Day One-Hundred-Fifty-Three, Media Darling

It was indeed not raining when I woke up, but it was plenty wet. Inside and outside my tent. I packed an extra ten pounds of water. And set off again on my lonely road. It was not such a grand day for walking.

It was cold, to begin with, and threatening rain. The skies were layers of grey. And I was feeling a little scraped up from my long walk in the rain. A boy do chafe in spite of himself. I had blisters between my toes. Which made me nostalgic for the good old days when I was young and foolish.

Everything about me was sopping wet. My dripping old pack weighed a ton. And smelled cheesier than I like it to. My straps weren't sliding well. And my load was misbalanced, high and off to the left. It did unkind things to my back. Thirteen or fourteen miles, I figured, before I'd be safe from the rain.

I walked it. I was fairly heroic. I limped on on blistered toes. And cursed and grumbled. I dared not look at the sky. It was rotten, I tell you. I was in nine kinds of pain. It was easier than you might think. It is not like I had any options out there. It was too cold to stop and rest. So I walked. It was uncomfortable but I had no decisions to make.

I met Pastor Lee on the road. He runs a garage in town. He promised me coffee when I got there. It was a warming thought. The garage is Mowear Motorsports of Fredericktown, Missouri. They had some cool old muscle cars and one elegant Corvair. And a body man that looked like Jed Clampett. That's what I like to see. Missouri. Hell, yeah. It don't disappoint. I spent two hours there.

Not just standing around in the way. I had to get interviewed. And photographed for the local paper, known as the Democrat News. It has been around since 1870. Republicans read it now. At any rate they are making me famous, at least in this little town. Thanks to Robert Vanderbrugen, gentleman of the press.

I say this little town because I am still here. I had laundry to do. It was five by the time I got done and I still needed to eat. Lee said I could camp behind his shop. I figured I'd come far enough. My feet were a mess and it was getting dark. I retired to dinner.

Where I met Dustin, a tugboat man on the Mississipi, River. And Brian, a dissatisfied soul and sawmill employee. The invited me to watch the World Series with them. The Cardinals are involved. And drink and smoke and create that mood that really makes baseball fun.

It was a hell of a game, if you're into that sort of thing. Seriously. Game Six. Look it up. This is the first World Series there's ever been where I knew which team to cheer for.

Long story short, I crashed on Brian's couch. His cat slept on my chest. I woke up early and a bit bleary-eyed. Which is how you find me now. So I won't trouble you with any insights. Sometimes life is just about drinking and smoking and watching baseball.

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Day One-Hundred-Fifty-Two, Doing Unto

I didn't sleep as well as I had hoped to. I was haunted by awful dreams. About fruitcake and the YMCA, and NBA great Karl Malone. The same sort of things you dream about. I must say it scared me some.

I was all bundled up in my teddy bear pants. I was if anything a bit too warm. The overnight low was close to sixty. I slept outside of my bag. And woke up early and packed up quick. I did not climb down to the road. I sat on my pack to stare at the trees. That's when it started to rain.

Not a real downpour, just a drop here and there. I figured I'd walk between them. And so I did, to Leadwood, Missouri, a mile or two up the road. To the Owl Creek Grill, a cafe/saloon. I had a hearty breakfast. I wasn't so hungry but if it were going to rain I thought it might do me some good.

I sat there for hours, recharging and checking my little computer. It was sure it was not going to rain today. That's never a very good sign.

It was raining harder when I left, now on Old Highway 8. Which runs parallel to its new incarnation but includes a lot more hills. But I didn't much mind. It is pretty here despite my whining complaints. And the few dogs I met were smallish and kind. I still had some hope for the day. There was a sliver of blue sky up ahead. Behind me it was closing in grey.

A minimal effort brought me to Park Hills. They got the Hills part right. Up, up, up and into town. I counted cigarette butts. There were maybe twenty of them for every step I took, uphill and with a heavy pack. On sore legs and with blisters forming. I was not taking very long strides. I don't know if it's because they smoke more here, or if they're just more likely to throw their cigarettes out the window. It was in either case an impressive display. It went on like that for miles. Thinning a bit at the center of town but thickening right up again.

