Day One-Hundred-Sixty-Three, His Mysterious Ways

I woke up at seven after five hours' sleep. It would have been eight o'clock. But Daylight Savings has begun or ended. I can never remember which. So the sun was well up and it was warmish outside. The dews had dried from my tent. And I felt better rested than I really deserved. I set to work packing up.

My new friend Deepak would turn up at ten. I wanted to say goodbye. But I couldn't wait. I had walking to do. I am still racing winter south. Every mile I walk in the sun is one I don't have to walk in the rain. And I do dislike walking in the rain, and for that matter, saying goodbye.

I still have a very fine road for walking. I made my way towards Milan. My-lun, you'll recall, to most of its friends. Mah-lun may be closer still. It was an easy seven mile hike. I was a bit hungry though. Deepak had threatened me with breakfast, but I had imposed on his goodness enough.

About halfway there I passed a barking dog. She looked kind of pit-bully. But she wasn't so big and kept herself back. I did not let her worry me much. I was more concerned about the half wolf they had roped to a tree. She didn't bark at me at all. She just drooled and licked her chops.

A man came out to see what was up. I waved at him and moved on. He wasn't having any of that. "Are you hungry?" he wanted to know.

Now, how to answer. It's a trick question. I am not of The Hungry, no. But I was at that moment hungry indeed. "Come have a fried baloney sandwich."

That swung it for me. That's local cuisine. You can't get it at restaurants. Real genuwine Southern food. Served up with a jar of sweet tea. Another local specialty, and one I've quite learned to like. Ice cold tea, very strongly brewed, with a great deal of sugar in it. It's a lot better than our sissy Yankee iced tea, with its lemon wedges and its pretensions.

I met a man and his wife on their way to church. I did not want to make them late. "They'll wait," this good man assured me. They would have to. He was their pastor.

He was Pastor Robert Waddle. He was not always a good man. He wore his hair in a severe crewcut. He was some inches shorter than me. But outweighed me by a good hundred-twenty pounds. His eyes were close-set and black. There was "LOVE" tattooed across the knuckles of his left hand. I did not get a look at his right. He used to be a truck driver, and I think, beat people up.

His wife was Irene with big blue eyes, Sister Irene to her friends. She was all Love and enthusiasm. She told me about the Lake of Fire. She'd had her own troubles in the past. You'd never guess it to see her now. God saved her before he did her husband.

"I tried to stop her from going to church."

He'd remove fuses from her car. He would try to block her in with his truck. He did not want her flopping against him, to use the Dickensian phrase. But she one out, or maybe God did. Robert went on to crash his truck. And experienced Healing and Redemption. Now he is preaching the Word.

Pastor Robert must have been one Hell of a thug. I wouldn't want to mess with him. But I think he makes a fine preacher too. He is not wholly ignorant of sin. And is quite sincere. Between the two of them they made a very nice case.

I presented myself honestly, or I hinted at where I stand. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but I am not a man of faith. You might think I am experiencing doubt. Disabuse yourself of that. I have in fact no doubts at all. My mind is pretty well made up.

We joined hands and prayed before I left. We made a little circle. Well, they prayed. I just sort of stood there, but it was kind of neat. It wasn't some trim little Catholic prayer. They both pretty much let loose. Him in his words and she in hers. I tried to hear them both. They prayed for my safety and to open my eyes and to make my journey about God. Which it is to a certain extent. I do return to the theme.

They invited me to their church. I probably should have gone. There is nothing tame about their faith. They've got Healing and Speaking in Tongues. It ain't all formal; people really let loose when moved by the Holy Spirit. It all sounded rather interesting, but I had laundry to do.

And my interest was more anthropological. That may be the wrong attitude. I would have liked to watch from the balcony, but I'd be out of place on the floor. And I had some fear they'd all turn on me and try to save me then and there.

"Ask God for a sign and He'll give you one." When I left I gave it a shot. But I don't think I showed proper contrition. It was like, "Alright God, go ahead." I didn't even take my earbuds out. My radio is of course dead. But I am soothed by listening again and again to Nicholas Nickleby.

