Day One-Hundred-Forty-Six, Nanook

The autumn leaves here are perhaps less beautiful than I have led you to believe. Of course I never meant to deceive you. I have limited powers of description. I say autumn leaves and leave it at that. I let you form your own picture. Likely of the leaves in, say, Vermont, with their vivid reds and yellows.

There are reds here, and yellows, as well. Here and there you might see an orange. But the predominant colour, such as it is, is something you might call rust. In all of its shades, don't get me wrong, but none of them particularly vivid. They all have a vaguely muddy tinge. Any postcard would be touched up.

Which is not to say they're not nice to see. There is some variety. And it may be yet early. Many of the trees remain a stubborn green. But some are altogether bare. I couldn't say which is which. You might be better served in this case by someone who knew something of Nature.

For me a tree is a tree is a tree. Same with birds and anything furry. Nor am I able to well describe the features of the land. Or the clouds or the sky or anything too much to do with Nature. But I wonder if those who can write of such things are really getting it right. Or if they're just better at taking credit for the pictures we form on our own.

This morning I woke in amongst the trees. The sky was once again blue. Bluer, perhaps. Looking up through the trees everything was in sharp focus. Every beetle, every twig, the rusty leaves, the very sky itself. The air was today amazingly clear. That is what cold looks like.

Not the damp cold of the past few days. That's Nature's way of cheating. I can make you cold on a summer day by pouring water on your head. This was a real cold, an honest cold, a cold without pretense. Dangerous, perhaps, but beautiful. I've known some women like that.

Fewer than you'd think, if I may digress. Most beautiful women are good. They grow up free of the vanity that comes from being ugly. They accept their Beauty as a matter of course. They'll admit to it if you ask. It is ugliness in its forms that causes all your pain.

As I was saying, it was a beautiful day. Everything was so well defined. I passed a Chevy dealer on way into town. Even it was pretty. The road, the dirt, the cigarette butts. It was all beautiful.

I breakfasted at the Linn, Missouri McDonald's. It was the closest place to my tent. And as lovely as things were out of doors I wanted to warm my toes. It was cheap and not so awfully bad. Their biscuits were a little doughy. And I was soon after hungry again. It did not stick to my ribs.

One thing rather interested me. It was teeming with old people. Whom I usually enjoy talking to, but these old folks were busy. They were playing bingo. Dozens of them. At McDonald's. At eight a.m. A few of them looked like they wanted to talk, but they stayed true to their game.

I had sausage and eggs and pancakes and a biscuit. It came on a styrofoam tray. It reminded me so much of airplane food I kept my elbows tucked in. Like a T-rex eating corn on the cob. Like a grown man in economy class.

They have an odd take on hash browns. They came as a sort of wafer. It tasted fine. It was duly crispy. It just looked a little odd. Like the food they give our brave astronauts, who wash it all down with Tang.

Poor, miserable, space-exploring bastards.

I found a supermarket next door and re-upped my bread and cheese. That place was full of old people as well; banned from bingo, I guess. For what indiscretion, I dared not ask. They complained quite a bit of the cold. But I didn't. I know if I'm cold, it's my very own fault.

From there I hiked up to Linn proper. I had been I guess in the suburbs. Linn was up on the top of the hill. I don't know how many people live there. It is home to a large technical college, training airplane and diesel mechanics. And others, one is bound to suppose. I am too cold to look it up.

Their second industry in funeral homes. They bookended my laundromat. Which itself is scheduled to be torn down in order to make room for a third. I suppose it makes bargain shopping easy, having them all together like that. But I don't like to think too much about death. Death, thank you, makes me sad.

And afraid. Not least as I walk east on fabulous Highway 50. It's a pretty road, winding over steep hills, separated by deep hollows. Narrow, though, with blind corners and no shoulder to speak of. And traffic moving at eighty per. I did not spend much time looking at scenery. It was all I could do to look after myself. It was a scary day.

I usually get the sense that most drivers, whatever their skill or ineptitude, would just as soon not squish me dead. Not so here. Here they all think I'm an idiot for walking on their road. If I were to die it would confirm their belief and make them feel better about themselves.

It is not though for me to build their self-esteem. Let them go on in self-loathing. The speed limit here is sixty, I believe. That must be a population control thing. Anywhere else it would be forty, I swear. Folks would go fifty and live. Here they drive at seventy-five. I bet there are all kinds of wrecks.

