Day One-Hundred-Forty, Old Time Religion

I never know, I cannot guess, how far I will walk each day. Sometimes fifteen miles is a struggle. Today I walked twenty-five. And without too much effort, not that I recall. I took two pretty long breaks. And a couple of short ones and put up my tent while the sun was still up in the sky.

The mystery of it rather gnaws at me. I do too feel some shame. I should have put in a lot more miles back when the days were long. But I've been thinking on it; today some things went right. I'm not always in full control. Below I list some advantages in the hope that I learn from them.

*My day off might just have done me some good. I wasn't so sure at the time. I just felt lazy. Maybe that guilt got me moving again. And moving quickly. I had a nice rhythm and was up at a four-mile pace.

*It's cold, damned cold, and as cold often will, it's lit a fire under my ass. It has been so warm these last two weeks that I'd come to take it for granted. In spite of myself. I did know better. Now I have got to get south. My little computer tells me that on Wednesday next it will drop to thirty degrees. Which would kill a lesser man. Even I'm bound to get cranky.

*I weren't sleepy. I got a full nine hours last night, which is only two short of the ideal.

*It was windy. That limits my breaks. It takes the fun out of sitting down. It is no less restful to keep moving. When I stop I just get cold. Usually, two miles into any walk I get a powerful urge to sit down. Today I could overcome it.

*I started early. Not very early. I slept until well past seven. But I did not much monkey around in packing up my gear. It wasn't such a very good spot. I was right on the edge the road. I was not assured of privacy, and so was not tempted to linger. You don't want people watching you fold your tent. It's an intimate procedure.

*I took drugs. Aspirin or such. I started the day with a toothache. But they did the rest of me good, as well. I believe I'll take more tomorrow. That meth kid I met could walk 150 miles at a stretch, but I bet I'm better at math.

*I had a very big lunch. For a while there I was thinking very big breakfasts were the key to success. Now I wonder if lunches aren't better. Today I had a meatloaf sandwich. The meatloaf was grilled and was great. I prefer my mother's meatloaf, but if you tried to grill it, it would fall apart. They must put something else in it. If I'd thought of it I would have asked.

*I had cheesecake for dessert, with cherries on top. Cheesecake is practically pie. Pie is Nature's Perfect Food. I haven't seen much pie on the road. I think I may be getting into pie country. It seems to be more widely available. One day, just as a test, I won't eat anything but pie. Breakfast, lunch and dinner: pie. I bet I walk forty miles.

*The few people I met were nice to me. That always seems to help. I have a few gifts but I rely on others to do my positive thinking.

*It was threatening to rain. But didn't. It gave me something to worry about. And for about ten miles the shoulder was no narrow I thought I'd surely be killed. These things keep me distracted from the odd pain in my toes.

But who knows how tomorrow will go. I hoping it goes just as well. Thirty degrees scares the hell out of me. I'm pretty sure I won't freeze. But it could very well take a lot of the fun out of Walking Across America.

This morning I had coffee in Atlanta; Atlanta, Missouri, that is. The gas station lady was friendly and blonde. A lot of the gals down here are. She gave me the coffee on the house. It was mighty decent of her. And I got a map of the state, courtesy of the MDOT. I still don't know where I'm going but, hell, I'll figure it out.

Ten more miles took me to Macon; Macon, Missouri, that is. It is home to five-thousand souls. My lunch waitress was friendly and blonde. She could see into my soul.

"I'm Walking Across America," I explained.
"Gosh, that must be great!"
"Well..." I started to say.
"No responsibilities!"

And there you have it. She was not being unkind. She just has an eye for Truth. You've got to be lazy and self-indulgent to take this kind of walk. I explained that nobody really loved me and that's why I'm more or less free.

"I thought so!" she said. God bless her pure heart. God take pity on me.

He did send some Mormon missionaries. They're always so shiny and clean. But if I were a Mormon I'd be pissed if they sent me to Macon, Missouri. It's a fine town, I'm sure of it, but I'd want to go somewhere else. Africa, maybe, or Uruguay. Hell, even France. They must have drawn the short straw or something. Poor, squeaky-cheeked bastards.

They were polite and kind. Mormons always are. That's one of their rules. They offered me one of their books but I had to turn them down. I didn't want to hurt their feelings but I've got luggage enough. And I can't do much reading out here. And I think their religion is silly.

