Day One-Hundred-Eighteen, Fur Hats

This fellow I spoke to--Don, I think his name was--inTilden, Nebraska said that some years back he and his young son took to sleeping in the tree fort. There was no trouble in the home. Winter was coming and they just wanted to see how long they could do it, to see how tough they were. Tough enough, I imagine. Don said the secret to cold weather survival is to train your cat to sleep on top of your bald head.

This is the sort of thing you have to be On the Road to learn. And appreciate. I have filed it away for future use but it doesn't do me much good now. I don't have a cat or a bald head. Or a son or a treehouse. All I've got is a tent and bitter feelings and a few symptoms of the flu.

Mere influenza cannot undo me. I don't as a rule catch cold. The trick is to deny it when it appears. It will soon enough go away. Your mind and body will conspire to cure you, rather than make you a liar. So I don't have the flu and I ain't going to get it. I am a superman.

My little computer, and it has been dishearteningly accurate about these things, says it is going to be 37 degrees tonight. It makes it 42 now. If this is 42 I do not want to know what 37 is going to be like. A lot like last night, I'm inclined to guess. I did not like that so much at all. It hurt my feelings. It made my toes ache. It took all the fun out of peeing.

I did find a Goodwill on the edge of Sioux City and invested in a new fleece pullover. It is a sad shade of green and covered in cat hair. It cost $3.75. It is thick and warm and the sleeves are long enough to pull over my fingers. I think it's money well spent. I wish I could find a pair of fleece pants. I would wear them to parties.

I do have my thermal underwear and a warmish brand of hat. And a fairly good sleeping bag. I may just survive yet. But I have come to appreciate the difference between survival and comfort. They'll sell you all manner of outdoor gear on the boast that it will keep you alive down to this temperature or that. But they never tell you how unpleasant it will be.

It will be unpleasant.

I didn't make a great deal of progress today. I am sure I fell short of my quota. But I was a little fluey and I am wearing new shoes. I needed too to recharge my computer. Which I did not wholly succeed in doing, but I should get through this brief essay. I do not intend to type at you long. My nose is starting to drip.

Drip.

My new shoes I guess are doing OK. I do have a shiny new blister. I haven't bothered to look at it yet. I've got worries enough. It will either be better or worse tomorrow. Such is the nature of life.

Drip.

Highway 20 in Iowa is a well used four-lane road. The paved shoulder is too narrow for walking. There is gravel on the side. It is fairly rough and would have killed me in my last shoes, but my new ones are a little heavier. But still my feet get knocked around quite a bit inside the shoe itself. Uneven surfaces are the devil. Blisters are his imps.

I had breakfast at a Perkins restaurant. I thought it was going to suck. I just wanted to get some coffee. I wanted to hold the warm mug. But it was nice, not expensive and the coffee was really good. The food was pretty but soulless. I've certainly eaten worse. They had some beautiful pies, as well, but I'm still fighting a wooze.

What really impressed me was my waitress. She was really good. It is a joy to see someone excel at their job. I speak in all seriousness. Her timing, her attitude, her skill with a tray. It was poetry. I doubt one in ten-thousand Americans are as good at their job as she is at hers. She should give seminars. I found myself wishing I had my own restaurant so I could hire her at twice the pay.

Of course the girl at the Goodwill was pretty competent too. Maybe it is just an Iowa thing. Maybe Iowans take pride in their work. Good for Iowa.

Anyway, I am a couple of miles past Moville, Iowa, camped in a small patch of trees. Not a great spot, but it'll do. There are critters without. Raccoons I guess, or maybe a skunk. No one I want sitting on my head.

I've got thirteen-odd miles between me and breakfast. Let's hope it's a stronger day. I've only to pee and then I can sleep. Damn, but it is cold outside. What would a NASA astronaut do in a stuation like this.

CHEERS TO the Man of God who bought me lunch and the snacks salesman who gave me free samples.

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Day One-Hundred-Seventeen, Iowa!