You know whom I am becoming ever more disgusted with? People with jacked-up trucks. They'd be fine for stadium races or exhibitions at county fairs. But hey're too tall to be of much use on the farm and they bounce all over the road. And they instill in their drivers a sort of swagger that I don't think is wholly deserved. Bunch o' puny little compensatin' chipmunk-murderin' morons.

Not too many miles up the road I stopped at a saloon for a burger. The Shack, it was called. "It looks like a shack." But on the inside it's real nice. And it was warm in there and the food was good and the people were kind to me. There seem to be fewer saloons these days. It reminded me of warmer times.

I lingered there as I had at McDonald's. As I did at the laudromat. I don't think I made fifteen miles today. I was dreading what was up the road. Nightfall. That's what was scaring me. The putting up of my tent. For tonight is the first night of all my trip that's going to drop below freezing. And me outdoors. What an idiot. Nobody knows how I suffer.

But I found a good spot for my tent. I'm bundled up and zippered in. There's every chance I'll be perfectly fine. So far, I say, so good.


IT HAS SINCE been confirmed that there are indeed armadillers in Missouri. They started showing up five years ago, as part of a great migration. But as far as I know, no one has ever seen a live one. One theory has it that Texans scrape them off their own highways, then throw them out their windows, like frisbees, on their way through this state.

THE COYOTES are howling, like most nights, only a bit nearer by. And the cows are mooing bitterly about how cold they are. And there are plenty of critters in the dry leaves, all around my tent. Skunks, as likely as not. I saw a pretty one today. He was white and black instead of black and white. It was a good look for a skunk.

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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-Hundred-Forty-Four, Jeff City

It stormed all night, lightning and thunder. I was up until two or so. When I did fall asleep I slept until nine, just like the good old days. It has become my habit to wake with the sun. The sun did not rise today.

Oh, it was up there somewhere, I guess. You couldn't prove it by me. The sky stayed grey; it sprinkled some, but it never really rained. It was cold and gloomy and sad, but I maintained my good cheer. Anyone who knows me knows that I am all about Positive Thought.

I had a good spot, up on a cliff, overlooking the freeway. I could see them but they couldn't see me. I might have stayed there all day. But I did pack up and I did walk, twelve miles to Jefferson City.

Damn, it was hairy. These roads were not made with your good pedestrian in mind. There are on ramps and off ramps and interchanges for me to find my way through. It was all very mathematical, and demanded some strategy. I coped, you understand, but I found it all very taxing. My intellect is better suited to poetry and random, abstract thought.

There was a fine bridge across the Missouri. Two, as a matter of fact. Side by side with a bicycle path running along one side. Of course no one had thought to tell me about it. I crossed it on the shoulder. With cars and trucks muddying up my elbows and people staring at me.

"What's with that idiot?" they seemed to say. "Why don't he use the bike path?"

Next time I Walk Across America I will. Now I'm just glad to be alive. And unmolested by law enforcement, and not committed against my will. Fortune Favors the Bold, they say. You get bonus points if you're dumb.

So I've crossed the Wide Missouri once more, here as wide as it's ever been. And lined on both sides with autumn leaves with barge traffic in the middle. I quite like to see things moving on barges. It seems almost old-fashioned. It is nice to think that it is still a good way to get your goods to market.

Only upon seeing the capitol dome was I reminded that Jefferson City is the capital of Missouri. I guess I am meant to know these things. I am sure I did once. It is home to forty-odd thouand people, spread across high bluffs. It seems like an old city but it didn't exist when Lewis & Clark paddled by.

I was rather chilly by the time I got there. I had started to shiver some. I parked myself in a coffee shop and stayed there for three hours. Better it had been a laundromat, but laundromats don't serve quiche. I got barely the hint of a charge on my computer while I puzzled over my maps.

I do not know where I am going from here. The roads to the south are a mess. It is causing me a great deal of unease. I have never much cared for stress. Some people thrive on it, I know, but most of them are jerks.

It did not get any warmer while I was indoors. It took some courage to go on. I overheard people complain of the cold and thought how they don't understand. I am the cold. I live it. It seems to pour right out of my heart. Enjoy what little warmth there is or I'm going to make it snow.

Walking did not get easier as I worked my way out of the city. Traffic was heavy. There was no shoulder. I was walking on spongy grass. Which would have made a soft spot for my tent but was tiring to walk through. A sidewalk would have warmed my heart if not my brittle toes.