Walking in Nebraska I saw a cloud in the shape of a cross. Or it may have been an alligator, crawling up on a beach. So it was either a symbol of God's Perfect Love, or a warning not to go to Florida. Maybe it was both. Or maybe it was a barium chem-trail. I think I need something less vague.

"His Sign will mean something to you but not to other people." I did just then find a sidewalk, stretching four miles to town. A proper sidewalk. In the middle of nowhere. But it appeared to have been there for some time. I followed it, appreciatively, all the way to a laundromat.

Where I finally got some washing done. And read the Book of Luke. And some Hebrews and a good many Psalms. Pastor Robert had given me a Bible. I really think I need glasses. That small print is getting sort of furry.

From there it was on to a hardy lunch. It was by then getting late in the day. But I needed a charge for my computer. It's getting very unhappy again. And, I am sad to say, my backpack is dying. I've MacGyvered a few repairs. It just needs to last another two months. Pray for it. I do.

You've heard me complain about my shoes. And my socks and my sleeping pad. And my sleeping bag and my poor old tent. Even about my hat. But I've had no unkind words about my backpack. It's about the best there is. There is no way I can afford to replace it. I'd have to settle for less.

Damn.

I stopped at a Walmart on the way out of town. Walmart is a pain in the ass. You have to walk a half a mile just to get across their parking lot. But they have goid prices on Gatorade. I got me some moist towlettes. I meant to buy some deodorant. I got Pop-Tarts instead.

And took off walking, as fast as I could. I had but two hours til dark. And I needed to get closer to Jackson, Tennessee, a very big town indeed. It is going to be a trick to get through it before dark. I don't want to get stuck indoors. I want to save my motel stays for the next time it rains.

I walked until it was almost dark. Who did I meet but Deepak. Driving home from somewhere or other with his wife and their charming daughter. Who turns fifteen today, bless her heart. Join me in wishing her well.

Deepak Chopra, that generous soul, went and forced money on me. My pride has dimmed considerably. I'm not averse to charity. But he already gave me two sandwiches, a lot of Coke and a place for my tent. I didn't want to overtax the fellow. I do try to spread my shots.

"In celebration of my daughter's birthday." I had tried to turn him down. But I could not say no to that. Not with the girl herself sitting there. She seemed like a really good kid.

"God bless you," said Deepak when he left. I think he is a Hindu. But I need all the blessings I can get. I am getting them from all sides.

THE GOOD Waddles lost their trailer in a flood, earlier this year. I saw the picture; it was awful. The road I've been on was under several feet of water. God, though, looked after them. He replaced their losses "fourfold". Now they have a doublewide. It's nice but that's only a twofold blessing. I kept that observation to myself.

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Day One-Hundred-Sixty-Two, Hilltop

The fog rolled in while I was typing last night. It was thicker still in the morning. Pea soup, like they say, which reminded me, my mother makes a fine pea soup. Which is not the ideal walking food, but warms you from the inside out.

I could have done with a bowl or two. Damn it was cold outside. Usually you can shake it off but the fog makes it stick to you. And your tent. My own tent was sopping wet and remains so even now. And my tentpoles were something evil. The kind of cold they have in Hell.

It was tempting to stay in my tent all day. I was fairly slow packing up. I had a nice spot between the railroad and the woods. No one could see me there. Which in the end is what got me up. I think it's a Saturday. At the very beginning of deer season. I heard several rifle shots. Not very nearby but close enough. A good bullet will go for miles.

Or until it hits something.

I would take my chances on the road. Fog's not ideal for walking. But I have a very wide shoulder here and the drivers are well-behaved. I made my way to Sharon, Tennessee, a few miles down the road.

I cannot tell you what road I'm on. It keeps changing its name. 45 or 43 or 372. Or Main Street or Broadway or God-knows-what. I think it is all the same. In any case, it veers around Sharon. I left it to walk through town.

First impressions mean everything. I've always resented that. I don't think the very Magic of James is easily seen at a glance. But Sharon left a positive stamp. The fog was just cooking away. But remained in the corners and with the sun shining through, it seemed like a magical town. With tidy houses and Nature all about, small but with a friendly downtown. I asked a courteous stranger for directions and made my way to the cafe.

