Day One-Hundred-Eleven, Misery

I am hauling ass across Nebraska. I am tearing up the roads. Winter has inspired me and made me fleet of foot. I might wish I'd put in more miles when the weather was warm, but I did do the best that I could. I can honestly say I walked as far as I could on every day of this trip.

Some days I did not walk a step. That was the best I could do. I may have been sidelined by injury or suffered a weakness of sorts. Of muscle, perhaps, or even of spirit. Perhaps of character. I am not a very active person. I'm not cut out for this sort of thing. I'd rather quit than do anything hard. I am lucky that some things come easy.

Not Life by any reasonable stretch. But I am doing the best that I can. And I've never thought about giving up. I am going to live forever.

That is if I don't freeze to death or die of pneumonia. Already I'm fighting a case of the snoofles. I blew my nose three times today. You try doing that with a long shaggy beard. It tests your dignity. Yet still I persist in looking good. But only through shear force of effort.

Today began as yesterday ended. It was bitter cold. Here's an idea for young engineers: heated tentpoles. From the nation that brought you aerosol cheese, that should be nothing at all. And very much appreciated. Damn those things get cold.

I was up before the dawn at six. I packed up a soggy tent. And a cold one, as well. Striking camp today was a very unhappy process. Rumor said it would warm up some. The rumors in this case were wrong. It was every bit as cold as the day before. Damn the weatherman.

But I was buoyed by an unwonted optimism. I was sure things would get better soon. There was a glorious sunrise, the first I've seen on this trip. All it wanted was warmth. On brittle toes I reached the local cafe and ordered myself two breakfasts.

Not by way of experiment. I wanted two breakfasts. I was not trying to impress anyone. And as it remained cold and overcast I called for a piece of pie. Sour cream and raisin, if you're keeping track. It was a bit sweet for me. I'd hate to think I am losing my taste for the finer things, ice cream and pie and such. As soon as I find a Meaning of Life it as quickly fades away.

Know that it was nothing less than heroism that got me back on the cowboy trail. A lesser man, a brighter man, would have given up there and then. But I plodded on in the blustery cold. I did not feel sorry for myself. I thought only of other people, and how they should be feeling sorry for me.

Nine or ten miles took me to Neiligh (pronounced Neely), population I don't just now care. A goodish town of some very few thousands. It took me broadly off my trail. I hit the library and tried to get warm but the cold was too deep by then. I don't think I'll ever be warm again. I have suffered a frost burned soul.

I monkeyed around with their computer a bit and added a few points to my long neglected route map. That I cannot maintain from the road. It will have to wait until the end of my trip. If anyone's still interested at that point. My interest will then be fading.

There is a motel in Neiligh, Nebraska. Hell, there are two of them. And yet I made the bold decision to continue walking on. After which it started to rain.

Not so hard. Just enough to lubricate the cold in the air. To allow it to thrust deeply within me. To make me its prison whore. I would apologise for that metaphor if I could describe the experience any other way. I walked on.

Past Oakdale, Nebraska. I did not bother to stop. It was some hundred yards out of my way and I was in no mood for company. I popped into a gas station for a half gallon of Gatorade. I chatted with the man at the till. He is originally from Newark, New Jersey. His life had taken some turns. Something of a wanderer himself, he's been stuck in Nebraska for seventeen years.

"Do you like it here?" I asked.
"No," he said. I noted his eloquence.

Raining harder now, I walked on. I made it to Tilden by dark. Tilden has maybe a thousand people and looks down on Oakdale. Though it gives them a grudging respect for having invented the toothbrush.

"If it had been invented anywhere else we would call it the teethbrush."

Fair enough. I was in the saloon for some root beer and fellowship. The long bar was divided more or less in two with a good wide gap in the middle. At one end sat the young men of the town. At the other sat the old farts. I pushed in amongst the farts, good-hearted gentlemen all.

I learned about Viet Nam and North Omaha and other such dangerous places. And shared theories about Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon and Bob Barker to boot. It seems L. Ron Hubbard was born in Tilden, quite by mistake, it seems. But Scientologists offered a million dollars to build to him there a shrine. It would bring jobs, increase tourism. The town fathers told them to piss off. They've got little use for "Moonies."

You don't hear much about the Moonies any more. I hope they're alright.

When I left the saloon it was really raining. Buckets. Cats. Dogs. On my way to the park I was stopped by the sheriff. "You must be Bobby," I said. In these small towns we all get to know each other. We're a big happy family.

Bobby's a big boy with a broad nose and an authoritative dent in his forehead. I don't doubt he made Tilden proud on the football field. That's important in these parts. But now he's gone on to serve and protect. Bless him, he was not rousting me. He thought I looked cold and wet and lost. Not in my town, said he.

