Day Two-Hundred-Thirty-Two, A Bull Named Fu Manchu

I bought my last pair of shoes today.  It's a bittersweet milestone.  Most milestones are.  I cannot think of one that did not make me want to cry.

Lord knows I dislike shopping for shoes.  That's the masculine side of my nature.  It means I can let myself get weepy without being at all ashamed.  And I dislike spending money.  That's because I'm poor.  I've never been what you'd call frugal.  But you should see what they are charging for shoes these days.  Those Chinese orphans do not work cheap.

If I'm sad it's because I'm at the end of my road.  Or will be too soon enough.  This last pair of shoes are all I need for the next few hundred miles.  And then what?  Hell, I don't know.  I'm prepared for anticlimax.  They say it's the journey, not the destination.  They don't say how sad that is.

Or just how counterintuitive.  There are goals worth reaching.  But this walk is all in the doing.  At the end there is nothing for me.  I walk, I stop; I walk, I stop.  I reach the sea and I walk no more.  And I'll lose something.  I can't even say what.  I just know I'm going to miss it.

I lied.  I know exactly what I'm going to miss.  I'm going to miss this sense of purpose.  Rarely are our goals so clearly defined.  They are never this easy to reach.  All I've had to do is keep walking.  There has been no pressure on me.  And for the first time in my life I've known just who I am, the man who is Walking Across America.

Take that away and you are left with just James.  He is an interesting character.  But he's hard to understand and he's harder to take.  He has no idea where he's going.

I slept well enough despite the cold.  I had some trouble falling asleep.  I've kept well hidden but insomnia has finally found me in my tent.

Bring it on, I say.  I'm not afraid.  I'll add it to my list of complaints.  The day will come when they cancel each other out.  On that day I'll be dead.  Until then I would just as soon keep my eyes open.  There are a lot of things I want to see.

I'm doing my best to enjoy myself.  It really isn't that hard.  And I do have a few more miles to go.  Gatory miles at that.  So I'll smell the flowers.  I'll enjoy the pain.  I'll dig into extra big breakfasts.  I'll tip my hat to all the ladies and wave at passing trucks.  I'll fall in love a few more times.  I'll let beagles break my heart.  I'll let myself become inspired.  I'll believe my own bullshit.

I never did see much of Ocala.  There's a town in there somewhere.  Founded almost two-hundred years ago.  There are a number of beautiful homes.  But all I saw was metroplex, a kind of suburban sprawl.  After spending most of my day shoe shopping it was all I could do to get out.

I took off down and around the city.  It goes on for miles.  Then it was miles more of horse farms.  Even the rural districts are developed.  I was starting to worry about where I might camp.  Ten miles south it was dark.  And every patch of land had a house or a fence or a No Trespassing sign.

Until I rounded a corner and saw my chance.  You should have seen me.  You would have been proud.  Months of experience were at work here.  I found the perfect spot.  Amongst acres of trees with just one way in.  I did not even hesitate.  I knew it at a glance and shot right in.  It's a beautiful place for my tent. 

Especially on this, another cold night.  I like to be well settled in.  Here I can rest.  I can even sleep in.  Between you and me I just might.

I PASSED near the mall a troop of skateboarding youth.  They were lounging around looking bored.  And making snide remarks at passersby, and generally looking for trouble.  But for me they had only nods of respect.  I could see they wanted my approval.  I don't know if it was because they were scared of me, or because they thought I was cool.  Neither possibility would wholly displease me, but in the end, I'd rather be cool.

I MET a cowardly German shepherd.  He must have weighed a hundred pounds.  He barked at me and I barked back.  His tail went down and he fled.  Probably peed himself.  Poor puppy.

I BOUGHT the exact same shoes I had before, but these cost twice as much.  Poop.

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Day Two-Hundred-Thirty-One, Horsefeathers

I walked twenty miles today.  I meant to stop after fifteen.  But habit can be an irresistible force.  I did my best to sabotage myself.  I tried to sleep in.  I took long breaks.  I plodded along in the gutter.  But I've got to face facts; I am too powerful for my very own good.

The idea was to edge up on Ocala, Florida without marching into town.  If I did I would get stuck in a motel.  I have used up all my vouchers.  The green ones with the dead Presidents.  I was too long in Tallahassee.