It's the same awkward moment every day. First impressions again. In a small town everyone knows each other. I stand out like a fart in church. I ain't huge but I do fill most of a doorway. Then there's my day-glo hat. And my shaggy beard and my awkward bearing. And my red raincoat. Everyone turns and looks at me. Forks stop halfway to mouths. I am a timid creature at heart. It makes me feel like an ass.

I make friends soon enough but not this time. Every table was full. So I turned abruptly and walked back out. They'll be talking about me for weeks.

I made my way to City Hall, in a modest storefront next door. I asked a very nice man who looked like Lyndon Johnson if there were anywhere else to eat. I was hoping he was the mayor. I like meeting mayors. It makes me feel important. But he was just a Baptist preacher, moonlighting as a clerk.

It's funny, I always thought Baptist preachers were mean. Maybe it's just the ones on TV. I don't mean as they are portrayed in drama. I mean the ones with their very own shows. But this guy was helpful and had kind eyes. I hope he likes my Baptist joke. It is either the basis for a fine sermon, or my ticket to the fiery pit.

There was another place on the edge of town, where it meets the highway again. Everybody was friendly there. A nice man picked up my check. He told me I was walking for a reason. He said someday it would all make sense. He figures it is all part of God's plan for me. I would like to believe that he's right.

I left there in a very fine mood. It helps when people are kind. And the fog was gone and as promised, it was a beautiful day. My feet were happy and my road was good. My pack felt fairly light. I hiked five short miles to Greenfield to get some laundry done.

Their one laundromat had since closed down. I personally blame the Chinese. And most of the shops in their small downtown had put themselves up for sale. It would have been wrong to leave that sad town without having one piece of pie.

The pie cafe was full of hunters, all decked out in their gear. Camouflage jumpsuits and orange baseball caps. I've never seen so many at once. Let's hope they all know what they're shooting at. There are Jameses abroad in these woods.

I moved on, still in a very fine mood. My feet were a little warm. All I've got left is my extra-warm socks. I had to stop several times. And take off my shoes to cool them off. It was up in the 60s today. Sweaty feet can get blistery. I have blisters enough.

I walked past Bradford and Idlewild, "where the men are idle, and the women are wild." I planned to stop just short of Milan, My-lun to its friends. I had to be careful not to get too close. The Army makes its bullets there. Their woods are patrolled by genuine soldiers. They shoot people on purpose.

As it was I did not make it that far. I stopped at a gas station. Known as Hilltop. It is run by one good Deepak Chopra. An Indian American, in Tennessee via New Delhi. Where I lived for a few short years. We had plenty to talk about. He is just my age but a married man. His daughter is pointed at Harvard.

Deepak's known as Romy in these parts. Deepak was too hard to say. And somehow he has managed to establish himself as a Pillar of the Community. He greets most of his customers by name. The others he calls "my friend." Because sooner or later they are going to be. He is just that sort of guy.

I met Spencer, a Bradford cop. I wish I had gotten his picture. He was huge and armed and dressed all in black. He had a very fine nose. We talked for a while. He's an insightful man. I was glad for the chance. I have never talked to a cop before without him running my license.

I thought it might be easy to be a cop here, but no, they've got their share of crime. Not counting traffic atrocities, meth the biggest thing. He did not, however, make the boastful claim that Bradford is the Meth Capital of the World. Almost every other town does. Someday a competent authority ought to settle that matter for good.

They can't all be the Meth Capital. Better they should be ranked. Number two might want to try harder. Number one might want to coast. Those that are further down the list might just want to give up for good. We cannot all be champions. Some races are better not run.

I met Joe, a mountain of a mountain man. He used to work for Boeing. And Tommy, a "gun-totin' redneck" who is going to nursing school. And Carmen and her mom or grandmom, and a girl in a short skirt. And a number of deer hunters, all of whom seem to have met with success.