I stopped again at a McDonald's, not to eat but to recharge. I am still running on the faintest spark. If I disappear do know why. But suspect the worst; your groundless worries flatter me all to hell. We're all going to die sooner or later. I want to believe I'll be mourned.

I didn't make it but a few more miles. It was a seventeen-mile day. Plus a few more hiking to and fro. I'll try to do better tomorrow. But I still haven't the faintest idea where I'm going, nor do I know how to get there. I wish to heck the sun would come out. It makes things brighter somehow.

Find me again on the side of the highway, not too very far east of town. I have a bad feeling about the place but that may be the general gloom. I passed a WalMart a couple miles back. I may have to go there tomorrow. And see if they can sell me shoes. Mine have gone and exploded.

It will drop into the thirties tonight. It will be colder still tomorrow. And even colder the day after that. Then it is meant to be warm. We'll see, we'll see. I do miss the sun. I wish I knew where I was going. Goodnight.

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PHOTOS

Let me remind you that there are a few photographs on my Facebook page. I must again rely on one of you to provide the link. Thank you for your kind support.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Three, Moisture

There was no warm breeze when I woke up this morning. It was in fact rather cold. Not in my sleeping bag, do understand. It was just lovely in there. But it was all I could do to unzip and climb out. It seemed a good day to stay in bed.

It was seven-thirty when I did get up. The sky was a swirling grey. But my little computer was glad to assure me that there would be no rain. My own dim sense predicted a downpour, but I deferred to their expertise.

There was a time in America when weather reports were delivered by bikini girls and comedians. All the real professionals were detached to the military. To ensure the success of rocket launches and landings on hostile shores. But like GPS and laser pointers, meteorology has filtered down. Now every TV weatherman has his own Doppler radar to play with. Add to that the Power of the Internet and I could not be in better hands.

The grey day gave me a hash browns jones. I set out in search of breakfast. I walked four miles this way and that, misled by freeway signs. At one point I thought I'd ask a local. I saw a lady by her car. "Excuse me," I said, most becomingly. She jumped in and locked her door. To think I trimmed my glorious beard to put people like her at their ease. What a waste of chin whiskers. I'm lucky she didn't mace me.

I settled on a Pepsi at a gas station. Their coffee had a sour smell. And climbed down to Highway 63 and resumed my long walk south. Four or five miles to Deer Park, Missouri. To another gas station. A sign promised "home cooking" or "like Mom used to make" or something along those lines.

Mom, it seems, used to over-fry things in very old oil, heap it into stainless steel tubs and let them sit for two or three days under heat lamps in a dirty glass case. Mom is lucky the health department didn't shut her down.

The coffee was good, that's a rarity. Strong and thicker than her gravy. I had a very large cup and another and sat down to do some typing. And to recharge my computer, which didn't deserve it, the black-hearted little traitor. It had been behaving most abominably and had caused me all manner of grief.

I have read the diaries of the pioneers who made their way west in wagons. About their privations and awful disease, the losses they met on the trail. They would kindle their fires with arrows plucked from those they once held most dear. But one hardship they never faced was the Samsung Galaxy Tab.

I am being unfair, I suppose. It has held up fairly well. And too often in less than ideal conditions. It does seem to get the job done. But it is a monster pain in the ass and they really ought to mention that in their ads.

As I typed the grey skies disappeared and were replaced by something black. There were dramatic streaks of lightning at all points on the horizon. But I'd been there two hours. No one ever got rich just by sitting around. I covered my pack and strapped on my raincoat and headed out the door.

I made it all of two steps before the rain hit. I could have turned around. But I was in a mood for walking and more so for martyrdom. My next town was but seven miles off. I could get there in less than two hours. And show the people in passing cars that I was tougher than them.

It is hard to be tough in soggy socks. That's why we lost Viet Nam. My shoes once claimed to be waterproof but that was a shameful lie. GORE-TEX®, from the Latin, meaning pruny and brittle toes.

But I kept my head up, out of pride, misplaced and so far unearned. Four miles up I passed a roadside park which featured a picnic shelter. Where I sat for three hours and watched the storm and wondered if it would have killed them to ground the tin roof against lightning.

And I ate some beef and what I think were carrots and handsful of M&M's. And put on dry socks and stuffed my feet into thoroughly soggy shoes. But it ain't like I was just lounging around. I was hopping up and down the whole time. And trying to dry myself from within by thinking the warmest of thoughts.

I remembered sitting under a bridge east of Billings, amongst snakeskins and animal bones. It was a hundred and something that afternoon. There are all kinds of ways life can suck.

