Day One-Hundred-Seventy-Five, Muscly Bits

It was plenty cold last night, but not as cold as I've ever been.  It was as cold as I'm ever going to be.  I've had enough of this nonsense.  My new minimum temperature is thirty-eight degrees.  And that's only because it's going to be thirty-nine tonight and I'll be nowhere near a motel.

I was colder, in fact, in Sioux City.  That was before I got my teddy bear pants.  I was colder too a week or two back, when my tent iced over.  But I was younger then.  I had more to give.  I'm getting old and I'm growing feeble.  As God is my witness, I will never, ever be cold again. 

I slept until almost eight o'clock.  That wasn't all my fault.  I usually open my eyes once or twice to see the coming of dawn.  At the first fain't glimmer I'm up and packed, eager to hit the road.  But today it took forever to arrive.  Every time I checked it was dark.  It took me a while to realise I'd zippered my bag over my head.

When I did climb out it was bright out there.  The sun was well up in the sky.  The air was clear and it was bitter cold.  Not as cold as it has been in the past.  But much colder than I was ready to deal with.  I stayed in my tent for a while.  To gather my courage and to let the ice melt.  I listened to Nicholas Nickleby and read my Mennonite tracts.

One problem was I was overdressed.  Which meant I had to undress some.  I figured I was cold enough without baring myself to the world.  I was content to let the sun rise until it was forty or so.  Which took a while because I was deep in amongst the trees.  There were deer scampering about.  I heard gunfire in the distance.  They were using me to draw fire.  Devilishly clever beasts.

I did pack up eventually.  I was in no great shape for walking.  I think my fancy arch supports are starting to lose their mojo.  The bones in my feet are starting to creak.  I'm getting cramps in my legs.  And in my butt, if it concerns you.  The muscly bits, I mean.  And the cold wind blowing against my forehead was giving me a headache.

I blame it all, by the way, on the Samsung Corp.  I'd be much pleased if you did too.  Please take every opportunity to tell people how very much they suck.

I was also hungry with no idea when I'd be eating again.  Which you would think would inspire me to press further down the road.  But that is not how I deal with crisis.  It's why I'd make a very poor soldier.  When the going gets tough my first inclination is to sit under a tree and cry.

But I walked on.  It was too cold for tears.  I figured there had to be something.  I wandered past the town of Artesia.  It did not look promising.  All I could see of it from the highway was a crumbling warehouse and remarkably well maintained church.  I ain't real religious myself.  I would have much preferred a cafe.

I walked on.  A good five-hundred yards or so.  Then I came to a sign.  Inviting northbound traffic to A.C.'s Eatery.  The sign itself was in good repair.  It may have even been new.  Contrary to all policy I went back the way I'd come.

Artesia, Mississippi is a tiny town of maybe a few hundred people.  The trains probably used to stop there to get their coal and water.  Now it's a sad main street and little else.  They're threatening to put some factories nearby.  Which ought to snap it out of its doldrums.  Nice folks.  I wish them luck.

A.C. himself made me a burger.  He sat and prayed while I ate.  It seems that he, with Jesus' help, is attempting to conquer sin.  Good luck with that.  My burger was good, though I'm getting a little tired of them.  I look forward to the day when I can cook for myself and re-embrace vegetarianism.

Now I'll eat anything I can get.  It's getting rather hard.  It is like Montana in this part of the state.  Cafes are few and far between.  I was promised a Mennonite bakery in Crawford but there was nothing there.  There was a gas station but I didn't buy food.  My hopes were at that point still high.  A man drinking beer said I would find food.  I didn't.  I think he was drunk.

I think I was the only white person in Crawford, Mississippi.  Everyone was really nice to me but they looked at me like I was lost.  Which I was, to a certain extent.  I dared not check my map.  Because Samsung sucks.  I cut my losses and walked back to the highway.

Hungry and cold and low on water.  I stopped waving hi to truckers.  Sometimes you're just not in the mood to make new friends on the road.  I limped on as far as Brooksville, Mississipi, which is where you find me now.  Having doubled back up a side road to find a place for my tent.  Hobo skills.  They served me well but I am not enjoying camping.  It is cold and I'm thirsty and my butt hurts.  The muscly bit, I mean.