I was there for five hours. Friend Romy kept giving me pop. And a couple of sandwiches. He'd have given me more if I'd asked. Poor fellow, he wants to be a millionaire. He is a good businessman. But doesn't have that mean-spiritedness which too often leads to success. People can't pay for gas, he opens his wallet. He gives candy to the kids. He greets like a brother every odd hobo that comes limping up the pike.

Find me now camped behind his station, next to the diesel tanks. It coming up on one a.m., but I think I get an hour back. Or lose an hour. I forget just which. Daylight Savings boggles my mind.


I THINK this morning's hash browns were fried up in butter. Interesting.

I KNOW it's ungodly, but between you and me, I've always wanted to punch Pat Robertson in the face.

THANK YOU, Mr. Boaz, pronounced "Boze", for making sure I stay fed. And for his prayers. I'm not sure they'll take. But every little bit helps.

AND THANKS to Romy, mine excellent host. God Bess America.

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Day One-Hundred-Sixty-One, Tennessee!

These motel stays do do me some good, but I never get much sleep. Even when I can prevent myself from watching Law & Order til four a.m. The man in the next room snored very loud. It kept me up most of the night. I was too self-conscious to sleep. I'm told I'm a snorer too.

I did get a shower but not a bath. I did not get my laundry done. And too much rest makes my muscles contract. They've grown accustomed to walking. So I was out the door at check-out time, if not a moment before. I was tempted to stay another night. But not very.

It was not such a very nice place. I was not very comfortable there. And I've got to conserve my motel funds for the next time it rains. It threatened too; I rather hoped it would. There were other motels nearby. They did not look so awfully much better but I was sure they were not any worse.

I took my time walking out of town, along the State Line Road. Where one lane is firmly in Kentucky, the other in Tennessee. I crossed back and forth a number of times, depending on where the sidewalk was best. And had breakfast on the south side. One p.m. and it still hadn't rained.

I've walked a lot of miles in the rain. I'm not a complete weakling. And in the cold, but this would be both. You're not going to get me out there. Not for Love or money. Well, maybe for Love. I've always been silly that way.

There were low grey clouds, overlapping. But it never did manage to rain. So off I went, southward into the great state of Tennessee. I rather cheated myself; I went in the back way. There was no Welcome To sign. So I cannot provide you with a photo. I'll try to get one when I leave the state. And I'll keep my eyes open for anything Tennesseey, so you won't have to take my word.

If I were inclined to lie I think this would read better. My adventures would have more depth. But all you get is the boring Truth: walking and blisters and food. I wake up, I walk, I complain a bit. It's the same thing every day. I thank you for your interest, but you may be cheating yourself. If anything really big happens to me I'll be too dead to type it up.

I did quite like Kentucky. Fulton was a bleak little town. In Tennessee my road broadened to five whole lanes with a shoulder on either side. Which was a welcome improvement. I guess it is pretty here. But it was so grey and cold I worry that I did not appreciate it.

There's a Baptist Church every two-hundred yards. They are church-buildin' fools. Each a denomination unto itself. I'm reminded of a good joke. I'll copy and paste it, I've just learned how, and it is too long for me to remember:

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

Once I saw this guy on a bridge about to jump. I said, "Don't do it!"

He said, "Nobody loves me."

I said, "God loves you. Do you believe in God?"

He said, "Yes."

I said, "Are you a Christian or a Jew?"

He said, "A Christian."

I said, "Me, too! Protestant or Catholic?"

He said, "Protestant."

I said, "Me, too! Which denomination?"

He said, "Baptist."

I said, "Me, too! Northern Baptist or Southern Baptist?"

He said, "Northern Baptist."

I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist or Northern Liberal Baptist?"

He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist."

I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region, or Northern Conservative Baptist Eastern Region?"

He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region."

I said, "Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1879, or Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912?"

He said, "Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912."

I said, "Die, heretic scum!" And I pushed him over.

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

That ought to increase my word count, at any rate, and it is illustrative of a point. Namely, a lot of us are going straight to Hell. You pays your money and you takes your chances.

I walked all of seventeen miles. Not bad for a late lazy day. I don't know how much better I'll do tomorrow. I've got to get some laundry done. It is awful nice to have clean hair but I'm fast running out of socks.

