Wednesday--April 11, 2002
Trail Day--1
Trail Mile--25
Location--Winds, Outer Banks, North Carolina, Sunset Motel
My good friend, Frank, better known as "Travelin' Man," dropped me
off at Cape Hatteras Lighthouse this morning at ten. From this far
eastern point at the Atlanatic Ocean, I begin Odyssey 2002, a
transcontinental thru-hike that will end, God willin' sometime later
this year at the Pacific Ocean in San Diego, California.
The day is warm, the trees budding, the beautiful azaleas, their
bright, multi-hued show in full swing.
What an historic spot to begin a cross-country trek, and what a fine
day to depart, a day to mark tribute, for today is seven months to
the day that those brave Americans died for all of us. This journey
will be my way of showing the resolve and strength of this great
country, to the unwavering principles of freedom and justice for
all.
I manage to bang out a 25 mile day, despite a constant 15 mile per
hour headwind and showers that came and went. Traffic was moderate,
the shoulder's wide. A great first day!
Thursday--April 12, 2002
Trail Day--2
Trail Mile--52
Location--Nags Head, Outer Banks, North Carolina, Tar Heel Motel,
Bob and Mable Swain, proprietors
I'm out to a cool morning. Traffic is already heavy, but the wide
shoulders continue. Late morning I go for my poncho, as numerous
rain squalls come rushing through from the ocean.
The last two days I've been seeing vehicles with front tags, an oval
plate that simply says "HI." Most every driver has been waving and
smiling to me, and I'm thinking how great the people are here. In a
gas station after some pop, a lady explains to me that the plates
are displayed by folks that live on Hatteras Island! Anyway, that
doesn't take from the fact that they're all very friendly.
I don't think I've ever seen the number roadkill that I've seen
along this road. I quit counting at 100, mostly raccoon and
opossum. Lots of waterbirds all along. Saw an osprey catch a huge
fish and haul it away today. Many Candian honkers also.
The Oregon Channel Bridge is a treacherous place, the lanes barely
wide enough for two eighteen-wheelers to pass, and it runs for some
three miles. I'm in luck though. Arriving I find that DOT has one
lane shut down, so there's only one way traffic and I've got the
closed down lane all to myself. What a blessing. I make it across
just fine.
More showers today, but the wind is not as bothersome as yesterday,
just the rain, which comes in waves off and on into early
afternoon. Then it clears, making a steaming frying pan of the
road. I'm going after another 25 miler today--actually 27. My
legs, back and feet are complaining, stifness and minor blisters,
but I'm truckin!
By five, I'm in Nags Head. Pizza and longneck Yuengling, yes
Yuengling! is the order for supper. There seems to be no off-season
here, but I find a clean and neat little mom-n-pop motel, very
reasonable, and I check in for the evening. I will sleep tonight!
Saturday--April 13, 2002
Trail Day--3
Trail Mile--81.0
Location--Jarvisburg, North Carolina, Sea Oats Motel
It's the thirteenth, sure glad it isn't Friday the 13th! Just being
the 13th has added enough confusion. I couldn't figure our why it
was taking so long to reach certain locations. Then I noticed the
seven mile error in my mileage calculations. Oh no! And no, the
mistake wasn't in my favor. So I've been running seven miles behind
all day, bummer!
I did stop to look in at the Wright Brother's Museum near Kill Devil
Hills, but I hastened on. I'll write more about that very neat
place, along with some of the interesting history that is Cape
Hatteras, in upcoming entries.
The traffic on US158 was absolutely crushing today, and the
hair-raising crossing of the three-mile Albemarle Sound Bridge, from
the barrier islands, across to the mainland, is a story in itself.
Sluffice to say, and perhaps you can imagine spending over an hour
wedged in a two-foot wide slot, hoofing it along between the bridge
railing and the grilles, wheels and boxes roaring past your elbow as
both lanes of oncoming traffic go whizzing by at sixty-plus. Yeah,
see what I mean! Well, I said two prayers: one as I set foot on the
bridge, and one at the far end. The prayer at the far-end took a
little longer!
Toward evening now, just shy of a thirty mile day, and in the rain,
the little tornados constantly slamming me from the oncoming
barrage, my prayers are answered once again. Comes into view up
ahead the Sea Oats Motel. But the sign on the door reads "No
Vacancy;" bummer number two, but I knock anyway. Hey, the lady
motions me in. After greeting me, she says, "You're in luck, just
had a cancellation." Whoohee! Fried chicken at the little
mom-n-pop just down the road, and the day really comes around.
Now, if I can just get my hips, feet and legs from constantly
complaining. I've up my daily dosage of coated aspirin to over
4,000 mg, but it's helped very little in quieting the griping. I'm
afraid to take any more than that. My ears are already ringing
plenty, not a good sign. Perhaps, if I'm a little easier on them
tomorrow, they'll quiet down for awhile.
Sunday--April 14, 2002
Trail Day--4
Trail Mile--105
Location--NC168, Sligo, North Carolina, Pitched behind Sprint
Communications sub-station
What a blessing to be away from the crushing traffic of busy US168.
This four-lane highway handles all the traffic coming and going to
The Outer Banks. It is funneled from the Richmond, Norfolk,
Portsmouth and Petersburg areas via NC168, a four-lane grinder in
its own right. I'm on it now. Today, most of the bumper-to-bumper
is headed back north, two lanes to the east, but the incessant
rumble and roar gets to tugging after awhile. My voice is hoarse
from the fumes and I'm wilting big time. The tarmac is lifting and
dancing before me, like a desert mirage, a literal frying pan.
I've never failed to assert my pleasure and joy in road walking. I
know that soon I'll again get in the right mindset for this lunacy,
but today I'm questioning my own sanity. Ahh, dear folks, it takes
a different breed of long distance hiker to come down out of the
cool, protected green tunnel of the mountains and the woods--and
take to the open roads--a different breed.
Guess I better fill you in a little on Cape Hatteras and The Outer
Banks before we get too far up this trail. The Outer Banks consist
of three major islands, Bodie, Hatteras and Ocracoke. I've hiked
two: Hatteras and Bodie. They form a thin, broken strand that
curves out into the Atlantic Ocean, projecting and rising defiantly
seaward at the Cape of Hatteras. Here is the tallest lighthouse in
the United States, standing at 208 feet. Just a few miles up the
road there's another very impressive light on Bodie Island. The
history of The Outer Banks goes back some 300 years. During this
time, over 2,000 ships have been lost along this treacherous
coastline, giving The Outer Banks the distinction of being known as
the "Graveyard of the Atlantic." Indeed, the waters here are some
of the most treacherous in the world. It was a long, hot, traffic
emerging from-to a pinpoint on the horizon, but the scenery was
breathtaking. You can go flying up that road with your air and your
stereo full blast--but you won't see The Outer Banks!
A little about the Wright Brothers and big Kill Devil Hill tomorrow.
Monday--April 15, 2002
Trail Day--5
Trai Mile--134
Location--US17/Cornland Road, Virginia, Pitched by the merge of
an expansive open field
The hike today takes me through rural Virginia countryside and along
beautiful farm and sparsely populated residential roads. Most are
narrow and gently winding, with little traffic and much welcome
shade. What a change from the past few days! By late evening I
arrive at the little mom-n-pop country store in Cornland. I'm
served up a fine supper and much kind and welcome conversation.
Last Saturday, on Bodie Island, I passed Kill Devil Hills. History
was made here on December 17, 1903. After much tinkering--but never
any doubt--the Wright Brothers, Orville and Wilbur, with Orville
positioned in prone position on their flyer--man lifted into powered
flight for the first time. "They have done it! Damned if they
ain't flew!" said a witness to the first human flight.
During the years to follow, the Wright Brothers performed above
awestruck crowds both in America and Europe. Hundreds of thousands
of New Yorkers cheered Wilbur's twenty-mile circuit from Governor's
Island up the Hudson to Grant's Tomb and back. The Wright Brothers
Museum is a really neat place. If you haven't been there--go!
Tuesday--April 16, 2002
Trail Day--6
Trail Mile--160
Location--VA10, Chuckatuck, Virginia, pitched in woods behind
7-11.
I didn't realize there was a dog kennel down the road where I
pitched last night. It started raining hard right after I got my
little Nomad tent set up. I heard the dogs for the first time right
after I rolled in. In moments came an old pickup. I could see the
headlights through the rain. Sure glad I pitched well to the side
of the two-track and not on it. I never, ever go places where there
are posted signs--not anymore--got a break in '98 That's a rule I
keep now, no matter what, and it has served me very well. There
were steel posts with a locked cable across the two-track, which I
walked around to gain entry to the little road, but there were no
posted signs. The driver stopped, gave a long look my way, probably
more out of curiosity, then crossed the canal on up by the field.
He must have fed his dogs, because they settled down right away. He
then came back across the canal, right back by me, as he left
without any hassling!
As I pass around the locked cable again this morning, I roll up one
of my "Odyssey '98" cards with my web address on it and stick in the
cable loop by the lock. Perhaps he'll check me out on the web. If
so--thanks, kind sir, for not making me move on in that downpour
last night. I don't know, but I suspect you've been out in it like
that yourself, anyway, thanks!
I'm hiking up US17 this morning, south of Norfolk, right through
Great Dismal Swamp. A canal by the road, which connects Chesapeake
Bay and Albemarle Sound was chartered by Virginia in 1787 and North
Carolina in 1790. It's been in use since 1805, and is now a link in
the Intercoastal Waterway. The Great Dismal Swamp has since been
designated a national wildlife refuge.
Today becomes another scorcher out here on the tarmac. The
occasional sanctuary of shade brings such welcome relief from the
pressing heat as I wind and weave my way north through the rural
Virginia countryside.