I think the Mennonites I was looking for are here.  I plan to have two breakfasts.  And I think I need to rethink my route.  I'm having trouble keeping fed.  But the weather will be better tomorrow.  Warm for a day and a half.  Then it will be warm and rainy. 

My mood is soured and it is Samsung's fault.  They suck like there's no tomorrow.

Peace.

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Day One-Hundred-Seventy-Four, Eskimo Farts

Twenty-eight degrees.  I feel cheated.  Twenty-seven and I'd be indoors.  That was the line I drew in the frost and I can't go back on it now.  It would make me look weak.  Indecisive.  You'd lose all respect for me.  A little cold air never hurt anyone.  Except for the people it has killed.

That is unlikely to happen to me.  Mine is a passionate nature.  I am warmed by my depth of feeling and by my boundless sense of romance.  And my two pairs of socks and my thermal underwear and my custom made teddy bear pants.  And my two fleece pullovers and a hat that ties under my chin.  I've got my bag made out of ground up ducks and an empty Gatorade bottle.  I'm as prepared as I can possibly be.  If I freeze to death it's not my fault.

I expect to be fairly uncomfortable.  I am a little shivery now.  But I am not yet feeling sorry for myself.  Do you feel sorry for me?  Well you damn well should.  It's freezing out here and I'm probably going to die. 

They'll dig me up in five-thousand years.  I will be well-preserved.  They will study my clothing and stomach contents.  I will come to define my age.  Twenty-First Century Man, they will say, was bearded and wore his hair long.  He was by nature a wanderer.  He lived on biscuits and gravy.  He communicated by means of a primitive electronic device which, their technologists will affirm, sucked.

National Geographic will put me on their cover.  I'll be displayed under glass.  T-shirts bearing my likeness will be sold in museum gift shops.  Anthropologists will build their careers on theories as to why I bottled my urine. 

You ask why; I say why not.  It really is cold out there.  Don't judge me until you've walked 2500 miles in my ill-fitting moccasins.

I was perfectly willing to stay in a motel.  I've been doing a lot of that these days.  I checked two papers and looked at a TV.  The weathermen all agreed.  Twenty-eight, they said.  Not twenty-seven.  Miserable conformist bastards.  Not one had the courage to give me an excuse to move myself indoors.

I could be watching Law & Order right now.  I could be taking a bath.  I could be eating pizza and talking to my mom on the phone.  Think how sad she'll be when I freeze to death.  She'll be out of sorts for a week.  Think of my lonesome banjo going forever unplayed.

It has never been played particularly well as it is.  And now it never will be.

I could walk to the highway and put up my thumb, but that would not be sporting.  It is for me to endure this pain.  Who knows, I just might live.  There have been people frozen almost stiff who went on to live happy lives.  The trick is to thaw them slow.  Make a note of that.  Thaw me slow.  Like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Planning happy Thanksgivings, are you?  Be thankful you're not me.  I'm cold.

It'll be warmer tomorrow night.  Then it will be in the forties.  So all I have to do is survive for another 12 hours or so.  Hell, I can do that.  I think the point here is that I am going to be uncomfortable.  Which I should be used to by now.  I've suffered as few others have.  Have you ever flown across the Pacific in economy class?  I'd rather be here now.  Of course on the plane I do drink quite a bit.  I should have procured a bottle.

I used to know some Polacks.  I am not being unkind.  That is what they called themselves.  They drank their vodka neat.  At room temperature and by the pint.  I remember one snowy evening.  We were on the veranda in our T-shirts, sharing jokes and singing songs.  I was not the slightest bit cold.  It was like magic.

But all I've got is Gatorade.  I must be careful not to mix up the bottles.

I was cold this morning as well.  I slept until almost seven.  The sun was out but it was not warm.  It was though a beautiful day.  The sky was blue and the air was clear.  It was windier than I like to see.  I took my time packing up.  My tent poles stung my fingers.