I have for decades suffered from insomnia, and not the usual kind. It is not so much that I can't fall asleep. It is more that I just don't want to. My mind is most active in the wee hours. It is when I get my boldest ideas. Thousands of them. I am overwhelmed by the noise. And I am plagued by many regrets. When I can I look for distractions.

I compose dialogues and doggerel rhymes. I calculate cube roots. Once not so very long ago I tried to Name All Fifty States. I was not successful. I had to put on the light and reach for a pencil and paper. I wrote them all down alphabetically. I pictured the map in my mind. But over the next two days I could never come up with more than forty-nine.

I began to suspect a conspiracy. Conspiracies do exist. They tell us there are fifty states, but has anyone checked to see? I was ashamed of myself when I figured it out. I'd gone and forgotten Nebraska.

I guess it means something to football fans but it is often overlooked. It just isn't so very arresting. It's the Delaware of the Midwest. But Nebraska will forever have a special place in my heart. I walked just about the length of the state. I enjoyed the time I spent there. The walking was good, the people were kind and the prices were not too too high. And I swear to golly, a good dozen people stepped up to buy me lunch.

Which did even more than lighten my heart. It saved me a great deal of money. And kept me fed and happy and healthy. And made me fond of all things Nebraska. Disparage that great state in my presence and I will give you what for.

Washington, I was already fond of. Montana kicked my ass. I was just a few days in Idaho and but a long afternoon in Wyoming. In South Dakota I stuck to the pretty parts; I can't speak for the rest of the state. But Nebraska is now a part of me and me a part of it. I couldn't be better pleased.

I woke up in Homer and had a nice breakfast. I didn't go overboard. I had woken up several times with a very strong urge to throw up. You cannot, it seems, run a railroad on hotdogs and onion rings. And other things fried and a can of beer and a two- or three-day-old donut. I was fighting back a powerful wooze but I did not want to mess up their park. They had been so kind to let me stay. It would not have been at all proper.

A good hearty breakfast settled me some. I climbed back onto the road. And hiked thirteen miles, almost nonstop, to South Sioux City, Nebraska. North the whole way, you understand. That's just how things worked out.

It had been my intention to rejoin Highway 20 and follow it across the bridge. But at that point it had teamed with an interstate. It wouldn't accomodate me. So I had to keep moving, five miles north to what is known as the Pretty Bridge. It lights itself up blue at night. This afternoon it was just sort of bridge colored.

I had wanted to walk east into Iowa. The Pretty Bridge runs north and south. Before I crossed I stopped to use the mensroom at McDonald's. A fellow gets used to the wilderness life. You can pee anywhere. City walking involves strategy and a lot more self control.

I haven't been in a McDonald's for years. I remembered I quite like their shakes. But they're different now; they're not as good. I ordered a burger, as well. A mushroom Swiss, from their luxury line. Good Jimminy, it was foul. How on earth do they stay in business. They ought to be ashamed of themselves.

I did meet some nice people. Being Nebraskans, they insisted on buying me lunch. I am afraid I repaid them by shocking them speechless by telling them a dirty joke. Sorry. It wasn't obscene, I swear to you, and it illustrated a point. But I too soon forget that not everyone has lived my Godless life.

One fellow there was 88 years old. In 1942 he was ready to get drafted. He thought he should see a bit of America first so he spent thirty dollars on a Model A and drove it to California. I wish I could have heard more about it. It was a bold thing to do. This was, you remember, before decent roads and mechanical reliability.

He worried his mother and when he got home his draft board made him 4f. "We want to win this war," they told him. "Go home. We don't want you."

Or that's how he tells it. He got the last laugh. He's old but still going strong. And has within him that peculiar bug that makes people Walk Across America. And climb high mountains and create art and now and again fall in love.

The wide Missouri is not too too wide at the point where I crossed it. It was a whole lot bigger than it was in Montana. It was wider a few months back. A nice city park on the Iowa side was pretty well wiped out. I crossed through it on my way into town. Some workmen told me to leave. I was just following the sidewalk. It's not my fault I tresspassed on their soggy park. Put up a sign, for Heaven's sake. Some welcome to Iowa.