Which is a shame because it is going to be cold tonight and I am sleeping outdoors.  It is a triumph of my hobo skills.  I am inside the city limits.  Or if not I am certainly close enough for the police to have jurisdiction.

It may be in fact too soon to brag.  We'll see if I go undetected.  I type this with my bag up over my head so nobody sees the blue glow.  I think that's why most hoboes don't carry computers.  They are too quick to give you away.

Find me camped in a jungle on the edge of a swamp on the edge of a lot for sale.  I am surrounded by motels and gas stations and at least one mobile home park.  I hear children laughing and dogs barking.  No parent would want me here.  But I mean no harm and I'll be gone soon enough.  That is if I don't freeze to death.

The swamp came as something of a surprise.  I almost waded right in.  The water is thick with a greenish slime.  It looked like a flat spot for my tent.  It was dark.  I backed off thirty yards.  I am probably safe from gators.  They might be dumb but they've got enough sense to burrow in each time it freezes.

Freezes, yes.  Literally.  In Florida, no less.  It is expected to drop into the twenties tonight.  The locals are fun to watch.  It was up in the fifties this afternoon.  I was comfortable in my T-shirt.  But they're all bundled up, hugging themselves in down jackets and wooly hats.

As I am now.  This may well be the last very cold night of my trip.  I'm doing it right.  I've got on my thermals, top and bottom, and my teddy bear pants.  And two fleece pullovers and my adorable warm hat.  I've still got some layers to go.  But if the locals knew I was sleeping out here they would think I was a demon.  Or a god.

Between you and me, I'd rather be indoors.  I'm working on a powerful stink.  If I don't get rinsed off eventually no one will want to be my friend.  And I'm sore, powerful sore.  I could do with a very hot bath.  And I'm stuck full of thorns and cactus bristles.  I really need to be tweezed.

I had a fine camping spot last night.  I'd chosen it from space.  But Google don't show all the details.  It was a briary place.  Tromping through the underbrush I got myself pretty scratched up.  And a number of these little kamikazes are still buried in my flesh.  I'm a prickly pear, a pin cushion.  I pull them out when I can.  But I may just learn to live with them, a reminder of life on the road.

They took a lot of the fun out of walking.  That's why I stuck to the ditch.  Walking on the shoulder is interactive.  I wanted to be left alone.  But the ground there was soft.  The grass grabbed at my ankles.  I was starting to get shin splints.  An indignity I've avoided for most of this trip.  It was bound to happen sooner or later.

I've been walkng uphill for a couple of days.  I guess Florida peaks in the middle.  I have a theory that this is a good thing.  Crocodiles have short legs.  There's bound to be fewer of them up here, and those there are will be all tired out.

Ocala is "The Horse Capital of the World."  That is an official distinction.  Determined by the International Association of People Who Decide That Kind of Crap.  Five other cities share the honour.  Which you'd think might promote bickering.  I guess they all get along.

I did pass miles and miles of horse farms; pretty, self-satisfied places.  They employ almost fifty-thousand people.  Who says our economy is dead.  If it has a fault it is that it is geared towards things like investment banking and marketing, nuclear missiles and horses.  God forbid we should produce something of any conceivable use.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm sure the horses are lovely.  I've even eaten horse once.  Raw, no less.  If something's worth doing I believe it's worth doing right.  I'm glad there are horses.  I'm sure they make lovely pets, but a dog improves your quality of life.  Horsemanship just gives rich people an excuse to wear tight pants.

Don't be mad, my Montana friends.  These are snooty, Eastern horses.  I had the privilege of eating my lunch within earshot of three horsepeople.  What a pack of asses, I thought.  They sat comfortably in their chairs.  And spoke of weekend trips to Paris.  They were stupid and foul-mouthed.  I liked that my hoboness seemed to unnerve them.  It saved me the trouble of giving them all slaps.

"But caring for horses is very hard work."  Most Americans work hard.  But they are not self-consciously elitist.  They're not so insufferably pleased with themselves.  Few of them can offend me with the way they sink into a plastic chair.

Lunch itself was fantastic.  Gosh, what a lovely surprise.  I found the Yum Yum Kitchen at a crossroads, wedged in amongst horse farms.  It's in a fifth-wheel trailer like the kind they use to sell corn dogs at the fair.  But cleaner.  And friendlier.  And oh the food.  I had some beef over rice.