The rain stopped and I ambled on. I feigned enthusiasm. It wasn't there but if you'll excuse the expression, it pays to bullshit yourself. Positive Thinking and all that rot. The lightning was spectacular. And I knew I'd regret my blasphemies if it were to strike me dead. If there were time, at any rate. I wondered how much it would hurt.

I ate Mexican food for lunch. I did not learn the town's name. Ashville or Ashcan or something like that. I was too cold to care. It never got out of the forties today. There was no sun in the sky. But you will perspire; my T-shirt was wet and clammy against my skin. Some lady at a sporting goods store in Sioux City tried to sell me some fancy shirt that isn't clammy in cold weather, but it cost fifty bucks. And I didn't believe her.

It was by then four-thirty and I had not yet got much walking done. It had stopped raining so I hit the road and hammered out eight more miles. Traffic was fast and heavy and visibility was low. I had to keep focused on every oncoming car, watching where they were in their lane. And trying to predict which idiot was going to squish me flat.

The speed limit is 70 here. That means everyone goes 85. What they don't understand is just because their engine will get them that speed doesn't mean their piece-of-crap cars have the suspension to control it. Add in slick roads, the odd crosswind and an oh-so-interesting cell phone conversation and what you've got is attempted murder.

Of me.

You know, I've gathered unto myself some very kind-hearted supporters on this trip. God-fearing people, willing to overlook my more obvious failings and to see the better James within. So I'm hesitant to admit that one day I am going to meet one of these idiot drivers and bloody his fool nose.

Unless he's real big. I ain't a madman.

It meant a lot of staring into headlights, and squinting to spot the idiots who left their headlights off. It rather left me hyp-mo-tized, like those fellows who sort our mail. They often go on shooting sprees. All I'll ever do is gripe.

So it's eighteen miles for the day; kind of weak, I know. I have until the day after tomorrow to get five-hundred miles south. Then the temperature drops to a point where I no longer fear the rain. Only the Yeti and cold-blackened toes. Thank Heaven for that small blessing.

It is raining now. Vigorously. There is a spectacular storm. With but the merest heartbeat or two separating flash and explosion. I am camped in a beautiful spot, on a high rock cliff overlooking the freeway. It is pretty here, a dozen miles from Jefferson City. There are trees and deep valleys. "Hollers" I think they may be called. I only wish it were warmer.

MANY YOUNG people go into meteorology for the sole purpose of getting on TV. The same is true of journalists and, believe it or not, chefs. And politicians and Hollywood wives and the odd serial killer. I used to want to be on television, but now I'm less sure. I don't know that I'd like the company.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Two, What's For Dinner

[FIND ME AT A GAS STATION, FIVE MILES SOUTH OF COLUMBIA, MISSOURI, RE-TYPING THIS WHOLE BLASTED ENTRY. DAMN SAMSUNG AND DAMN VERIZON AND DAMN THE GODS OF TECHNOLOGY. THERE IS NOT AN ENTRY ON HERE THAT WOULDN'T PROFIT FROM SOME THOUGHTFUL EDITING. BUT I AIN'T GONNA BOTHER. KNOW IT IS OUT OF SPITE. YOU GET IT AS IT POURED OUT THE FIRST TIME, WITH ME SHIVERING IN MY TENT, ROAD-WEARY AND TYPING WITH MY THUMBS.]

I was told, I forget now by whom, that Missouri is warm south of I-70. This has since been contradicted by many dozens of people, but I hold it to be true. Believe the lies that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy and free.

It was awfully warm when I woke up, like a late spring afternoon. It was yet some minutes before seven o'clock. The sun was barely up. But I was caressed by balmy breezes. It was upwards of sixty degrees. And with me more than twenty miles north of that magic I-70.

It was a spectacularly beautiful day for walking. I set out in just a T-shirt. My legs were strong and my feet weren't unhappy. I've been having some nice luck there. In order to be on one end or the other of Columbia, Missouri, this would have to be either an eighteen or a twenty-seven mile day. I ate a cheese sandwich and then ate another and decided on twenty-seven.

As far as I knew there would be no civilisation between me and the city. I found a restaurant ten miles in. On the side of the road sort of up on a bluff. I wasn't so terribly hungry. But I knew I could do with something to drink. Cheese do make a boy thirsty. And my little computer needed a boost. I waded my way through the crowd.