That bit of Sioux City has little to offer, now that their park is gone. There's what looks like a basketball stadium. The rest is industry. Stinking and decrepit. There are piles of debris and smoke from a rendering plant. The cracked and crumbling concrete streets reminded me of New Delhi.

I had a pretty rough five miles overland to get to the shopping mall. A nice girl at the Ramada Inn gave me fantastic directions. Not many people have that skill. She could see it from my situation. Walking is much different than driving a car. I would have been lost without her.

But even with her good help and her handy map it was not such easy going. Sioux City, Iowa's almost as big as Spokane and it is not designed for walking. You have to get creative in spots and the people in passing cars look at you like you're a weirdo.

I hit the mall and bought shoes in record time. They had an excellent selection. Every brand of hiking boot. I got the best ones I could afford. And if they don't work out they'll be dead in a month. That's just the nature of things. I left my Nebraska boots behind. They had walked as far as they could.

I was all but ready to sleep indoors, but I found again Highway 20. I made it to the edge of town and am camping hobo style. Civilisation surrounds me. They don't know I'm here. I am a man with skills.

It is meant to be another cold night. I am inclined to believe them this time. But I'll survive. I always do. Like the cockroach, only taller.

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Day One-Hundred-Sixteen, D'oh!

Again I slept until eight o'clock. I had been up fairly late. And I had put up my tent on what looked soft lawn but was in fact some very hard ground. It like to have bruised my tender bits and caused me all manner of suffering.

I was all packed up by nine or so and walked back up through town. It was my pleasure to meet the mayor's wife and/or girlfriend. She came out of her home to wish me well. I respond well to encouragement. It was a nice way to start the day.

A paved road took me to Highway 77, where I had breakfast at a gas station. It wasn't exactly the biscuits & gravy of better days, but I managed to get myself stuffed. I had a donut and a pre-made sandwich of sorts, and some coffee, and some Coke and a hot dog. Junk food, I suppose you would call it. It all burns up just the same. Indeed the hot dog was pretty good. I could have eaten nine of them.

Highway 77 is a well-used stretch. There were all kinds of trucks. It runs up the middle of that big square of land that makes up the Omaha and Winnebago Indian Reservations. There is corn and soybeans and quite a few trees. There's a river somewhere about. The road passes over rolling hills. It winds about just a bit. Past well kept farms and friendly cows. It was not such a very bad walk.

In the morning it was threatening to rain and even did for a spell. But by afternoon the sun came out to reveal a not unpleasant fall day. Five or six miles took me past Walthill, the principal city of the Omaha. But I wasn't so hungry and it was a ways off the road. I'd got a late start. I moved on.

So I can't tell you anything about the people who live there. The Omaha are one brand of Sioux. Their farms look prosperous. It's a trim little town. I'll visit next time I Walk Across America.

Another seven miles took me to Winnebago, Nebraska, of the Winnebago tribe. Unlike most of the Indians in this part of the country, they are not Sioux. They started out on the far edge of Wisconsin and then were shoved into Minnesota. Then into another part of Minnesota until they finally wound up here. The government took away half the land they had promised the Omaha and gave it to them. It's kind of an Israel/Palestine thing. They've been at war ever since.

Or at least they don't very much like each other, neighbors though they may be. These days they're just sort of cold to each other. I don't think much brawling goes on. Then again, it might. In the end it comes down to whose stories you want believe.

Winnebago the town is doing alright. They've got a beautiful hospital and 900 people and they have their very own casino. That's where I had my lunch. More junk food, I'm afraid to say. I did half charge my computer. And left the place with plenty of time to get to Homer, within striking range of Sioux City.

But I ran into the Briggs Brothers in the parking lot. They invited me to their car for a beer. I thought, what the hell; they were interesting. They are men in their sixties. One of them looks like Larry David, the other like Ben Kenobi. Or like the two distinct halves of my very own soul. It was like having a beer with myself.

They were up to the casino to gamble. I enjoyed talking to them. We had three conversations, all at once, huddled in their little car. They were most hospitable. A good time was had by all. I left an hour later, bleary eyed and dry mouthed, with a jones for some onion rings. And feeling most philosophical and in the jolliest humor. I had a not unpleasant seven-mile stroll to the village of Homer, Nebraska.