Shortly before nightfall the clouds did part and I caught a glimpse of blue. Which means it is going to be cold tonight. I am wearing my teddy bear pants. But it should be a beautiful day tomorrow. I expect good things from Tennessee.


IT APPEARS that there is available in this part of the country a cable channel which shows Patrick Swayze's 1989 classic, Roadhouse, 24-hours a day. I'm not saying this is a bad thing.

I HAD MY TENT hanging up in my motel room to dry and air out a bit. Now it smells more like tomcat than ever.

I STOPPED in Milton, Tennessee for pie. My waitress called me "sugar." And "honey" and "sweetie" and possibly "darlin'." I like that. It makes me feel loved.

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Day One-Hundred-Sixty, Downtime

The rains came at four a.m. I had to crawl out of bed. And zipper up and batten down. It's a trick to keep my gear dry. It took me an hour to fall back to sleep. I dreamed about hurricanes.

I woke up again at nine o'clock. It had by then stopped raining. Or was about to, at any rate. But there were some awful winds. And the woods I had slept in were awfully damp. My shoes are not waterproof. Wet socks hurt my feelings and make my feet pruny and sore.

I had almost a gallon of water. I could have stayed there all day long. But I'm a go-getter, a high-achiever. You won't catch me lying around. Not in the woods during deer season. Not with nothing to eat. And though I'm too quickly fooled by a few warmish days, I am still racing winter south.

It is cold most mornings but it always warms up. Even when I'm sure it will not. But today it jut got colder and colder and there was an arctic wind. Or an antarctic wind. I cannot be sure. I have no keen sense of direction.

I'd been threatening to stay indoors today. There was a motel just outside town. Fulton, Kentucky, that is, on the border with Tennessee. It was everything I could possibly hope for. It was ready to be condemned. Weedy and seedy and crumbling. It looked like something I could afford.

But it was too blasted far from anywhere. I needed something to eat. So it was over the railroad and into town. I knew I would not double back. That is something I've done very little of on this trip, not even for a block or two. It would be a shame to undo all my good work. It would offend my walking gods.

So imagine my surprise and delight when I found a motel still worse. After lunch and a ways down the road. It is possitively disgusting. It's the very worst place I've been to yet. I checked in, no questions asked.

I lived and worked in India for a number of years. I've slept in a number of dumps. My favorite was a place in Mumbai, famous for its gangland murders. There were rats in the walls and the ceiling. I could hear them moving around. I never saw one but they sounded big. I'm feeling nostalgic today.

I've got all my gear spread out to try. I cleaned the toothpaste out of my bag. But I am not going to get any laundry done. I did get a call from my mother. Who likes me better when I'm far away, so there's some value in that.

Goodnight.

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Day One-Hundred-Fifty-Nine, Dozer

My very first thought in planning this trip was that I would need a companion. Lewis had Clark, after all. It's a big country to travel alone. I wondered who I could get to go with me. I made a short list in my mind. A couple of old girlfriends, an Internet stranger, my friend Dozer the Dog.

Dozer was not my very own dog, but he needed to get out of town. He had recently disgraced himself by eating a little girl. He'd swallowed her whole; he coughed her right up. A quick rinse and she was fine. But it wasn't the first time he'd done such a thing. A long walk might do him some good.

In some ways he would be the ideal companion. I was still a little scared at the time. Not of snakes or bears but lunatics. Dozer would have them for lunch. And a good hundred pounds of dog will really warm up a tent. But I did not want to take him away from his family. I did not want him hit by a car. I did not want to carry his food and water and worry about him all the time.

I learned today that Dozer has died. Suddenly and too too young. He was big and ugly and dumb as a post. He used to bite everyone. He would beg for carrots and then spit them out. I loved him. He was my friend.

This is Kentucky. Harder men than me have wept over some old hound. But I still felt just a little foolish weeping over my breakfast. And wondering if my waitress would be offended if I asked her to give me a hug.

I fell into conversation with a very old man. I did not share my sad story with him. He was all but ninety years old. He's lost a friend or two. We talked about the sad state of politics. He's a "dyed-in-the-wool Democrat." And has worked for years in Africa, helping them improve their crops.