For this was a wildly popular cafe. I had trouble finding a seat. I don't recall just what it was called. I know it began with an H. Heur's or Huerer's or something like that. Hooters, possibly. I ordered a cheeseburger out of habit and drank seventeen Cokes.

It was rather an ugly cheeseburger but it tasted plenty good. Toasted buns, I swear that's the secret. It came with crinkle-cut fries. Crinkle-cut fries are an abomination. I cannot be clearer than that. But it was nutty popular. People just love the place. I don't even think it was near a town. They did not have much of a sign. The decor did not in any way inspire and the waitresses were overworked. But they must be doing something right. I should have asked more questions.

That's why I so like eating in saloons. In a bar people talk to each other. But at a cafe I just sit at a table, all by my lonesome self. I did meet some nice people as I was leaving and was pleased to talk to them some. But talking to people at their tables seems to me bad form. Even if they talk to me first. I climbed back on the road.

With a burst of strength. I was surprised. I was worried I'd eaten too much. But the few kind words I got on my way out the door really put a spring in my step. As did the Cokes, I rather suspect. There's power in sugar and caffeine. The sun was still out. I took off like a rocket and walked another ten miles.

The land is prettier here, as well. I don't want to hurt any feelings but it has been sort of ugly these past few days. The fields have all been harvested. The trees are a rusty brown. The grass is dead and the landscape itself is nothing but flat and plain. But here there are hills and the road winds a bit. Here and there it is cut through rock. I like a little variety. I don't move so very fast.

Greater Columbia is home to some 160,000 people. It is by all accounts a pretty nice town. People are friendly and educated. They tend to vote on the Left. But I was afraid I'd get stuck in there and have to stay in a motel. Which would cut sharply into my food budget and delay my next day's start. Cable TV can mesmerize me. I don't sleep well in soft beds.

But I needn't have worried. Highway-63 goes politely around the edge of town. It's a shame, really. Columbia is the first city I might have actually liked. Bozeman was OK, I guess, but Spokane was a hole. A Scoutmaster was rude to me, a fat guy in tasselled socks. I try to laugh off that sort of thing. I was not rude back. But a not so very small part of me wishes I had kicked his ass.

Billings was snotty. Sioux City was awfully hard to walk through. But here inside the city limits I was still in the trees. Highway-63 is crazy big here. It has expanded to six lanes wide. I feel a little foolish walking here, but I guess it's my legal right. Nobody yelled at me, at any rate, but they looked at me like I was nuts. And there were lots of on and off ramps to negotiate. I did have to pay attention.

I was met on the side of the road by the Gallup family, Darren and Ada and Madison. I had met them at the cafe. I did not know them at first. They brought me all manner of treats. Coconut M&M's, which I've never had, but which sound very good indeed. And healthful fruit and vegetables and seventeen pounds of beef.

I was sorry about the beef; it must have cost a fortune. But I am since informed that Ada has powerful connections in the Missouri beef industry. I can more or less speak Japanese. Maybe she can get me a job. That was the big thing twenty years ago, selling beef to the Japanese. I guess they sell it to the Chinese now. I've been to China. Didn't like it.

I am chewing on a hunk of beef now. Thank you, kind Gallups!

My only regret regarding their kindness is that they did not catch me in a sour mood. Nothing better cheers me than encouragement along the road. But I'd been fairly sunny all day long. That is my misfortune.

I was well on pace for a thirty-mile day. I quit after twenty-five. Or twenty-four, I cannot be sure. It was a silly mistake. I've been nervous about the sun going dowj before I find a place to camp. Today I quit almost two hours early. I guess I misjudged the time.

I guess I am still in Columbia, some two miles south of I-70. In another hobo spot, tucked in on the side of the road. With traffic zipping by. It really is awfully loud. But I'll sleep well. I always do. I'll dream about the ocean.


MY TOOTHPASTE has exploded inside my pack. I can tell by the smell. I'll inspect the damage tomorrow. It is more than I can cope with right now.

MY LITTLE COMPUTER was threatening thirty degrees for next Wednesday. Then it went up to thirty-six. Now they are saying thirty-four, but Tuesday is supposed to drop to thirty-two. Why do they toy with me so?

I SAW TWO coyotes today, one live and one dead. I hear them almost every night but these are the first I've seen. Handsome fellows, both of them. One a little more so.