I guess, if you asked folks what's worse on the ol' bod, cold or
heat, the opinions would probably come in pretty much split. I know
the cold really gets to me now, in my advancing years. It isn't the
numbing pain so much; I've pretty much learned to live with the
pain. If you're a vagabond like me, a wanderlust at heart, roaming
about as we tend to do, no matter the weather, you've got to learn
to deal with the cold. So, I've pretty much made that adjustment.
Reminds me of the first line in my ditty, Land of the Free, "Here's
to all hearts of that cold, lonesome track..." So, the numbing and
the pain isn't so much the problem, it's the disabling effect it
causes that is so unnerving. It takes very little cold now to turn
my fingers into so many sticks. This is frightening, and at times,
downright scary! When you can't set up your tent, zip your zippers,
tie your laces, reach in your pockets, then you've got yourself a
real problem. To get a feel for this: instead!
of tossing out the next few toilet paper tubes, save them. When
you've got five saved up, stick one over each of your fingers and
your thumb, on your dominant hand, then try doing much of anything
that requires the least bit of dexterity, and you'll understand.
As to the heat, even the stifling, high humidity heat, that ring you
inside-out kind of heat, I can still stick with fairly well. But,
oh yes, I have been wilting out here these last few days. It's been
in the high 80s on the road. The tarmac isn't bubbling, but it sure
wants to keep my trekking poles as I dig them in.
I passed a fella's house today. He was on his riding mower,
wheeling around his side yards, in the sun some, but mostly in the
shade, his lower half hanging over the seat, upper half, over his
belt, cool drink in the cup holder. Yet, the sweat was pouring off
the poor jent, his face as red as the paint on the fire truck that
should have been on its way to cool him down. He was at least
fifteen years my junior. He definitely needed to get off his
machine and back onto his overstuffed couch in his tidy little air
conditioned bungalow.
Oh Lord, I'm out here hammering it, pack on, the sun pounding as I
continue knocking out twenty-five mile days. What a joy, what a
blessing to have the health, stamina and resolve at near age
sixty-three. It is a blessing, oh yes, it is a blessing, and I am
thankful.
Wednesday--April 17, 2002
Trail Day--7
Trail Mile--188
Location--VA10, Pitched in field behind Citgo, Surry, Virginia
I managed to break camp, get some coffee and a couple egg biscuits
and I was on the road again by seven-thirty. I manage some good
early miles, and by one I've banged out sixteen.
It's been unseasonably hot for this early, and today old Sol cuts
loose on me. As I enter the little berg of Rushmere, my pace slows
to little more than a staggering crawl. Passing a local watering
hole, I decide to give it a break for awhile. The place looks kinda
seedy, but it's cool inside, and the barmaid welcomes me with a
tall, iced down glass of water. The couple whose Harley is parked
outside are parked at the bar. The fellow overhears my answers to
the barmaid's questions and buys me a tall one. I move over to the
corner where I take my shoes and socks off to give my poor barking
doggies some air. Barefooted is okay here, I figure. Two tattooed
gals are shooting pool--barefooted. I try working some
correspondence, but mostly end up wasting time, two hours. I don't
get back out and on the road again until after four. Not real
smart, as I've still got twelve miles ahead of me today. I finally
arrive at my destination, Surry, Virginia, well after dark.
Potatoes, rolls and fried chicken closed the day out nicely.
Thursday--April 18, 2002
Trail Day--8
Trail Mile--215
Location--Intersection, VA10/VA106, east of Hopewell, Virginia,
thence to Evergreen Motel, Hopewell
I pull a real smart one coming out of Surry this morning. In less
than a mile, I miss a turn. VA10 goes right to Hopewell; I take
VA31 south, to Wakefield. I should have turned and stayed on VA10.
Perhaps I was just going too fast to pick up the signs. A guardian
angel was on my shoulder, though, in the form of Surry County Chief
Deputy, Alvin W. Clayton, Jr. In awhile, and as I continue in the
wrong direction, he passes, stops, turns, then waits for me. I'm
thinking he's pulled over to give me the usual hassle, so I have my
driver's license ready, but I find that he's just curious about
where I'm headed and what my journey's about--didn't even ask for my
I.D. After much welcome conversation, we bid each other farewell.
It's then he asks, "Where you headed for tonight?" When I tell him
I hope to make it to near Hopewell, his response is, "You'll never
get to Hopewell the direction you're going." What remarkable
intervention; thank you, Lord! Four miles later, I'm back on
course. If not for Chief Deputy Clayton, this day would have been
right down the toilet!
I still manage a twenty-seven, in the right direction, not counting
the wrong ones--another four. It's dark as I near Hopewell, but no
problem seeing, as the crushing heat of the day has generated a
doozie of a thunderstorm. The wind comes up and the show begins.
At first, there's sky-to-sky bangety-bang, then in awhile the jagged
light daggers start zapping the ground all about. The percussion is
right on top of the light show, perfectly timed and synchronized.
Then comes the rain, first in sporadic, quarter-sized splats
glancing across the road. In the approaching headlights, they
appear as random dart-like objects being hurled earthward.
I hasten to reach the VA10/106 intersection, my destination for the
day. I can see the red, yellow and green lights as they rotate over
and over, seemingly just ahead of me. The wind-driven rain is
starting to fill in the splat gaps now as I hasten on, not wanting
to stop my progress to don my poncho. Finally, as I reach the
intersection, a vehicle makes a u-turn and pulls to the shoulder
beside me. Down comes the window, and I hear a gentle voice--"Would
you like a ride? We saw you pass our place in Spring Grove today,
so we know you've walked a great distance. Please get in, get out
of the storm."
No argument! I am greeted by Tom and Diane. Tom turns around, once
more, and they deliver me directly to the motel door in Hopewell.
That's twice today, oh Lord.
What an interesting and spiritually provoking time this has been.
Two more sterling examples of God's caring, his kindness to me. And
we are to believe that chance has all to do with the play of
circumstance from time-to-time, from day-to-day. Ahh yes, we're
told it's all just coincidence...
Friday--April 19, 2002
Trail Day--9
Trail Mile--240
Lcation--VA106, pitched in the woods near Tunstall Crossing,
Virginia
A fine Domino's pizza, plus a liter of Coke capped the day just
fine, last. After that, there seemed little time to work journal
entries or correspondence. I was just too sleepy and tired.
There's a Miller's Convenience at the intersection where I stopped
yesterday. A taxi ride there, then a couple egg biscuits and a
quart of coffee, and I'm headed (finally north) by seven-thirty.
The traffic is bearable and there is some shade. The plan is to
work my way north, then west, around Richmond. As I hike along, and
in an expansive green field by the road, I watch perhaps 100-200
honkers as they romp and cavort about. They're in no rush to
continue on north today--but I hasten on.
By one, the sun is working me over again. My feet and head are
frying. The shade has gone away, there is not the least breeze.
The heat is stifling as it radiates from the tarmac. It seems as
though I'm walking on coals.
In awhile, I pass this large, tree-shaded lawn. I am drawn to it.
There I retreat to remove my shoes and socks, and to give my feet
some cool-down time. I lay back on my pack and am quickly asleep.
In what seems a short while, I am awakened by a voice, "Would you
like a glass of ice and some tea?" A black man is standing before
me with a cup loaded with ice and a twenty ounce bottle of Nestle's.
What a beautiful thing!
As I continue on north, and beside the shoulder, another man hastens
to overtake me, "Stop mister, stop!" he shouts. He's brought me
four tins of canned meat, a package of crackers and a full two-liter
bottle of ice cold water from his refrigerator! "Where you're
going, there are no stores, no places to get water or food, Take
this with you." With that grand smile, from the perspiration-beaded
brow of yet another kind black gentleman, his countenance before me
now radiating that universal display of joy that invariably
accompanies the act of giving--and with that, I accept his kindness,
thank him, and continue on my way.
Just as I pitch and roll in, the heat provoked storm comes again,
but I am dry and snug in my little Nomad tent.
I'm very thankful for the crackers and canned meat--the result of
another day of coincidental happenings.
Saturday--April 20, 2002
Trail Day--10
Trail Mile--264
Location--US301 north of Hanover, Virginia, Pamunkey Inn
The day starts out cool and remains mostly overcast, an absolute
blessing. I pass a convenience store by early afternoon and partake
of some fried chicken, green beans and mac-n-cheese.
I'm after another twenty-fiver today. Certainly, by now, you're
wandering about this lunacy--what's the rush, why such a hurry to
hammer the miles? Well, there is an explanation: You see, I had
planned on getting cranking on this transcontinental odyssey no
later then the first of March. Turned out, I didn't get going until
the eleventh of April. "So what, there's plenty of time to get to
California!" you say. Yes, it seems to make no sense, but permit me
to continue.
A number of months ago I was asked by the American Hiking Society
(AHS) to be the featured speaker as the first Southeast Regional
Trail's Conference to be held next weekend at Unicoi State Park,
just up the road from my place at the Nimblewill. I immediately
accepted. At the time, I figured that I'd be close by on my hike,
having been on the trail for nearly two months, and a short bus ride
would do. Well, that didn't happen, and I'm very far away now from
the upcoming conference. So, what to do? Not to back out, that's
not an option. I want to be there with bells on, to have an
opportunity to talk up the two great trails of my dreams, the
Eastern Continental Trail (ECT), and the Appalachian Mountains Trail
(AMT).
So what I've done, is--I've reserved a round-trip flight from Reagan
Airport in DC to Atlanta, where I'll have a ride to north Georgia.
What's neat about this whole idea is that the Mt. Vernon bike trail
passes right by the airport, and I'll be hiking into DC on the Mt.
Vernon Trail--so, why not just cruise right into Reagan, catch my
flight to Atlanta, then return to Reagan and continue my hike right
out the terminal to the C&O Canal Towpath, where I'm now headed!
This scheme looked great until I started crunching the numbers.