It had dropped to thirty-seven or so.  It must have been forty by then.  I had slept with my windows open in order to dry out my tent.  It worked, thank goodness.  If it had not I would be in much worse shape now.  As it is I expect it to fairly ice over from the steam of my breath.

I'm steamy.

I had a twelve-mile walk to town.  I was completely out of water.  And I had breakfasted on Corn Nuts.  It left me a little parched.  But I figured I could make the hike in three hours.  I was wearing my lucky warm socks.  And half hoping I'd be stopped by the State Patrol.  I've got more to write about them.

Six or seven miles in I found a cafe, one of them Mennonite concerns.  Simplicity, Economy, and Modesty; that's what they're all about.  And baking, God bless them.  They fed me fairly well.  I had biscuits and gravy and a blackberry roll with a half pint of cream cheese frosting.  And coffee.  It was the last time I ate.  I wish I were back there now.

The Amish, I believe, spun off from the Mennonites.  They weren't hard core enough for them.  The Mennonites too believe in non-violence.  So do I, in certain moods.  Other times I just really want to hit someone.  I almost never do.

I'd like to hit Newt Gingrich, but I don't think that's fair to him.  Try as I might, I cannot distinguish him from Pat Robertson. 

I reached West Point, Mississippi well fed.  It took away my reason to be there.  I drank Sweet Tea at a McDonald's and tried to recharge my computer.  Which is misbehaving again.  The cold isn't doing it any good.  But I've got other worries now.  I am cold.

West Point made little impression on me.  It seemed like a pretty big town.  There was a lot of traffic at any rate.  It was hard to get around.  I stuck around as long as I dared then headed south again.  For another eleven miles.  I more than met my quota today.

I didn't notice for the first couple hours, but I've been walking steadily uphill.  Which I almost prefer if it's not too steep.  It seems to suit my stride.  And I came to a stretch with no houses at all.  It was easy to set up my tent.  I think I'll stay here until the sun is well up.  I hate being cold in the morning.

I haven't the vaguest where my next town is.  I'll hit Macon the day after tomorrow.  I'm hoping there will be something between here and there.  It's possible I'll want a snack.  I didn't put any food in my bag.  It seemed heavy enough.

IT HAS BEEN a while and I'm not dead yet.  My nose is a little runny though.  Which is an awful hardship, I know, but unlikely to earn me a medal.

IF I DO last the night, twenty-six becomes my new minimum temperature.  Damn.

VODKA is in fact a Polish drink.  You'd be forgiven for thinking it's Russian.  They stole it.  At least that's what the Polacks tell me.

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Day One-Hundred-Seventy-Three, Suspicious Minds

It was raining when I woke up, some minutes before sunrise.  There was lightning but no thunder.  Somewhere there was a tornado.  Nowhere near me, as far as I know.  I heard about it on the radio.  It was a quarter of a mile wide and injured fifteen people.

It rained gently and it rained hard.  Then it rained harder still.  I figured I may as well stay in my tent.  I had nowhere to be.  Walking in the rain is bad enough.  Packing up is much worse.  I put on some dry socks and listened to Nicholas Nickleby.

Which I've read a half-dozen times.  I've listened to it a dozen times more.  I was running out of water and I was getting a little bit bored.  And hungry but at least I was dry.  Not as dry as you might think.  Some water always manages to find its way into my tent.

As did a number of little red ants.  I murdered them to pass the time.  Which is not, I confess, what the Buddha would do.  Call it a weakness of character.  When I lived in India I'd kill hundreds of them every day.  I tried to get my lizards to eat them but they would not even try.

The rain did stop at nine or so.  It turned out to be a trick.  It waited until I took down my tent then opened up into a monsoon.  I don't use the term loosely.  I know of monsoons.  I have lived in monsoony lands.  In two minutes it soaked everything I own and me right down to my shorts.

Getting back out to the road was a trick.  The world had turned to mud.  Not that sissy Yankee mud either.  Here is the real thing.  Tenacious and gooey.  Each one of my shoes must have weighed fifteen pounds.  I was feeling just a little bit picked on as I clomped up the hill to town.