At least as silly as other religions. It is suspiciously new. Most of the really good voodoo is at least a thousand years old. I think, though, they may be on to something with the magic underwear. It is cold now and getting colder. I bet they're all toasty warm.

I've still got my thermals. They'll have to do. And my computer has been wrong before. And I am less than fifty miles from Columbia. They say it's warmer down there.

"Except when it's colder," one good woman explained. God bless her pure heart.


I SAW ANOTHER one of those furry little rugby ball beasties. I still can't say what it was. Until I am contradicted I will think of it as a James weasel.

I SAW TOO a deer, being chased across the freeway by, I swear to golly, a white wolf. But they were pretty far off. But it was white. I don't know if they have wolves in Missouri. I wouldn't guess so. But it was either a big wolf or a very small horse. I'd rather it was a horse since I saw it from my tent. Arooo.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Nine, Victory

A motel stay always sounds so nice, soft beds and a hot shower. But it never seems to do me that much good. My legs get more tired than ever. The inactivity makes my muscles contract. I guess I could stretch or something. But one hates to go to that much trouble. It was after all my day off.

And it was probably good for me. I am glad I missed all that rain. I am fragile, a paper flower. I wilt when I get wet. Today was in fact a beautiful day, a bit breezy but the weather was clear. My motel was a bit on the stuffy side. There is some merit in fresh air. It was a good day for walking.

From Kirksville south Highway 63 becomes a four-lane road. Divided, with wide shoulders and traffic moving fast. But it's not so bad; there aren't many cars and there is a bumpity strip. Which conditions drivers to keep out of my lane and alerts me when they do not.

I've been refining my peace sign. I've loosened it some and am involving more of my arm. At the top of the arc I give it a little flick. It seems that way much more friendly. I blush when I think of the miserable peace signs I was flashing back in Idaho. But I'm getting there. It has taken months of practice. It really is an art.

You see, you want to communicate friendliness but at the same time nonchalance. If you're too stiff it seems almost agressive, too loose and it's political. Your timing must be right, as well. And some people just get a nod. Others get a wave or a tip of the hat, but the peace sign is the top prize. It goes only to drivers who make a special effort not to squish me dead.

And people who flash me a peace sign first. And people in Volkswagen vans. And to anyone whose car I particularly like, or which for some reason makes me laugh. And to cops and official vehicles and to any old hippie I see. But it is a mark of honor and I don't just throw it around.

I had a ten-mile hike to La Plata. I met another man on the road. He has been in prison for meth and has "worked in all fifty-two states." And has shot a man and has been to sea on the crew of a merchant vessel. And is a boxer and knows kung-fu and grew a pot plant twenty feet tall. He has loved and lost and loved again. His brother is a deviant.

He was on his way to Columbia, MO, on what for me would be a five-day walk. I do not think he intends to stop, nor is he hitchhiking. He's just walking, walking; I don't think he was high. He was quiet and did not twitch. And seemed like a nice person, reasonable if not too too bright. We walked together for six miles. It was nice to have someone to talk to.

I ducked off the road at La Plata. I let him go on ahead. I had a piece of peanut butter pie so he could have a headstart. He walked a little slow for me, and conversation was running out. Who knows but I may see him again. I'll endure if I don't. But I do like to meet interesting people. That really is the point.

In my heart I want to be Charles Kuralt, though he travelled in higher style. I want to meet every nut in America and hear every one of their stories. And people do open up to me, maybe only because I'm on the road. It gives you something of a license to ask all manner of questions. They know that before I get too annoying I will be again moving on.

Fifteen miles ought to do it, I figured. I didn't leave Kirksville til noon. I managed eighteen and got up my tent before the sun went down. My hobo skills took me off the highway. I'm on Old Highway 63. Which is but a narrow gravel road, a shadow of its modern self. I am camped on the very edge of it. So far three cars have gone by. Moving fast, I don't think they noticed me. They were not looking out for a tent.

I am kept company by a thousand crickets and a less than dignified owl. It sounds like he's hooting through a kazoo. It takes all kinds in the woods. There is too a mean-spirited squirrel, and a bird I would just as soon shoot. His song sounds like somebody jumping on a rusty old bed.

It might be a frog, I've seen plenty of those, obnoxious green little thing. You'd think he'd go off and hibernate. It is rather nippy tonight. I expect I'll survive but my nose is cold. I needed this wake-up call. I'll get my nine hours and wake up at six and hurry myself to the south.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Eight, Petrification

The sky was black for most of the day. It did at intervals rain. Hard. And there was plenty of thunder and no doubt some lightning too. But it did not bother me, not at all. I had never l left my motel.