Let's see, 360 miles to hike from Cape Hatteras to DC, and fourteen
days to hike it. I ran the numbers a dozen times; every time the
answer came out the same, and I didn't like it. Twenty-five mile
days for fourteen continuous days, that's what the numbers said it
would take to cover the distance.
Well, better judgment certainly should have prevailed, but oh no,
not with the old Nomad! So now you know, I'm into day eleven
tomorrow, an average of over twenty-six miles per day so far--looks
like I just might pull this off!
By evening, I've banged out another twenty-five. I stop for a fine
dinner at a little mom-n-pop in Hanover, then head for the motel
north of town. Along the way I stop at Lee Dison's little store.
Here I also meet Tom Gray, manager of Pamunkey Inn where I'll be
staying, so I drop my pack and pull up for a cold one. Lee is 85
now and has kept the beer cold in this place for 62 years. What an
interesting, crotchety old fellow, Lee Dison. It's amusing when you
meet folks like Lee. There's a glow in the countenance of certain
people you meet. I've commented about this before, how such
innocent radiance is present in the children around us, then it
disappears, generally not to be seen again until it shines forth
again in the faces of the elderly. That joy and vitality cannot be
concealed, cannot be hidden, and as much as this kind old man would
certainly deny it, that unmistakable glow of a man at peace,
radiates from the countenance of Lee Dison. It's painted on his
face, as if a neon sigh flashing from the pitch of night. It was a
good time.
A great hiking day. My hip's settled down, but my feet are still
giving me fits.
Sunday--April 21, 2002
Trail Day--11
Trail Mile--289
Location--VA2, Pitched in woods just south of Corbin, Virginia,
across from Fort AP Hill Military Reservation
Another, cool, drizzly day. Oh, is this so much better than the
pulverizing heat of the days past. I'm out at a decent hour this
morning, a little stiff, my poor feet complaining, their gripe being
legitimate. In awhile, as the coated aspirin and Osteo-Bi-Flex
start kicking in, I work the kinks out and am again moving along
smartly at a little over three per.
Into the hypnotics now of the rhythmic tap, tap, tap--my trekking
poles striking their cadence, thoughts turn back as I recall again
the interesting old fellow, Lee Dison. Lee epitomizes the type of
person I strive to be, at least as viewed through the eyes of others
I meet. During "Odyssey '98" it became my goal, the will of mind,
and to the grace of God, that the constant expressions of
contentment and peace radiate from my countenance, never to be
withheld. Lee, it's a joy to meet kindred. This odyssey, "Odyssey
2002" is just getting rollin', and I know it's going to be a great
adventure. I will meet many others like you, Lee, and it will be a
blessing.
US301, the federal highway I'm hiking today, passes directly through
the Fort AP Hill Military Reservation. My older son, Jay, was sent
here years ago after completing US Army basic training. The kid had
great potential, so they sent him to Fort AP Hill for advanced field
combat training. I recall a particular mission, the outcome of
which he related to me one day, and I would like to share it with
you now.
Thrown in with others of like mind and talent, Jay was sent off on a
mission through the woods. He had been put in command of a small
unit, similar to many units that went out that day. His objective:
to orienteer his way, using only compass and map, from point "A" to
point "B," passing certain checkpoints in the process, attempting
all the while to avoid detection and ambush by the "enemy."
Jay is one of those woods-savvy sort of people, the kind possessing
an innate, inborn ability that cannot be otherwise taught--but that
can certainly be honed. These folks are born with what's become
know as a "sixth sense." This sense, it is believed, enhances and
focuses all other senses, giving an individual the ability to hear
sounds that are not audible, see objects that are not visible, and
to sniff out and feel presentations or situations, where
subconsciously, something says, "this is out of place, something
here isn't quite right."
Well, Jay's team was the only unit to complete its mission that
day. In the process, he managed to maneuver his men--not only
around the ambush, but stealthing the enemy's flank--to gain
advantage, then catch them off guard and capture them! Needless to
say, the mission officer was ecstatic, the ambush officer, so it
seemed, was not so happy or amused.
So, these fond, proud memories, that a father keeps for a son, are
here with me today, as I pass the woods by Fort AP Hill.
Toward evening, the rain steady, the day becoming cold--and with
another 25 behind me--I pull off to pitch in the piney woods, across
the highway from Fort AP Hill.
Monday--April 22, 2002
Trail Day--12
Trail Mile--316
Location--US1, Garrisonville, VA, Super 8 Motel
The rain died down sometime during the night, but this morning the
air remains cold and heavy with gray, mist-laden gloom all about.
Although I'm on the road well before eight, the relentless traffic's
beaten me here. This is going to be a grind-it-out day for sure,
the only break coming when I pass through Fredericksburg.
I'm haulin', and past Fredericksburg now, and in the presence of an
old, steady friend, US1, I'm following historic paths over which
this four-lane highway's been built.
I guess we've all seen places that proudly proclaim, "George
Washington slept here." They're all along this route. Here's one
called "Peyton's Ordinary." The old sign reads, "George Washington,
going to Fredericksburg to visit his mother, dined here, March 6,
1769. On his way to attend a House of Burgesses, he spent the night
here, October 31, 1769, and stayed here again on September 14,
1772." US1 is also the route generally followed by the armies of
Washington and Rochambeau. The signs are all along.
My legs are coming under me much better now as each day passes, and
my feet, though still quite painful, are steadily improving. I gave
up long ago trying to figure why and how change gets discarded along
the roadway. As always, it is here, not in great quantities, but
ever-present, nonetheless. I stooped for the quarters right away,
but 'til the past two days I'd been passing on the dimes, nickels
and pennies. Today I've got the confidence that I'll recover from
bending for the dimes and nickels--and within the next day or two,
I'll tackle the pennies. Yes, I'm getting stronger and more
confident each passing day. My legs are coming back. I think I'll
do this trek just fine!
Late evening, and in Garrisonville, I stop at Buffalo Moes, one of
the local watering holes. What a great time with Bob, Mark, Rick,
Moe, Brenda, Michele and Kevin. Everybody's elated for the old
Nomad--'cause the old Nomad's a happy camper!
Tuesday--April 23, 2002
Trail Day--13
Trail Mile--341
Location--Intersection, US1/Mt. Vernon Memorial Parkway, Woodlawn
Plantation, Virginia, thence to home of Larry and Mary Amos, Oakton,
Virginia
This is going to be a great day, one I've been looking forward to
with childlike anticipation. For today, as I complete this US1
segment of "Odyssey 2002," I'll be greeted, then taken in by my old
childhood chum, Larry Amos. He and his wife, Mary, will be coming
for me at the end of the day.
Larry's retired now, after a distinguished government career in
field and office-based cartography. I suppose we've kept in touch
about as well as any of us have kept up with childhood friends over
the years, this friendship stretching back over fifty. It was a joy
and a pleasure being Larry's pal. He was well liked by both
teachers and students, being a happy, enthusiastic, very kind and
thoughtful kid. Larry succeeded in all the things that going to
school involves--honor roll, class president, homecoming/prom king,
sport's letters, all the neat school-days stuff.
Larry was a sharp kid--you know, the kind that can add up a column
of numbers in their head. How do folks do that? Show-offs! I've
got a pocket calculator and I can't get the same answer twice.
We palled together throughout grade and high school. Larry was one
of those who could--and usually would--try anything, with total
confidence. After he got his driver's license, he took to
roundy-roundy stock car racing. He bought an old 41 Ford coupe for
fifty bucks. I've still got an old faded black and white picture of
him with his race helmet cocked, straps dangling, casually leaning
against his chariot--one of the neatest devil-may-care smiles on his
face I've ever seen. Reminds me of the old pictures, those of the
early-on fellows who raced their coupes on Daytona Beach. They all
flashed that "I know something you don't know" sort of smile.
I helped him rip the fenders off and fabricate all the makeshift
stuff required before rolling 'er out on the track. Those were
memorable times, great fun, especially the races. Larry would hang
with the pack, wheel-to-wheel, right off the checkered, engines
screaming, cabs banging, metal grinding, dirt flying. Sometimes
he'd lead--for the first few laps. I remember thinking, "Dang, he's
gonna win this heat!" Then it would happen, it was always the same.
I used to help him work on the engine, under the old shade tree in
his side yard in the little berg of Russellville, Missouri. I would
plead with him repeatedly, "Larry, you need to get this radiator
cleaned and rodded out, it ain't workin'. These old flatheads never
do cool real well, and this radiator is jammed clear shut." He'd
say, "Aww, it'll work okay, just take your pocket knife and
straighten the fins back out (from where the fan flattened them
after he slamming some guy). If she starts overheating, I'll back
off a bit." "Yeah, sure Larry," I'd reply.
But it was always the same--third or forth lap, from the back
straight high bank would erupt this enormous cloud of steam. It was
Larry. He'd either sent another radiator cap into orbit or exploded
another water hose. Dang it, Larry, you could have won if you'd
just fixed the doggone radiator!
Oh my, those were the days. Larry and Mary now live in Oakton,
Virginia, just outside the beltway, about a half hour's drive from
where I'll end up today. They'd kindly invited me to spend some
time with them, which I right away accepted. And, oh yeah, Mary's
promised to make me gallons of sweet tea--and there's ice cream in
the freezer. Think they've read my book!
It's great when a plan comes together. As I reach the intersection
of US1/Mt. Vernon Parkway, I hear this honking and shouting, and
from the third line of cars over, waving frantically, are Larry and
Mary!
Wednesday--April 24, 2002
Trail Day--14
Trail Mile--363
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Key Bridge, Georgetown/Washington,
DC, thence to home of Larry and Mary Amos, Oakton, Virginia
What a great evening last with the Amos family: Larry, Mary, their
daughter Stephanie, and sons, Mitchell and Bryan. Despite my
pleading, Mitch gave up his room for me and moved to the couch in
the family room. The locals have a favorite watering hole in
Vienna, the Vienna Inn. We stopped by and had a few cold ones with
all of Larry's buddies. What a grand time.