I refused his offer of a ride as cheating, so he rolled next to me at three miles an hour to the football field, unlocked the mensroom and kept his high beams on me for five minutes while I put up my tent. Polite, honest, friendly and helpful, I hope he runs for governor one day. I will drop whatever I'm doing to work on his campaign.

But even with the full force of the law behind me, my tent filled with buckets of water. I sopped it up as best I could. Life's not so great right now. Cold, cold, damn the cold and all the bad decisions which led me to this point in my life. Goodnight.

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Day One-Hundred-Ten, The Green Mile

I slept fairly well in my marijuana patch. I do not remember my dreams. I woke up at seven to a blustery day. The skies were grey and the winds were blowing. It had rained at some point during the night. Again I packed a soggy tent.

Which I resent. It weighs more wet. And seems somehow less a home. It had never dried out from the day before, nor is it much better now. And my tent poles made my fingers very cold and sore from their every exertion. It reminded me of the early days of this trip when I was young and did not know better.

I had given some real thought to staying in bed all day. I had bread and cheese and plenty of water and even a maple bar. I bought four of them the night before. Three went for a late hour snack. For our international friends, maple bars are a maple-themed pastry. In Nebraska they are marketed as Long Johns, which recalls the Clarence Thomas hearings.

But despite my big city sophistication, I was a little nervous about being camped in a pot patch. I suspected, and it has since been confirmed, that this is nothing more than ditch weed, a likely remnant of the days when the United States government actually encouraged farmers to grow hemp. It is everywhere. Still I imagined DEA agents zipping down on me from helicopters and otherwise endeavoring to make me feel poorly about myself.

So I climbed out of my thicket, very stealthily; I likely looked guilty as hell. And crossed Highway 20 and set off once again down the venerable Cowboy Trail. Which has suffered some on this stretch, perhaps from flooding, and has been repaired with some very sharp rocks.

Which were not, this one day, my chief concern. It was cold and it threatened to rain. I was wet from my effort to take down my tent and was feeling a bit snoofly. There was a sliver of blue sky long miles to the east. I tried to let that thought cheer me. It is good that it is not at all in my nature to feel sorry for myself.

For a mile or two my trail was lined with pot. Blooming and healthy and grand. It was like taking a walking tour of Jamaica, only it was bitter cold. And it didn't smell much like marijuana, insofar as I have had it described to me. It seems that if the Great State of Nebraska is going to go to all the trouble to plant Cannabis all over hell, they would have chosen a better breed. It is my understanding that you can get the seeds by post from somewhere in the Netherlands.

Soon enough I arrived at Inman, Nebraska. I'd been told to expect nothing there. It is a town of some 148 people, and there is more to it than is broadly known. There is a saloon, closed in the mornings, and a smallish grocery store. Guarded by a very ugly little dog and offering coffee for sale.

Or for free, I was pleased to discover. I sat down for fourteen cups. It was cozy in there, out of the wind. I chatted a bit with the locals. Inman thrived at one point in time. It is a great producer of hay. They had three grocery stores and a railroad. It has faded just a bit since. I was reminded, only briefly, of that scene in The Outlaw Josey Wales where, after facing all manner of hardship, he arrives in Texas and finds the last few citizens of a once thriving town sitting around the saloon.

"First the silver run out, then the people run out, then the whiskey run out, then the beer run out."

I hike another mile down the trail and sat down to buns and cheese. Damn it was cold and in the words of Forrest Gump, that's all I've got to say about that.

I continued on to Ewing, Nebraska. I don't remember how many people live there. 300 or so. It isn't huge, but appears to be fairly thriving. The saloon where I popped in for my lunch was very nice indeed. Too nice for me, a sort of sports bar like you find all over America. I am better accustomed to out-and-out dives and remnants from the 1890s. I straightened my collar and ordered a burger. It was huge and good.

What's the deal with crinkle-cut fries? Does anyone think they're good? They're an offense unto Nature and an inexcusable way to misuse the noble potato. Seriously. Save 'em for school lunches and prison cafeterias. I apologise for my passion but, damn, this is America. Learn how to cut up and fry a potato or go back to Russia where you belong.

By then I had managed seventeen miles. My next town was ten miles off. I figured what the hell so here I am, after a twenty-seven mile day. I can't say much about Clearwater, Nebraska. I rolled in after dark. It is home to 348 people, said a sign on the edge of town. Which is enough to support all manner of businesses. Find me now in the park.

It is thirty-some degrees outside, and little warmer in my tent. My fingertips are sore from typing. I believe I'll wrap this up here. Thank you.

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Day One-Hundred-Nine, Nature's Bounty

I packed up a very soggy tent. It had not rained overnight. But an hour or two before the Dawn's Early Light the sprinklers did come on. I would like to think they were on a timer, that it was not a deliberate attack. Because otherwise I slept undisturbed in the Atkinson city park.

