Day One-Hundred-Three, Breakfast of Champions

I never know from day to day just how far I am going walk. I start in the morning and go until dark. I take long and frequent breaks. Some days a mere twelve miles is a struggle. Today I did twenty-eight.

Which is a pretty good chunk out of the map, but not such a good idea. It tires my muscles and troubles my feet. It makes this bilge hard to write. It has taken me the better part of an hour to type as far as this.

"So what," you might say. "Take a rest. Fill us all in tomorrow. We're not reading it, anyway." Let that be your fault, not mine. Walking Across America means nothing to me until I can tell the story. Whether anyone hears it or not, I am soothed by the sound of my voice. And I like to believe I have something to offer, poor gift though it may be.

I was hoping to learn to Live in the Moment, to experience some brand of Zen. "It is the journey, not the destination" has never made sense to me. Oh, I'm not an idiot. I can reason it out. But I've never felt it in my heart. I remain saddened and embarrassed by my past, and terrified by my future. Nothing in the present seems very much better, unless I am eating ice cream.

On that bright note, I'll unfold my day. I got an early start. The road crew boys across the park were up before daylight. And my father was lurking somewhere about, the one I hadn't spoken to in twenty-three years. I was going for the even quarter century. Now I have to start all over.

Damn.

The Indian tacos I had for dinner were not treating me well. Their searing cramps and loud rumblings had kept me up half the night. My body has grown accustomed to burgers and very little else. I was suffering mightily from what the Japanese, a polite people given to euphemism, call "a stomachache."

But bless that tough town of Cody, Nebraska, their park is well-equipped. And beside the mensroom there was a shower, my second in as many days. But I am not spoiled. This shower was icy icy cold.

I managed, though. Bracing, they call it. I started my day quite braced. And ate a breakfast burrito with my dad at a concrete picnic table. Lest you fault the poor man and see the breafast burrito as another form of abuse, I don't doubt he meant well in this case. Cody is not set up for breakfast. He did the best that he could.

Thus nourished I was out on the road some time before eight o'clock. Which to many of you, those who work, may not seem early at all. But I've got gear to pack and maps to study, and nearly every eight o'clock I've seen in the last twenty years has come at the end of a very late night. Eight for me is like your four-thirty. I am not a morning person.

I planned one long run to Kilgore, Nebraska, fifteen miles away. But after seven I stumbled across the town of Nenzel, population 13. Thirteen. There is a newish ranch house with four cars parked out front, and a gas station with a good sized tree growing where the pumps used to be. A saloon that didn't look too long closed and a boarded up general store. And a very well kept Catholic church. And a park, recently mown with a Coke machine across the street. I took off my shoes and drank two Mountain Dews, a Squirt and a can of root beer. And read the Smithsonian magazine I've been lugging around since Hot Springs.

Good times, good times. I was there for two or three hours. I liked Nenzel. You could probably buy it for the price of a new pick-up truck.

I would call it James. James, Nebraska. And appoint myself Justice of the Peace.

I didn't get to Kilgore until three-thirty. Ninety-nine people live there. "They counted the dogs," confessed Phil, owner of the gas station/store. And saloon. I had thirty-three Pepsis and a microwavable sandwich.

"Gut busters," the bartender in Cody called them. There's some rivalry there. But her Indian tacos too did some damage, though they tasted a good deal better.

Phil has "Phil" tattooed on his forearm. He is a very nice man. I got him to dish the dirt on Ted Turner, the Viggo Mortensen of the Sand Hills. It seems Mr. Turner's buffalo scheme is driving up property taxes. And land values, too, but the only buyer out there is Ted Turner himself. Shame, though. It's pretty country if you like this sort of thing.

It was coming up on four-thirty. I had walked only fifteen miles. A mile later it was five-thirty. I have entered the Central Time Zone. In Cherry County, Valentine, the county seat, is an hour ahead of the other towns. And they lord it over everyone.

I had eleven more miles to Crookston, population ninety-eight. That's one less than Kilgore, you'll notice. There's some rivalry there. Crookston did not include dogs in their number, which is a shame; I met a nice one there. A black German shepard, three feet tall at the back. Man, that was a big dog. He was chained to a tree in front of a trailer. I made sure of that before I approached.

A man was out there wrenching on his truck. I wanted to know if there was a park. There wasn't and that's good. Sooner or later this soft living is going to make me weak.

[Something middle-sized is grunting outside my tent. I'm thinking feral pig. Meaner than snakes, feral pigs. Ignore him and he'll go away.]

Sean was the man. We chatted a bit. He had a bitchin' Camaro. He introduced me to his dog who tried to eat my hat. Loveable pup, though. Three years old. He maintains a puppy enthusiasm. It is neat seeing a 120 lb. dog jumping into the air like that. On all four feet, like Pepé Le Pew, when he is very much in love.