That's a staple in Japan.  This was different.  With onions fried just right.  And diced tomatoes and fresh herbs.  I tell you, I almost cried.  It wasn't expensive either.  Low overhead, I guess.  But lovely, lovely, proper cuisine, like rich people get to eat.

In the future when I'm really rich, I'm going to eat like rich people.

And on that bright note I'll let you go.  I've got to burrow in for the night.  It's cold and I'm sore and my battery is just about used up.

Happy dreams.

OCALA is also the Lightning Capital of the World.  I don't think my hometown is the capital of anything.

I TRY TO greet everyone I pass with a hello or a good afternoon.  Sometimes they ignore me.  When they do I stop in my tracks and give them a "Hello, I say!" in what might be a menacing tone.  Then they say hello.  It is my way of Making the World a Better Place.

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Day Two-Hundred-Thirty, Decrepitude

My friend Shonna is an athlete.  She's an ungodly mess.  She's emotionally stable.  She's got a great family.  She lives in a beautiful home.  But after years of playing aggressive soccer she has trouble with her knees.  And her feet.  And God knows what else.  She gets cranky when she's hungry or tired.

It was a revelation to me.  I thought sports were good for you.  No, she says unequivocally.  They really tear you up. 

Of course.  I should have known.  It isn't really my world.  But had I stopped to think about it I could have figured it out.  I know an MMA fighter with a disfigured ear, a rugby player with a bad back.  A competetive shooter with hearing loss and a dancer with ugly feet.  There are all kinds of punchy boxers.  NFL players die young.  It raises the question: is what I'm doing good for me or not?

Everyone knows walking is healthy.  It is good to get out of doors.  I'd been certain that Walking Across America would add ten years to my life.  Provided I wasn't killed, of course.  I left room for that.  But I'm leaner than I was six months ago.  I expect I have lowered my heart rate.  My endurance is better; my legs are stronger.  You can crack walnuts on my ass. 

If you buy me dinner first.  My appetite is good.  I am calmer.  I am more at my ease.  I am better at making friends.  I sleep better.  I'm more regular.  I am taller by at least half an inch.  My feet have grown a size-and-a-half.  I can do pull-ups again.

Or I could until yesterday.  I've dislocated my shoulder.  Or threatened to.  I've got a bad hip.  My hair is turning grey.  My vision is fading.  I'm getting wrinkles.  I'm starting to look like my mom.  I've got pains in my feet that suggest broken bones.  I've got one unhappy knee.  I'm sore enough that only complete exhaustion lets me sleep at night.

I start every day with two aspirin.  Later I might take two more.  And as soon as I finish the bottle I'm going to buy something stronger.  My days off don't really seem to help.  I walk with something of a limp.  And very well might for the rest of my life.  I'll have fun explaining why.

I don't limp when I've got my backpack on.  Must be a psychological thing.  Today I walked twenty-five miles, split into two long hikes.  And it wasn't so bad.  I did get a bit bored, but the weather was fine.  Sometimes it's nice just to stare at the clouds.  They grow 'em pretty down here.

I stopped in Bronson, Florida for lunch.  I had a hamburger.  It's been a while; I had sworn them off but I was really hungry.  They do fill you up and do not cost much.  They did not have any pie.  So I didn't linger as long as I usually do.  I could have used more recharging.  But the nourishment did me good.  My shoulder hurt but my spirits were high.  I hiked the next dozen miles to Williston, only stopping once.

Briefly.  I wish I hadn't.  I wound up wounding myself.  They have cactus in Florida; I bet you didn't know that.  Flat little things.  They fascinated me.  I had to cut one open.  Just to see what they had inside.  You will never guess.

A billion little barbed fibres, nearly microscopic.  I got them all over my hands, my face, my neck, in my mouth.  They can't be removed.  It seems, given time, they do begin to dissolve.  Until then all I can do is suffer.  They are rather uncomfortable.  Marie Curie died of radiation poisoning.  Sometimes science is hard.

I stopped briefly in Williston, to eat a bit and recharge.  But I couldn't stay long.  It was almost five.  I had to leave town before dark.  Or get stuck indoors.  I cannot afford that and it always breaks my stride.  As it was I had plenty of time.  I could have walked two more miles.