But the sky was pretty.  It was eerily warm.  The clouds were all aswirl.  And conspired with the fog in the southeast to look very much like a mountain.  A Cascade, specifically.  But I was not fooled.  Not for more than a minute or two.  This is Mississippi.

It was not an altogether unpleasant walk.  You can only get so wet.  And there was a summery smell in the air.  Town was but two miles off.  Okolona, to be specific, "A Certified Mississippi Main Street Community." 

Whatever that is supposed to mean.  There was a street called Main.  I clomped halfway down it looking for somewhere to eat and dry my bones.  No joy.  It was back to the highway.  I dined at the supermarket.

I had biscuits and grits and gravy and eggs and two chunks of fried baloney.  Which was salty as hell but I'm not complaining.  The whole meal cost me four bucks.  Five with coffee.  It was all good.  Those were my very first grits.  Which don't really taste like anything.  They're like bland tapioca pudding.  I put salt and pepper on mine.  I don't really know if you're supposed to.  I waited until no one was watching so as not to piss anyone off.

It stopped raining over breakfast.  I dried as much as I could.  And set out to walk as far as I could in a pair of squishy socks.  My shoes were cheap but they're not waterproof.  There was not much I could do about that.  Suffering, they say, builds character.  Blisters will make me a god.

I was headed, of course, for West Point, Mississipi, twenty-eight miles off.  With absolutely nothing between the two towns.  It's like being in Montana again.  And it had me a little bit intimidated.  I looked for alternate routes.  But nothing really leapt out at me.  I bought a sandwich to go.

And walked.  I guess it wasn't so bad.  I was stopped by the State Patrol.  It's been a while; I was overdue.  It still rather hurts my feelings.  I don't like being asked to explain myself.  It is not so easy to do.  And I'm sure there is something in the Fourth Amendment that says I don't have to show them ID.

I guess they have me on "unusual conduct."  My whole life's been conducted unusually.  But I still resent being run through their computer.  What happened to the Land of the Free?  I can see them pulling over to offer help.  I might need a foot rub or something.  But once I tell them what I'm doing they should be on their way.  But it takes Imagination to understand.  They're a fairly unimaginative bunch.

My pace slowed just a bit after that.  They'd gone and ruined my mood.  Walking Across America is a Great Thing to Do.  It pains me when people can't see it.  Driving a Winnebago or riding a Harley would make perfect sense to them.  If you want to be truly free from suspicion you need to have a fat ass.

I was outside the supermarket adjusting my pack.  Some fellows pulled up in a truck.  "Have you eaten?" they asked.  In fact I had but I knew just what they meant.  If they were Christians they didn't wear it on their sleeves.  They just wanted to make sure I was fed.  What a wonderful state, I thought.  I meet good people everywhere.  But I'm thinking now of cutting it short and heading for Alabama.

Or Arkansas.  Alabama, I think.  I keep mixing them up in my mind.  And I cannot be sure the cops like hobos any more on that side of the line.  But a night in jail would enliven this blog, and one hopes, pay for this trip.  I would insist on compensation.  I can hold a grudge.

I am still twelve miles from West Point, camped by a soybean field.  It is meant to be in the thirties tonight.  I'm fine if it doesn't rain.  Tomorrow will be cold indeed.  I'm just a little bit worried.  I draw the line at twenty-seven.  That's when I move back indoors.

"YOU AIN'T from around here."  I get that one a lot.

THE RETIRED preacher I met yesterday has eleven children.  "Being fruitful," he calls it.  He has too sixteen grandchildren.  "Do you know all their names?" I asked.  He assured me he did not.  Again quite without irony.  I expect he has them written down somewhere.

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Day One-Hundred-Seventy-Two, The Buddha

Staying in motels just exhausts me.  I'm not altogether sure why.  I think it might have something to do with a lack of oxygen.  Your cheaper places tend to be stuffy.  They would not pass a blacklight exam.  Hot baths soften my calluses.  Soft beds weaken my thighs.  Watching six hours of Law & Order will give you peculiar dreams.