Crookston too is fading fast. Such is the way of things. The railroad needed these towns every ten miles to replenish their water and coal. And it was a good deal in the horse and buggy days for the ranchers to have a town. But now I'd guess only every third one will survive. And it isn't all Ted Turner's fault.

Sean turned me on to a good camping spot. I must have missed it in the dark. And after twenty-seven miles I figured I may as well go thirty, if only to see what it's like. But, though my hat does glow like a beacon in the dark, I got a premonition that I was going to be sqooshed dead.

I ain't big on ESP, but sometimes you trust your sixth sense. So here I am camped on the side of the road, on what was once a railroad track. It is officially designated a hiking trail, but no one uses it. No one. Not just because it runs across northern Nebraska, but also because it is covered with jagged ballast that bruises your feet and would shred bicycle tires. It was a nice thought, though.


I CONFESS I don't like ice cream as well as I once did. Eventually all my joys will fade. Then there will be just me.

LOW FLOW toilets are a nice thought, but no one is conserving anything if you have to flush them four times. And that's not to mention the emotional toll.

IT WOULD, I suppose, given my strength and conditioning, not be sporting to beat the crap out of a seventy-five-year-old man. Funny, though, the thoughts you have when you walk.

COYOTES HOWLING, as they do most nights. I like it but it upsets the cows.

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Day One-Hundred-Two, Patrimony

There is that fear that comes when you wake up in the morning, not knowing where you are. I had it a lot in my twenties. It's a lifestyle thing. I was never so lost that I couldn't piece it together from clues. Usually I'd just roll over and ask. People can be awfuly helpful.

I no longer suffer such sweet mysteries. I always know just where I am. I am in my tent, and where that is never seems all that important. It may be on a mountain, or in a field or wedged in next to an interstate. There may be snakes or beaver or buffalo. In the morning I don't really care

This morning I woke up in a city park in Merriman, Nebraska. Early. It was the roosters that did it. Merriman is a very small town. But they take good care of their hobos there. The park came with a shower. And it wasn't so dirty; it was just old. I started my day shiny fresh.

There is too a cafe in Merriman. They all seemed to know who I was. Or were curious to; a table of farmers spent a good time gawking at me. And while self-conscioisness is chief among my sins I wasn't bothered a bit. Had they remarked I did have a few answers ready, none of them terribly kind. But they were content to mutter and stare. I was content to stuff myself.

The cafe is run my Ladonna Dawn. Gosh, that's a fun name to say. Ladonna Dawn, Ladonna Dawn. Try it and see that I am right. She was kind and I ordered too a sandwich, to chew on in the afternoon.

I had twenty-four miles to my next town. I was not wholly convinced that I'd make it. Some days I can do it. Others I can't. I never know which day is which. I have never really found a steady rhythm. All I can do is try.

I am still in the Sand Hills. There are no trees. The road goes up and down. It was eighty but overcast. I was neither hot nor cold. I was ready to stop after three short miles. Instead I walked twelve more.

At the ten mile mark I came to road construction, pilot cars and flagmen and such. In the past that has been very bad news but today it worked out fine. There were big trucks hauling gravel back and forth. I got to wave to the same drivers several times. And even talk to a couple of them. I felt like part of the gang.

I had to keep walking. They now knew who I was. I didn't want to look weak. The far-end flagman said they were talkng about me, all up and down on the radio. As I suspected. Cool.

Cheers to America's truck drivers, especially those fellows today. They always make a special effort not to kill me and to cheer me on my way. Now and then one will even give me a blast of his horn. I can't tell you what that means to me. We're at opposite ends but we're all Men of the Road. We alone understand. And I feel much safer walking by a professional driver pushing a too too wide load than I do even the smallest Winnebago.

Some of those men are women, of course. I like them especially.

They were still waving to me when I sat down to lunch. My sandwich had survived beautifully. Nine more miles seem like nothing with fifteen under your belt. When I got to Cody (population one-hundred-fifty-something) it was early yet. I was thinking about ten more miles. It was then, of course, I ran into my father whom I haven't spoken to in twenty-three years.

Time flies.

So we hit the saloon and ate Indian tacos, that's with frybread instead of shells. It was all-you-can-eat. Dad picked up the check. I had fourteen of the things. I probably could have gotten by on a dozen. I didn't need those last nineteen Pepsis, either. But for the next two days I'm on trail food. It's important to eat when you can.

Find me now in Cody's city park. Nebraska, it do love its hobos. There's a shower and they don't mind tents. They're probably glad for the visitors. A lot of the road crew guys are across the way in trailers. They've likely been here for weeks.

A sign on the edge of town reads, "Cody, Too Tough to Die." It is, nevertheless, hanging on by a thread. All the towns up here are. There just isn't much for folks to do. Loving the land's not enough.