But I had my campsite all picked out.  I found it last night.  Using Google Earth, a wonderful tool.  Every modern hobo should have it.

It is meant to be cold tonight.  I'm not feeling it yet.  It is raining some but I don't care.  It is going to be colder tomorrow.  And colder still the night after that, somewhere down below freezing.  But I don't care; I've got teddy bear pants, and a song in my heart.

MY INJURED shoulder not only makes it very hard to adjust my pack, it prevents me from flashing my peace sign at passing trucks.  I hope they don't think I'm stuck up.

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Day Two-Hundred-Twenty-Nine, Old Folks at Home

Find me on the far edge of a vast orchard, east of Chiefland, Florida.  I've hidden myself in a thick strip of wood.  I'll be easier to see come the dawn.  I've been waiting too long to set up my tent.  I've been taking camping for granted.  I keep walking until it is too dark to see, on the assumption that I'll find a spot.

And so far I have.  Every night.  All the way across this country.  See that patch of trees by your house?  There may be hoboes in it.  Which would upset you, I gather.  You might not know why.  You would figure they were up to no good.  That they'd steal your chickens or make off with your kids or teach your dog bad habits.  That they'd start a fire or stink up the place or lower your property values.

But of course you wouldn't confront them.  You'd have the sheriff do that,  Which is why, please do understand, I prefer to keep myself hid.  What nobody knows is unlikely to hurt them.  I will be gone soon enough.  I mind my own business.  I pick up my trash.  You'll never know I was here. 

Ideally.  It is harder sometimes.  I have a bright yellow tent.  They do that on purpose.  The idea is to make your tent life more cheerful.  It was noticed that returning veterans were often in a foul mood.  "It's the tents," thought the manufacturers of camping goods.  "We must make ours bright yellow!"

Or orange or pink or, if you're lucky, a ridiculous shade of blue.  Their intentions are good, but between you and me, I'd prefer something olive drab.  I don't like to draw attention to myself, at least not when I am asleep. 

There are camouflaged tents but that wouldn't do.  It creates the wrong impression.  It makes you look a little too creepy, like you're building a sniper's nest.  I would prefer a quiet shade of green.  Brown wouldn't be so bad.  A duller yellow to blend into the world without trying too hard.

A lot of hoboes sleep under bridges.  I avoid that when I can.  They are noisy, dirty, dusty places.  They're the first place the sheriff looks.  But they do keep you out of the rain.  Most hoboes do not have tents.  I do.  I'm living large.  It smells a lot like tom cat.

And I've gotten pretty good at tucking it in to this little corner or that.  I shift underbrush; I pull up weeds; I hide in amongst the trees.  But I'm almost always close to the road.  You could see me from a passing car.  Or you could if you knew where to look, and if I did not have hobo skills.

But I'm not wholly comfortable with where I am now.  I did not like last night much either.  I much prefer the odd patch of woods.  This clearly belongs to someone.  I'm pretty sure I could explain myself, but it would be hard to do at gunpoint.  I tend to be somewhat less eloquent when my feelings are hurt.

It was raining when I woke up.  Not hard, but hard enough.  I stayed in my tent for as long as I dared before climbing back on the road.  My road in this case was a bicycle path.  I had it all the way to Old Town.  And even with the rain it wasn't as humid as it was yesterday.

Until I was about five miles in.  I had two or three more to go.  When the skies opened up.  I really got pissed on.  I was soaked all the way to my shorts. 

This is not merely a colorful phrase.  My shorts were sopping wet.  The rest of my clothes are polyester.  They dry fast enough.  But I prefer natural fibres around those bits that I hold most dear.  But it can lead to chafing and the odd rash.  Speaking hypothetically.

Google mentioned a Hardee's in Old Town.  I was delighted to find a cafe.  Next door you can get bail bonds.  I ordered my usual breakfast.  Biscuits and gravy and sausage and eggs.  They didn't have hash brown.  But they did come up with some fried potatoes.  They were nearly as good.

Gosh, I was pleased.  It has been too long since I started a day out right.  And a good couple, the Bells I believe, went and picked up my check.  Thank-you.  That made my day.  Again not for the obvious reasons.  I need all the cash that I can get, but it is better still to be believed in.