Notice I've italicised "Law & Order."  I'm not going to do it twice.  It took me fifteen minutes and three points of battery life.  But I do have a new blog editor.  I like the old one better.  But life goes on and things change, no matter how much it hurts my feelings.

I haven't changed so very much.  I'm a youthful forty-two.  Because I've spent a lifetime avoiding resposibility.  Which is after all what ages us.  I'll be forever young.  You might as well go ahead and admire me for it.  Jealousy is unbecoming.

Sure there is some grey in my beard.  My eyes have wrinkled some.  In the manner of Clint Eastwood.  Everybody likes him.  And every important part of me works, as well as it ever has.  Though I did while washing my feet this morning discover a missing nail.

On the little toe of my left foot.  It was never much to see.  But it's gone now, poor little fellow.  It has given itself to the cause.  Never again will I have to pay full price for a pedicure.

I did not get back on the road until noon.  It took me hours to walk out of town.  If I had not slept indoors I would have been in a pickle.  Trapped in a city after dark with no place to put up my tent.  It was nothing but my hobo skills that convinced me to sleep indoors.

Which I have been doing a lot of this month.  It is really slowing my progress.  I have been in Mississippi for what, a week, and I'm still up by Tennessee.  There are children who look up to me.  I feel I am letting them down.

But I never signed up to be a role model.  All I can offer is my best advice.  Read more and watch less TV.  Take up the banjo young.  Clean your room and take care of your teeth.   Eat your vegetables.  Avoid brown liquor and nicotine.  Smoke pot in moderation.

It was an unpleasant walk, even in daylight.  There was no shoulder at all.  For miles I was walking on the spongy grass growing next to the road.  Which is tiring and really hard on my feet.  They get knocked around in my shoes.  Which are fairly lightweight and not at their best on uneven surfaces.

I had by then abandoned Tupelo for Verona, Mississipi.  Which butts right up against it to the south and goes on for another few miles.  After that I had some sharp gravel to walk on.  Just like in Iowa.  But here it's a rusty red color and littered with prescription bottles.

I did find some countryside after that.  Traffic thinned just a bit.  And one or two raindrops landed on me but the skies never opened up.  They've decided that will happen tomorrow.  Hail and thunderstorms.  And maybe a tornado or two, just to keep me on what's left of my toes.

The Gulf of Mexico is behind it, they say.  Something about warm moist air.  And I am pleased to be so far south that the Gulf is even a factor.  Warm rains aren't going to kill me, I guess.  The day after that it gets cold.  Down below freezing again.  I thought I was free of all that.  I'm typing this in a T-shirt with my windows open.  At the motel I ran the AC.

Eventually I made it to Shannon, Mississippi.  I was walking in rather a daze.  My mind again wandered to other things.  I was not thinking of my feet.  Which is how a long walk is supposed to go.  It is why I've always liked walking.  It is like a sort of meditation, without going all Buddha on you.  But that sort of peace has been lost to me for nearly all of this trip.  Sad to think that I'm just getting it right when I am nearly done.

I'd had a big breakfast in Tupelo.  I had a big lunch in Shannon.  At a once gas station that is now P&G Wings and Things.  It is run by a retired minister.  We watched Let's Make a Deal.

With genuine interest.  There's no irony here.  In a perfect world we wouldn't need it.  But it is a force alive in me.  The Buddha was not ironic at all.

I walked on a few miles from there, until the sun went down.  And was at least briefly concerned about where I might set up my tent.  But I found a spot.  I always do.  Hobo skills, don't you know.  I am between a river and a ploughed field.  It is going to get muddy if it rains.

I HAD pecan pie at P&G.  I wasn't hungry, but I'm glad I made the effort.

WHILE I was having my biscuits and gravy, the cooks were arguing.  There was something very wrong with the biscuits, they said.  Neither would admit fault.  They tasted OK to me but it did get me thinking.  It rather ruined my meal.

THERE IS A critter outside my tent, heavy and seemingly bipedal.  I think it's one of them bigfoots.  I'll try to get a photo with him.