THIS IS WHERE you would have me qualify my earlier remarks by stating that I have nothing but the greatest respect for the Boy Scouts of America. Well, I don't. One hopes the FBI is keeping an eye on them, like it would any paramilitary organisation.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-One, Moberly, More Moberly, Most Moberly

I woke up alongside a barbed wire fence, on which there were two signs. JACKSONVILLE SEWAGE TREATMENT, said the one. The other said, NO TRESPASSING.

That first sign was enough for me, though it guarded a sweet little pond. It must get tempting on summer days, or when the catfish are jumping. I know it was lovely the night before. The moon was mirrored in the sludge. You must look for Beauty where you find it and try not to smell too hard.

Find me now in a patch of woods, just off Highway 63. I walked twenty-five miles and could have gone on, but I could not see what was up ahead. It looked like there were some houses or something. I might not find a place for my tent. Good enough is good enough. I don't like to camp in the dark.

I spent a diverting half-hour clearing a space, waiting for the sun to go down. This is one of those spots where I cannot be seen, so long as it isn't daylight. I pulled up saplings and moved sticks and stones. I cut back the prickle bushes. I invited the snakes to go away and come back after I've gone.

Missouri is a snaky state. I am wading through the things. They wrap themselves around my ankles and put extra weight on my knees. They seem to harbor some affection for me. They follow me wherever I go. I don't want to hurt their detestable feelings but I wish they'd just leave me alone.

I spent most of my morning hiking into Moberly, Missouri, a fairly good-sized town. I couldn't say how many people live there; they've got a Walmart and likely a mall. It is depressed, not to say depressing. Their chief industry is check-cashing. I saw a fairly decent house on sale for forty-nine grand.

But I do like that name, Moberly. It pleases me. It is fun to say. Moberly. Moberly. Moberly, Missouri. It sounds so friendly and comfortable. Maybe just a bit overweight. And I've long been fond of -ly words that are not adverbs, like lovely and comely and such. Slatternly, beastly, womanly, kindly. Moberly, Missouri.

It was a twelve or thirteen mile walk into town. When I got there I was all but starving. My meatloaf sandwich from the day before had pretty well worn off. And the cheesecake, too, and the cherries on top. I thought I might keel over dead. I am a big eater as a rule; I'm a man of large appetites. And I like to have them met when I can. When I can't it makes me all grumpy.

Moberly gets four highway exits. 63 is like a freeway here. I took the first one because it promised food, but the food was two more miles off. I finally wound up at a Hardee's. I don't much care for fast food. But I had a big burger and two "apple pies" and two-and-a-half gallons of Coke.

And everyone was real nice to me, just like at a real restaurant. I was there for two-hours. They sang Happy Birthday to some old guy. A kid invited me to a dinner party, I think because he thought I was homeless. If you absolutely must eat at a Hardee's, go to the one in Moberly.

Moberly. Moberly, Moberly. Say it. Moberly. It's a nice name.

I got some charge on my computer, but not nearly enough. If I drop out of sight tomorrow, know there's a chance I'm not dead. You might say a few good words about me anyway. I don't object to being eulogised.

I took the scenic route through town. There wasn't so much to see. I bought some bagels and something called "farmers cheese", which between you and me sounds gross. Like some kind of fungus you might pick up from standing in topsoil all day. Or rubbing elbows with livestock. Anyway, it was on sale.

I retook my highway and headed south. People are driving fast. The road takes itself very seriously here, and is not so pedestrian friendly. But there's a good wide shoulder with bumpity strips. I'll be off it in a couple of days. Now I don't really have much choice. I'm headed to Columbia, Missouri.

Which is huge, I think. I'd just as soon go around, but I've got to cross the Missouri. It seems all I do on this trip is cross the Missouri River. I must have crossed it a dozen times in Montana, once or twice where it was six feet wide. And it had me trapped in Nebraska and made me walk forty miles north. But here it divides the state in two, and there are only so many ways across.

Charles Kuralt said that America is defined not by its highways but by its rivers. And he was cool with that. But he was well paid and widely beloved and rode around in a bus.

Tomorrow will have to be a very short day or an impossibly long one. Columbia is twenty-some miles off. I either have to pull up short or try to blast all the way through. I have limited hotel funds and would like to save them for a thirty-degree night.

Speaking of which, my little computer was threatening thirty degrees Wednesday night. But it took some smalk pity on me and upped its estimate to thirty-six. Which is still damned cold but less likely to kill me.

"I hear it's warmer south of Columbia," I told a woman. I'm sure there was hope in my voice. She rolled her eyes, inhaled sharply and laughed right in my face.

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