It is my practice, when weather permits, to keep my windows open. It prevents condensation and brings in some fresh air. I need all of that I can get. Take a whiff of my poor little tent and you'd think I was keeping a cat. You get a little stinky when you're on the road. My conscience is more or less clean.

The deluge had stopped by the time I got up. I went out in search of breakfast. I'd been told my best bet was the cafe/stockyard on the far edge of town. It's where the cowboys gather between auctions. You can eat there if you'd like. The prices are good, the service is friendly and the food is agreeably big. I contented myself with just one breakfast and a double order of hash browns.

I like a crispier hash brown myself. But beyond that I cannot complain. They could, I suppose, make the coffee a bit stronger, but that is a regional thing. It does make me worry about Middle America. The bars close at ten o'clock.

I lingered a bit to mingle with the staff and recharge my little computer. I was back on the Trail at ten-thirty. It was not such a very early day. I was in no jolly mood for walking, anyway. I think the humidity is at fault. That and ill-fitting pants. No one knows how I suffer. I am doing it all for you.

I am Walking Across America so you don't have to. I am freeing you for higher things.

It was an easy ten miles to Emmet, Nebraska. Easy may not be the word. It felt like a very unpleasant six miles. There is something to be said for that. Emmet is a dozen or so neat houses and a repair shop for farm equipment. There was to the Hay Company/Post Office. They had a soda machine. I went in and got myself a can. I felt like some sort of crook. There was no one at all at home. I could have helped myself to stamps.

It was a Royal Crown cola. It tasted like bugspray. I drank it anyway. It is my understanding that they stopped making RC as part of the compromise by which we extricated ourselves from the Viet Nam war. So it did have nostalgic value. My only regret is that they were out of Fresca.

I ate Swiss cheese and hot dog buns, the same thing I'll have tomorrow. I have been carrying around two last cans of weeners but I've had about enough of them. It has cooled down some; I can buy proper cheese. It doesn't last too too long. But overwarming sharpens the flavor and makes it easier to chew.

Then it was on to O'Neil, Nebraska, a city of some twenty-four thousand. I did not get to see much of it. I just wanted to get out of town. A Gotham like that is no place to camp and it was getting late. I replenished by bun and cheese supply and climbed back on the Cowboy Trail.

I made it another three or four miles, which is where you find me now. Camped in a thicket behind some kind of antenna, in a marijuana patch.

"Oh, James, you're so silly!" you want to say. Am not, I quickly respond. I am wholly serious. I am camped among the pot. There are no men with shoguns, no punji sticks. It shows no signs of cultivation. It is just sort of growing here, and growing fairly well. If I were more mobile I'd take some with me, for scientific evaluation. But I am not so equipped; I'll let it be. Pot never hurt anyone.

Peace.

MY LITTLE radio tells me it is going to dip into the thirties again tomorrow night. And that there'll be frost. If only I had something to smoke.

ONE STATE MOTTO, no doubt there are others, is "Living in Nebraska is Fun!" How many other places can make that claim. How about a little respect.

I AM COLD, even tonight. Nobody knows how I suffer.

CONTACT ME and I'd be delighted to send you the coordinates of where the grass grows green. This offer is not available to law enforcement. Marijuana prohibition is ridiculous, you know it yourselves.

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Day One-Hundred-Eight, Weight

As I suspected I did get a very late start. I did not wake til eight-thirty. I'd had the damnedest time falling asleep. I was in a peculiar mood. Happiness, most people would call it. It's rather foreign to me. You hate to waste that sort of thing by sleeping it all away.

God knows what had made me so jolly. I had met some very nice folks. And a warmish wind was shaking my tent in a not unpleasing way. Autumn just gets better each year. It is best at two or three in the morning. I guess I know that better than anyone. I have never kept regular hours.

I was pleased to discover in the morning light that Newport has a town motto. It is, faithfully reproduced here, Hay Capitol of the World. It did get me thinking, but I'm not so sure. It could lead to anarchy. You don't want your seat of government vulnerable to any half-dozen malcontents with pitchforks and torches. Better our capitol be made from stone. Worry more about the strawmen within.

[I am at once pleased with and ashamed of the above paragraph. If I had more time I'd tinker with it some. In the end I'd dispense with it altogether, or I'd save it for some other day. I leave it here as a small gift of thanks to the people of Newport, Nebraska.]

Breakfast was served at the gas station a good quarter mile away. Out of my way, to tell the truth, but I think it was worth the hike. For just last week this particular gas station had distinguished itself by exploding. I swear to golly. It was in the newspaper and everything.