Park Hills has a few thousand people. It looks like a pretty old town. It was, I believe, once known as Flat River, which I think is the better name. Tougher somehow. Moreso of the frontier. "Park Hills" is just sort of bland. It sounds like another subdivision on the edge of some flavorless suburb.

I didn't get to know the place. I was there maybe an hour. Sipping soda pop under the shelter that serves as their farmers' market. They had there some electricity. I needed to check my maps. Looking back it was not too complicated, but it caused me some stress at the time. There are here several towns running together. My road was a little confused. And I'm still not wholly sure of my route. Nor will I ever be.

Park Hills faded into Leadington. I put on my red raincoat. Against the cold more than anything. It soon after started to pour. I stopped to put a cover on my backpack. The cover of course is yellow. In the rain I look like Ronald McDonald's less successful brother. The one living on the streets.

I galoshed my way to a KFC on the very edge of town. I was fairly hungry by now and eager to get out of the rain. I signed on for their lunch buffet. I don't like buffets as a rule. They put me in the mind of old folks' homes and maximum security prisons. But I was certain I could massacre the thing, and thereby teach them a lesson. You're a fool to advertise all-you-can-eat when James Harry Pierce is in town.

I failed. I ate quite a bit, but I was by no means the champion. There were women and old men eating more than me. We are a hungry people. I only had one piece of chicken. I don't like bones in my meat. I made a good dent in their marshed potaters, but they're not a big-ticket item.

I had too nine servings of bananner pudding, which is Nature's perfect food. In the future when I'm really rich I'm not going to eat anything but bananner pudding. But I'm not sure I'll be eating it out of stainless steel tubs.

I stayed long after I stopped eating. I had hoped that the rain would cease. But it didn't, of course; it only rained harder. I climbed back on the road. On the way out the door I met a man who had seen me on the other side of Potosi. And was glad for his encouragement. It means a lot on days like today.

I walked on to Farmington on a back road. I was attacked by Dobermans. Who, as has happened before, got into an argument over which one got to bite me first and wound up turning on each other. Boys, boys, when will you learn? There is plenty of me to chew on.

Farmington is a big city, or so I guess. It was dark when I got there. Mid-afternoon but dark, dark. It was just pissing down. And my road expanded to five or six lanes. Traffic got very heavy. It was kicking up a godawful spray. A lesser man would have pitied himself.

I retired to an Arby's to dry a bit. I sipped a soda to be polite. Every fast-food chain was represented. I chose Arby's on purpose. I wanted to sit there undisturbed. I've never seen customers there. And yet they go on and on in business. They are probably laundering money.

A look at my map brought me bad news, not horrible but it made me sad. I had missed my turn south to Knob Lick, Missouri. I'd been hoping to buy T-shirts there. Or pennants or shot glasses or snow globes or hats. Anything with "Knob Lick" on it. It appeals to the dirty limmerick writer in me. I think they'd have made lovely gifts.

It's probably better that I missed it. I'd be sniggering like Buffcoat and Beaver.

The weather south of town was worse. My shoulder disappeared. I was getting just a little discouraged and was ready to put up my tent. But there was no place for it, just a lot of small houses and here and there a ranchette. So I walked and suffered and shivered a bit and muttered under my breath. Dodging cars and turning down rides and wondering what brought me to this.

I was all but ready to start knocking on doors. At length I came to a farm. With people out front, good Christians all. I could tell by their bumper sticker.

They refused me.

One can't help but wonder, What Would Jesus Do? Would Jesus begrudge me a spot for my tent? Jesus would make me cocoa. And offer kind words and sound advice. He might admonish me some. But He'd do it with love and not before He had seen to preserving my health.

Or so I imagine.

You know, I've seen something of the world. I've been around it twice. Which is more than Magellan could brag about. I've noted a few things. You know who the most consistently and unflinchingly hospitable people are? Muslims. If anyone's keeping score.