Homer is a town of some 400 people. That's about as many as it needs. It is fully contained with hundreds of houses. Their Main Street is up and running. 400 seems to be the magic number for creating a vibrant community. I bellied up at Bob's Saloon and ordered some onion rings.

Bob hadn't given much thought to naming his bar when he applied for his liquor license. You've got to name it something, he was told. "Uh... Bob's Saloon?" And so it was sealed. I think it's a good name for a bar. Bob is a large and friendly fellow. I wish him every success.

Onion rings are something of a luxury for me. They cost more than fried potatoes. And usually you get only four or five. Not at Bob's, I say. They brought me a heaping basket of them. Just what I needed, when I needed it.

I spoke too with John, a local businessman and master wood turner. He filled me in on things. He has the distintion of being the only person born in Homer, Nebraska. Recently, at any rate. Most folks are born in Iowa. That, you see, is where the hospital is. He, though, was born in town. I did not ask about the circumstances. Now I wish I had.

Find me now camped in Homer Park. I do not have official permission. But everyone I spoke with thought it would be fine. I expect this will be my last night in Nebraska. I will rather miss the place.

HIGHWAY 77 has a smooth wide shoulder, littered with dead raccoons. And pieces of them, thoroughly sqooshed. And the front half of a skunk.

COYOTES are howling not so far off. It really upsets the dogs.

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Day One-Hundred-Fifteen, Fame

I slept ten full hours. I guess I was tired. My tent site was lumpy as hell. But as sometimes happens, the lumps were well placed. I woke up at eight o'clock.

To another beautiful day. There was not a cloud in the sky. I could see high above a few airplanes, headed for this place or that. I suppose I've flown over Nebraska myself, and never really paid it much mind. But today I felt sorry for those sorry souls. Nebraska is the one place to be.

It took its time climbing into the eighties. It was nice to be uncomfortably warm. I had a sixteen mile walk into Bancroft, Nebraska. My next source of nourishment. But it wasn't so bad; the weather was fine and my little radio is working again. I got NPR out of Omaha. It really made the time fly.

For intelligent programming and good interviews, you really can't beat NPR. You don't have to wait until pledge time, you know. Go ahead, send 'em a check. For the Car Talk guys alone. Them boys is a national treasure.

A mile short of Bancroft a truck pulled up. A nice lady gave me ice tea. She was Jo, with Blake, her strapping son. It was awfully decent of them. I don't know what profit there is in doing nice things for strangers. But we strangers do appreciate it. Most of us, I am sure there're some grouches, but nine times out of ten you win. Now I know I'm not the first one to think of it; Jesus went on and on about this sort of thing. But there is something to be said for Loving Your Neighbor, even if he does have a beard.

Jo did bring bad news, bless her generous heart, "The bridge is out, you know."

I did not, as a matter of fact. It is the bridge I was making for. There was some flooding a while back. It made something of a hole. I knew it was a possibility. I just put it out of my mind. I try not to dwell on the negative. This time it came back to bite me.

I decided to ponder it all over lunch at the Bancroft pub and restaurant. It has a name; I don't recall it now. It's under new management. You can't miss it. It's on Main Street, a pretty good walk from my road. But I was ready for that investment. I was pretty hungry by then.

It is quite a big place, bigger than need be in a town of 400 people. There was a very pretty girl behind the bar and four older gents playing poker. They turn up there every afternoon. I spoke a bit with the winner. He had fleeced his companions for 35-cents. Let's hope they do better tomorrow.

They were supportive of and interested in this peculiar journey of mine. And thought it might be newsworthy. They phoned the local paper. I protested but somewhat weakly. It's high time I got some press. No Walk Across America is truly official until it appears in print.

The reporter turned up a minute later. She was, do forgive me, quite old. Or quite a bit older than what you'd think your typical newshound might be. But sh had a yellow pad and pen and asked me all sorts of questions. I answered while I was eating my lunch. I hope she doesn't report on my manners.