It seems a very tenacious little bolt of lightning worked its way down a series of pipes and past several valves to set their underground diesel tank on fire. It blew a big chunk out of their parking lot and sent a fireball into the sky. It's a small town; people keep to themselves. Nobody really noticed. The owner did not discover the mess until she came into work the next day.

No one got hurt. The building was fine. There is too a small cafe. And it's for sale if you're interested. Act quick and you might get it cheap. There are awfully nice people working there. Try to keep them on if you can.

I bellied up at the cafe. I was wanting to test a theory. I have found that I do some of my very best walking after a hearty breakfast. So I naturally wondered if I couldn't walk better still after two hearty breakfasts. I ordered everything on the menu and topped it off with a gallon of Coke. I believe I fairly impressed my waitress. She had never seen such gluttony.

It was only when I went to pay my check that I discovered that my new friend Farmer Rick had conspired to treat me to breakfast. I feel kind of bad about that. I am delighted at his generosity, and by his support, but had I known I would have taken it a bit easier on him.

And my theory, such as it was, wound up being disproven. I walked only about as far as I would have on just one hearty breakfast. And I suffered from a sort of stomachache that lasted most of the day. Live and learn, live and learn. I'm just sorry to have involved anyone else.

Ten miles or so took me to Stuart, Nebraska. Stuart is doing well. It is a town of maybe 600 people. It does not seem to be in decline. It has a big junkyard and some pretty churches. Most of the houses look lived in. And they have a nice park with its own race track, maybe an eighth mile round. Dirt. For racing small cars, or whatever occurs to them. It is overlooked by a grandstand, about half the size of the bleachers in my high school gym.

They have too showers. They run on coins. I could not have been better pleased. That is until I discovered that the shower had been, shall we say, soiled, in the most ungentlemanly way imaginable. I washed as best I could at a spiggot, thinking ill of Stuart, Nebraska.

That's the trouble though with these big town. A smaller town wouldn't stand for that. Everyone would know at once just who it was and rub his nose in it. Or beat him with a rolled up newspaper. Or call him out in church. But it is the nature of the metropolis to draw these disgusting vandals.

It was by now four o'clock, and soon enough five. I was in danger of a very poor day. I had maybe three more hours of daylight to walk another ten miles. No naps under trees, no staring at the sky. No otherwise messing around. I just put my head down and walked, ten miles to Atkinson.

It is my usual practice to ask what sort of town I'll find the road. But I didn't feel so chatty in Stuart. I knew one of them must be the one. Who robbed me of my well-earned shower and made weep at the Nature of Man. So I took off for Atkinson uninformed. I figured it must be small.

But some five miles out I began to see life, welding shops and the like. Atkinson is a town with outskirts. It's a town of some 1300 people. Which is not good news late in the day. I had to camp in their park. Which is charmingly eccentric in a town of fifty. In a city it makes me a bum.

But here I am, anyway, expecting to be rousted by the law. I did have the good fortune of making friends with the president of the Chamber of Commerce. I intend to drop her name liberally if it becomes a matter of law. We all know who pulls the strings in America, and in this case they're on my side.

I did take the precaution of eating a cheeseburger at tbe local bowling alley. I was not very very hungry. Breakfast was still weighing me down. But it was still too bright to put up my tent. No sense in drawing attention.

I guess it was ladies' league night. Six of eight lanes were full. And my burger was slow in coming and my fries were underdone. Many if not most of the women there reminded me of Roseanne Barr.

I quite like Roseanne Barr. I think America owes her an apology. She came on the scene and spoke some truths so we made fun of her for being fat. Maybe she could have handled it all better but she was sorely mistreated. She made people laugh, they made her rich, she made them think and they destroyed her. Shame.

I liked watching the ladies bowl. I like to see fat people having fun. There are more of us now than there are of you. You'd better not piss us off.


I SPENT YEARS in a city of three million people. Years more in a city of twenty. Now I feel nervous and vulnerable in Atkinson, Nebraska.

IT WOULD be best if the cops wake me at about 6:30. Not before six certainly, and please, no later than seven.

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Day One-Hundred-Seven, September 11th, 2011

Find me now in Grandma's Park in beautiful Newport, Nebraska (population "Uh, I don't know, fifty or sixty" or so). I set up in the dark but seems a nice spot. Now showers or anything. But it isn't buggy and beggars weren't meant to choose. I am honored to pee on their trees.

And I am vastly more comfortable than I was last night, on lumps in the tall tall grass. I could have chosen better but I was determined to camp on the spot where I finally stopped walking. A hundred more yards, I thought, might hurt my feet and they've been good to me these past several days. They do complain but they have kept the debate on a purely philosophical level.