Magellan was a Christian too. He was killed in the Philippines. He had hoped to convert a local chief with the aid of crossbows and muskets. The local chief wasn't having it. He was not a religious man.

I am camped another mile up the road, beside an electrified fence. Across a gully and up a bank. I don't know if it's a good spot. And won't until daylight. We'll see, we'll see. I do know I've got to be careful. One misplaced tent pole and I am going to fry.

It is still raining, hard, hard. It is wet inside my tent. But wetter outside. That's some consolation. I hope it will be dryer come the dawn. I cannot stay here all day. I'm low on water. I need to beg more. I hope there are Muslims nearby.

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Day One-Hundred-Fifty-One, Potosi!

I went and misjudged the time again. I stopped an hour early. It's getting cold; I could have used those extra miles. My mistake was in listening to my feet. "We've come far enough," they said. "You don't want to get trapped out here in the dark. You'd better put up your tent."

And I believed them, though I couldn't say why. They've been treacherous all along. Rarely do they miss a chance to sabotage my fun. In all fairness I did come twenty-one miles. Possibly twenty-two. But I could have added three or four more. My feet are stinky fiends.

My weary old muscles have resigned themselves to walking in these Walmart shoes. I still get awfully tired but I am not now nearly as sore. Which means I can cover a little more distance. Which means my feet suffer more. On a bright note, my shoes are falling apart. They need to last four more days. To Cape Girardeau or Cairo, Illinois, whichever one is bigger.

I woke up early, before the sun. Gosh, I was comfortable. I taken time to find a smooth patch of ground. It had some give to it too. I could have happily stayed in bed all day. I did not have a whole lot of strength. You may not know what a pain in the ass it is to pack up my gear every day.

It's a pain in the ass. Stand informed.

But I managed, even at my leisure. I was back on the road before eight. And was determined today to enjoy myself. It is going to be cold tomorrow. Today it was in the low eighties, a little breezy but still. The sky was blue with wisps of clouds and I'm learning to love these orange trees. All along the side of the road were little purple flowers. And I was not in such horrible pain. I didn't even take my pills.

About a mile up the road I found a store. Just where I expected to find it. And everyone there was nice to me. I really like how they talk. And how much they talk. It's a Scots-Irish thing. We're a chatty race. I don't try to ape their pronunciation. Our vocabularies differ some. But I find myself falling into the cadences and am very comfortable there.

I had a modest heat-lamp breakfast and got to talking with some fellows there. About life and love and wild animals and dumb things we've done when we were drunk. I really didn't want to leave the place. I was having such a nice time. It is every man's right to drink coffee and bullshit with other men.

It was a sort of grocery with pumps out front. I should mention it by name. Because they gave me some lovely parting gifts. GAS, I think it was called. At least that's what the sign said. In beautiful Shirley, Missouri.

Shirley doesn't appear on every map. I think GAS is the whole town. But it has it's place in history. That is where Belle Starr was from. Who was of course known as the Bandit Queen, that beautiful lady outlaw. But was in fact just about the ugliest woman to ever blot the West.

Don't think I am being unkind to ugly people. I was ugly myself once. But I worked my way up to average. Ugly comes from within. I'll be damned if I know where Beauty comes from. Angel kisses, one supposes.

The wind had picked up when I got back on the road, to twenty or twenty-five miles per. It roared through the trees on either side of the road and sounded like something worse. You could see the dry leaves swirling around hundreds of feet in the air. Every now and then I'd get hit with a monster gust which would all but knock me down.

But like I said, I was determined to enjoy the day. Pleasant company at breakfast helped. And I had a good road with a fair shoulder. I could wave at truckers again. For a few days there I didn't dare. I needed to maintain my balance. And I didn't mind if the truck drivers kept both their hands on the wheel.

Ten miles took me into Potosi, Missouri. It is a very old town. By American standards, my international friends. It was founded in the 1780s. By Moses Austin, who went on to father Stephen Austin, who went on to father Texas. He got a land grant from the Spaniards and went to work digging for lead.