NO ONE can tell I'm a Yankee until I talk.  I feel like a spy.

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Day One-Hundred-Seventy-One, Tupelo

I spent all day in Tupelo, trying to fix my computer.  Which I may have done but I'm not optimistic.  Samsung sucks.

Elvis was born inTupelo in 1935.  He died forty-two years later.  I'm forty-two right now.  And still have one or two things to accomplish.  Like getting out of Tupelo.  It's a fine city, or so I suspect.  I've only seen one road of it.  And likely not the prettiest road.  It's all Walmarts and shopping malls.  I didn't even make it as far as Elvis Presley Park.

I spent all at a Verizon shop and walking around killing time.  I walked miles a mall.  And sat sipping soda and recharging.  It was eighty degrees today.  And sunny, a good day to be outside.  People are walking around in shorts.  It's summertime in Mississippi.  Tomorrow it's going to rain.

And here I am sleeping indoors tonight.  I'm finding these motel stays exhausting.  And expensive and not at all in keeping with the spirit of my adventure.  My forward progress has slowed to a crawl.  I blame the Samsung corp.

Which sucks.

I do have something to show for it all.  I can do italics now.  But I cannot undo them.  Forgive the mess.  Back on the road tomorrow.

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Day One-Hundred-Seventy, Guntown

Find me in a Subway outside of Baldwyn at ten-thirty in the morning. It is a bit earlier than I usually like to type my daily reports. But there's an electric outlet here. I have to type when I can. My battery is unreliable. Because Samsung sucks.

I'm not sure what time it was when I woke up. The sun had not been up long. I had had some trouble falling asleep. Stress, don't you know. Over the state of my little computer. It's bound to affect my health. And will be fully explored when this goes to court. Keep one eye on the legal journals. For James v. The Samsung Corporation, Which As Everyone Knows, Sucks.

It was fairly warm but windy. A deer was kazooing nearby. Or a hunter who was trying to sound like a deer. I wore my yellow hat packing up. And my bright orange hunting vest. One so dislikes to take chances. I really don't want to get myself shot before I reach Florida.

Then it won't really matter so much. How can you talk that way? I tell you, it's all about poetry. This story needs a conclusion. I limp into Miami and then I go home? That will not do at all. I need to Fall in Love or be Born Again or Felled by a Hunter's Bullet. Drama is what this adventure's been lacking. I'm only thinking of you.

I'll try to linger long enough to type up that final scene. And I'll forgive my murderer, but never the Samsung Corp. Because they suck. They should admit as much in all their advertising. We are Samsung, they could say, and we suck.

I had an eight mile hike to Baldwyn, Mississippi, population God-knows-what. Not so very many dozens. It is a fairly small town. But I was glad to be there. I was starving to death, or at least to grumpiness. And was much looking forward to my biscuits and gravy and eggs and sausage and toast. And hash browns. And pie, of course. I think good nutrition is key.

"Not on Sunday," said a grumpy old man when I asked if there were anywhere to eat. I asked several other people as well. The answer was always the same. I knew it would be; I just wanted to hear them say it. I liked how they looked at me. As if I were the Devil himself for even suggesting such a thing.

It left me with a bitter choice. The next town was ten miles off. Or I could head back north a bit and join the big highway. I took that option. A boy's got to keep fed. Otherwise a boy can get cranky.

At the highway I was spoiled for choice. McDonald's, a gas station, or Subway. Mooshy burgers or breakfast burritos or, God help us, Subway. I went to the gas station first. There was nowhere to plug in. So I tried McDonald's but that was no good, so now here I am. Subway is the Samsung of the American sandwich industry.

It has blossomed into a beautiful day. It was cloudy this morning. Cloudy in layers of latticework with blue sky filling the gaps. It gave the heavens depth and dimension. It did too threaten to rain. So I'm glad to see the plain old blue sky, even if it is less interesting.

From here I'm back on 45, having backtracked a bit. Which is fine; I have to be careful to stop short of Tupelo. Which is too big to invite tent camping. I'll walk into there in the morning. If I haven't been shot, skinned and tanned, and made into moccasins.