It was noisy, though, those blasted turkeys. Gosh, they're a noisy bird. And an owl was hoot-hoot-hooting at me like the sound effects in a movie. The cows, too, had plenty to say and in the very wee hours a diesel engine too near my head started pumping gallons of water. I was not certain I wasn't in the irrigation ditch itself. I felt for all who face flooding.

And, I must mention, I was stung by a bee, right on the tip of my finger. I was trying to shoo him out of my tent and he got the wrong idea. Rotten little fink, I squished him dead. I mightn't have if I'd thought it over. I like bees in the general sense but this one put me in a mood. I was willing to kill a hundred bees to make the pain go away. It's like when you run your toe into furniture and think it might help to hit someone. Or when the country suffers insult and injury and we line up behind the wrong war.

I reached Long Pine in an hour or so, a town of maybe three hundred people. None of them were out of doors. They were in church or watching TV. There was plenty to see and think about today. I heard it on NPR. But it had not curbed my appetite. I was looking for breakfast.

I saw a thin woman about two blocks away. My first guess was meth addict. As I got closer I became more sure. We chatted to pass the time. She insisted I come to her house for eggs. Curiosity got the better of me. While her aged mother screamed at us through the door I ate some banana bread. And carried off two peaches and a healthy tomato. Still, it was a weird scene. My new friend blessed me when I left. "Got any pot?" she added.

No, as a matter of fact, though I'm not against it in theory. Nor would you be if you thought it through. Marijuana ain't a bad thing. The Beatles smoked pot, for Christmas sake, and everyone's nutty for them. So send your excess pot to me, in care of the open road.

I passed on my chance to eat at the saloon. That's where my friend was going. I moved a safe distance down my trail and ate up my peaches. I like peaches. "More than pot?" you want to know. Apples and oranges, say I.

I had too a box of donuts. They filled me up, I guess. But donuts are not what the Japanese call "stamina food" and not what you need for walking. I did, nonetheless, get enough to eat to hammer out nine more miles.

Which brought me to sunny Basset, Nebraska, population six-hundred or so. Which puts it in the top class of towns on this lonesome stretch of road. But there were three times that many people thirty years ago. It follows the general trend. "Because people are afraid of change," said my saloon keeper. I asked her what change she'd like to see. "I'd like there to be more jobs," she said. I think that's a fine idea.

I ordered the biggest burger they had and asked her to heap on the fries. And excused myself to wash my hands. When I got back my bill had been paid. By a kind woman with her beautiful granddaughter and their fairly good-sized friend. Cheers.

But I must say I was taken aback. She did not know my story. It is self-serving, I know, but I think Walking Across America is worth a lunch here and there. I remember I was sitting at a roadside cafe in India when a kid rolled up on a dirtbike. It wasn't a local bike at all. "Where'd you come from?" I said. He had ridden all the way from London. I bought him a 7-up.

I had no money to spare at the time. I wish I could have done more. Because I wanted a piece of his dream, a subscription to his adventure. Because I felt he'd done a beautiful thing. I still think he is a hero.

I wonder, though, if this woman didn't think I was just a bit down on my luck. Which is closer to truth than most of you know, but not at all the point here. So I thank the good lady for her generous heart, but I feel but a wee bit ashamed.

She may have thought I was foreign somehow. I get quite alot of that. I've been accused of being English and Scottish and Irish and, God help us, Australian. It's a mystery to me but I think I can explain it. There are a number of factors at work. I use what I believe are the usual words, but my syntax can be a bit odd. And I have a strong taste for English literature. That cannot do me much good. Add to that the twenty years I spent abroad, mingling with all manner of foreigners. Bad influences, the lot of them. I miss 'em, nevertheless.

Grateful and well-fed, I moved on down the road. I am still on the Cowboy trail. Just me and the snakes, a lizard or two, the toads, the deer and the fowl. And toads and turtles and a few bunnies. We cowboys, one and all. The trail now takes us between vast farms, some distance from the road. It is not quite what you might call wilderness, but I go hours without seeing a soul.

It was well up into the nineties today, a good day to be alone. I'm gritty and dirty and the sweat on my trousers suggests incontinence. And the Cowboy Trail is like a highway designed just for me. No one else would Walk Across Nebraska. No one else has the guts.

Eleven more miles took me to Newport. The sun was by now going down. My trail ran straight into Grandma's Park. I could have camped then and there. No one would mind. This is Nebraska. They're real good about that. I wasn't hungry. I wanted nothing to eat. I made for the one saloon.

I flagged down a truck to ask where it was. The driver was ten years old. With his mom in the passenger seat and his still younger brother between them. I'll be damned if I know how he worked the pedals. I told him not to drive drunk.

"I know that!" he said and glared at me like I was some kind of an idiot.