She was Ms. Vogt, pronounced "vote", especially at election time. That's at her insistence, not my own. I merely do the reporting. I don't know that what I'm doing is newsworthy, but I'll take her at her word. She took my picture and paid for my lunch. When I left she gave me a hug.

I don't know whether this all falls within the bounds of journalistic ethics, but I cannot help thinking that if young Woodward and Bernstein had adopted similar tactics they wouldn't have struggled so. And I was game and very much cheered. And, at the editor's discretion, soon to be a household word in one small town in Nebraska.

I will not, I don't think, let it go to my head. Fame is a fleeting thing. And I will have moved on by then. I am at this time headed north.

"North?" you ask. "You're a madman! Winter is coming, you know." And I thank you for your kind concern. North works out better for me. I've got places to go in Iowa, and I still very much need new shoes. Which I am hoping I'll find in Sioux City. I think that's a pretty big town. I hope I find them without hiking all over hell, but I'll let you know when I get there.

I stopped on the edge of town to replenish my bread and cheese supply. I got bagels and a brick of cheddar. At small town prices, it rather stung. But there's a cost to staying alive. Then it was north through the cornfields, again on dirt farm roads. All the locals know this shortcut. There were all sorts of cars. Most of the drivers were careful and polite, but some drove like Bo and Luke.

I was headed for Rosalie. Not many folks make it this far. It is a town of 200 people. I planned to put up in their park. A mile from town I met Ernie the Trashman. He really made me smile. He looked like a cross between Tom Arnold and Jack Elam. "You're a crazy f***er," he said.

Which ain't so far from the truth. I was glad to have met him, and glad for the welcome to town. I quite like these hidden communities, far from any highway. You would never guess that they exist, but somehow or other life goes on. They've got a water tower and a saloon. And a number of big mean dogs.

It was a chance to test my theory that any dog can be stopped in its tracks simply by saying "Dog!" in the right tone of voice. It worked three times, but I think two of them were on chains and the third was a coward at heart.

I made my way to the saloon to ask where the park was. People have such big beautiful lawns. And there are so many trees. The whole town's a park. The bartender was ugly and rude. He was kind of a big guy. He glowered at me. I'm kind of a big guy. I glowered back. I resented his effort to spoil my belief that Nebraskans are all nice people.

So it was with a heavy heart that I walked to the park. He had indicated it with a jerk of his thumb. And then at the park an electronic voice all at once started shouting at me. "You are tresspassing! You are tresspassing!" Again and again. I had tripped some kind of a sensor. It was like something out of Mission Impossible. Screw Rosalie, I thought.

It was by then getting dark but I didn't care. I wanted nothing to do with their snotty town. I figured I'd go camp in a cornfield. I headed back the way I came. And then when I was almost free of the place I heard a man shouting "Hey!"

Now what, I thought. I had had quite enough. Someone was going to get thumped. But it was one of the gents from the poker game. I unloaded my troubles on him.

"The bartender is always like that," he said. "We pretty much just ignore him. You can camp in the park as far as I'm concerned." That was not good enough for me.

"I'm the mayor," he added as an aside. I proudly shook his hand. And fell in love with Rosalie all over again. I have here some powerful connections. I am now camped comfortably in the park. I expect to have good dreams. Goodnight.


ROSALIE is on the Omaha Indian Reservation, but not many Indians live here. They sold off the land years ago and no one is offering it back. There are Indian towns, too, which I'll visit tomorrow. The Winnebago Reservation is right next door. I don't know anything about either tribe. I hope I find someone to ask.

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Day One-Hundred-Fourteen, Sun

I was asleep for a good nine hours. I could have slept nine or ten more. It wears you out, avoiding work and shirking responsibility. And shoe shopping. That one's a killer. It'll bring a strong man to his knees.

I'd put my tent in amongst the trees. Gosh it got dark back there. The fog and the rain quite obscured the stars. It wasn't so awfully cold. Still I was slow in packing up. Some days you just don't have the strength. It really is a pain in the ass. I've got to get me a valet. Or a Sherpa. Or a positive attitude and a more energetic soul.