I stayed there for a couple of hours, recharging and drying off.  It was just a bit seedy, forgive me for saying, but everyone was really nice.  The lunch crowd was there by the time I left.  I'd had thirty-two cups of coffee.  Which, along with everything else, put a real spring in my step.

I walked to Chiefland in less than three hours.  That's almost a jogging pace.  My road took me along, and eventually across, the Suwannee River of song.  Swanee, Suwani, if you prefer.  It looks like the Amazon.  With jungly woods on either side.  It's a handsome stretch of water.  I bet it's teeming with crocodiles.  I wouldn't swim in it for ten million bucks.

Once across I had a straight shot to Chiefland.  I walked all the way in the ditch.  The grass was too long but I was feeling fit.  There was plenty to see.  Boarded up motels, motels hanging on, tire shops for sale.  A few old houses, a few vacant lots and miles and miles of trees.

Live oaks for the most part, with and without moss.  This climate is hard on wooden buildings.  Old houses and shops seem to almost melt until they're again part of the woods.  It would drive me nuts.  I'd be out there every day bleaching the funge off my siding.

I was in Chiefland for an hour or two.  I never got a sense of that town.  It seems to be all suburb and no substance.  I was in a Burger King.  There may be more to it somewhere.  It took a long time to walk out.  I gave myself an hour.  That was just enough.  I put up my tent in the dark.

I've got to walk nineteen or twenty-five miles tomorrow.  It has to do with the spacing of towns.  There is some science at work here.  Perhaps a bit more than you'd guess.  Ideally I would set out early.  That is not going to happen.  It is coming up on eleven o'clock.  These reports don't type themselves.

HOSTESS has declared bankruptcy.  Through no fault of my own.

I SAW AN enormous bird today.  It appeared to be some kind of buzzard.  It appeared to be following me.  It did not say why.

I FOUND on the road a butterfly knife, a kind of elaborate switchblade.  It was of no imaginable use to me so I threw it away.  I also found a marijuana pipe.

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Day Two-Hundred-Twenty-Eight, Deo Volente

The sun never really came out today.  It was up there, just behind the clouds.  Clouds so thin you could see blue through them.  It did keep the world fairly dark.  And so humid it felt as if the air itself might soon explode into rain.

It had me convinced that I had woken up early.  In fact it was half past seven.  Which would have killed me in my civilian life.  Now it means sleeping in.  But I was exhausted.  It was a struggle to get all my gear packed up.  Google had promised me a Sunoco station two miles down the road.

Two miles is nothing.  I can walk it backwards, blindfolded with one leg in a cast.  I'd been afraid I might have to walk seventeen before I got fed again.  I had been much too long without proper nutrition.  I know many get by on less.  But I tell you I need every one of my six-thousand calories a day. 

I settled in for two heat-lamp biscuits.  I'm not even sure what they were.  They had on them egg and possibly cheese and a square piece of something fried.  It might have been chicken or fish or potato.  I honestly could not say.  It was hot and heavy and just what I needed.  I had mine with mustard.

I had three gallons of Coke as well.  It was early enough for coffee.  But I could feel that sugar restoring my tissues, like watering a wilted daisy.  It is what they give you in hospitals.  They pump it in through an IV.  And charge you God knows what for it.  All my refills were free.

I wound up staying two-and-a-half hours.  My time is not always my own.  I had to plug in and put some wind in the sails of my little computer.  Typing these reports is never easy.  They determine a lot that I do.  Where I stop and for how long and when I get to go to sleep.  Ask any quantum physicist or documentary filmmaker.  You change the very nature of things when you set out to observe them.

You might be surprised how much thought I give to that little conundrum.  Perhaps a bit more than is healthy.  I think of trees falling in forests and trying on sunglasses, FOX News and a life lived alone.  Nothing is as it seems.  Every step you take creates a new universe.

Seriously.

I never would have made it seventeen miles.  I would have but it would have sucked.  It was rather a struggle even once I was fed.  My legs were reasonable strong.  I had plenty of water.  My feet didn't hurt much.  Sometimes walking is hard. 

I don't write a lot about walking here, the actual left-right-left.  I'll give you my mileage when I remember, and when it makes me look good.  I report on my stops, the people I meet, the thoughts that creep into my head.  My hopes, my fears, the things I eat.  Where I put up my tent.  But I am leaving a big part out of it.  Walking, walking is key.  I am Walking Across America.  The rest of it is just noise.