Jim Bridger and Jedediah Smith and all them other mountain men they was always bragging on in Montana set out from Potosi in the very early 1800s. It was at the time about as far west as any right-thinking Christian dared go. There are a lot of old buildings which I would have been glad to look at if I weren't racing winter south.

I dined in Potosi at a place called Peppers. I mention it because I promised I would. And because my waitress was pretty and kind. And because the french fries were good. They were the big flat square-edged kind, crispy on the outside. That, my friends, is how you fry a potato. Crinkle-cut fries be damned.

The secret to a successful Walk Across America is to put in ten miles before noon so you can mess around the rest of the day and still make your quota. I almost never manage it. I'm slow to warm up. I'm cautious in my friendships. I am still waiting to bloom. But I did get a good strong start today. I ain't always useless.

From Potosi I headed out east. Highway 8 has improved some. With good wide shoulders the width of a car. Except on one evil bridge. Over the imaginatively named Big River. I had to run across it. With a backpack. That's probably why my poor weary toes went on strike.

I failed to make it to Leadwood, Missouri. I did not want to get that far. I don't know how big a town it is, but towns make camping difficult. I am now comfortably placed, high on a cliff, overlooking the highway. It is meant to be fairly warm tonight. I'd better enjoy it while it lasts.


INDEED, I am told, there are bears in Missouri. And really grumpy wildcats. And I thought I had my hands full with possums and copperheads.

CHEERS to Patti and Larry, proprietors of GAS. They bought me lunch, and breakfast, and gave me an orange safety vest. No joke. It is deer season. Some of these boys is trigger happy. Next time you're in Shirley, Missouri, buy your gas at GAS. Their heat-lamp breakfast sandwiches ain't bad either. Have two. They're kinda small.

"YOU MUST HAVE had all kinds of exciting adventures," almost everyone says to me. Not really. I wish I had. It's more of a cumulative thing.

"ARE YOU a patriot?" one man demanded to know. I assured him I was. I am not, after all, a seditionist. I love America.

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Day One-Hundred-Fifty, Huzzah

I don't know how far I walked today. Better than twenty miles. I am camped in a holler near some power lines. The Internet can't find me here. I miss it, I do. I like getting mail, the odd letter here and there. And I like to have at least a glance at my map, and I had some reading to do.

About the Battle of Huzzah, or Huzzah Creek. It took place somewhere near here. On the very Missouri outskirts of the American Civil War. I'm lost without Wikipedia. I am no historian. But as I understand it the state of Missouri had its own civil war going on. Before and during the greater conflict, bushwackers were at large.

I think the first ten minutes of The Outlaw Josey Wales sums it up fairly well. I've had the music of that opening montage bouncing around my head all day. Local militias, not the regular armies, were abroad in the land. And they were most ungentlemanly, if I may understate things.

Missouri, and I am relying on my unconnected memory here, was admitted to the Union as a free state. Which really pissed the Southerners off. For years they had been trying to maintain their balance by moving to Missouri Territory, in their thousands, every time the issue of slavery came up for a vote. After the election they'd go home. For a while there were two legislatures, each one challenging the legitimacy of the other. The details are lost to me. It went to the Supreme Court, I know. Anyway, no one was happy and pretty soon there was a war.

The good guys won.

That's a bold statement and one that's bound to upset some amateur historians. With more facts and figures at their disposal than I would ever care to know. But the way I see it, one side was fighting to preserve the institution of slavery and the other side was fighting to end it. All other issues are secondary, if not wholly manufactured. It disgusts me that people are still arguing about this. Slavery is a bad thing.

The good guys won.

I woke early and unmolested and was back on the road by eight. As I half-jokingly predicted, that mean ol' possum did indeed try to come into my tent. Ugly critter. I was too scared to find my boot so I just sort of shook the whole tent and he went away. After that I slept fine.

It is hard to generate too much enthusiasm about walking in these awful boots, but it was a beautiful day. Warm and sunny and the trees around here are getting more beautiful. We're still missing a yellow, and a convincing red, but there are all shades of orange. And a few stubborn greens, here and there, some of which turned out to be pine trees.