The traffic around DC isn't nearly as bad as I would have expected
this morning, and we make good time getting back to Mt. Vernon
Memorial Parkway. Larry drops me off a little after eight. We've
made plans for him to come downtown DC by the Key Bridge/C&O Canal
Towpath to fetch me again this evening.
So, I'm off to Mt. Vernon on a cool, clear morning, my feet
complaining yet again. I down a couple more coated aspirin, then
proceed to pound the old doggies into submission. It's been years
since I've visited Mt. Vernon, home of our first president, George
Washington. I remember it being a most majestic old place, situated
on a gentle knoll overlooking the grand Potomac. I find the old
mansion (farmhouse) and the grounds still kept in impeccable
condition, not an easy job, the old house being framed and sided in
wood. But it's just as fresh, clean and beautiful as I remember
from years ago.
There is much activity this morning, as families with children and
groups of school kids scurry about. As I observe the youngsters and
others here today, I can see deep feelings of patriotism; displayed
is the apparent sense of value in our common heritage. Places like
Mt. Vernon are hallowed ground to all who love this glorious
country, America. Here at Mt. Vernon lived a man who nurtured and
shared a dream, a dream of freedom and justice for all. What a
dream, what a timeless heritage. We Americans today are the
benefactors of that dream, it's part of each of us, it's in our
fiber, our very being--the dream is ours now. We must all cherish
it, be ever vigilant to protect it. Our forefathers fought and died
for that dream, a dream that has turned to be the greatest
experiment in all of man's history...democracy. I take a few
pictures, then turn to the Mt. Vernon Trail and the eighteen mile
walk to downtown DC.
The hike today along the banks of the Potomac is pure fun. There
are many folks out enjoying the path, walking, jogging and biking.
By early afternoon I've hiked it in to Alexandria, where I stop for
lunch at the old downtown market place. Continuing, I am greeted by
many. The planes are coming and going from Reagan Airport. I can
see the Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the Jefferson and
Lincoln Memorials. There is ever-increasing activity as I near
Memorial Bridge, the parkway right beside, and there are many rowing
teams out on the Potomac today. These are grand sights which bring
a delightful feeling of pride to my heart. I am so blessed to be a
citizen of these United States of America. Oh, is this path a fine
way to enter this beautiful city!
Plans are for Larry to come to Key Bridge at five-thirty. What
great timing. I arrive with a few moments to spare, so I follow the
pathway down to the C&O Canal Towpath where I'll pass next week.
Returning to the bridge, I wait by the railing. Larry pulls right
up for me. We make our way down Pennsylvania Avenue in good time,
then head out for the beltway and his beautiful home near Oakton.
What an event-filled day, what an emotional time. I'm an American.
There just can't be any better place in the whole world to live than
America, and there can't be any better time to be alive than now!
Thanks Larry, Mary, Stephanie, Mitch and Bryan for your friendship,
for your kindness, and for all you've done for me.
Thursday--May 2, 2002
Trail Day--15
Trail Mile--380
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Maryland, Swain's Lock Campsite
What a near-whirlwind week has just passed. Larry, my friend from
Oakton, dropped me off at Reagan National Airport last Friday
afternoon for my flight to Atlanta. I managed to get through check
in and security just fine, then everything came to a screeching
halt. We weren't boarding. The line backed out the little
tunnel-runway to the plane. There we waited for half an hour. A
bunch of teens had boarded first. Come to find out, they no sooner
got on board than one of them threw up all over the seats and the
aisle. No wonder the line stopped! By the time that mess was
cleaned up, and we got loaded and out to the runway, we'd missed our
takeoff slot, so we waited again. All that put us over an hour
behind. Add another half hour strapped in after takeoff (apparently
a federal regulation now), and you can imagine the mad scramble for
the toilets once the seatbelt sign went off!
The conference at Unicoi was a huge success. I had the pleasure of
speaking at the luncheon on Saturday--about my favorite subjects,
the ECT and the AMT. My dear friend, Jan Benschop, performed with
me. We were well received.
I spent a couple of days at home trying to tie the rest of the loose
ends together, to get free for the rest of the year. Got to see my
friends; Frank, at Nimblewill, Greg, my webmaster, and Larry, my
sponsor handling film and photos--then only to bid them all good-bye
for the next long while.
Tuesday, the rental car returned, I made it back on the plane for an
uneventful flight back to Reagan National in DC. Larry Amos was
right there to fetch me, and soon, we were once more at his lovely
home in Oakton.
On Wednesday, Larry, Mary and I visited Arlington National
Cemetery. It's been years since I'd been to Arlington, and it was
good to return again. Changing of the guard at the Tomb of the
Unknown Soldier is an incredibly formal and solemn affair. In the
afternoon, we looked and looked for the grave of Audy Leon Murphy,
my longtime hero, but we had no luck. An unfinished task for
another time.
Thursday now, after more sad good-byes to the Amos family, Larry
drives me to downtown DC (Georgetown) and mile marker zero, the C&O
Canal Towpath.
At Key Bridge, I meet my friends, Scotty Vandam and Ron Fry, from
Wisconsin. Scotty will be hiking with me for awhile. After a great
day on the towpath, we camped at Swain's Lock. Just at dusk, Ed
Talone arrived from Silver Spring to spend the night. He'll hike on
to Harpers Ferry with us.
The towpath is going to be a memorable hike. Great Falls, what a
remarkable sight to see this first day. Many, many pairs of
Canadian geese with their little goslings swimming and trailing
along. This is going to be a special time--with these friends.
Friday--May 3, 2002
Trail Day--16
Trail Mile--406
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Maryland, Indian Flats Campsite
Stepping onto the C&O Canal Towpath is a step back in time. Few
routes to the western frontier existed in the early 1800s. The C&O
was one of them. But on the same day, July 4, 1828, the day the
first spade of dirt was turned by President John Quincy Adams--in
Baltimore, the first spade of dirt was also turned to begin
construction on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. In 1924, the
railroad having won out, a flood finally closed the C&O for good.
Today, as a result of the efforts of Justice William O. Douglas, the
C&O Canal Towpath is a national historic park, and for 184 miles it
is possible to hike along its way on the Cheasapeake and Ohio Canal
Historic Trail. Ahh, and today is a perfect day for a hike along
that path.
By eight, we're up and out to a cool, clear day. A few energetic
folks are out jogging and biking, but otherwise we've got the trail
to ourselves. By noon, we're at Poole's Store, to load up on hot
dogs and ice cream, the good, local stuff.
Our destination for the day is Indian Flats Campsite. We're in well
before dark. What a fine hiking day.
Saturday--May 4, 2002
Trail Day--17
Trail Mile--C&O Canal Towpath, Maryland, confluence of Shenandoah
and Potomac Rivers, thence to Hilltop House, Harpers Ferry, West
Virginia
All night the trains ran nearby, but after the first two, they
blended right in, detracting little from my dreaming. It's good to
be hiking and with friends again. By seven, we're up and going.
Hopes are to make it to Harpers Ferry today. By early afternoon,
the hike in the bag, we take a detour into Brunswick, Maryland for
lunch at the local mom-n-pop.
We're in the mountains now. What an incredible black powder
blasting job must it have been to get the canal around Point of
Rocks. At the point, the railroad also squeezes through,
too--almost. Part of it has to go through a tunnel.
By evening, we arrive at the white blazes marking the Appalachian
National Scenic Trail. Here the trail follows the towpath for a
couple of miles. Soon we're in Harpers Ferry and the Hilltop Hotel
where I'll rest for a day or two.
In the evening I'm invited to Cootie Queen's birthday party. In
real life, she's the outfitter here in Harpers Ferry. Her husband,
Ron, drives us to her sister's place where we spend the evening
celebrating with all her family.
Sunday--May 5, 2002
Trail Day--18
Trail Mile--427
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Maryland, Hilltop House, Harpers
Ferry, West Virginia
Harpers Ferry is a busy place, always, so I was fortunate last
evening to get a room at my favorite old hotel, Hilltop House. When
Ed and I arrived at Harpers Ferry, we hit a beeline for the
outfitters right up the street, to be enthusiastically greeted by
Laura, the Cootie Queen. She called Hilltop for me and was able to
work a room, what luck!
So, today is a day of rest as I get caught up on correspondence and
journal entries.
Around three I took time to downloaded my email. There was a short
message from John Shaffer. His brother, Earl Shaffer, died today.
We have all been prepared for this for some time, but it's always
tough. An era in the history of long distance hiking came to a
close today.
Monday--May 6, 2002
Trail Day--19
Trail Mile--448
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Maryland, trailside, Taylors Landing
A friend came for Ed last evening. Ed works for the American Hiking
Society in Silver Spring and he had to be back today. Two great
days on the C&O with you, Ed! Thanks for coming out and hiking with
me for awhile.
Folks here at Hilltop House are pretty laid back. Scotty and Vango
parked their little Toyota motor home in the side parking lot
overlooking the beautiful Potomac River the whole time they were
here, and never got hassled in the least. And, as usual, I had a
comfortable stay--for two nights. Thanks, Hilltop House, it's
always great to come back again!
My bounce box is waiting for me here at Harpers Ferry, so I head for
the post office first thing. On the way, I stop by Appalachian
Trail Conference headquarters in hopes of seeing my dear friend,
Laurie Potteiger, but alas, she's out for the day. My bounce box
off to bounce along to Cumberland, Maryland, then a quick stop by
the ATM, and a little after eight, Scotty and I are back across the
Potomac and headed west once more on the C&O Canal.
The Potomac is still a wide rolling river, but here above its
confluence with the Shenandoah, it takes on an entirely different
character. High bluffs have forced the canal right to the river's
edge, and from this vantage many views open, both up and down this
winding river. Huge sycamores line the towpath along the bank and
within the canal ditch offering seclusion and shade. Many birders
are out, looking and listening intently; for all along this morning
are we passing through an absolute aviary. On the river proper
reside the ubiquitous Canadian geese. They seem to be everywhere,
and their constant bickering and squawking is becoming annoying.