It was not such an interesting stretch of road.  It wasn't bad, certainly.  But it was too much like what I saw yesterday.  The humidity didn't help.  All I could reflect on was tree farming.  I think they are doing it right.  Thirty miles of trees.  Loggers working full speed.  In thirty years they'll be back where they started.  They chop 'em down and plant new ones, just like growing corn.

I've never seen so many log trucks.  I wave at every one.  And they wave back.  Now and then they'll give me a blast of their horn.  Nice people.  They're sure making a mess.  Bits of bark line the roads.  There are branches all over the place, fallen from passing trucks.  When I can I pull them out of the road.  Call it a good deed if you must.  But the road is for cars and the shoulder is mine.  I don't like it when they swerve.

I'm making it safer for whoever walks behind me.  I'll leave him too this advice: What, you want to Walk Across America?  What are you, out of your mind?  Get a job, fall in love, raise up some kids.  Find a place to call home.

A few of us are compelled to do this.  You cannot talk sense into them.  If I had been born an Irishman I'd have walked across Ireland.  And I would have finished six months ago.  And I would have been duly proud.  The America part is arbitrary.  Walking, walking is key.

Many people I meet know someone who knows someone who rode their bicycle across America.  What are you telling me for, I wonder.  What's that have to do with me?  It's like people who confuse China and Japan.  They are much different countries, I swear.  Japan has more in common with Canada.  It is not wholly unlike Korea.  But at heart they don't really like each other, so keep that one to yourself.

At length I made it to Cross City.  Cross City is a timber town.  From the very beginning.  They used to cut cypress down.  And some brand of pine that doesn't exist anymore.  They made money at it too.  And still do, but less.  It's a trim little town of maybe 1700 people.

I had forty-five minutes to enjoy a sandwich and plug in just a bit more.  It was pleasant; I would have liked to stay longer but I was cutting it close.  I don't like to set up my tent in the dark, not in these gatory woods.  As it was that is just what I did.  I think I am fairly safe here.

You might think I'm being silly, my fear of gators.  Let me make one thing clear.  I am not afraid because there might be gators everywhere I turn.  I'm afraid because there are gators everywhere I turn.  You learn to cope with your own bogeymen.  In this case my fears are real.

I just don't want to be eaten by gators.  We all have our likes and dislikes.  I just think it would be an awful way to die.  Lonely, if that makes sense.  Disregarded.  Seen as mere meat.  It would be like having a job.

Before I left home I figured I had a fifty-percent chance of being killed on this trip.  I'm sure my odds were better than that.  But I think abstractly; I don't attach numbers to things.  I can, of course.  I'm no nitwit.  I just never got around to it.  I had other things on my mind.

So I left home prepared to die.  Now it looks as if I might not.  Which is good news in a lot of ways.  I wish I'd made future plans.  But I'll survive.  I always do.  Crocodiles be damned.

CROSS CITY, Florida has the most beautiful Dairy Queen I've ever seen.  Its architecture is ordinary, but it is surrounded by spectacular trees.  Live oaks.  I've learned to love them.  I'm camped under one right now.

THE WEATHERMAN promises rain tomorrow.  Usually he's more CYA.  He allows for mistakes; he hedges his bets.  He'll give you a ninety-percent chance.  But not this time.  He is promising.  It is going to rain. 

HELL, it's raining now.

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Day Two-Hundred-Twenty-Seven, Fast

I was slapped awake in the wee hours when a fog rolled up on my tent.  It brought with it the stink of a paper mill.  It's a smell you may not know.  And not one I can begin to describe.  Imagine the worst kind of fart.  But on an industrial scale and beefier.  It should I guess take me back.

They made paper up the road from where I was born, on the Columbia River.  It is probably the first thing I smelled in this world.  It made me who I am today.  Neurotic, angry.  Gven to fits.  Cowardly and alone.

Of course my family gets some of the credit.  You'd have to meet that bunch.  The rest of the blame I take on myself.  It's the gentlemanly thing to do.

I did not let it spoil my appetite.  I ate two cellophane donuts.  And a bag of licorice gumdrops, made to look like teddy bears.  None of it was very good.  I wish I'd enjoyed it more.  Because as it turned out, that would be the last food I got today.