Ted Turner is buying up a lot of the land and using it to raise buffalo. Trouble is, buffalo are real low-maintenance. They pretty much look after themselves. Every time a ranch goes to buffalo it puts another dozen cowboys out of work.

Ted Turner started CNN. He owns a baseball team. He gave a billion dollars to the UN and, like many good men before him, he was once married to Jane Fonda. He has this idea that buffalo would go great in school lunches. Seriously. That's his plan. He's also a Bolshevik. You don't see many Bolshevik billionaires.

I ain't got two nickels to rub together.


IF I WERE billionaire social engineer, I would promote garbanzos. I quite like garbanzos and am sure that, properly educated, so would America's children.

HOMEWORK: Watch "Barbarella." Discuss.

START BROADCASTING your location on the Internet and anyone can find you, I swear to God. I'm lucky I don't have warrants.

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Day One-Hundred-One, Breaking Wind

I woke up early in my field of sunflowers. How early I could not say. To know that I would have had to gear up my computer and I thought it could do with the rest. I had tried the night before to take a picture of the sunflowers but it did not turn out very well. You see only my tent and a dark blur behind. That's where the action was.

Be assured though that they were sunflowers, though perhaps not the kind you all know. These are smaller and hardier, industrial sunflowers, not the spindly backyard breed. I'm informed that they can be a high-dollar crop, though this year that may not be so. As they stand, their flowers all drooping the same way, there is not a one that is not covered in grasshoppers.

Grasshoppers are nutty for sunflower seeds. They are happily eating their fill. And among the ordinary grasshoppers, maybe two inches long, there are monsters twice as long and as wide. Like little green sausages with sharp little claws. I see some potential there. I ate a few bugs when I lived in Thailand. I believe you could sell them here. Packaged as "Lobbster" or "Free-Range Shrimp." That's a million-dollar idea.

It was again a beautiful day. There was a fairly brisk wind. I am now in those famous Nebraska Sand Hills. I'd never heard of them, either. They do though cover 20,000 square miles. When the pioneers came they were dunes. No one wanted anything to do with them. They were sure they would die in there.

But came the Blizzard of Eighteen-Seventy-Something when some poor farmer lost his cows. He eventually found them eating green grass and lounging beside a clear pool. Deep in the dunes. The grass has spread since. No one is quite sure why. One theory has it that a dusting of topsoil blew in from South Dakota.

They are still dunes. The grass is quite thin. There are too a good many daisies. And spiky deserty looking plants and prickle burrs everywhere. But between them there is visible sand. And some parts have no plants at all. Ranchers do their best to shore these bits up with piles of discarded tires.

Sunflowers seem to do OK here. So does corn, with enough irrigation. And longhorn cattle, who don't mind the dry. Many of them are from Texas. And there are too a number of good-sized snakes. They seem to be happy and thriving.

It is easy, walking across this landscape, to imagine the grass isn't there. I am in what is essentially a desert. It's not its fault that it rained this year. The shape of the hills is pure Sahara. The daisies but the merest mirage. The wind had kicked up just enough dust to blur the shape of the sun.

I wasn't in much of a walking humor. I'd had egg salad the day before. It made me gassy and I had a bruise on tbe ball of one of my feet. But I took a pill and kept moving. There was really no place to sit down. On a windy day sitting down is hardly more restful than walking.

Here and there a farsighted farmer has put a wind break by the road. Three or four rows of evergreens to keep his farm where it's at. I liked these; it's fairly snug in there. I'd crawl in for some crackers and cheese. Aerosol cheese and tinned weeners and stale hamburger buns. The snakes would gather around me like children, wanting me to tell them a story.

Here's a story for you: Once upon a time all the snakes died and the owls came and controlled the rodent population just as well as they ever did and weren't nearly as vile and disgusting and nobody missed the snakes at all and everyone was happy. The end.

But mostly I kept my head down and walked and listened to country music. I don't like country music. I had too NPR but they were on a jazz kick today. Later on they did play some Béla Fleck. He is my favorite musician. But by that time I had arrived in Merriman, Nebraska, twenty-two miles away.

Merriman (pop. 118) is a town in slow decline. You don't need as many men to run a ranch these days and the railroad has long gone away. The oldfolks are dying. The young ones don't stay. I give it maybe twenty more years. There is a saloon, the Sand Something-or-other, where I had a frozen pizza for dinner.

It wasn't so bad. She heated it first, the woman who runs the place. She spent many years as a teacher and principal. I would not want to see her mad. And she directed me to the city park, which is where you find me now in my tent.

I suppose I could have gone another five miles. As it was I had daylight to spare. But I needed to juice my little computer and resupply for my walk to the next town. The cafe/store will be open tomorrow. They should have what I need.

Not long ago I was celebrating. I was sure I'd reached civilisation. But this stretch of Nebraska is Montanaesque. Towns are small and far between. And prices are creeping up just a bit too, at least for the next eighty miles.