Despite the promises of almost a week the sun was nowhere to be seen. The world was shrouded in a thickish fog that did not quite reach the ground. My road took me more or less due east, up and down rolling hills. Up. Then down. Then up again. Each looked quite like the next. There was no sense of progress. There was plenty of corn. And one or two friendly cows.

I stopped several times, every mile or two, to eat more bread and cheese. And to break the monotony. You get bored after a while. And somehow my pack felt lopsided. My back was bothering me some. It didn't hurt but it felt like it might. I've been fairly lucky so far. The only injury I've suffered is a broken heart. Trust me, you get used to that.

And I bear no grudges. I have nothing but the utmost respect and admiration for the brave men and women of the United States Forest Service. They work hard, mean well, have beautiful eyes and smile that would melt your heart.

Some hours in, I sensed the sun. I couldn't see it but I knew it was there. And ten minutes later it had cooked off the fog and revealed a clear blue sky. Ornamented here and there with white fluffy clouds of the sort a child might draw. It was beautiful. I thought I might cry. It was by then one p.m.

And I was out of water. I've been carrying the same superfluous half-gallon since Valentine. But today I drank it up with eight more miles to town.

Now you can walk eight miles without water. You can walk it without shoes or socks. But I can be highly suggestible when it comes to dying of thirst. I start thinking I might and my throat goes dry and soon it starts to swell shut. If I'd had anything else on my mind I wouldn't have noticed at all.

I stopped at a friendly farmhouse. A nice lady filled up my jug. Her husband had a grand moustache. They had a lot of cats. Being so close to the highway, the poor things often get squished. So rather than risk one day being without, they like to keep a few in reserve.

From there it was down the road to Pilger. It was a mile out of my way. But I had a burger in the saloon. Everyone was real nice. But I couldn't linger. I was back on the road in something under an hour. And I no longer need thirty-nine Cokes, now that it's not so hot.

I left Pilger (pronounced Pill-grrr, not Pill-jurr) on a back road. Dirt. It was lined with corn. There were very few cars but every one slowed so the people inside could stare. I was starting to feel just a little self-conscious, like I had cheese in my beard.

I had grown quite accustomed to my Cowboy Trail. A dirt road's the next best thing. It is strange after so many days on my own to have traffic roaring by. My favorite place to walk is still on sidewalks. I hardly meet those at all. If I were an Internet billionaire, I'd build a sidewalk across America.

And no one could use it but me.

And people I like. And people I would like if I ever met them. And people I hate just a little. And their friends.

I am now on Highway 51 east, or camped artfully beside it. It is getting harder to find good spots. It is lucky I've got hobo skills. Safe, not too cold and invisible, fifteen feet off the road.

It is not a very well travelled road, not on late Sunday afternoons. I hope it is every bit as empty tomorrow. There is no shoulder at all. I am almost out of cheese. My next meal is yet sixteen miles away. Unless I want to eat tinned weeners, which between you and me, I don't.


MY DIRT Road took me past several feed lots. It let me avoid several more. They are stinking and awful places. The cows--steers, I guess they are--look at me pleadingly. The food's good but they don't like it there. They want me to let them go.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirteen, Tonight

I woke up at seven o'clock, remarkable for a motel. I did not get to sleep until two or three. Again, that's fairly early. I could have done with more sleep, but that's how it goes. I'll make up for it tonight.

I availed myself of the free continental breakfast. Of that I have little to say. They were very kind to me at the EconoLux. It's the finest hotel in the world. But I feel for those folks on the continent. They really don't eat so well.

Even with my quick start I was in my room until a minute past checkout time. I couldn't help it. It was so warm in there. I could not tear myself away. I was on my bed watching the Weather Channel, entertaining dark thoughts. The sunshine they've been promising me for days did not appear on their radar.

It was foggy outside and threatening rain. It remained that way all day. No doubt the black clouds were up there somewhere, hovering just out of sight. It was not too too cold but it was windy. I walked over to the mall.

Norfolk, Nebraska is a goodish town, home to twenty-four thousand people. Which is, comparatively speaking, a metropolis and the biggest town I've been in for months. In the small towns they're inclined to welcome me, as a curiosity if nothing else. In Norfork I felt a little bit silly walking around with my pack. And my baggy clothes and my safety hat and my own version of a beard. Children stopped and stared open mouthed until their mothers hustled them away.