I walked on through town, a few houses, some trailers, the odd haunted house. A big dog with issues threatened to bite me. He was scared. Those are the dangerous ones. I had to talk him out of it. He felt he had something to prove. Like when you run your toe into furniture and want to hit someone.

I found the saloon and got my warm greeting. Not "welcome" or "what'll ya have". "May I help you?" the woman asked, polite but accusatory. Like she'd come down the stairs for her morning tea and found a stranger sitting in her livingroom. I ordered a root beer.

I really should shave off this beard. I just feel I've earned it somehow. It tickles my nose and makes it hard to eat soup. It puts old women on their guard. It is not helping in my quest to Meet Girls. But I don't know, hell, it suits the adventure. I'll shave when I'm done.

Root beer is not caffeinated. Insomnia has shaped my life. I had four and sat there trying to absorb some local culture. The lady got a tiny bit nicer to me. I was pleased to meet a local farmer. He was feeling a bit pleased with himself. It has been a great year for corn. Bumper crops and high prices. A perfect storm, if you will.

I wish I'd had more time to talk to him. I've got a million questions. Not just about the mechanics of his work--though that fascinates me--but about agriculture and how it works in America. It is an enormously complicated system, not untouched by politics. There are all manner of special interests at work. No one has the whole Truth. Ethanol, subsidies, water rights, tariffs and environmentalism. I could read dozens and dozens of books. Some, I fear, might be boring.

This fellow, I did not learn his name, seemed to have a pretty good sense of things. And he spotted me a root beer, so we know his heart's in the right place. But it was late. I do need to sleep. Tomorrow could wind up a short day. It is past midnight and threatening to storm. I may wind up sleeping in.

I CAN NEVER hear those lines from Ecclesiastes without muttering Turn, turn, turn under my breath. No doubt I am going to Hell.

I TOOK a Google break to make sure I was spelling "caffeinated" correctly and stumbled across several entries for Caffeinated Pants. A weight-loss device. Don't count America out. We invent all the best things.

I SPOKE AT length to another man, James in Bassett, Nebraska. He says it is ridiculous to grow corn in this state. The soil is nothing but sand. All the fertilizers at work are polluting the aquifer. Meanwhile, so is the TransCanada pipeline, which he is convinced is a plot to steal water and sell it to Saudi Arabia. I am not sure he is wrong. There are wheels within wheels.

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Day One-Hundred-Six, Nutrition

My little computer does have its moods. It won't tell me where I am. But I do have a fairly good idea. I walked twenty-six miles today. On the Cowboy Trail. Yippee ki yay. Git along, little Dostoyevsky.

I breakfasted at the same cafe that fed me so well last night. Biscuits and gravy were the special today. I added two eggs and hash browns. "Would you like then," said my very pretty waitress, "just a half order of biscuits?"

"Certainly not," said I. I've gone thirty years without eating breakfast but I'm making up for it since. There is no finer start to a walking day than to eat yourself into a sweat. There was that boy Lee, the recumbant cyclist, who eats nothing but cow chips and grass. But he is him and I am me. I thrive on calories.

I slept well but not long in the town park. I felt a duty to pack up early. I was overlooked by two or three houses and one somewhat pensive cow. I couldn't let them see me as weak or lazy. I may be but I have my pride.

There was a box in the park for donations. I did not leave them anything. I wanted to but I am poor. I do hope they understand. A mere dollar would be seen as insulting. Any more might cut into my lunch. In the future when I am really rich I'll have my man cut them a check.

I do hope they still exist in the future. These small towns are fading fast. Wood Lake, Nebraska I'll always remember because it's so spooky at night. I was honored to sign their guest book and am pleased to thank them here.

I left the cafe on Highway 20. I'd had quite enough of the trail. But there it was, taunting me. I climbed on after a mile. The gravel slows me just a bit and it is crawling with all sorts of snakes. But nobody else was using the thing. I felt sort of sorry for it. It is easy to lure mountain bikers to the Black Hills. Nebraska is more of a stretch. You need to have a keen eye for Beauty. You may need to be ugly yourself.

There are advantages too to a trail. I am less likely to be squished. And today it ran right along the road. I had no fear of losing myself. I stopped a few times but after eleven short miles I arrived in Johnstown, Nebraska, population 48.

"That's an old sign," said my new friend Dolly. "We've got fifty-three now." It seems they've enjoyed a small baby boom, and the old folks are all in good health.

Dolly was in charge of the L Bow Room, Johnstown's finest saloon. And the one business still up and running in town. Dolly is something of a talker. So am I, truth be known, but I was glad to give her the floor. She had every bit of the bounce and the rhythm that makes conversation fun.

Perhaps closer to my mother's age than my own, she has experienced some tragedy. She has lost some loved ones and then she got herself squished like a bug in a head-on collision. But she has one o' them indomitable spirits. She brings joy, I suspect, to everyone she meets. I wish I could be more like her.