It's a bit condescending to say "sharp as a tack." Some old people do fade. But nothing got past this old codger. I sure like talking to him. About Africa in the 1960s. He worked for USAID. And a couple of universites. I have seen Born Free twice.

I wish I could have talked to him longer. I think it was time for his nap. Before he left he paid my check and gave me some parting advice. "Give the waitress a good tip." I was only too glad to comply. "A man should always have something invested in his breakfast."

That was in Bardwell, Kentucky, six miles on from my tent. And perhaps the friendliest little town that I have been to yet. People were eager to welcome me and anxious that I should like their state. And I do. It is pretty here and was as warm as a summer day.

My road wound in and amongst the trees. Many of them are still green. But there are too the yellows which have been lacking and some very fine shades of orange. There are a few small farms. I crossed a few creeks. There are some beautiful hills. Kentucky is an awful nice place. I risked my life to get here.

I walked on through Arlington. I stopped and had some pie. And a cheeseburger while I was there. I was going to eat less today. Which always sounds like a good idea, but I was hungry again. As I am now. Let's change the subject. I do have a case of the poops.

I blame myself. It comes from washing my face without properly rinsing my beard. And then whenever I eat or drink the soap gets into my food. And lubricates, as it were. It makes my tummy uneasy. I mention this only to prevent my friends from making the same mistake.

I'd hate to think it was the pie. I had two pieces today. Pie is Nature's Perfect Food. And in Heaven it's all you get.

It was on from there to Clinton, Kentucky, a fairly good-sized town. But I did not get to study the matter. It was by then getting dark. So I marched on through. I am in the woods, ten miles from Fulton. It is expected to rain tomorrow and that is just fine with me.

I've got it all worked out. I wake up and walk almost all the way to Fulton. Three miles short it starts pouring. I am soaked and forlorn. I check into a motel and doctor my feet and take a four-hour bath. And don't feel the slightest bit guilty about it. A boy can't walk in the rain.

I SAW GRITS on the menu for the very first time. I'll order them one of these days. I don't know if I'll like them or not. Maybe I'll just order one.

DOZER was not a mean dog, he just took his guard dog duties very seriously. And being a little bit nearsighted, he'd err on the side of caution. Bite 'em all and let God sort 'em out. That was Dozer's motto.

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Day One-Hundred-Fifty-Eight, Kentucky!

It is these days awfully cold in the morning. A lesser man would stay in bed. But my little air mattress deflates overnight. It is less comfortable than you'd think. And it does warm up with reasonable speed, into the high sixties. And the skies are blue and the winds aren't so bad. It is pretty good weather for walking.

I passed through Future City, Illinois, a sort of suburb of Cairo. If this indeed a glimpse of our future, than our future looks mighty bleak. A few salvage yards and a funeral home. And one very large dog. He was roped to a tree with a length of chain. I wish he were roped with two. He made every effort to get at me. I looked into his eyes. He really wanted to kill me. Not just bite me but tear me apart. He could have done it too.

Cairo, rhymes with sparrow, is a sad little town. It is home to some 2800 people. Mark Twain once described the town as "majestic." I think he was being snide. Or maybe it was better back in the day. It couldn't have been much worse.

Cairo sits at the tip of Illinois, between the Mississipi and Ohio rivers. With another small river and swamps to the north. It is more or less an island. It is of a lower elevation than the rivers that surround it. It can go any time. And nearly did earlier this year. The fact is it would make a nice lake.

Seriously. I've studied the matter. We could call it Lake James. Or Lake Mark Twain or Lake Cairo, if we really wanted to be kind. It would revitalise the southern half of the state. There are a few people living here. Give them all lakefront lots. And free fishing licenses. And two jet skis or one ski boat.

Because there is not much else keeping the town alive. Industry has gone. Factories, not boarded up, but abandoned altogether. A good dozen abandoned service stations. A number of weedy lots. Haunted houses, Victorians, crumbling and decayed.