Five- or six-hundred calories.  I try not to get less than six-thousand.  Walking Across America is hungry work.  I didn't do so well yesterday either.  Starvation doesn't suit me.  It makes me cross.  It makes my legs cramp up.  My gums recede and my pants don't fit right.  I feel sorry for myself.

A mile out of camp I did pass a shop.  I ducked my head in for a bit.  But it was so dirty, the selection so poor.  I was sure I could do better up the road.  This is Florida, after all.  No one goes hungry here.

Except me, it turns out.  This is a bleak stretch of road, pleasant enough in its way.  Timber country.  Vast tracts of pines in various stages of growth.  And hundreds of log trucks hauling them north to squeeze the stink out of them.  And turn them into toothpicks and toilet tissue and other things wonderful.  Disposable chopsticks and beauty bark.  I don't think they'd be much good for lumber.  They are, by Pacific Northwest standards, kind of spindly.

Now and again I would hit a curve.  For the most part my road ran straight.  Four lanes, divided, with a narrow shoulder.  It does have a broad right of way.  But the yellowed grass is a challenge to walk on.  It is longish and grabs at my shoes.  So it was walk in the street and step aside whenever a car came by.

Remember I'm wounded.  I've got a nasty blister.  I'm working on one bad toe.  These misfortunes never come singly.  All of my parts work together.  When one bit goes my whole sorry system falls into misalignment.  Today's sore ankle is tomorrow's earache.  That's just how it goes.

A little nutrition might have done me some good.  I'd had hopes for Salem, Florida.  About fifteen miles from where I began.  There was a gas station there.  And another gas station and a small motel.  Even a general store.  Now all of it's closed, overgrown, falling in.  I got water at the post office.

From a rusty tap on the side of the building.  Their indoor water is for feds.  I did get good news.  There's a store, I was told, six miles up the road.

Hungry.  Sad.  Sore.  Tired.  I had six more miles left in me.  And I was buoyed by a certain optimism.   I have learned to lie to myself.  I walked eight.  I walked until dark.  No joy.  I may have missed it.  Or maybe I was lied to by my government.  I wish I could have more faith.

Find me now camped in another swamp.  There is a logged off patch right next door.  But it was too exposed and too lumpy.  This swamp is fairly dry.  But it clearly spends some of the year underwater.  I learned something new about gators.  When it goes dry they can hibernate.  I might be camped on one now.

I THINK CONGRESS should close all the post offices that make hoboes drink rusty water and keep all the good water for themselves.

THERE ARE beautiful sunsets in Florida.  Must be all the paper mills.

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Day Two-Hundred-Twenty-Six, Gojira

I saw my first crocodile today.  The first of many, I'm told.  I was looking down on him from a bridge.  All I could see were his eyes.  I cannot say whether he saw me.  I rather suspect that he did.  There is power in Evil.  Not as much as it thinks, but more than in you or me.

There are good people in Florida.  Most try to put me at my ease.  And fail, God bless them.  I have a good mind.  I overanalyse things.

"If you don't bother them, they won't bother you."  Who's to know what gators find irksome?  Or how very quick their tempers are, or just what might set them off.  Trundling by when they're trying to sleep.  The very dullness of my teeth.  The length of my legs, the cut of my jib.  Camping in their sacred wood.

"They're fairly inactive in the winter months."  It was seventy-eight degrees today.  I'm getting sunburnt.  I'm all asweat.  It seems plenty warm to me.  What do they care if it's January.  The calendar means nothing to them.  And even if they murder me now they won't eat me until May.  They like their meat aged.  They're funny that way.  That takes yearlong planning.

"Jesus will look after you."  Good Christians die all the time.  In awful ways.  Jews, as well, and we all know God likes them best.  But who knows, He may have plans for me.  Perhaps I'll inspire a tract.  On just what happens to Atheists.  They think they're so friggin' smart.

"You almost never read about gator attacks."  Almost never, indeed.  And yet everyone seems to know someone who met their end that way.  Or at least lost a limb or their sense of humor.  I'm sure some victims are never missed.  Serial killers like prostitutes.  Gators are partial to hoboes.