But I am warmer and safe. There's a mighty wind, but I'm protected by a row of houses. There is too a shower. It is rather fithy, but I've lived in India. Life ain't really so awful bad. Thanks for tuning in. Goodnight.


NOTE TO SELF: Next time you fall in love with a forest ranger, think about asking her name.

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Day One-Hundred, Lazy Sundays

I managed to sleep until eight o'clock. I guess I'd done tuckered myself. One of these days I may have to invest in a smallish alarm clock. I had one for a while before it dropped dead. It never did me much good. I never could hear the little thing. It was talking to itself.

My bag kept me warm as advertised. It is made out of baby ducks. But I was haunted by dreams in which I was cold, and very cold indeed. No ducks were harmed when they made my computer. It suffered mightily. The battery died; it refused to turn over and complained a great deal once it did. I will have to sleep with it stuck to my chest. I once tried to warm pizza that way.

By eight it was a beautiful day; an autumn day, nonetheless. It was sunny and cool and as good a day for walking as I could ever hope for. Autumn days make me happy, which in turn makes me sad. As would explaining why. I'll fill you in one of these days when I've got joy to spare.

I feel the same about late spring days. Summer can stand on its own. Winter I don't dare contemplate. It will be here soon enough.

I all but enjoyed my walk to town. It was a mere five or six miles. I was listening to Car Talk on NPR. Man, them guys make me laugh. They are joyous. I wish I could be like that. I wish we all could.

You don't have to wait until pledge week, you know. Go ahead, write 'em a check.

Gordon, Nebraska is not a big town; maybe a thousand people or so. About like Rushville but not in decline. But not really prospering, either. A grain elevator marks the center of town, and quite a big one, at that. I was pleased to make my way to the cafe for a hearty breakfast.

The Antelope Creek, I believe it is called. I was not wholly impressed. Town is off to the left but it was on the highway in what appeared to be an abandoned McDonald's. Posters and plaques covered the walls, letting you know it was a Christian establishment. "Cowboy by birth, Christian by the Grace of God." That sort of thing. Everywhere.

The one waitress was harried and mad. She was letting it show. The owner stood at the cash register, looking like Joyce Meyer. That is if Joyce Meyer (A) tarted herself up a bit, and (B) suffered from painful itching and swelling. The both of them greeted me at the door as if I were a hobo.

Now as I understand it, Jesus liked hobos. Loved them, as it were. He did not have much use for money lenders. He kept mum on restaurateurs. I abused them with extravagant courtesy. That'll learn 'em, thought I.

And I ordered two breakfasts. I was starving half to death and prices are low in Nebraska. I still spent less than I would have for one in Montana. Less still, after my tip. They could chew on my courtesy all they liked, but my change went back in my pocket. And their biscuits and gravy tasted like paste. My coffee cup was not refilled. It is folks like this, I tell you, I do, that give religion a bad name.

Then I went looking for Mr. Long Soldier, the artist I met two days back. I had his number but this is the Nineties. There are no pay phones anymore. So I walked to his house but he was not home. I tried the Jehovah's Witness Kingdom Hall. He was well into that, I remembered. I thought I might find him there.

I was not really dressed for church, and I am a little scruffy these days. I loitered outside until someone came out. It was Bobby, the Elder. Man, he looked sharp. He was so neatly pressed. And trimmed; I felt like a hobo. But he greeted me warmly and helped track down my friend and invited me to their church picnic.

Jehovah's Witnesses, 1. Snotty self-righteous cafe lady, 0.

The Jehovah's Witnesses have been around for a while. I know they pissed Hitler off. Which is not a bad thing. They are conscientious objectors and refuse to do military service. Which, I think, is marvelous, but it only really works if everyone on earth does the same thing. If anyone doesn't, we're in a mess. I am doing my part. I hereby refuse to do military service, unless they really really need me.

But if things get that bad, we're done for already. Better we should all work for Peace.

I'll read up on the Witnesses when I get a chance. They are just outside the mainstream. They seem to run themselves a bit like the Mormons, with no professional clergy. They too knock on doors but not just when they're kids. They keep at it all of their lives. The "Thy kingdom come" bit of the Lord's Prayer seems to be much of their focus. Sooner, rather than later. They keep a close eye on world events to find out just when that will be.

And, while it should be unremarkable in these 1990s, they have a nice mix of folks. Indian, Asian, black and white. Maybe a Latino or two. You don't always see that in other churches, and when you do they're self-conscious about it.

And while they were happy to share their Good News with me, there was no salesmanship. I told them I'd think it over and I will, and that was good enough for them. They are good people, kind and sincere. I wish them the best.