****************
It was somewhere in the seventies but it never felt that warm. There were cooling breezes of 20 mph or so. Headwinds. They're almost always headwinds, no matter which way I point.

But I wasn't complaining. I was enjoying my walk. A little extra challenge made it fun. There are times that I would jog if I didn't have to carry my pack. But the road itself was not very good. There was a shoulder of sharp gravel. Which after some miles turned into soft grass. Which is harder to walk on still.

I abandoned the highway at a place called Guntown and hiked back to 145. It's a smaller road with no shoulder at all, but there are not many cars. A few mean dogs but that's about it. The trick is to be meaner still.

I cannot tell you much about Guntown. A thousand people live there. Which would make it a force in northern Nebraska, but it isn't very much here. I do not know why it's called Guntown. Something about guns, I'd guess. Its specialties are muffler repair and what looked like project housing.

Fairly nice project housing, as project housing goes. Everyone waved at me.

I stayed only long enough to wave back and then I continued south. Over a few blind hills but it wasn't so bad. There was a lot less wind back there. And the walking came easy; my mind was busy thinking about other things. Like how very pointless Life seems to be and how tired of it I am. And about the corrupting nature of lonesomehood. And just what it means to be me.

You know, that kind of shit.

I did eventually make it to Saltillo, which has maybe three thousand people. And is where Elvis Presley's mother came from. I want to call her Gladys, but I might be wrong. I stopped at a Hardee's restaurant to suck down some calories.

My burger was peculiar if not altogether bad. It was I thought overpriced. You can get better burgers at a saloon for a dollar or two less. But worse, I had misjudged the time. I had to eat in a hurry. Now I am a fast eater at the best of times, but I like to set my own pace. I wound up making myself somewhat sick, a condition that yet persists.

But I had to walk on. I had maybe half an hour to find a place for my tent. And was not at all sure I was on the right road. Traffic was just awful. I had to walk in a muddy ditch to keep from getting sqooshed. Uneven ground is hard on my feet. Hardee's is hard on my guts.

In the end I had to make use of the Force. And my renowned hobo skills. I think I did alright. I am in a clump of trees on the edge of a field, too close to someone's backyard.

I don't think I'm going to get shot here. I will wear my hat and vest. At least tomorrow is a weekday. My murderer may be at work.

Tupelo is maybe two miles off. I had to stop where I did. It is a city of fifty thousand, if the rumors are correct. And it is where I will be most of tomorrow. I hope to hit the Elvis museum. Elvis was born in Tupelo. Tupelo's reputation is made.

It may rain tonight but it shouldn't be cold. It may rain and be hot tomorrow. Which is what you expect from Mississippi, a certain humidity. I'm not too far from Alabama. I can shoot over any time. But so far Mississipi's been good to me. I think I'll walk south for a while.

SAY IT with me. Tupelo. What a neat name for a town.

LAST NIGHT I pooped and buried it. While I slept someone dug it up. Weirdos.

I DON'T THINK I'll ever kill myself. There must be a dozen people I'd rather see dead.

NEWT GINGRICH? Jesus Christ.

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Day One-Hundred-Sixty-Nine, Wildlife

I didn't sleep at all well last night. It was cold and my back was sore. Which is just about what you might expect from sleeping in a tent. But it's usually not so bad. I expect this was just a fluke. Something to help me appreciate the comforts of hobo life.

At some point in the very wee hours I heard a blood-curdling scream. Like something out of a horror movie, not a half-dozen yards from my tent. I was startled but not frightened. It did gnaw at me some. I couldn't imagine what in God's nature could possibly sound like that.

Then it hoo-hooed, which suggests owl. That was a coyote trick. Other coyotes soon after answered. From all points on the compass. Near and far. I was surrounded. There must have been dozens of them. I left them to their foolishness and tried to fall back asleep.

Which I did eventually, but not as soundly as I would prefer. It was all I could do to crawl out of bed, late at seven o'clock. After what should have been ten hours' sleep. Only three or four really counted. It was the sort of morning where you don't feel like making your bed.