It is interesting how the canal passes right over the smaller
streams that come to the Potomac. For the larger ones, like
Antietam Creek, aqueducts had to be built. Their remains, like here
at Antietam, are quite remarkable, for they have all survived
incredible floods, the power of which have bent them and reshaped
them. Waters no longer flow through the Antietam Aqueduct.
Scotty's friend, Ron Frey, answers to the trail name "Vango."
Indeed, he has a van (actually a little motor home), and he does,
well, go! He's helped Scotty along on many of his previous hikes,
and he's out with him again. A county road parallels the towpath
today, and Vango keeps popping along ahead, then to stop to see if
we need anything.
By late afternoon we've trekked out twenty-one to we pull up and
call it a day by Taylors Landing.
Tuesday--May 7, 2002
Trail Day--20
Trail Mile--467
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Williamsport, Maryland, thence to
Red Roof Inn, Williamsport
The sound of geese squawking and the cluck of a nearby turkey wake
me at seven. It's going to be another beautiful day, clear and
cool, and Scotty and I are out and moving by eight. Vango moves out
ahead, to stop occasionally to check on us.
Above Dam #4 the river has washed out part of the towpath. Here, we
must leave the river and take to the roads above. Along the detour
now, and passing many fine farms, a man comes from his home to greet
us. When he finds that we are hiking the towpath, he tells us
about a shortcut, along his driveway, behind his house and past his
field, all the way to where the detour returns to the river! What
neat trail magic. It saves us the better part of two miles,
avoiding the long-way road walk up and around.
The forecast is for thunderstorms this afternoon, and right on cue,
the sky darks over and the rains come. By a little after two, we've
reached Williamsport, Maryland. Here, we call it a day and head for
Tony's Pizza Time Cafe for their biggest and best. Vango then drives
me to the Red Roof Inn for the evening.
We passed the midpoint of the towpath today; should be in
Cumberland, the end of the towpath, by Saturday.
Wednesday--May 8, 2001
Trail Day--21
Trail Mile--492
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Hancock, Maryland, thence to pitch
on the porch of the old lockmaster's dwelling.
Clothes all clean, great night's sleep--I'm ready to go this
morning. Ron and Scotty come for me at the motel and we're off to
the towpath.
Here in Williamsport is the National Park Service office, along
with the store and museum for the C&O Canal Towpath. They're open
this morning, so in we go. Neat old building, built in the 1700s,
flooded out numerous time, but still on its original foundation and
standing straight and proud. Also standing straight and proud is the
old gent running the store and museum. Charles Holden is his name,
age 72, he's been holding the place down for the past seven years.
He remembers Sue Lockwood and Ed Talone stopping by on their
transcontinental thru-hike!
Early afternoon, Scotty pulls up with blister problems. Decision is
for me to trek on while Vango and Scotty visit Fort Frederick State
Park, then for Scotty to bike out later to meet me toward evening.
The plan works and we get together just before I arrive at the
village of Hancock, our destination for the day. A great prime rib
dinner at the local mom-n-pop, compliments of Vango, and this day
racks up as a fine one.
I pitch for the evening on the tin-roofed porch of the old
lockmaster's house--in the pouring rain. But under its protection
I'm confy and dry for the night.
Thursday--May 9, 2001
Trail Day--22
Trail Mile--510
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, trailside, Little Orleans, Maryland
A cool, iffy morning, but the rain holds off. Scotty and I get going
in good order to hike out together around eight. We're in the
mountains now and the Potomac is having a time of it, trying to
figure out a way through. Winding and curving back it goes, and so
goes the towpath, first west, then south, then east, then south some
more before turning back west. Vango meets us at Cohill Station for
lunch, then we're off again. By early afternoon we jump up to hike
the the rail-trail for awhile. Where it plays out at the Indigo
Tunnel; we stop. Then Scotty digs out his flashlights and we
venture in. The old tunnel has been abandoned for years, yet I can
see a faint light, indicating the tunnel is open to the far exit.
As we continue on, it takes only moments to realize that we're in a
spooky place, very dark, dank and forbidding. But on we stumble,
through the rocks and puddles. It seems to take forever to reach
the halfway point--the spot where both entrances appear as little
more than faint dots at the end of the gloom. Nearing the other
end, starts this loud, continuous noise. Then we both realize that
it's pouring down outside. We dally, digging for our raingear
before finally leaving the tunnel.
Following the overgrown railroad grade, we're soon in the village
of Little Orleans. Right beside the old canal and rail grade is
Bill's Store, Bar, Grill, Canoes for Rent--etc. In we go for a few
cold ones. Vango has driven to the parking lot at Bill's so we're
all together again. Bill explains that the old abandoned tunnel
runs for 5/8 mile, and that we're lucky we didn't bet caught in
there.
Supper at Bill's in Little Orleans, oh yes, another fine day.
Pitched by the trail.
Friday--May 9, 2002
Trail Day--23
Trail Mile--536
Location--C&O Canal Towpath, Oldtown, Maryland, pitched trailside
on the old Cresap homestead
I whiled the evening last with Bill at the bar in Little Orleans.
The locals, mostly fishermen and hunters, had all gone their
separate ways, each happier and much wiser, having heard tales
(surely again) about "the one that got away,"--of the better days
long past.
The original store, which was over 150 years old, was moved from the
river to make way for the Western Maryland Railroad. Those were the
boom days for Little Orleans, when both the canal and the railroad
were cranking. Ledgers dating back to the early 1900s showed
payroll entries, "salary, $2.50 a week, colored help, $2.00." The
old store stocked most everything, "milk, 10 cents, six yards of
calico, 42 cents, five pounds of nails, 15 cents."
Sadly, the old store burned to the ground in July, 2000. But Bill's
rebuilt it to another grand place now, and he reopened it in April
last year. Bill talked about, and showed me with much pride, the
old weather-beaten sign over his new door. In classic block letters
etched deep in the wood, it read, simply, "Little Orleans." "That's
off the old train station. The building's been gone for years,"
said Bill. "There were two of them signs. One on either end of the
station. I got hold of one, my boy got the other," beamed old Bill.
Well, the railroad's long gone now, just like the canal, all grown
up in trees, and Little Orleans has settled to be a pretty quite
place.
I just had to take a couple of pictures--with his approval, of
course--of the countless fixtures that Bill's hung on the walls and
from the ceiling. Like the "Redneck wind chimes," an old Stilson
wrench from which hung (and would ring if you bump them) old steel
bean and beer cans. And the sign above the kitchen. Oh, this is a
good one! "This ain't Burger King. You get the Son-of-a-bitch the
way I fix it, or you don't get it at all!" Had one of Bill's SOB's
last night.
Neat old town, neat old (new) store, neat old Bill!
Scotty and I head back out on the abandoned rail bed, up and over a
ridge that has created a long, winding oxbow in the river--and in
the canal. At mile 143 we drop back down to the towpath, only to
leave it again at mile 147, for the old choked and grown-up rail
bed. Bill had told me about another tunnel back in the rocks,
through another long, high, ridge that punches another horseshoe
bend in the river. Up and over the chain link fence Scotty and I
go, past streams of water cascading down the tunnel entrance, to
enter another dark and dank hole in the mountain, the gloom hanging
heavy with the stench of creosote from the ceiling supports. Out
comes the headlamp again as we stumble and grope our way through.
This old train tunnel (Devil's Alley), is just as eerie and
forbidding as was Indigo. Another chain link fence blocks the far
entrance, but this one we wiggle under. Following the overgrown
rail bed again, we're soon back to the canal. Here, the towpath
remains elusive, close, but oh so far away! The old rail bed is
thirty feet above the towpath, to cross it on a high, rusty old
trestle that continues on across the Potomac. The canal, which is
filled with water, separates us from the towpath. We can work our
way across the helter-skelter, gaping crossties and onto the trestle
above the towpath, where an old steel ladder is hanging and dangling
from the trestle (and which probably hasn't been used since the
middle of last century), but this sure doesn't look like the way to
go!
So, down we retreat, on an old woods road leading to the canal--in
the wrong direction. But alas, it does not cross to the towpath,
and after following it for a quarter mile, we return to begin
bushwhacking--along the far side of the canal--in hopes of finding a
blow down or some other way across.
Saturday--May 19, 2002
Trail Day--24
Trail Mile--554
Location--C&O Canal Towpath terminus, Cumberland, Maryland,
thence to La Vale, Maryland, Continental Motor Inn
Last evening, I was able to find a delightful, manicured spot
overlooking a lush meadow on the old Cresap homestead near the
Potomac River. There I pitched. Before dark, Scotty, Vango and I
spent some time at the private toll bridge that crosses to Green
Spring, West Virginia. Here is the last remaining privately run
toll bridge in the United States. The small toll booth is made of
brick and has a sliding window through which the toll master thrusts
an old pork-and-beans can that's nailed to a broom handle. A toll
of fifty cents is collected. One lady, who said she was going to
church in Green Spring, put a dollar in for the round trip.
The forecast had called for cloudy and cool today, with a chance of
thundershowers, but the day begins clear with just the least bite in
the air. By mid-morning, both Scotty and I must change into short
sleeves. Vango has vangone ahead into Cumberland to pick up my
bounce box. This being Saturday, the post office closes at noon,
and there's no way we'll get in before three. Thanks, Vango!
Afternoon now, Scotty and I slow our pace, savoring the last couple
of miles into Cumberland. The time and the miles, it seems, have
passed so quickly. Scott and Ron will be departing this evening for
Damascus, Virginia, and Trail Days; hopefully, we'll get to spend
some trail time together again.