And they stuffed me full of some remarkably good fried chicken and thirteen different kinds of potato salad. And pie and chips and other things good. And coffee, not like them Mormons. And they were nice to me and I got to talk to Mr. Long Soldier. I don't think he is your typical Jehovah's Witness. He is straight up now but his sinful past is a little too fresh in his mind. He is grateful that he has at last been Saved, but still tells some funny stories.

I hung out there just a little too long. I am of course meant to be walking. And these cold nights are testing my resolve as no mountain or blister ever did. But I needed to get my computer charged and I like seeing how people live. We played a sort of horseshoe game with beanbags. No money changed hands. But if it had I'd have schooled them. I think I may be a natural.

Find me now near a field of sunflowers, not ten miles out of town. It was a rather poor walking day but I had things to do. Tomorrow there will be no such distractions. My next town is a long way off.


DANIEL LONG SOLDIER had a grandfather called Red Cloud, which is a pretty cool name, and another called Scared of His Horses, which made me laugh. At Crow Agency I was reading a memorial plaque and saw that some Indians do better than others with their names. For every Fights Like Bear and Iron Buffalo, there is a Giggles Like Woman and a Big Nose. I shudder to think what my Indian name would be. Fails to Meet Potential. Bitches About Feet. Weeps For No Reason. Dies Alone.

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Day Ninety-Nine, Brrrrr

At some point in the very wee hours the wind started blowing. Hard. Enough to threaten my poor little tent. Enough to trouble my sleep. It was not raining. There was no storm. It was just a good healthy wind. It had me pinned down. My bodyweight was the only thing saving my gear.

But I was, again, in a city park. I wanted to be up and out early. I pictured old men feeding pigeons and kids flying kites. A hobo might give them the creeps. You have to think about other people if you look anything like me. Look at the Sasquatch; he keeps to himself. It is simple consideration.

I stayed in bed and listened for sirens. At seven I finally unzipped. It took a good effort, I promise you, but I finally got everything packed. I still had all of the park to myself. The kids were in their storm cellars. As were the old men and likely the pigeons and anyone with any sense.

There was a man across the way, struggling with his own tent. I recognised it as the luxury version of mine, designed to endure higher winds. But that doesn't make it any easier to take down. I thought I'd offer my sympathy. Or even my help, if it came to that, though one does so hate to meddle.

He seemed to have it under control. He was Wayne from Sioux City, Iowa. After many long years as a cyclist he had upgraded to a smart BMW. Which is probably why he was nice to me. Cyclists can be somewhat unpleasant. We chatted a bit about life on the road. It is nice to meet people who understand.

Then it was off to the local cafe for a big plate of biscuits and gravy. That's my go-to meal but more often than not it tastes like classroom paste. But this man was a wizard; good gosh, it was good. A very pleasant start to my day. And noticably cheaper, thank goodness for that. Civilisation does have its advantages.

So I was fairly cheerful when I started walking. The wind had not yet died down. But I had a full belly and a good outlook. It was not hot at all. It was a fairly easy twelve miles to the next town down the road. Rushville, Nebraska, it called itself. Today they were having a parade.

For which I arrived two hours too late. Too bad; I rather like parades. One day I'll be honored with ticker tape. I can hardly wait. But today all I saw were a few heaps of litter. The marching bands had all gone home. A trailer marked "Shriners" passed me on the highway but there was nary a clown.

It has become quite fashionable in recent years to proclaim a hatred or even a fear of clowns. Let it be known that I hated and feared clowns before it was cool. I did, nevertheless, once want to become one. Self-loathing takes many forms.

There was in the park a classic car show. It was a thinnish collection. I love cars but nothing there much moved me. There was a pretty Corvette. But it was all of three years old. The second best was a Ford pickup. Maybe a '74. There were some older cars but my own neglected heap is better than most of them.

They did have a BBQ up and running but I moved on into town. Where a grumpy fat man served me a burger. It was good but not dramatically so. It was, however, noticably cheaper than similar fare up the road. I do like Nebraska prices.

I had about had it with Rushville. I never did get my computer charged. I was ready to leave. The town seemed to have peaked in 1935. What residents remained were off watching football, a game that bores me goofy. But it's huge here, even high school games. And the Corn Huskers started their season today. I guess that's why they had a parade.

[This is to replace a paragraph in which I explained, with some passion, why football is a stupid sport. But I am vulnerable out here and cannot afford to offend anyone. Especially the kind of idiot that likes football.]

On my way out of town I popped in at the Rushville Historical Museum. I enjoyed talking to the gentlemen there, but the story of the town itself is one of sad decline. The gentlemen rather seemed to know it.

Still leaving town I hit the grocery store to stock up on weeners and buns. And deodorant which I forgot to buy. I nice old man did give me money. I don't know how old. Very, I'd guess. But I do know he was nice. And he thought Walking Across America was a good idea and wanted to help out. I am moved by his support.