I meant to, certainly. I packed up all of my gear. But I just couldn't find the energy to carry it all downstairs. Let alone some miles down the road. I'm sure it's a moral failing. I was not any sorer than I am most days. I was only a little more sleepy. The idea of walking didn't sound so bad. I just could not seem to get moving.

This sort of inaction too often defines me. I've been twenty-five years in this slump. In fact it is easier out on the road. At least I know where I'm going. In a general sense, step by step. Life is rarely this easy.

But still gravity gets the better of me. And so I was glad for the rain. It made me feel awfully clever for deciding to stay indoors. Or less guilty, at any rate. I had not known it was coming. But I would have gotten awfully soggy if I were a better man.

Of course it may rain tomorrow as well. It is meant to be rather cold. In the next three days temperatures will be down in the thirties again. Which should be enough to get me moving, but the thought of it just makes me sleepy. Threat and fear don't motivate me. I respond better to flattery.

There was a rumor abroad this afternoon that I would be on TV. I figured I owed it to my lonesome blog but beyond that I couldn't see why. I don't see anything particularly heroic about walking across the country. Running, sure, or if I had some kind of hook, a cause or a wooden leg. Just walking for the hell of it seems irresponsible.

Of course I can be glib and charming. I'm a natural for local news. But there was a wreck or a scandal or something, some mishap in a corn maze. They figured out how to fill twenty-two minutes without resorting to me. And though fame appeals, I'm glad of it. I am camera shy.

I don't know that my day off did me much good. I am feeling lazier than ever. And plenty sleepy. It's now one o'clock and I am not yet in bed. I need someone to take care of me. I can't look after myself.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Seven, Riding a Buck

My tent was on top of one high bank where the road had been cut through a hill. I was on the edge of a clover field. There was a golf course across the way. The grass was cut short all around me. I had a fine view of the sky. In between rains I'd poke my head out and commune a bit with the stars.

It was a very warm night by recent standards. The moon was all but full. And I had that odd sort of energy that comes from too many Pepsis. In fact I had some trouble falling asleep. The traffic was fairly loud. And amplified by the walls of my hill. I was nonetheless up by six.

Six. I worry about myself. The sun was nowhere to be seen. But it was warm and the rain had stopped. I stared a bit more at the stars. And a fog came rolling up the hill, faster than I can walk. A Dickensian fog, most impressive. You couldn't see thirty feet.

It was neat but impractical. It would not let me dry my tent. And made me just a tiny bit nervous about heading back down to the road. The human reaction to a very thick fog is to drive as fast as you can. To lessen the time it takes you to get to a place where you can see.

I am now on Highway 63, really a pretty good road. I am all but ready to retract my remarks about highways in Missouri. The shoulder is wide and beautifully paved. I did not walk very far. At the top of the next hill half a mile away I found a BP station.

With tables in back where the locals gather to have their morning coffee. They were all very nice to me. They're getting harder to understand. I ain't exactly in Dixie yet but I am noticing a shift in accent. One old man told me that when I get done I really should "ride a buck." I thought it was some sort of hillbilly slang. I was ready to be offended. I made him repeat it, to see if he dared. Write a book, he meant.

I don't know much about book-writin'. It looks hard.

It is pretty here, rolling hills; they cut the grass short by the road. The fog steamed off and left a beautiful day. I jogged on to Queen City, Missouri. And had the meatloaf special at the diner/grocery store. There I met the sheriff. He was twice my size and carried gag handcuffs. And an enormous pistol. He was introduced by a crazy woman who did not seem so crazy at all. She was awfully friendly. That is bound to make you an object of suspicion.

I had now enjoyed two long breaks but it was early yet. I walked on past Greentop, a very small town, and Sublette, which I didn't notice. The plan was to stop on the edge of Kirksville. Plans can come undone.

On the edge of that town I found a fine spot. But the sun was still high in the sky. A little ambition is good, they say. I thought I'd put in another five miles.

But I misunderestimated Kirksville, Missouri. It's a metropolis. Seventeen-thousand people; it doesn't sound like much, but I tell you it went on for miles. And miles and miles and soon it was dark. My eyes aren't what they once were. Images blur in my little computer and I cannot see well in the dark.

I tried to walk where the headlights weren't. I thought for sure I'd be squished. My glow-in-the-dark hat has passed its half-life. Eventually I found a sidewalk.