The final bit of canal into Cumberland isn't anything like I'd
envisioned. What is here, however, certainly proves ironic. For you
see, from the very first day the first spade of dirt was turned on
the canal, did the number of days before the canal's total
obsolescence begin clicking off. On that same day in 1828, the
first spike was also driven for the railroad to Cumberland. Here,
just outside of Cumberland, the canal has since been refilled with
dirt, the railroad tracks now following right beside the old
towpath, over the exact place where the canal boats once began their
long, slow journey to tidewater. Down through the years, the
railroad systematically bought up stock in the C&O Canal, and in
1924, after a devastating flood, the old outdated and no longer
needed canal was finally shut down (by the railroad) for good. Thus
ended a very special era, a distinctly unique period in time along
this grand old Potomac. Ahh, it is so ironic, for as I pass now, do
the rails seem to be whispering oh so softly, to the old mule
tenders walking below--"We buried you!"
By three, we're at the canal museum/train station in Cumberland.
It's celebration and picture-taking time. Soon, we're off to Pizza
Hut, then to La Vale, where Scotty and Vango drop me off for the
weekend. Thanks, Scotty and Vango, for coming out and doing the C&O
Canal Towpath with me. It's been great fun!
Monday, I head into the Allegeny Mountains, for Frostberg, Maryland,
along the old Western Maryland Scenic Railroad. Come along, if you
will. On this sixteen mile jaunt, we'll cross bridges, look around
horseshoe bends--and go through another tunnel. It'll be a hoot!
Sunday--May 20, 2002
Trail Day--25
Trail Mile--554
Location--Cumberland/La Vale, Maryland, Continental Motor Inn
I've sure been picking 'em right for a change--the days. What a
dark, cold and rainy one this, perfect for laying back, cooling my
heels, and just relaxing in my warm, dry motel room. Ahh, and
that's just the order for the day.
As I lounge here today, trying to work a halfway decent itinerary
for the next couple of weeks, do Yogi Berra's prophetic words come
to mind. I recall him saying something to the effect that, "If you
don't know where you're going, ya better be careful, 'cause you
might not get there." I certainly must consider, and no doubt, it's
going to be very hard to figure when I'm going to get someplace if I
don't know where I'll be!
I very much like the spontaneous aspects of (and my not-to-worry
attitude about) this hike.
Monday--May 13, 2002
Trail Day--26
Location--Western Maryland Scenic Railroad terminus, Frostberg,
Maryland, thence to Continental Motor Inn, La Vale, Maryland
I have made a friend in Dana Patel. She is the Innkeeper here at
the Continental. She checked on me yesterday, offered me food this
morning, then called a friend to drive me to the post office in
Cumberland. In moments, Wayne Conklin comes to fetch me. Wayne is
the owner of Music Express, Disc Jockey and Karaoke Services. Last
weekend Music Express had ten gigs going at the same time! He's
busy now helping Dana get the lounge here at the inn up and running
again--and he takes time this morning to drive me back to
Cumberland. Thanks, Wayne!
The weather all along the east coast has been unsettled the past two
days, and things don't look too good this morning. At the post
office, I set my bounce box bouncing on to Shinnston, West Virginia,
then it's over to Holiday Inn for breakfast before returning the
short distance to the train station. Here is the end of the C&O
Canal Towpath and the beginning of the Western Maryland Scenic
Railroad. I leave the train station and head up the tracks at
ten-thirty.
In a quarter-mile there's an overpass. Here I pull up to get out of
it and don my raingear, as this day has not only started out in a
nasty mood, but it seems determined to stay, the rain coming steady.
Hate to say it, but this rain is not only dampening me, but it's
managing to dampen my attitude about what's been labeled as
"scenic." The old iron truss bridge turns out to be a
run-of-the-mill thing over a highway, the tunnel is pretty much
ho-hum, and the horseshoe bend is a cut in the rocks around the side
of a hill. Quad-tracs have ripped up and down, all along the
tracks. They've beat the golf ball size rocks down some, which
helps me get along, but stumbling through them is no fun.
By four, I'm in Frostberg, not unhappy this hiking day is over, as
the rain has kept me steady company the whole day long.
Past the depot, steps lead up the hill to Main Street. Here, right
across from Domino's Pizza, is Adventure Guides and Travel. I need
directions out of here tomorrow, so in I go. I meet Keith Fulton,
and we have a great chat. Got another sponsor for Odyssey 2002!
Keith lets me use his phone to call Dana. Dana gets hold of Wayne
again, and just as my pizza is good to go, comes Wayne to fetch me
back to La Vale and the Continental.
In the evening, a fierce storm plows through, knocking down a tree
behind the inn. Glad I'm not out there in a tent tonight.
Tuesday--May 14, 2002
Trail Day--27
Trail Mile--588
Location--Old Western Maryland Rail Trail, Meyersdale,
Pennsylvania, Vitale's Hotel, Joe Conn, proprietor
For starters, the weatherman is dead on. The forecast is for cold
squalls all day. They're here.
The old National Highway passes the inn on its way to Frostburg and
points west. In the 1700s it was one of the major gateways to the
frontier. It's long since been paved over by US40. As I stand with
my thumb out, trying to hitch a ride back to Frostburg, the wind
comes, bringing rain--then snow! After an hour and not the least
luck, and as my core temperature starts dropping, I shoulder my
pack, grab my sticks and start walking toward Frostburg. After a
couple of miles of getting whipped around by the wind and snow-laced
rain, three construction workers finally stop, pick me up, and haul
me on into Frostburg.
It's now ten. This day is shaping to be a short one--for hiking,
that is. My hands are nearly frozen as I enter Tombstone Cafe. Ed
Spak, the owner, greets me as I look around for the coffee. In a
few minutes, Terry, a local and Tombstone regular, stops in.
Friendly chaps, he and Ed. We strike up a conversation. My short,
canned, description of "Odyssey 2002" really grabs their attention.
"Have some more coffee," exclaims Ed, as he motions to the cook to
whip me up some breakfast--on the house!
Terry could easily be the official historian for western Maryland.
He takes on that task this morning as he talks about the grand
heyday for Frostburg and the surrounding region, the era of coal
mining, coke furnaces and steel mills. Those times are past now,
leaving western Maryland living pretty much in the past, the
abandoned rail grades all around being testimony. I'll be hiking
one of them today, the Old Western Maryland Railroad line which runs
for miles, all the way to that once-great steel town, Pittsburgh.
It's eleven now as I depart for the trail. Down the steps from
Tombstone Cafe, I stop to get a snap of the authentic tombstones
gracing the sidewalk. Ed had explained as to how he happened on
them in a pile of old cast-away tombstones at the edge of town. Ha,
I know graveyards have tombstones, but I never knew tombstones had a
graveyard! Thanks for the great breakfast, Ed, and thanks for your
friendship and kindness!
While riding back to the Continental Motor Inn with Wayne yesterday,
he had explained how to find the old abandoned rail bed out of
Frostburg, "Go down the paved road from the depot, oh, a couple
hundred yards or so, look for a crumbling old overpass, that's it,"
Ed had explained. So down past the old train depot I go, to the
crumbling old concrete overpass. I'm finally back hiking, in a near
gale, a little after eleven.
I never knew that rail grades could actually go up and down. They
can, apparently at somewhere between a two and three per cent
grade. This one is maxed out. The climb is steady, never letting
up. By two, I cross the state line into Pennsylvania, another state
behind me now, Maryland. Counting DC, that makes four. I'm soon at
the top of the climb, the last pop that's left to get over Big
Savage Mountain. Although this old rail line has been climbing
toward the top of this mountain all morning, it doesn't quite make
it. I'm standing now at the entrance to the 4,000+ foot long Big
Savage Tunnel--and a huge sign which reads, "Work area, keep out.
Authorized personnel only. Hard hats, protective shoes and glasses
required."
Wednesday--May 15, 2002
Trail Day--28
Trail Mile--607
Location--Allegheny Highlands Trail, near Markelton,
Pennsylvania, pitched trailside past mile marker 35
Meyersdale is the epitome, the perfection of all that a great trail
town must have. Just 500 yards off the trail is the grand old
Vitale's Hotel, complete with bar and grill downstairs (Yuengling on
tap), a drugstore right across the street, cafe four doors down,
library and post office within two blocks. Great folks, great town,
thanks, Joe, Beth, and Shelva Conn, I had a great stay with you!
The first mile and a half out of Meyersdale is still pretty rough,
the old railbed full of potholes, the usual graffiti sprayed
everywhere. But that will change, as the extension of the Allegheny
Highlands Trail will soon come to Meyersdale.
As I hike toward the viaduct, where the improved trail begins, I
hear train horns behind me. Walking an old, abandoned rail bed, and
hearing train horns, provokes a very unsettled feeling. Actually,
what I'm hearing are the trains passing on the live CSX line a
hundred yards below, but just to be safe, I move to the side just in
case--don't want some phantom, ghost train running me down!
The day is shaping up perfect: bright, warm sun, just the least
breeze; quite enough breeze, in fact to crank the seven, huge
air-driven electric windmills on the mountain just up the trail. Oh
what memories, of Cap Chat, Quebec, where the constant winds from
the St. Lawrence Sea drive nearly a hundred wind turbines much like
these before me this morning. There was a lot of hubbub recently
about a similar project that would have appeared in the view shed
along the Appalachian Trail Corridor. Soon began the finger
pointing, and the wailing and crying, not uncharacteristic of the
loonies that would take us back to the stone age. These are the
same fanatics that rant about the mining, the oil wells, the
timbering, etc., then get in their steel-built cars, fill them with
petro, then drive them to wooden, stick-built homes where they
routinely run up a $500.00 per month electric bill. The windmills
are not a problem, to look at or otherwise. They provide the
cleanest of all forms of energy. Who could be opposed to that--oh
yes the hipocrites are out there, in droves. Pick the best place
and put 'em up folks--more power to ya!
I've got to start keeping track of the tunnels I've hiked through.