Not just the cash, you understand; though believe me, it really helps. It is just nice to meet folks from time to time who don't think I am an idiot. I am not an idiot, you know. Insofar as these things can be measured, I am actually fairly bright. I just do stupid things.

With alarming consistency.

From there it was another ten miles up the road. That's about the extent of my day. The weather was good and I was strong. I could have done five more miles. But those extra miles add up over days. They make my feet feel trod upon. And weaken my arms and puts kinks in my spine. This is a long-term project.

Find me now camped just off the road, five miles outside of Gordon, Nebraska. I am wearing my thermals and wrapped in my bag. The temperature is in the thirties. For our international friends, that's like 4-degrees Kelvin.


THE HORSES in Nebraska have so far been as encouraging as the cows. I thought horses were uppity creatures but in fact they are very nice. Montana horses are uppity. Washington horses are downright snotty. But Nebraska horses are very nice.

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Day Ninety-Eight, Civilisation

I woke mysef up at six o'clock. Eight o'clock wouldn't have killed me. But I had pitched my tent on a working farm. Farm folk keep early hours. There was no pressure on me, do understand. I was made to feel quite at home. But I wanted to show them that city boys can wake with the cock, if you will.

It looked as if they had been up for hours. I could smell muffins baking. I was treated to a very fine breakfast and a hot shower before that. And some good conversation and gentle encouragement. I wanted for nothing more. Thank you most kindly, Doris and Beverly. You spoiled me, bless your good hearts.

Come nine o'clock I was back on the road, for all the real good it did. All this soft living had left me weak. I walked less than two miles. It was my chief ambition to make it over the hill so they couldn't see me from the house. A big part of Walking Across America, at least for me, consists of sitting in the shade and feeling sorry for myself.

Less so today, for I was packing muffins; apple and zucchini, if it pleases. It delighted me, at any rate. And there was a great smell in the air. Autumn, I believe it is called. In my old age it's my favorite season. It had cooked off by ten or so, but it was very nice while it lasted.

Even then it was not such a very hot day. It never got past the low-eighties. There was something of a headwind but I could not blame it for my thorough lack of strength. I could never seem to go more than a couple of miles without stopping for a break. In my own defense, I was a bit sleepy and Nebraska is hilly as hell. I think I was getting it mixed up with Kansas. One or the other is flat.

Both states are famous for their tornadoes. I ran into one today. Out of an entirely cloudless sky. It must have been fifteen feet high. Rather pitiful, as tornadoes go, but you have to admire its ambition. Even the cows were laughing at it, but it went swirling on. I was hit by something similar in India once. That one sandblasted me. But India is a fairly gritty country in even the best of conditions.

I saw a cross country cyclist, my first in a while. They prefer a more northerly route. I was cranky so I flagged him down. I wanted to ask why they are always such dicks. But he wasn't a dick. He wasn't a he. He was Christine from Vermont. She is riding from Maine to Oregon, all on her delicate lonesome.

We talked some. I liked her fine. She had a grip like a longshoreman. I am sure she can take care of herself. She drinks whisky and smokes cigars. She is a Bolshevik. She is not very big but it sounds like she eats just as much as I do, which made me feel better. I've been ashamed of myself since I met Lee, the recumbant cyclist who eats nothing but dirt clods and bark.

But two friendly cyclists out of hundreds does not change my opinion of the breed. These two are unique, recumbant, a girl, those exceptions that prove the rule. Cyclists are dicks.

I muddled on, never resting long. These short days are doing me in. I would much rather take three or four six-mile walks than two ten- or twelve-mile ones. There is too the challenge of charging my computer which demands one very long break. Which I could just as well do at the end of the day if I can get used to camping in the dark.

I met on the road a Mr. Daniel Long Soldier. He stopped to offer me a ride. We chatted a bit on the side of the road. I could very well have been squished. But it was worth the risk; he was interesting. He makes traditional bows. They are rather rough but more or less like the ones from centuries ago. And long, not the stubby little bows I saw at the Custer museum. They didn't start making those until they got horses. The long ones are hard to ride with.

He said he got a buffalo with one of his bows. He must be a very good shot. Unless you hit him in just the right place it would probably just piss him off. They don't seem like the very friendliest creatures, even when you're not sticking them with arrows.

Mr. Long Soldier is too a Jehovah's Witness. He witnessed at me a bit. I didn't mind; I liked how he talked. And he kept it folksy and fresh. He was quick to admit that even he had enjoyed a sinful youth. He did not expect to save me then and there. His own salvation had taken years. I am hoping to run into him again a few more towns down the line.

I took my last rest on the county line. There was a nice park there. In the middle nowhere, a patch of grass and a big old cottonwood tree. And a swinging bench, much like a porch swing. It was a very nice place to sit. And put there, it seemed, for my own convenience. Nebraskans are a thoughtful bunch.