I smelled them before I saw them, and even then I didn't pay them much mind. I must have been ten minutes walking through the forest before I thought to look around. I didn't know they had pine trees in Missouri. It's an unusual state. The only one that will grow both apples and peaches. Or so I have been told.

You'd think California could do it too. California can do anything.

I had a good thirty inches of shoulder to walk on today. The road went up and down. But it would open up at the top of some hills and I had some spectacular views. Of hardwood forests, miles of them, with broad green valleys between. And several creeks and a river or two, all of which looked very clean.

I am still I think in the national forest, but there are houses here and there. And a number of what might be best termed shacks. Hovels, if you will. With piles of junk on their porches, and still more filling their yards. And pretty nice trucks parked out front. I guess they're not house proud.

Prejudices being what they are, I kept smelling ether and burning plastic. Which is what I've always just assumed a meth operation smells like. But I think it was just burning leaves, with some garbage thrown in for luck.

The nicer houses have lawn jockeys. That's all I've got to say about that. But almost every house has a few concrete deer standing out in the yard. Which doesn't seem very bright to me. You're asking people to shoot at your house. It would be like living in LA and decorating your yard with statues of Crips and Bloods.

I met a few cows and that was nice. They're always so kind to me. If I cannot get any mail I'll find my encouragement where I can. Remind me to go back to vegetarianism, as soon as it is feasible. Cows really are lovely creatures and I think we should make them our friends.

So I guess it was a pretty good day. I lived on bread and cheese. And I've got cuts on my toes and my muscles are sore, but I made some forward progress. It was a glorious autumn day in a beautiful part of the country. And I didn't get myself dogbit or squished. Tomorrow I'll hit Potosi.

And celebrate with a hamburger. May God forgive me.

THE OUTLAW JOSEY WALES is one of my very favoritest movies of all time. It was based on a book called, I think, Gone to Texas, which was written by a Nazi. Not many people know that.

I SEE flyers advertising bluegrass events, but never where and when I am. I was hoping there'd be more banjos down here, but I ain't found any yet.

CHEERS to Mr. Ray Free, proud American and tomato farmer, cultivator of sideburns,who gave me water when I was thirsty. He had no doubt I would succeed in my journey because I am "young" and "full of piss and vinegar." Am not.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Nine, Che

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Eight, Parful Sore

I slept soundly. Let us admit there are benefits to toxic waste. The fumes that permeated my tent knocked this camper out cold. And yet I did wake up, and wake up early, with only the mildest hangover. And I had had any number of spectacular dreams, none of which I recall now.

It took some courage to climb back on the road. There is no shoulder at all. No shoulder. None. And the roads are narrow and they drive here like maniacs. And I am just not Feeling the Love, as it were. Nobody seems glad to see me. Two of them even swerved at me in an effort to squish me dead.

Now I'm pretty sure they meant to be funny. They were just trying to give me a scare. It may be true but don't let it be said that I can't take a joke. I've long been a student of comedy. I think humour's the highest art. Really. Try it again. We'll laugh together. I'll go slapstick on your ass.

I struggle too with my Walmart boots. They make walking a chore. I salute the Chinese orphans who made them, but they just aren't up to job. They do not flex so they shorten my stride. And bring all the wrong muscles into play. I wind up working twice as hard to go just two-thirds as far.

And they slap the ground, clomp, clomp. I've lost my catlike grace. When my right foot goes down my teeth clack together. I've got to keep my jaw tight. While watching out for cars and climbing some of the steepest hills on this trip.

Rough day.

I ain't complaining. Not exactly. I'm just letting you know how things stand. Today was even a victory of sorts. I walked almost twenty miles. Which may not sound like much to you, but in these shoes, and over this terrain, I have some right to be pleased. And muscle ache is not such a bad thing. That's what it feels like to get strong. Another two-hundred miles in these shoes and I'll be a superman.