I quite like sidewalks but not this time. Kirksville was refusing to end. I just wanted to get back out in the country and find a place for my tent. I thought the moon might do me some good. Last night it was plenty bright. But here it was obscured by clouds. There was lightning on the horizon.

I did see a few possible spots, behind some boarded up businesses. But my hobo sense warned me off. It may have been cowardice. But hobo skills are as much about instinct as they are about being bold. Something about the scene warned me off. I decided to give it a pass.

So, forgive me, I am in a motel. And barely three days stinky. And so blasted sore and road weary it will be a trick to start walking again. There is a bathtub but I was too tired to soak. It's a damnable waste of money. Goodnight.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Six, Missouri!

It is raining but I'm fairly content. I am camped for once on high ground. Had this sort of weather hit yesterday I would have had to pick up and move. But the breezes are warm and my tent's nice and taut. I am cheerful and fairly well fed. So far, so good. My hike through Missouri may not be so very bad at all.

It was again dark when I woke up. I've learned how to deal with that. I went out and had my morning pee then crawled back into my bed. And woke again at seven-thirty, a far more bearable hour. The sun came filtering through the trees and dried my poor little tent. There were snakes abroad; a fellow I met says they're part of a Great Snake Migration. They are on the move, heading south to their caves to coil up for the winter.

Disgusting, hateful, vile little beasts. I hope they get frostbite. I hope they freeze then thaw too fast and all get tummy aches.

I was camped in a gully by a disused road. I could have camped on the road itself. But one idiot in a monster truck could have ruined my whole morning. I felt much safer down in the trees. People had been there before. Some of the logs were insulated. They were rotten old telegraph poles.

I love things like that, like the mines I passed hiking through the Black Hills. Or the foundations of a forgotten town, or crumbling old stone walls. They are ruins of a civilisation not so ancient at all. But wholly forgotten, as we'll be one day, and sooner than you might think. Three or four generations and then we are erased.

I had an easy walk into Moulton, Iowa, my last stop in that great state. I found a cafe at the back of a shop and had me some pancakes and eggs. And sausage. They were out of biscuits and gravy. Nobody knows how I suffer. But I lingered two hours recharging things and making friends with the locals.

I spoke at length with one fellow. He is a Sun Dancer. That is what the plains Indians do to keep in touch with their god. It involves fasting and smoking and praying and such, vision quests, drums and dancing. Now this guy wasn't an Indian. I think he was a Republican. And another man I could have talked to for hours if only I had more time.

Do not fear, my Christian friends. I won't be seduced by any heathen religion. But not either am I likely to be born again. My gods have cursed me with Reason.

Seven more miles took me into Missouri. My first impression was good. At the very moment I crossed the state line the sun emerged from its cloud. And the wind became very noticably warm. You're south, it seemed to say. But I won't be fooled and will not be at my ease until I hit Florida.

My road got narrower still in Missouri. There is the same gravel shoulder. But it is less obnoxiously well-maintained as been allowed to compact some. And is ornamented with cushioning weeds. I expect they're full of snakes. So I burned up a little extra energy by stepping down extra hard.

Our international friends may not understand. Allow me to explain. Highways, though for the most part federally funded, are the responsibility of the states. I expect they are held to some minimum standards, but each state has its own ideas about how just to spend the money. In Montana they like wide asphalt roads. South Dakota invests in concrete. In Missouri, it seems, their highway dollars went for liquor and whores.

It should, though, be easier to camp here. The roads are narrow but the right-of-way is much wider. There seems to be a good deal of space between the road and the fence line. Where there are hills or curves this gives me lots of good places to set up my tent unseen. What did you do in Iowa, you wonder, where the fences come up to the highway?

I trespassed. Forgive me.

Of course, I don't know how jolly glad Missouri is to have me hoboing on the edge of their highways. But they can't see me. That's the point. Neener.

I hiked another fair stretch to Glenwood, Missouri. There was nothing there. It is but a New Jersey to Lancaster, two more miles up the road. I stopped on the edge of that good town. I'll never know what it offers. And bellied up at Buddy's, a fine saloon, and had a hamburger.

I carried out my fries. I couldn't eat them. My appetite is fading these days. At first I thought it was because I was sick. Then I blamed gas station food. But it is just how it is. I am still eating as much, but not with the very same relish. If I can get it down to a mere four or five thousand calories a day I'll save a fortune. We'll see, we'll see.