Somehow or other I made my quota, or did not come up too far short. I arrived in Hay Springs after seven o'clock, and not too much before dark. I needed fed and got a burger at the local saloon. It was good but it was crowded in there. But I got the dope; it turned out I could camp in the city park.

The woman at the gas station shared my understanding of the distinction between camping and what I do. Camping, of course, is not allowed, but if you aren't making s'mores it's OK.

"We don't have any police here, anyway. No one will say anything."

So here I am and glad to be here. It is not a bad little park. A couple of acres on one end of town. I didn't mind doubling back. There are all sorts of trees and even some light, which is a help in putting up my tent. And there are showers next to the pool. Those may be closed for the season. But I don't mind. Three showers in three days; I might develop pretensions.

Perspectives change as you work your way east. I was warned this was a very small town. "There's nothing there," I was told earnestly. But I am no longer in Montana. A small town in Nebraska has six or eight hundred people and a main street with angle-in parking. And businesses thriving and boarded up. And places to eat and a park.

Small towns in Montana are nothing more than a very small dot on your map. I have developed the habit of asking people if the next town up the road is "a real town," meaning can I get water and food there. That has until now been a fair question, but as far as I can tell, all the towns in Nebraska are real. And not so very widely spaced, either. This soft living is going to make me weak.


HAY SPRINGS, NEBRASKA has recently celebrated the 125th anniversary of its founding. Congratulations, Hay Springs.

A REAL ESTATE database informs us that detached houses here go for about forty-six grand, and that rents average $248/month. Reasonable. The main industry is farming, followed closely by ranching. There are no other industries.

THE SICKLY corn I've been seeing is supposed to look like that. It is designed to grow in dry weather. Like those free seeds Monsanto gives to Africa so they can sell them their patented fertilizer.

EVEN HERE people are concerned about the pine beetle. Let's just hope the spectacularly beautiful women of the U.S. Forest Service are keeping on top of things.

I CAUGHT ANOTHER reflection of my beard today. I have gone quite hobo-chic. It scares some folk but I'm keeping it. I earned it. It's mine.

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Day Ninety-Seven, Getting My Feed On

I got up at six-thirty, early enough. My horse came over to wake me. She is what they call a people person. I guess she wanted to play. She would scamper forward, then back away as if she were waiting for me to throw a frisbee. I patted her on the side of the neck. I've seen cowboys do that in movies. I would have liked to give her an apple or something. She was a very nice horse.

She is the first horse I've really gotten to know. I was wrong in many of my assumptions. The night before I thought she meant to murder me. I don't think that was true at all. And she was not jet black but a sort of grey brown. And she was not a boy. At least I don't think so. I know you can check but it did not seem decent or right.

It felt wrong to pack up and walk away. I was worried she might be lonesome. There were no donkeys; I had imagined them. The cows were all far away. But I could not let myself get emotionally attached, not after the heartache of the Forest Ranger. She is miles behind me and out of my life. I am left with only the scar.

And I was a little too close to the side of the road. It wasn't as bad as I thought. But there were much better places not too far away that I could not see in the dark. I had too, the night before, eaten the fries I'd been saving. And I had woke up hungry with nineteen miles between me and the next town.

I never know from day to day how hard my next walk will be. Rest, food, and sleep, that's what it takes. Today I was short on all three. And it was hot, blasted hot, though in the mid-eighties. I've met balmier 100-degree days. I guess it has to do with humidity or wind or just how well I feel that day.

Today I felt awful though I was not ill. I just felt horribly weak. My legs did not have any spring in them. I was sorely in need of a snack. And a nap too may have done me some good but I would have woken up weaker than ever. And likely sunburned. There are no trees out there. It was just me, the grass and the snakes.

I decided to banzai the first dozen miles. Damn but the walking was hard. I got my radio working but could not find good tunes. It was hot and my stomach was growling. A couple in a Cadillac offered me a ride. I settled for a can of soda.

Birch beer, it was called. It was coldish, at least. It tasted like peppermint root beer. Like the old folks used to cure all that ailed them. It came with a bag of beef jerky. Which I am still finding hidden between my teeth, though it saved my life at the time. Three- or four-hundred calories are better than none. I had walked less than eight miles.

It felt like twenty. I was wiped out. I struggled to walk a few more. If this were Montana I'd have wanted to quit. I refuse to be defeated by Nebraska. Though in truth the landscapes are much the same, that same treeless rolling prairie. It is a tiny bit greener here, though not so you'd notice. The hills have a softer look. And here and there was a cornfield, looking about as healthy as I felt.

In two-mile runs I made it to Highway 20, which I will be following for quite some time. By then I was but three miles from Chadron, Nebraska. And I couldn't walk another step. I collapsed in the shade of a semi-truck. I had hoped to ask the driver for water. But he was asleep and I guessed he needed his sleep as much as I needed something to drink.