"You'll be fine if you stay away from the water."  Humour me by calling up your map.  I'm on Highway 98/27/19, just south of Perry, Florida.  Let Google show you my world from space.  Zoom in.  See those little blue dots?  Count them and multiply by 25,000.  That's how many gators there are.

There's just one of me.  I'd like to keep it that way.  No fraction less will do.  While you have your maps open, take a look at my road ahead.  I am pointed more or less at Orlando.  Lookee there, more blue dots.  And each one teaming with crocodiles, every one of them hungry. 

But I'll likely survive.  I always do.  I'll be around for a while.  If anyone else had lived my life, he would be dead by now.  By his own hand if nothing else.  I still have things I want to do.  I'll be fine.  I got past the grizzlies.  I got past the rattlesnakes too.

Of course Florida has bears and snakes as well.  It has prison work farms.  And wildcats and poisonous spiders, street gangs and dangling chads.  I'll finish with a walk across a very long bridge.  I'm glad I saved this state for last.

Positive Thinking might help a bit.  It is all I really had today.  It was hot.  I was hungry.  I've got blistered feet.  It was Montana all over again.  And I've lost another strap on my pack, a small but crucial device.  The last of two that kept it cinched up and took the weight off my shoulders.  Walking has gotten more difficult.  I'm glad I've got the strength of ten men.

I was again late getting back on the road.  I'm inclined to blame the weather.  I thought it was raining but it was just fog, condensing when it hit the trees.  I was blind for my first five miles.  It's Sunday; traffic was light.  I like fog; it's magical.  Especially in these trees.

But it did little to distract me from my wounded feet.  Every step brought real pain.  And I had fifteen miles between me and Perry and my first shot at some food.  I ate up all I had last night.  I'm lucky I wasn't eaten by bears.  I suppose the crocodiles might have got them.  None of us are safe.

Nine miles in was a highway rest stop.  I don't see many of them.  They tend to be on the interstates.  Lady volunteers give you coffee.  And donuts if the gods are smiling.  They accept cash donations.  This place had a Coke machine.  Calories are calories.

It was very well kept but kind of spooky.  There was still some fog.  And it is surrounded by a wire topped fence.  It looked something like a prison.  But I got plugged in for an hour or two, and made friends with LaDonna, who looks after the place.

She has a neat job if you can look past the fact that she has to pick up after strangers.  Few of them remain strangers for long.  LaDonna's a people person.  She has a warm greeting for everyone.  It's a good place to meet people.  Most are good, and if they are not, she will, in keeping with corporate policy, take them outside the fence line before kicking their ass.

She took me to see her pet, Ellie May, a gator who lives in the back.  In a very small  drainage pond.  She was hiding today.  As were her five offspring.  It is troubling that they are so hard to see and can live in so little water.

LaDonna used to have a cat there, as well.  It seems to have disappeared.  God only knows what became of it.  One of life's mysteries, I guess.

I enjoyed talking to her.  I could have stayed there all day.  But I needed to get myself fed.  It is food that drives the machine.  The next six miles were not pleasant.  I was in nine kinds of pain.  I didn't get into down until four o'clock.  I made my way to a pharmacy.

It smelled like feet.  They make paper nearby.  I meant to buy moleskin.  And some fancy pain pills.  I forgot them both.  Tomorrow is going to suck.  I did buy some candy.  I'd eat it now but the bears would hear the cellophane.

At Perry I faced a fork in my road.  I had no clue which way to go.  In the end I followed my tummy.  It took me directly south.  Where I got stuck at a Burger King.  I'd had my heart set on Waffle House.

But one makes do.  It was getting dark.  It was a race to get out of town.  If I hadn't spent up my motel budget I would have stayed indoors.  Instead I found this place in the woods, two-hundred yards from that gator.  Coyotes are howling not far off.  I hope they scare off the bears.

Happy dreams.

"AND RACCOONS!" -- added by a helpful stranger to my list of wild animals that might kill me.  There are feral hogs, as well.

DANGLING CHAD would make a fine porn name.  I offer it for your use.

LITTLE DEBBIE-brand Fruit Pies are not as good as Hostess Fruit Pies but they are cheaper and they come in a box.  I don't know if Dolly Madison makes a fruit pie, but she does make Zingers, which, as far as I can determine, are Nature's Perfect Food.  In the future when I'm really rich, I'm not going to eat anything but Zingers.

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