Of course I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror today. I'm looking awfully scrawny. Not sickly exactly but lanky somehow. Like Shaggy on Scooby-Doo. I suppose I'm fitter than I've ever been. This has happened once before. That was when I lived in India and got the dysentery.

Owensville, Missouri was only five miles off, but it was a struggle to get there. My legs were shaking under the strain and I do have some cuts on my feet. I had to stop twice, once in a park where I put some charge on my computer. Most of the people there glared at me like I was some kind of a creep.

I found a mailman outside a McDonald's. I asked him if there were anywhere to eat. He looked like Billy Bob Thornton. He asked if I were "parful hungry." Parful hungry enough, I figured. He told me just where to go.

"Number two-hundred-and-six First Avenue." He meant a local cafe. But I really like that he said it like that. It was so very postal. Like when truck drivers help me plan my walk by telling me where to downshift. It shows a real expertise, and gives me a glimpse of their world.

I would only eat once today. I decided to do it right. It'd been too long since I'd had biscuits and gravy and sausage and hash browns and eggs. And toast. It came on two plates. It was all a little bland. I should have saved my sausage to bribe the mean dogs on the road.

I stayed there a couple of hours. I did not make any friends. People went on eyeing me suspiciously. They don't cotton to strangers in these parts. At any rate, I have failed to charm them. I'll be glad when I'm gone.

I am five or six miles north of Cuba, Missouri, camped in a dodgy spot. I had to come over a barbed wire fence. It was getting dark. I followed an old road between the woods a bank, up to a sort of plateau. Which turned out to be a pond. I am beside it now.

On private land. I hear dogs barking. I hope they don't find me here. A lot of the dogs in Missouri are mean and I ate all my sausage myself.

I am too low on water. I hate to even type as much. Just the thought of it swells my tongue and makes my throat clench up. But town is less than two hours off. I'll try to wake up early. And make my way to a better road and live to tell the tale.


I SAW AN armadiller, dead but not so far squished as to be unrecognisable. Weird-looking critters, armadillers.

IT WAS in fact warm today, high seventies, I reckon. Cold now, though.

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Day One-Hundred-Forty-Seven, Roadkill

Damn it was cold last night. That's all I've got to say about that. Next time it freezes, you sleep outside. Call me and we'll compare notes. Between us I'm sure we can weave the experience into some brand of poetry. But all on my own I'm bound to get nasty. I might just say something unkind. Or indulge a most unmanly self-pity that would not become me at all. I am grateful for this experience. Even when it sucks.

I did not wake up until eight-thirty. We might blame the cold for that. Because when it came time for my morning pee I thought I might just hold it in. And go back to sleep and my recurring dream about a fruitless search for a mensroom. It was uncomfortable but warm, or warmer than I would be outside.

I was too again in amongst the trees. The sun takes a while to get there. And I don't get my morning cue that it is time to wake up. I suppose I could invest in a watch. They go for a pittance these days. But I tend to find alarms alarming, when I can hear them at all. So I enjoyed ten and a half hours sleep, waking now and then to complain.

It was another low-milage day. That makes, what, five in a row? It is no way to run a railroad, I know. I'm tempted to blame Missouri. My path is not set out before me. The roads squiggle this way and that. And I never know when a town is a town or just a dot on the map. And no one I meet seems to know either. I am groping along in the dark. Which is bound to slow almost anyone if they are possesed of their wits.

And my new shoes are not helping much. They are not hikers but work boots. Which means they are heavy and do not much flex. They are calling on new sets of muscles. I have not, thank goodness, suffered injury, but I have been a little sore. I'm bound to get strong again in a few days. Until then I just gut it out.

But meanwhile there are hills to climb, and oh, what hills they are. I don't know the geologic history here but it must be something dreadful. There are high steep hills, each one an island. I have to climb every one. I never get to follow a ridge and smile down at the world.

There are views, though, of acres of forest. In there there must be some farms. But from up above all you can see are trees. Not that I've studied it much. My eyes have necessarily been on the road. It is darn scary out here. I've thought I might carry a spatula to remind me to keep focused. And to aid in my recovery if I let that focus lapse.