I felt sillier still in a shopping mall. Malls have their own set of rules. People dress up to go shopping, whether they admit it or not. What's worse is that though I was thoroughly bathed, I was wearing my same stinky clothes. Anyone wondering if I was a hobo need only have taken a whiff.

It is a small mall. I went to every shoe store, then every shoe store in town. No joy. The shoes I am wearing are melting right off my feet. They are not paining me or upsetting my stride, but I fear they may be on the verge of what the engineers call a Catastrophic Failure.

Duck tape. Duct tape. Zip ties and paste. Spit and baling wire. I'll MacGyver 'em if I have to. I'm going to be just fine.

I very much hate shopping for shoes. I know some people think it is fun. Women, I believe they are called. They're awful pretty but still. I can easily think of three or four things that I would rather do. Not least because new shoes bring with them a new hundred miles of pain. And they cost a lot more than anything should that wears out after a month.

Giving up on shoes I hiked to the laudromat. It is nice to have clean clothes. And it was warm in there. There were little kids zooming around on the carts. I have very faint memories of being bored out of my skull at laundromats. They are no place for children. But I've got to say I quite like them now. They're warm. There are chairs. It is soothing. And you meet the nicest folks, often a segment of the population you will not see anywhere else.

By then I figured it was time to eat. I popped into a bar for a burger. And thirteen Cokes, more out of habit than in any reflection of thirst. Nebraska was playing the Washington Huskies in some sort of football game. It is huge around here; everyone on the street wears red in support of their team. I actually attended the University of Washington. I didn't give a rat's ass who won.

Though now I hope that it was the Washington Huskies. Football fans give me the creeps. It is an asinine game, too slow of pace, that glorifies man at his worst. Baseball may be every bit as dull, but at least it is gentlemanly.

Then it was time to get out of Dodge. It was by then four p.m. If I'd stuck around a minute longer I knew I'd be back in the motel. I just can't afford it, money or time. I only wish that I could. I'll spent my last and best years watching TV with a banjo in my lap.

I headed up 275 in the cold and the fog and the wind and the dark. For no good Christian reason it had gone to four lanes, with no shoulder at all. That meant I had to walk in the grass with the prickle burrs and the snakes. The latter of which are frozen stiff, but they crunch unpleasantly under foot.

I crossed a river and the landscape changed. There were all at once hills and trees. That always makes me a little uneasy. I get used to things as they are. And I lose my rhythm in these big cities. I was sure I'd find no place to camp.

And the fog was getting thicker. It was getting dark. To the side I saw a sign, ROAD CLOSED. Some unpaved farm road, off into the trees. It should have said, JAMES! CAMP HERE!

So I did. It was only after I got my tent up that I realised it was just 5:30. Oops. I could have walked another ten miles. But it is raining now and I'm snug and well-fed. We'll worry about walking tomorrow.

NORFOLK is pronounced "Norfork" by old-timers, "Norfolk" by the newer breed. I was for a long time uncertain which one was correct. I was reluctant to pronounce it at all. I would call it "Uh, you know, that town up the road" or contract it into something like "Norf'uck". Which was embarrassing for everyone. Nobody knows how I suffer.

I PASSED a farmers' market, on the way to the mall and bought some fancy bread. And some zucchini bread from a very old woman. She was charging two dollars a loaf. It has to cost her twice that much to bake it and bring it to town. Damn it's good. I should have bought more, but I did not want to bankrupt the gal.

JOHNNY CARSON grew up here. He is still highly regarded. For our international friends, he is like our Winston Churchill.

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Day One-Hundred-Twelve, Shrouds

I woke up betimes but did not leave my tent. It was not cowardice; it was calculation. I was sure the sun would come out. It did not. It was another blustery day. I set out in search of breakfast.

Across the Trail I found the Udder Cafe, or Shoppe or Place or something. You'll know it when you see it; it's on Highway 275 and painted to look like a cow. And they put up a fairly impressive breakfast. The people are friendly and kind.