I'd been expecting a much bigger town. We might blame Mark Twain again. My geography is a little weak. I figured if I had heard of it then it must be big. But I knew it from Huckleberry Finn. You'll recall that this is where they meant to turn left. But they got to smoking their pipes or something and wound up going South. Wackiness ensued.

I spend a big part of my day there. Battery problems, don't you know. My little computer has been very unhappy from being too long undercharged. And too cold, I think. I thought I'd give it a treat and really gas it up good. I spent the time at their fabulous library and their historical museum.

Cairo is predominantly black and has been since the early days. They've had all manner of racial strife. The museum gives it a miss. Who wants to reflect on lynchings and the White Citizens' Brigade. But therein lies the story of the town. It was doing OK for a while. But the railroad died and they moved the bridge and barge traffic died down. And the black people started getting pissed off because the police kept beating them up.

In the nineteen-sixties there were boycotts and riots. The white people all left town. And took what little money there was with them. And now here we are. Sad thing is, it's a part of our history. It is perhaps worth saving. You could probably buy the whole town for a few dozen millions of dollars.

I spent several long hours in town. I didn't dislike the place. But I thought I should put in a few token miles. I went in search of the bridge. There are two. One goes across the Missippi, back the way I came. The other crosses the Ohio and takes you into Kentucky.

NOTE TO YOUNG WALKERS ACROSS AMERICA: Do not, I repeat, DO NOT try to cross the Ohio at Cairo, Illinois. Don't even consider it. You will as likely as not die.

I did ask people about the bridge. I knew there was no pedestrian lane. The Department of Transportation assured me there was a shoulder, though not through official lines. "Just be careful," the nice lady told me. I assured her I would.

The shoulder is about as wide as my butt, and not when I'm sitting down. It is a very long bridge. There is truck traffic. I must have been out of my mind. If I had the merest brain in my head I would have hitchhiked across. Or walked to Paducah and taken my chances there. I must have been out of my mind.

Now if everyone played by the rules I would have been just fine. Watch the road and stay between the lines. I did not need more than that. But there was zero, I mean zero, margin for error. People make errors all the time. One inch out of line and I would have been dead. Literally. One inch. Dead.

A half-dozen times I found myself scrunched up against a railing that was lower than my center of gravity, two-hundred feet above the river. A few trucks had to swerve at the very last minute when they saw me screaming and waving my hat.

I must have been out of my mind.

When I did get across I was pale and shaking. I thought I might have to throw up. I'd developed a twitch below my eye that lasted until after dark. I had to sit by the road and breathe. I had too to get out of Dodge. The State Patrol would have been within their rights to cart me off to jail.

For my own protection, certainly. Under observation.

My life has not been free of adventure, but I have never done anything that stupid or dangerous before. Ever. I bet you all a dollar each that I dream about it tonight.

I must have been out of my mind.

Anyway, I am in Kentucky and I couldn't be better pleased. Everywhere else I've been I've been before. This is my first new state. Kentucky. It's exciting. I am not being snide at all.

So far it looks pretty much like Missouri. There's a moon but it isn't blue. I met a man with tattoos on his bald head but you see that in Seattle too. But it is a new state. It's like visiting a new country, like seeing a new corner of the world. I've got my eyes wide open. I'm just a little bit scared.

It is awful pretty around here. The Mississippi looked blue. And was so wide where it hit the Ohio that it looked like the ocean itself. The sun was gleaming off the waves. It was warm this afternoon. It was a little glimpse of Florida. I'm happy to be alive.

I'VE BEEN LOOKING for differences in the South. So far, this is what I got: People drink more iced tea. Crushed ice, which I greatly prefer, is more widely available. There is more pie.

I HEARD TWO people say "y'all" today. I'm so happy.

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Day One-Hundred-Fifty-Seven, Halloween

Bridge construction started at seven. I was already astir in my tent. It was very nearby but out of the way. If they saw me they didn't care. I thought of introducing myself, with an eye towards getting some coffee. But everyone seemed awfully busy. I packed up and moved on.