Buddy's is more than a saloon. It is a beloved restaurant. They are still pushing those fried pork loins I thought I had left in Iowa. They are an institution. I don't want to hurt any feelings but they left me unmoved. I include here the recipe so you can decide for yourself:

*take a hunk of pork
*butterfly it
*hammer it as flat as you can, big as a frisbee
*coat it in secret batter (flour and water)
*drop it in boiling oil
*make some phone calls
*clip coupons
*find old girlfriends on Facebook
*moon over them
*feel sorry for yourself
*ease your feelings by noticing how old they all are
*reflect sadly on your own old age
*wonder if your best years, such as they were, aren't far behind you
*blink away girlish tears
*remove from oil
*serve

You know who can really fry pork? The Japanese. I swear to golly. They are pork-frying fools, they are. Tonkatsu, look it up. Nobody does it better. They don't eat a lot of pork in Japan, but when they do they don't mess around. It may be noted that most Japanese pigs are descended from pigs we sent them after the typhoon of nineteen-fifty-something-or-other. From Iowa.

The rain has stopped and started several times. It has been heavy at times. I only hope it rains itself out before I resume my walk. We'll see, we'll see.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Five, Poof

It was still dark when I woke up. I packed up in record time. Then sat where I was for an hour or two, eating my bread and cheese. It was a beautiful day, warm and fine. I hated to ruin it by walking.

But as it turned out I was strong today. I jogged into Centerville, Iowa. And had my daily hamburger at the Bluebird Family Restaurant. The waitresses were kind to me. I had too pumpkin pie. Which on the whole is overrated but it hit the spot at the time.

The owner promised to make me famous on his Facebook page. Great Customers I Have Known. He interviewed me and took my picture. That'll sharpen some appetites. But I was flattered by their interest. Not everything has to make sense.

There was a kid there playing with a yo-yo. He is a Great Customer too. And it seems the champion of the Iowa State Fair. He wasn't giving any kind of performance. He was just messing around. But he was a wizard with that little thing. I have never seen anything like it. But in the end it's just a yo-yo, and I think a waste of talent. He ought to go into neurosurgery. Or learn to play the banjo.

I wandered over to the library to look at a Missouri map. I have no clear idea where I go from here. Missouri is a mess. The roads all go squiggling this way and that, and none go the way that I'm headed. And the hillbilly vibe is strong enough here that Missouri just has me scared. My glib sophistication may not serve me down there. I may get dragged from a truck.

But I'll worry about that as soon as it happens. The library itself was nice. It is a hundred years old and topped with a dome made wholly of stained glass. It is a great ugly building from the outside, but impressive nevertheless. And seems to scream literacy where that call may not often be heard.

I hit the supermarket for more bread and cheese. I am tiring of that meal some. There was a time early on when I was fully convinced that Pop-tarts were my miracle food. But I got sick of them in short order. Then it was yogurt pretzels. Now the very thought of them makes me sick. I did manage to get some bagels. Though it is possible I was deceived. They look like bagels; it says bagels on the bag, but they're really just bagel-shaped bread. And not even such good bread at that. It sticks to the back of my teeth. But it could be worse; I could be back to buns and potted meat.

I bought too some sports drink. It is of an off brand. It may have fermented some. I am less than inebriated but it tastes just faintly of gin. Or maybe what prisoners make in their toilets from things bought in the canteen. And it rather seems to make me thirsty. I think they are missing the point.

It was a discount supermarket. The lady asked if I wanted a plastic bag. I usually say no but they do come in handy to keep this item dry or that. Sure, I say and she says I can have one. "That'll be eleven cents."

After that I didn't want it any more, but I paid her anyway. You wouldn't guess it but I do have my pride. I didn't want her to think I'm cheap. But I did find a nickel some ways down the road. So it is almost half paid for. I'm glad I didn't want a shopping cart. Shopping carts cost a quarter.

It all reminded me very much of domestic airline travel. Which is in itself a good argument for a high-speed rail system.

The road got narrow just east of town, with a very narrow shoulder. Which droppped so steeply away that if I had had to dive I may have broken my neck. It was a little hairy but my legs were strong. I was in a fine walking mood. I put in another ten or twelve miles and then, poof, it got dark.