I sat down to a mere breakfast and a half. I was not in a two breakfast mood. I chatted some with Don and Scott, local Republicans. Gosh, but it was cozy in there. I was willing to stay there all day. There were lots of old folks who are always so kind. Friend Scott it seems paid for my breakfast. Thank you, sir.

I quite liked Tilden. I can't say just why. It is just a nice little town. There are maybe a thousand people or so and every one of them was nice to me. And the very next day was the Ribs Festival, a great barbeque in the streets. I imagine there would be beer, as well. I was offered a warm place to stay. But the road, the damnable road, has its first claim on me.

Winter.

I continued on my Cowboy trail. I couldn't say what time it was. My one watch died just east of Wenatchee and the sun was nowhere to be seen. There were roiling black clouds, low to the ground. It kept things pretty dark all day. It was as if it were perpetually seven p.m. and just about to get dark. It is disorientating. I did keep me moving. I was sure it would very soon rain.

It did not. Nor did it snow. I would not have been surprised if it did. There was no smell of snow in the air but it did have a grey snowy feel. What houses I passed had bedsheets and blankets spread over their vegetable gardens. I suppose it is just a matter of time before they place such a shroud over me.

Five miles on I passed Meadow Grove. I couldn't say if I stopped. With all due respect to the good people there, these towns are quite running together. Ah, now I remember, another nice little town, very small indeed. I asked if they had a laudromat. They did not. I moved on.

I am down to my last pair of shorts and the socks that hurt my feet. And, as everything has been damp, there has been a most unpleasant smell. A mustiness, overlayed with ammonia. I am hesitant to claim it as my own. Yet I am sure other people assign it to me. It precedes me wherever I go.

Stinking Across America. Please follow my adventures.

There was a laundromat on the east end of Tilden. I knew I must not stop there. I was in danger of spending the next six months there. It was all so cozy and warm. And I was determined to make it to Norfolk, Nebraska, twenty-two miles away. I'd had a very late start but that mattered not. There was nowhere to rest on the trail. Nowhere out of the wind and cold. There was nothing to do but walk.

You work up a sweat whether it's hot out or not. You have to keep that heat going. If you stop for more than a very few minutes you'll be very cold indeed. You'll get cranky. You'll feel sorry for yourself. You, I mean. Not me.

The Cowboy Trail split wide from the highway and took me to Battle Creek. I was surprised to see it was thriving town of some one-thousand souls. It is well off the road, kind of hidden back there. They don't much seem to mind. They have got a bustling seed corn plant and a brand new library. And a new high school. Folks from Norfolk are moving there to escape from big city life.

I should have stopped and had some lunch. But it was by then four o'clock. And they had fed me so very well in Tilden I didn't need any more. So on I went in the grey and gloom, with twelve more miles to go.

Five miles later my trail died. I guess a bridge was out. They spend a fortune maintaining the thing and I'm the only one who uses it. I found myself on a narrow farm road. I had no idead where I was. The corn was so high beside the road that I could not see anything.

I figured it out. I asked directions. I took good advice from Google. And made it to the edge of Norfolk, where I was detained by the law. Pulled over, rousted, forced to explain. Looked on with broad suspicion. I tell you it is disheartening and no proper welcome to town.

The guy was real nice about it. Someone had called me in. A red raincoat and a yellow hat. It suggest terrorism. Deputy Schmitz, I think he was called. He wore Coke-bottle glasses and a special pin that made him a firearms instructor. He was self-effacing and very polite, like the Canadians you see on TV.

Still, I object. I don't like producing ID. Pedestrianism is not a crime. And I was headed to a motel. Those Law & Order reruns aren't going to watch themselves.

I checked in to the EconoLux some time later. It is nice to be indoors. I enjoyed a three-minute swim in their very small pool and sat a bit in their spa. And had three baths and five showers and spread out my gear to dry. Life's good.

And I took full advantage of their generous Walking Across America discount. Let's give 'em a small plug here. EconoLux. Norfolk, Nebraska. The finest hotel in the world.
Goodnight.

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