Counting the one today, I think there's six so far. The first three
were along the C&O Canal. They were: Indigo, Devil's Alley and Paw
Paw. The forth one was the short tunnel on the Western Maryland
Scenic Railroad. The fifth one was the Borden Tunnel north of
Frostburg. The sixth one should have been the Big Savage Tunnel,
but it was closed due to construction work and hazardous conditions,
so the sixth one turns out to be a really neat one today, called the
Pilkerton Tunnel. The rail bed actually crosses the Casselman
River, at the narrow point of a very long oxbow, first on the
Pilkerton Low Bridge, then through the tunnel on the narrow spit of
land, thence to immediately cross the river again at Pilkerton High
Bridge. What a remarkably rugged and picturesque place. The tunnel
was blocked off at both ends--but I got through just fine!
I've made the miles today, even passed my planned destination. So
with dusk arriving, I find a neat blow down hole on the side of the
hill, up from Casselman River, and pitch for the night.
Thursday--May 16, 2002
Trail Day--29
Trail Mile--628
Location--Allegheny Highlands Trail, Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania,
American Youth Hostel
It must be around eight when I finally break camp and get going this
morning, don't know for sure, I lost my watch yesterday. Forecast
was for nasty, but the day begins sunshiny bright, not a cloud in
the sky.
The old Western Maryland Railroad grade has been going down, down,
down, from the eastern Continental Divide at Big Savage Mountain, to
snake its way through the near gorge-like canyon cut by the
Casselman River. The river seemed quite small to begin with, but
now, as it continues to be fed constantly by many tributaries, some
crashing down in waterfalls, it is becoming quite the white-water
river, the scenery all along, spectacular.
By early afternoon, I arrive at the village of Confluence, named for
the merging of three rivers, the two main ones being, the Casselman
and the Youghiogheny. From here, through Ohiopile State Park, I am
told, is the most scenic section of the river. Hiking it, I
certainly believe it to be true. I am in a gorge now, the mountains
looming on both sides, the Yough (rhymes with jock), nearly 200
yards wide, crashing its tumult of whitewater in continuing cascades
of roaring thunder--the old rail bed passing right beside. My
senses of sight and hearing are definitely in overload. This is an
amazing hike, and the day holds sunny and warm.
In Ohiopyle, I head for the cafe for supper and a few cold ones. At
five, I meet Steve at the fine old American Youth Hostel, right on
the edge of town. I check in and call it a day.
Friday--May 17, 2002
Trail Day--30
Trail Mile--651
Location--Mount Braddock, Pennsylvnia, beside Baltimore and Ohio
Railroad
The Allegheny Highlands Trail crossed the river at Ohiopyle on a
high trestle to cap a sensational day yesterday. First thing this
morning, it crosses again on another sky-high trestle. More photo
ops. The rain finally catches up today but the damp of the day
doesn't dampen the spectacle of the hike into Connellsville. By
one, I've completed the final seventeen miles that I'll be hiking on
the Allegheny Highlands Trail.
At the bike shop in Connellsville, I find that I've missed the turn
onto the rail grade leading southwest toward Point Marion, so after
a stop at the local luncheonette, I head southwest on US119, to pick
up the trail at Dunbar.
The rail bed I'll be hiking for the next two days is called the
Sheepskin Rail Trail, however, the data I have on it is very
sketchy. In Dunbar, the folks I talk to have never heard of it.
One of the two active B&O side-by-side tracks has been partially
closed, being used now as a sidetrack to park tank and other
container cars, that's it. I decide to hike out along the active
tracks for a few miles while I come up with an alternate plan.
The rain comes hard toward evening and it's turning very cold. By a
sawmill, with wood drying sheds south of Pechin, I pull off and get
out of it in the shelter of one of the metal sheds.
Saturday--May 18, 2002
Trail Day--31
Trail Mile--676
Location--Point Marion, Pennsylvania,----Motel
This is wild! Seven-thirty this morning, still rainy and cold, I
hear this train coming through, at least I think it's a train. But
as I stare into the gloom, I see a huge forklift, enclosed cab,
lights on, wipers running, headed for a stack of lumber, right here
in this shed, right next to where I'm bed rolled! There must be a
half-dozen sheds, hundreds of 9-12 foot-high stacks of lumber in
and out of the sheds, and the guy comes to this shed, to the stack
right next to me--at seven-thirty on Saturday morning, in the rain.
The stack I'm on is about nine feet high. The operator moves one
bundle from the twelve foot stack right next, then gets another
bundle and takes it away. He wasn't ten feet from me, but intent on
his work, he never turned to look. Well, tell you what, as I try
shaking the cobwebs, I've never been so confused or bewildered!
Collecting myself, finally, I try collecting my stuff--shoving it
into my pack, pronto--not fast enough. The guy's right back again.
He moves another bundle, then takes the last one. He moves away
again. He still hasn't seen me. I laid back and didn't wiggle or
he'd have caught me out of the corner of his eye, for sure. He'll
be back again in just a minute, this time for the stack right in
front of me. Everything hastily jammed in my pack, I'm off the
pile, pack and poncho on, sticks in hand, I'm back into it as I
return to the tracks. As I head south, I hear him returning to the
shed. On down the railroad now, I look back at the lumber yard, at
all the sheds and stacks of lumber everywhere, and I'm thinking,
"What were the odds? What a crazy experience!"
Along the tracks this morning, as I hike the live B&O grade on
south, there remain the partially closed tracks, now sidetracks,
with countless tank cars parked along; and now I see an old, old
abandoned grade to the side. But there's no way of hiking it, as
it's entirely grown up in trees and brush. After three hours of
stumbling along the crossties and rocks, I see the tall spires of a
church looming in the distance. There are large buildings and
warehouses both sides now, along with old tires, junk and trash
everywhere. My feet are mush. Somehow, I've avoided turning my
ankles in the loose rocks. I've had enough of this. At a crossing,
I see traffic moving a couple of blocks away; I go there. A lady on
the corner informs me that I'm in Uniontown. Dang, not Uniontown!
But I'm in Uniontown, five miles away from where I should be.
Oh well, it's time for lunch, so I seek out a cafe, which I finally
find after passing two defunct bakeries, four pizza places (all
closed) and a bunch of boarded-up gas stations. This old town has
seen its better days.
In the cafe, a fellow that deer hunts the area all around explains
that there's no way to hike the old grade anymore. "The rails and
ties have been gone for years, and now they've torn out the old
bridges and trestles too. Forget it," says the old gent. Well,
looks like, if the Sheepskin Trail ever did exist, it was mostly a
product of somebody's imagination. I should have suspected as much
when the webpage I found had listed a disconnected phone number and
a "fatal error" email address. So, it's back on US119 it seems, on
down to Point Marion.
I had planned on staying in Smithfield, but the crabby old hag that
ran the rundown bar/grill/rooms wouldn't rent to me. She glanced
over, out of the corner of her eye as I entered the bar, then
continued talking to the only other customer in the place. When I
sat down right next to the fellow, she turned and went into the back
storage room. I said hi to him. He kept sipping his beer and
staring at the wall. In awhile, sweetie returned to continue the
conversation, while she popped the cap on another beer for the guy.
Amused, I watched and listened for the longest time. The old hag
paid me not the least heed. Finally, I broke in--"Can I get a beer,
or is this a private club," I asked, somewhat sarcastically. She
turned, and with a "you've sure got your nerve" expression," I got "Whadda
ya want?" I ordered a Yuengling Lager. Continuing her
conversation with the local, she reached in the cooler and slammed
the bottle down in front of me. I had to remove the cap. !
Cap off, the beer foamed up and all over the bar. I interrupted
again. More as a question, I said, "I'd like to rent a room," "Got
no rooms today," she growled. That was it. With the foam still
running down the side of the bottle, I shouldered my pack, and
leaving, quietly closed the door behind. I did pay for the beer.
Aren't you proud of me! But sweetie didn't get a tip.
In Point Marion now, I'm just a very short distance from West
Virginia. I'll be out of Pennsylvania soon. Good riddance. I've
never seen such an inhospitable bunch. All along the road today
were "Keep out" and "No Trespassing" signs--and countless "Beware
of Dog" signs, each brought to my attention by barking, growling
dogs. One place had three dog houses out by the road right in
front, three snarling chained-up pit bulls, three "Bad Dog" signs.
Oh, and I just about got run down once. Yup, be glad to get out of
Pennsylvania.
Neat trail town, Point Marion, Brass Rail Bar--Sarah, the cutest,
friendliest and most congenial barmaid, generic (no name) motel in
back--and a Subway right next door. Okay, Pennsylvania--I take it
all back.
Sunday--May 19, 2002
Trail Day--32
Trail Mile--691
Location--Mon River Trail, Morgantown, West Virginia, Morgantown
Motel
Lots of neat trail towns on this odyssey, and Point Marion was one
of them. Neat town, good folks.
This morning, I hike out on Railroad Street. Seems like a good bet,
since I'm still looking for the Sheepskin Rail Trail. Oh yes, none
of the folks in Point Marion had heard of it either. At the end of
Railroad Street, leads out a faint gravel path south. I jump on
it. Sure enough, I'm finally on the Sheepskin Trail! The quad-trac
folks are beating the rocks down and have kept the brush knocked
back.
As I continue on, there's no lack of excitement this morning. The
wind has come up and it's turning downright cold. To say: "it's a-darkin'
over," is putting it mildly. Momentarily, as a view opens across
the Monongahela River, I see a gray wall coming toward me. I drop
my pack and immediately don my jacket and poncho--just in time as
the wind-driven sleet come driving through. Yes, it's sleeting! I
crouch; in awhile the pelts turn to steady rain, and I turn and hike
into it. The cold rain continues as I cross into West Virginia.
Another state behind me now, Pennsylvania. That's five. Don't know
how many that leaves. Guess that depends on where I'm going and
when I end this trek, but I've a hunch there'll be lots more; I
think we're just getting started!