I long for the days when I had some warning. It makes camping something of a trick. If I walk until sundown as I like to do I have no time to put up my tent. Today though I found a goodish spot, deep in amongst some trees. But my tent will be soggy in the morning and there are all sorts of creatures about. I couldn't say which but I can hear them. I saw one of them today. It was furry and shaped like a rugby ball and walked by me quite unafraid. I could distinguish no features. It had a tail. Beyond that I've got nothing to offer.

And I am certain there are dozens of snakes about. There are sure a lot of them on the road. Dead to a man but there've been hundreds of them. Hundreds of them, I swear. This is the snakiest stretch I've met, curse their vile slithering hides. I am certain their cousins are at this moment trying to crawl into my tent.

And the coyotes are howling some ways off. I've come to see them as friends. They give my life some atmosphere. They're there more often than not. Maybe three nights in four I hear them singing, from the very start of this trip. Say what you will of America, we've got plenty of coyotes.

It's a Halloweeny sort of place this. The moon is bright through the trees. Which have lost their leaves and make eerie shadows on every wall of my tent. But it doesn't bother me in the least. My fears are of a more practical kind.

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Day One-Hundred-Thirty-Four, Nod

I was in good position to sleep until ten. I woke up some time before seven. My bad habits have gotten the better of me. I may never see midnight again.

It's sad. I really needed the sleep. But I was up with the dawn. I went to the office for my free coffee but everyone was still abed. So I enjoyed another long hot shower. I would have preferred a bath. My second-best knee could do with a soak but it was not to be. There was only a narrow shower stall with mould in its every seam.

I took my time packing up all my gear. It is harder when my laundry is clean. And I've got extra socks; some of them I think are good for fifty more miles. I don't want to throw them away til I have to. I like to get value for money. So I stayed in my room until check-out time. I passed the time watching TV.

Perhaps one lesson of this adventure is that people aren't as bad as I thought. I had never liked them personally. I avoid their company. But there are some nice people out there, even a few I respect. Or did until I spent my morning seeing what they watch on TV.

Stupidity is not a virtue. It is a birth defect.

I had a hearty lunch and a piece of pie and headed out on the road. I stopped at a grocery store to get more bread and cheese. Their bagels were too expensive. I am back to hamburger buns. Regular bread does not last long mashed into my pack. And I bought some more sports drink. Water, I'm afraid, wouldn't do. The water in Corydon, Iowa is suggestive of urinal cakes. That all-American cocktail of Lysol and Easter candy.

I had the damnedest time walking. There was some wind. I do suffer from my knee. It was in fact surpringly hot. My nose continues to run. I had done some surgery on my feet and left some open wounds. But I am used to all of that. I was just so blasted sleepy. I could barely keep my eyes open. I decided to have a nap.

It was a warm day so that wasn't a problem. I was sure I could make the time. I was concerned about micro-vipers, a new discovery of mine. Once in Montana I went to sleep and woke up covered in grasshoppers. I think it would be worse with snakes. So I spent some time trampling a big circle of grass to scare them all away. And folded my hands across my tummy and rested my head on my bag.

I fell asleep almost immediately and woke some few minutes later. A pick-up pulled over and honked at me to see if I was dead. "Are you OK?" a woman asked. I told her I was just resting. I didn't want to admit to sleep. She drove away disappointed.

Even that short nap did me some good. I still stopped several more times. Fifteen miles would be plenty today. I need to get some sleep. As it was I have managed only thirteen. I stopped at a great tentsite. There was time enough for four more miles but it was Providence. I am at a sort of roadside chapel. It has its own little park.

The truth is churches give me the creeps. As do temples and shrines. And saloons, believe it or don't, and any kind of school. And tire shops and those beauty salons where women put their heads under dryers. But it is fairly nice here and not state funded and I don't think Jesus would mind.

I waited an hour for the sun to go down before I put up my tent. I don't think I'm breaking any rules but I like a low profile. There is a nice lawn but I am camped in a corner on the only lumps there are. Let no one believe that I am asking for unearned luxury.

Goodnight.

YESTERDAY, at noon or so, a full 250,000 Iowans set out for a one-kilometer walk. The governor is promoting fitness. Last week a man got his picture on the front page of the Des Moines Register because he was "thinking about" walking the Appalachian Trail. Aren't they cute?

THE NICE LADY at my motel gave me two acorns with condoms inside them. They are to all appearances ordinary acorns, but when you smash them open you find a condom. I did not know what to say.

"I'm Chip!"
"I'm Dale!"
"We're just a couple of crazy rascals out to have some fun... "

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