My own life has been free from tragedy but is tragic nevertheless. In the dramatic sense. Fatal flaws and all that. It is nobody's fault but my own. There have been some comic elements, as well. But all the best jokes hurt like hell.

It had been three hours since my big breakfast. I had a cheeseburger. Even if I did not have this affinity with cows, cheeseburgers are not my favorite food. But they are cheap and rich with calories and digest predictably. Dolly, however, grills one heck of a burger. Someone should give her a prize.

I had but nineteen Pepsis and so did not loiter long. Nor had I done so at breakfast. There had been, you'll recall, electricity in the park and my computer was all charged up. As was I at this point. I walked another ten miles and arrived in Ainsworth, Nebraska.

I don't know how many people live in Ainsworth. I came in the back way. But it is big, maybe three-thousand people or more. And I'd heard they had a lovely park with showers and everything. And twenty-one miles is a good solid day. It couldn't have been better placed.

But I wasn't in a real big-city mood. I had been too long on the trail. When I lived in Japan there were probably a thousand people in my apartment building, but I've gotten used to towns of eighty or so. And it was still daylight and I wasn't hungry. And I felt just a little bit like walking.

Which ain't so common, believe it or don't. Usually it's something of a slog. I figured I'd be cheating myself if I didn't put in another five miles. Not seven, mind, though I had plenty of time. That might just leave me sore. But twenty-six is a very good day without too much pressing my luck.

I found a grocery store and bought food so I would not suuffer tomorrow. A big box of donuts and a good hunk of cheese. Sue me, I spoil myself. My next town, I thought, was seventeen miles off, which would leave twelve for tomorrow. I know I can get a little bit cranky when I start my day unfed.

But the Cowboy Trail veered away from the highway, headed towards a town I thought I would miss. So breakfast may be just a couple miles away. I am chewing on my cheese right now. Gluttony, you'd call it, though I am still losing weight. It was a medical choice. I could still lose another fifteen pounds, but there's time enough for that.

At twenty-six miles I threw up my tent. In a rather rotten spot. It is snaky as hell and the crickets make a din. There are cows making all kinds of noise. And turkeys, hundreds of them. I'd somehow thought they were rare. But I think they would be easy to catch. They walk everywhere they go. Like little emu in great thundering herds. Turkeys rarely travel alone.

I guess I am out of those famous Sand Hills. It is sandy but fairly flat. There are fewer ranches and more and more farms. I am entering corn country. The scenery changes so gradually that it takes me a while to notice.

THERE ARE TREES here too, and in the evening they are shrouded in great clouds of bugs. Skeeters or something, millions of them, swirling like black cyclones. And it is humid. Buggy and humid. America's Breadbasket.

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Day One-Hundred-Five, Grit

I woke earlier than the previous day, but not so very early at all. I do not remember precisely what time. Eight-thirty or so, I guess. That's Central Time, you understand. Maybe that isn't so bad.

When I woke up my tent was a mess. There is little I can do about that. Fishing out the things I need means unpacking everything else. I have a two-man tent but I'm a man and a half. My gear fills every other corner. But this morning the clutter just bothered me. I like a tidy home. I'm not obsessive about it but even bad housekeepers sometimes just get fed up.

But it did not spur me to action, though it all packs up well enough. I was tired of this daily task of folding and unfolding my life. I just could not find the will; I wasted an hour feeling sorry for myself. And the out of doors were no more inviting. There was cactus outside my tent. And bugs and snakes and tortoises and lizards and other things that creep. The cows that had cheered me the night before had wandered off somewhere. And my shoelaces were matted with prickle burrs. Nobody knows how I suffer.

Or cares, for that matter. Hell, I signed up for this. Eventually I got going. And though I never know what sort of day it will be, I should have taken it as a sign. When I can barely find the strength to pack up my tent the walking is going to be hard.

Still I was strangely optomistic. That sure didn't last long. My toes were sore and I just felt sticky and like I had sand in my pants. Which I did, I only realise now. These are the Sand Hills, after all. And the wind blows all manner of grit into every nook and cranny. Of course I was uncomfortable. I was being abraded by my own shorts.

And it was humid. And my pants don't fit. They bunch up under my belt. And my innards had started a gurgling that would define the rest of my day. I'll spare you the details but imagine the worst. It was a bit worse than that.

I've been admonished not to talk about pooping so much. No one's being cheated but you. Walking Across America is all about pooping, whether you want to know it or not. It was my chief concern before leaving home, that and mean old dogs. But the dogs have all been nice to me. I guess we'll leave it at that.

