  But if I do wind up staying that extra day, know that it is because I'm afraid.  A manly fear, mind; there's no shame in that.  I bet even John Wayne felt a little uncomfortable when he had to poop in strange places. 

FOUND: 2 quarters, 2 pennies, and a Chuck E. Cheese token
MET:  Horses, small cows, a llama or two, and dozens and dozens of bunnies
THANK-YOU!  Larry and Shonna and all of their kids, Good Dick and the Lovely Elinor, the kind strangers who've encouraged me along the way, and Mom, wherever you are.

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