There was there one of those historical landmarks that pop up along my trail. I always stop to read them. A little learning is not so dangerous a thing. This one offered more complaints about the Treaty of Laramie. I can see why the Indians are pissed. It gave all the Black Hills to the Sioux and its offshoots, and much of the surrounding plains.

This was a mere fraction of the land they once held, but in the scheme of things not a bad deal. It would have let them continue their way of life without being pestered by settlers. The U.S., in fact, assured the Indians that if any wagons did show up, all they had to do was call the Army and they would come run them off.

This arrangement lasted two or three years until the discovery of gold. Then all bets were off. Wounded knee, Little Big Horn, Custer himself. We've been all over that story. But it was perhaps new to Ian and his bride, tourists here from Australia.

Now it has been my great pleasure to pick on Australians over the years. They are a fairly humorless race. But these good people gave me water and grapes and I think what's called a nectarine. I have never been better enamored of fruit. I'd never tasted anything so good. And they gave me some cookies that they called biscuits. Don't laugh, it's an English thing.

I've known many Australians, some good and quite a few others. I've got a very funny story about an Australian girl which is not fit for publication. We are a great deal more like Australians than either of us would care to admit. Both countries were founded by the Wretched Refuse, and on the slaughter of aboriginal peoples. I am struck, though, how many tourists come here to see those parts of the United States which look pretty much like Australia.

We do have other landscapes, you know. Pretty much anything you'd like.

Should it interest you, biscuits have tiny holes in them. Cookies, on the other hand, do not. As for newtons, your guess is as good as mine. It might bear investigation.

When they left I got some more water from some folks in an enormous camper. Bigger than an interstate bus, it was. I did not give them my card. Because I meant to speak ill of them here. I do not wish to hurt their feelings. Though they were prune-faced snots who only gave me water because they thought I was going to murder them.

I was, I guess, looking just a little bit rough, crusted with sweat and filth. And my beard may be just a bit out of contol, though I maintain a very fine manner. I can no longer blame anyone for thinking that I am some sort of creepy hobo. Though with a few words they should be just as assured that I am a polite and well-educated creepy hobo.

Not these folks in their too large bus. It took all manner of pleading and gestures get them to open their window a crack. They just sat looking back and forth at each other, beseechingly. "What'll we do?!"

If you are that terrified of Americans, you should have stayed home in Oregon. Pay someone to travel the highways for you and send you picture postcards. Not everyone out here's an axe muderer. And in a world of likely victims, not every axe murder wants to kill you. It is, frankly, arrogant to think otherwise.

Thus refreshed, I set out up the hill, at last on Highway 20. It was my fond hope to make it to Chadron not later than five o'clock. All day on the radio I had been hearing the owner of the local Ford dealership inviting us all to a party. "Burgers, beans and bratwurst," he promised, in honor of their golden anniversary.

And Pepsi cola. It sounded good to me, though I am a Coke man myself. Still money is tight and it would get me fed. Service stopped at seven o'clock. But I thought of those idiot Oregonians, terrified in their Winnebago. I began to experience one or two doubts. I began to feel self-conscious.

It was my good luck at four-thirty or so to find a truck stop with a shower. These things tend to run you five or six bucks. This one would be only three. Though the lady did hesitate before telling the price. I may have got the hobo rate. Or more likely, they save on overhead by never much cleaning the shower.

Still though it was wonderful. Gosh i was a stinky mess. I hurried to make myself as pretty as I could in time for the bratwurst party. Which was, it turned out, a full mile and a half up the road, on the far edge of town. Which put me safely up over my quota. I had not wished to walk that far.

I did feel a bit out of place, but still. I had two hamburgers. And three bratwurst and a big scoop of beans, some pasta salad and a mountain of coleslaw. It was a great deal more than I needed to eat. I wanted my money's worth. I've gone all scrawny; my pants don't fit and I cannot afford to buy more.

Chadron (pop. 5634) is maybe the biggest city I've been to since Billings, but everyone there knew each other. There had been cake but that was all gone. They were old. They ate it all up. I found a spot with the guys from the garage. I can talk about Fords all day long.

Man, I am stuffed.

Leaving, I met Doris and Beverly. They recognised me by my hat. They had seen me walking yesterday. They offered me a spot for my tent. Which is where you find me now, anticipating a thunderstorm. There is too the promise of breakfast tomorrow, and my second shower in as many days. Angels, these gals, I'm proud to tell you. I hope I am hungry by then.


CHEERS TO everyone who fed me today, both civilian and commercial. I don't know that I would have made it without you. Now the rest of you, get down to Wahlstrom Ford and by a new car today.

SAFEWAY SUCKS. I am too sleepy to get into it, but take it from me, they suck. They suck worse than Super 8 Motels, which really suck. That should tell you how bad they suck. They suck mightily.

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