There have, come to think of it, been a few mean dogs. But I've hit upon the magic word. When one is coming to chew on you, address him firmly as Dog. All dogs get called Dog from time to time, usually when they've something wrong. It startles them and makes them think, "Gee, that guy knows my name."

Early on in this trip I had a big dog run half a mile just to come bite me. But he tuckered himself on the way to the road. By then he could barely bark. More recently two big dogs started brawling over which one would bite me first. They were still chewing on each other when I disappeared over the next hill.

So dogs have not really bothered me. That just leaves the other thing. Which you do not want to hear about. Your loss, I say, your loss.

The Cowboy Trail that I was so big on last night was less impressive today. The crushed gravel was a little too thick and robbed some strength from my stride. And it veered far away from the highway across some fairly uninteresting farm land. I could see my path streching miles ahead. There were few pleasant surprises.

I was too somewhat burdened by the fact that I was not sure where I was going. I had no map. I hoped I was following Highway 20 but it was miles out of sight. I very much wanted to reach Wood Lake, Nebraska which was twenty miles off. My fear was that I was being led into still more remote parts of the state from which I might never return.

Here and there where I could get a signal I tried to use Google Maps. The trail is not marked but on satellite view I thought I could just make it out. So I kept my faith and kept walking, just a few miles at a time. I stopped for tinned weeners. I stopped to poop. I stopped to feel sorry for myself. Once I crawled under an old trestle and had a one-hour nap. Balanced on my backpack with snakes all about. Nobody knows how I suffer.

The snakes around here are not so long but they have very big heads. And nasty expressions. If I had more time I'd tie them all into knots. But as I am racing winter all I can do is squeal like a little girl and race away on my tippy toes.

There are too more of those rat-tailed turtles, striped lizards and hideous toads. Bless Nebraska, the people are kind but their wildlife is ugly as hell.

Two mountain bikers passed me while I was in hiding, still packing up my tent. They had matching outfits, a guy and a girl. They're usually the worst kind. The girl might say hi; the guy will just growl. There are a lot of jerks in that sport. But those were the only other people I saw. I had the Cowboy Trail to myself.

It seemed little used after ten miles in. There were weeds sprouting up through the gravel. Daisies and the odd bit of cactus and some sort of shrub I don't know. I think some of it may have been underwater not too many months ago. Big parts of America flooded this year. Nebraska may have gotten off light. But when I reach the Missouri I'll know for sure. I hear conflicting reports.

I knew Wood Lake was twenty miles off, but that's if I stuck to the highway. I desperately wanted to reach that town. I was down to a few tins of weeners. And a bag of raisins which I did eat but which did not do my digestion any good. And there was some chance I would drink up my water which can make me very cross indeed.

Eventually the trail got back to the road. Which road, I couldn't be sure. But it was 20 though my little computer refused to tell me how far I had to go. I figured ten more miles. It was now six o'clock. No more pooping around.

I was helped by the fact that late in the day is when I can walk at my best. It is not as hot and my feet go numb which is not such a bad thing at all. I spotted a water tower halfway there. By then it was getting dark. But there was most of a moon so I gambled that I would not be forever lost.

For my trail left the highway again. It came into town the back way. This is another dying town. There were trees but no people about. It was really quite spooky. There was a downtown but really no signs of life. I worked my way down Main Street in the dark past a number of boarded up shops. And a haunted house or two. I was a little too hungry to care.

Some passing trucks showed me the way to the highway. There was though nothing there. I had counted on there being a saloon where I could get myself fed. Otherwise it would be twenty more miles. I was prepared to walk that in the dark.

Leaving town, disappointed, I found a Pepsi machine. Calories are calories; I ain't proud. I figured I'd buy ten or twelve cans and live on that overnight. But I found myself outside a cafe, closed, but there were people inside. I knocked.

I knocked again. They seemed to be debating whether to answer. God knows I am looking a little scruffy these days. A brave woman answered the door. I begged her to sell me food, anything. I was hoping for some stale bread. Tinned weeners really come to life when wrapped up in stale bread.

Instead Miss Elsie, that's her name, heaped up a plate from what was left of a buffet. Beef and fish and jello salad, two tomatoes, a radish, cole slaw and a baked potato. I am not sure I could have got more on the plate if I heaped it up myself. And she directed me to the town park, which is where you find me now.

Wood Lake claims eighty citizens. Elsie did not seem convinced. I got the feeling she thought they'd inflated that number, though she didn't say so outright. They do have a lovely little park, no showers but there is electricity. Which means all the world to me in this electronic age.

It was great food. I can hardly wait until breakfast. I bet their hash browns are great. There is no better way to start a long walk. I am glad Wood Lake remains.

LET ME PUT this in terms you'll be comfortable with. The key to a successful Walk Across America? Moist towlettes. Lots of them.

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