Two or three miles to the town of Thebes, along the Mississippi river. There were barges moving up and down. The river itself was glass smooth. When I crossed yesterday there were whitecaps and waves. That was more interesting. Here it was brown with miles of rusty trees lining the banks on both sides.

There are grey sand beaches too. I don't know if there are meant to be. Or if it's just the Army Corps of Engineers having fun like they do. No one here seems to want to live beside the river. You'd think they would like the view. I know it ain't quite Malibu but it's pretty in its way.

I had hoped to have breakfast in Thebes. Thebes isn't much of a town. The only store they have sells bait and very little else. There's a railroad bridge I wanted a picture of but I couldn't get an angle on it. Not without climbing down some jagged rocks. That's the Army Corps again.

Lewis and Clark spent their second night there, not twenty miles from where they began. Turned out paddling upriver was not as fun as they thought it would be. Though I'm guessing they did not paddle much themselves. They had their men to do that. I don't know how many but right about then they were thinking they might need some more.

I really had set my heart on breakfast. I didn't eat much yesterday. Nor had I taken the thoughtful precaution of filling my backpack with cheese. Illinois, I'd been sure, would take care of me, but it is nothing but strip clubs and swamps. And today a number of trees. Some of them are even yellow. It seems this year it got too cold too fast so they did not reach their full splendour.

I worried it would be twelve more miles until I got something to eat. Or very possibly twenty-four. I was a little sad. Certainly I've gone days without eating before, but I did not get much walking done. I tried to look hungry so some little boy would make a sandwich for me.

Secretly I was just a bit pleased. Some suffering is key. I don't know that I'll ever be proud of myself for Walking Across America. It has not been hard enough. I'm dropping weight like a refugee but I'm eating like Henry VIII. Starvation, I thought, should be part of it, if only for one token day.

Still I was not wholly displeased to find Olive Branch, Illinois. It was on my map but I had spaced it. It came as a nice little surprise. I was just a little late for breakfast but I ordered the biggest they had. I had starved in my heart and that was enough. It is the thought that counts.

Pancakes. I ain't really a fan. I liked them when I was a kid. But they were cheap and man-sized, big as frisbees and three-quarters of an inch thick. I finished them out of a stubborn pride, and with a kind thought to the hungry children in the world. But damn, they all but did me in. I'll be digesting them for days.

Olive Branch is a good two miles long. Not too many people live there. But there are a few shops and a small motel and no less than two cafes. And a tuxedo rental shop. Folks here like to look sharp. My waitress looked like Sarah Jessica Parker, before she got her hard edge.

I walked on feeling fairly content. It was again a beautiful day. Not many people live in southern Illinois. Most of it is a nature preserve. Federal, I believe. Mostly trees with the odd farm here and there. And swamps, of course. There are skeetery bugs. I kept an eye out for gators.

Traffic was light and there was a good shoulder and plenty of places to rest. Little roads disappearing into the trees where I could sit on my pack. You'd be surprised how very few such places there are on the roads of America. As often as not I'm perched in a ditch, weaving a hammock from snakes.

Some miles on I passed the spot where Lewis and Clark spent their first night. They had made even less progress on that day. From where I was standing it looked like they might have done better to walk. I don't know where they left from. Cairo, I suppose. That makes sense. It is on the Ohio and the Mississipi, though below the level of both.

I quit when I got to the edge of Cairo. I've got blisters on both my heels. Still I managed twenty-three miles. Not bad for a lazy day. I am camped on the edge of a soybean field, behind a dollar store. Dining on handfuls of Halloween candy and just a bit colder than I like to be.

It is a hell of a spot, really, and proof of my hobo skills. I spotted it from five miles away, before it even came into view. I saw the freeway, I saw the highway, I saw where the railroad was going. And knew there would be a little triangle just designed for my tent. Civilisation on all sides and invisible to the world.

HALLOWEEN is a stupid holiday. I know it's fun for the kids. Free candy. Nothing wrong with that. But sooner or later we all turn twelve and then your excuses are gone. Adults who enjoy dressing up in costumes need a talking to or a slap. And why designate a holiday devoted to all things creepy? Better we should celebrate the Beautiful. The world is ugly enough.

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