But I can't indulge in that luxury. Everything has to get packed up. It is tedious and oddly stressful. I'm never sure everything will fit. Add mud or rain or rifle fire and it gets to be no fun at all. At least the sun was up by then. I wasn't too awfully cold.

A ways up the road was a gas station. I could have walked by without coffee. But there was too a truckers' cafe. The Jake Break, I think it was called. The waitress was kind, as was everyone there. This is Mississippi. I ordered the Hungry Man Breakfast. Plus biscuits and gravy. Plus pie.

A boy has got to keep fed.

I spent an hour or two trying to fix my computer. It is worse than ever before. Any more I might say about that would not be fit to print.

From there it was on towards Booneville. I was making very good speed. It was neither warm nor cold. My legs were strong. I was listening to NPR. I bought a little radio in Corinth. It did not cost much at all. And it even works if I am careful to hold it at exactly the right angle.

Halfway there I split from my highway and picked up 145. Which is the road that used to be. It should take me to Tupelo. Where I hope to find a Verizon office. That's where they sell these things. And where they will tell me that they cannot help. And where I'll be cuffed for assault.

I stopped once on the edge of Booneville. This blasted computer again. And had me a gas station hamburger. The ladies who made it were nice. No great chefs, mind, but good people. I could refill my Coke for free. And did so until I got shivery and started hiking again.

To a Wendy's, not a mile up the road. I had another hamburger. Just to be polite. I needed somewhere to sit and plug in my computer again. Samsung, by the way, sucks, sucks. Make time to tell all your friends.

It was my good hope to get some miles in. It was a pretty good walking day. But with only an hour of daylight left I was five miles short of my quota. I thought about checking into a motel to work on my computer some more. But the one cheap place didn't have any phones. I do like to call my mother. Or have her call me. I am a good son, no matter what stories she tells.

Thirty bucks a night. Run by Indians. All the motels here are. I smell the incense and the lime pickles and it's like being in Delhi again. Which is no clear recommendation. Delhi is fairly unclean. And the service is spotty and the people are brusk. Lizards live under your bed.

Florida. It frightens me. It's being overrun by snakes. Rock pythons. They eat people. They've had alligators all along. It seemed like such a good idea. Seattle to Miami. Across this vast country diagonally. I'm having second thoughts. The best route down takes me through a stretch known as Alligator Alley. Somehow I don't like the sound of that. It sounds vaguely gatory.

Booneville, by the way, was a pretty big town. How big I cannot now say. I daren't waste power looking it up. Samsung, you should all know, sucks. It was getting quite dark when I got out of town. It went on for miles and miles.

Then there was a stretch of really big houses, deep among acres of land. Then medium houses on five acre lots. Then small houses jowl to cheek. Then the medium houses again. Then some trailer parks. Then I crossed a highway. By then it was dark. I thought about turning around.

Or walking all the way through the night, but there are some narrow bridges. It wouldn't do for me to get sqooshed. What would the gators eat? So I relied on my hobo skills. I found a wonderful spot. By the light of the moon, diffused by clouds. I really do have a gift.

I'm in a bowl, surrounded by river. I'm sure it is sometimes a pond. But the banks will protect me from rifle fire and hide me from passing cars. I may have some trouble getting out of here. And I'll get awfully wet if it rains. But it was just what I needed when I needed it and I found it in the dark.

It will be in the fifties tonight. I'm not too far bundled up. And I can leave my windows open which really helps dry my tent. I hear crickets and owls and passing trucks. There are varmints in the underbrush. And the coyotes are howling not too far off. I should sleep just fine.


I CAN'T spell Mississippi without chanting the letters to myself. I always put an extra 'S' in the middle. It just seems so much more rhythmical that way. Then I have to go back and erase it.

"PEOPLE THINK hillbillies are white, but there are black hillbillies, too."

I COULD really go for some Indian food. A fellow gets tired of burgers. But consistent and predictable digestion is the key to a successful walk.

SAMSUNG sucks.

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