I expected a gas station three miles in. Someone said it was there. I thought I might have a few cups of cocoa, a reward for surviving the night. But there was nothing for more than ten miles. I stopped two or three times. My legs were sore and the hills were steep and I did not know where I was going.

You might say it is pretty country. It is wild and there are all kinds of trees. And the odd little farm or funny old house. It is even a pretty good road. For driving. If you had a Porsche or something; there are a lot of neat little twists. But these chipmunk-murdering maniacs don't drive foreign cars. They drive monster trucks. Which just might shine in the old mud-bog but which have no place on the road.

I like hotrods, don't get me wrong. I like it when people fix up their cars. But the goal should be to make them better, not immeasurably worse. A pick-up truck is just barely road-worthy out of the factory. It is built to haul heavy loads. Not to go fast or look pretty or handle especially well. Jack it up eighteen inches or more and it becomes useless for anything but offroad driving. Bunch of freakin' idiots.

I stopped once where an overgrown road disappeared into the trees. I was chewing up some cold bread and cheese when I met a silly cat. He was walking up the middle of the highway. He looked so complacent and proud. His tail was high, his ears were up. "Get out of the road," I said. I remembered a little chipmunk in Idaho, crushed by a monster truck.

"Meow," said the cat.
"Meow," I said.
"Meow," said the cat again.

And so he came up to visit with me, meowing the whole time. He was a talkative cat. He was missing an eye. He does not like extra sharp cheddar. But he seemed glad for the company. I was sorry when we said goodbye.

Probably dead now. I honor his memory.

Eventually, and at great personal risk, I made it to Drake, Missouri. Which is represented by a gas station and very little else. I had two war surplus sandwiches, heated in a microwave. And installed myself there for two hours to recharge and study my map.

I left Highway 50 after Drake and headed south on Highway 19. I was tired of being almost squished and bluffing my way past mean dogs. One of them nipped at me today. I pretended I didn't notice. He put a little rip in my pants but I did not want to escalate things. I think I could have taken him in a fair fight, but that's not why I'm out on the road. I'm all about Sweetness and Light. I refused to stoop to his level.

If I'd had a stick I would have whomped him on the noggin.

Highway 19 has some advantages. I'm at least headed south again. And traffic is a little lighter. Drivers, more considerate. But there is no shoulder whatsoever. When someone comes I have jump in a ditch. And there have been some nasty hills. And I'm guessing there will be more dogs.

"You ain't from around here," a fellow told me yesterday. Thank you, no sir, I'm not. The dogs seem to have the same suspicions, like I've come to bust up their still. Live and let live, that's my motto. Now how to make them all understand.

It was spur of the moment, heading south. I am following no kind of plan. We'll see, I guess, how it works out. I am camped maybe five miles from a pretty big town, behind a sort of gravel pit. Or heavy equipment storage yard. Or a dump for toxic waste. There is here a very strong solvent smell. I'm feeling a bit doped up.

It was getting dark when I moved in. I'd found a better place. But when I got there it was full of old tombstones. And corpses, one assumes. I am not afraid of zombies. I'm immune to supernatural events. But I can get creeped out like any man. I turned around and kept walking.

This place seemed too good to pass up, but there was a fellow here. I figured he was looking for things to steal. I went and introduced myself. Ordinarily I would leave him to his trade, but it was getting dark. I figured I should have priority since mine was the purer cause.

Turns out he was Mr. Ellis. Turns out he owns the place. I am now camping with permission. Which is sometimes nice. It eases my stress. It was awfully decent of him. And more than relieves me of any compulsion to contact the EPA.

I HEAR the coyotes howling again. I had a peculiar thought. Maybe they are the same band each night. Maybe they're following me.

I SAW an owl. He was handsome. But I saw no wisdom in his eyes. He wore a fairly vapid expression. That was disappointing.

THEY'VE GOT bugs here that look like sticks. Not kind of like sticks. Just like sticks. Stick bugs, I call them.

IT IS ten degrees warmer than it was last night. And bitter, bitter cold.

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