Anyway, I'm headed the right direction now--southwest. Turned the
corner two days ago at Connellsville. I could have done a roadwalk
straignt across from Cumberland, Maryland to Morgantown, West
Virginia, and saved three days and many miles in the process, but I
would have missed the GAP (Grand Allegheny Passage) and the
Allegheny Highlands Trail that winds its way thorough. The miles
and the days were well spent. It was a glorious hike!
I'm headed now for the North Bend Trail through western West
Virginia. It's a rail trail with many more tunnels. I'm told it's
a great hike, so I'm looking to it with much anticipation.
The Sheepskin Trail, what little there was of it, ended north of
Morgantown, where the Caperton section of the Mon River Trail
began. I've followed it for about eight miles through Morgantown.
At the old train station-turned-info center, I turned from the trail
and headed uptown. Folks have told me about the grand old Morgan
Hotel, so I give it a look. Neat place, but a look is all I can
afford--$125.00 per night, single occupancy, senior. A little rich
for my blood. So, I head for the south side of town and the
Morgantown Motel. This'll work!
In the evening I give Scotty and Vango a call. They've just
finished up the week at Trail Days in Damascus, Virginia. I get
Scotty on his cell phone. They've had a great time and are headed
back my way. They'll meet me tomorrow in Fairmont, and Tuesday,
Scotty and I will hike out together again--Whoohee!
Monday--May 20, 2002
Trail Day--33
Trail Mile--709
Location--MC Trail, Fairmont, West Virginia, Avenue Motel, Lin
Fowler, manager
Plans are to meet Scotty and Vango in Fairmont today. I don't know
the mileage to Fairmont, so I'm out and hiking by seven-thirty, just
to make sure I get there in good order.
I've decided to do a road walk today, instead of following the Mon
River and MC Trails along the Monongahela River. What I saw
yesterday was a river running hard and high, pretty much a mixture
of mud. My first view was the Monongahela Nuclear Power Plant.
Then followed miles of coal loading docks accompanied by countless
barges loaded to the gunwales with coal. I suspect there'll be more
of the same today, so I opt out in favor of a road walk through the
rolling, rural West Virginia countryside.
Freeze warnings were issued for the entire region last night. This
morning, even with both my shirts, and my jacket and poncho on, it
seems to take forever to get the old jitney up to normal operating
temperature--it's cold, darn cold! The day starts out dark, and
it's staying dark. Within the hour, the wind whips it on me again,
this time in the form of snow. Yes, now I'm hiking in wind-driven
snow! Thirty days ago, I was getting my head and feet fried as I
hiked the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Now, with summer
supposedly approaching, I'm hiking in snow!
The distance to Fairmont isn't as far as I had reckoned it would be,
and by early afternoon, I'm in the post office in Fairmont. I mail
a few souvenirs home, then head for the library where I'm able to
spend some time on the internet.
In the evening, I meet up again with Scotty and Vango, then check
into the Avenue Motel on the south side of town. Freeze warnings
are out again. What is going on?
Scotty and I (all bundled up, no doubt) will hike out together
tomorrow on the West Branch Trail, an old abandoned rail grade that
leads to Shinnston. No lazy summer days just yet!
Tuesday--May 21, 2002
Trail Day--34
Trail Mile--727
Location--Harrison County Rail Trail, Shinnston, West Virginia,
Gillum House Bed and Breakfast, John and Kathleen Panek, hosts
This is the day to get lost. Oh yes, the daddy of all get lost
days! Not a clue for the better part--where we were or where we
were actually going. The whole whacky, glorious wandering started
the instant Scotty and I set out this morning. We started on the
wrong rail grade. We weren't even following the right river! An
hour into the hike, and for some reason, I casually pull out my
compass. "We're supposed to be trending generally north of west.
So, why are we going south?" I question Scotty. After nearly four
miles of this, we're as many miles from where we should be--and
there's no quick fix, save turning around and retreating. Oh no,
not that; we're not going back! So now what?
Well, in another mile or so, we can cross the river we're following
(the wrong one) on the I-79 bridge. Then we can hike back roads to
the west. And finally, after another eight to ten miles of road
walking, we can get to where we should have been hiking all day.
Walking an interstate highway is an absolute no-no; foot travel is
prohibited, especially across an interstate bridge--but we do it
anyway. I can't remember ever, ever, hiking along an interstate
highway, but up and onto the bridge we go, the whizzing autos and
grinding eighteen-wheelers literally hurtling past us. We
successfully run the gauntlet, without getting pulverized or
arrested--clear to the next exit. We're now on the right side (of
the wrong river).
The copy of the DeLorme map that Ed provided me shows a network of
little spiderweb-like back roads leading in the direction we want to
go--so we go.
The very first intersection isn't on the map. Which way? We manage
the attention of a chap edging his yard. His response to our
inquiry--"Well yes, I suppose you could get to Killarm this way.
Part of the road's been closed for years. You'll have to climb over
a fence at the top of the mountain, then hike through the
fields--you'll be able to see Killarm from the top, though, just go
that way." Yup, you guessed it, up the mountain and through the
fields we go!
We had made plans to meet Vango for lunch at Monongah, but we never
make it within six miles of the place. After awhile, he'll perhaps
figure out that we're not coming through, and drive on to Shinnston.
Having climbed the mountain, after going the wrong way yet again, we
head down through the fields toward Killarm. Rounding a fence and
passing a shed, we hear, "What are you doing in here?" Neither
Scotty nor I had seen the farmer, but he sure sees us! Oh no, time
to face the music. We're on private land. We have no business in
here. Sheepishly, we greet to the old gent, with the most pathetic
and apologetic salutations. He's amused more than angry. Thank
God, we're not going to get shot or arrested! In just moments,
comes the farmer's son tracking through the field behind us. We
hadn't seen him either! He is also of kind and friendly
disposition.
The old abandoned road we were seeking is right next the fence, by
the farmer's shed--we were just on the wrong side of it. The kind
fellow, and his son, Dusty (I did get the boy's name), both kindly
walk us to the final road intersection we need to take. On the way,
both ask many questions and express much curiosity about my
adventure. Thank you Lord--for saving my sorry butt--again!
At three, we're finally on the rail trail in Enterprise. It's a
delightful path along the West Branch, Monongahela River. Within
the hour, we're in Shinnston, our destination for the day. Here,
Vango is waiting. He greets us with much restraint, but can't help
exclaiming (quite understandably): "Where to hell you guys been!"
Wednesday--May 22, 2002
Trail Day--35
Trail Mile--742
Location--North Bend Rail Trail, Wilsonburg, West Virginia, Towne
House Motor Lodge West
What a great stay last with John and Kathy at the Gillum House B&B
in Shinnston. Beautiful old two-story house, meticulously renovated
and modernized, the entire place radiating such a warm, peaceful
feeling. And the end result--not a wiggle out of me as soon as my
head hits the pillow.
At eight this morning, the luring aroma of freshly brewed coffee
working its magic, I'm drawn down to the dining room, where Kathy
has prepared a grand breakfast, not only for me, but also for Scotty
and Vango. She and John join us and we share the most stimulating
conversation.
We manage to tarry, and are not out and going until after ten, then
to make another trip to the post office. By eleven, Scotty and I
are finally headed south for Clarksburg. First, it's a road walk
down busy US19, then at Spelter, we pick up the Harrison County
Trail, another old rail trail, which also follows along and up the
west branch of the Monongahela River. To access the trail, we must
pass a barricade and "No Trespassing" sign, as the surrounding area
has been declared a "Superfund site." Here, the soil has been
contaminated by the remains from zinc smelting operations carried on
over many past decades. The entire place is shut down now, secure
behind twelve-foot high chain link. To look upon the dilapidated,
rusting hulks of old abandoned buildings surrounded by dismal, black
mounds and heaps of earth is most depressing; Scotty and I hasten to
pass.
Most cities the size of Charksburg have greenways that are tied in
with other surrounding paths and trails. So, as we near Clarksburg,
I'm expecting the rail trail we've been hiking to just get better
and wider--finally to connect to a paved greenway. But here, as we
near the city limits, the trail simply ends at a fence blocking the
old rail bed. Scotty and I look at each other, then at the fence.
A faded sign reads, "State Property." We're both
bewildered--wondering the same thing: "What's going on here?" Oh
yes, over the fence we go, to enter a tangle of vines, blow downs
and brush. As we continue along the old rail bed and into town,
there's another fence, higher than the first, then yet another. Up
and over we go, to continue on--through paths plopped full with cow
manure, yes cow manure! The old rail bed is now the upper reaches
of a pasture. Some greenway, eh? Well, it is green! This scramble
along the old grade continues for the better part of half a mile, to
finally lead us out and onto an old railroad overpass at US50. Here
we give up the "Clarksburg Greenway" to opt for the live rail grade
leading around and back out of town.
Vango is waiting for us at the intersection of US50 and US19.
After a cold one, we're back out for the remaining short road walk
to Wilsonburg. Tomorrow we begin the North Bend Trail, which runs
for the next seventy miles to Parkersburg, there, to cross the Ohio
River. We'll surely have more adventures to share; why not come
along!
Thursday--May 23, 2002
Trail Day--36
Trail Mile--765
Location--North Bend Trail, West Union, West Virginia, High
Street B&B, Ellen Froehlig, hostess
The day dawns cool and clear; the weather is finally breaking. It's
going to be perfect for hiking. Scotty and I get out around
nine-thirty, with Vango hop-skipping the little motor home ahead.
Within the hour, we're at Wolf Summit, the eastern terminus of the
North Bend Rail Trail. Looks like the next seventy-one miles will
be most enjoyable, for the old rail bed is settled in with finely
crushed limestone, the shoulders freshly mowed--this thing's a
scenic parkway!
By one, we make it to Salem and the trailside IGA. I've got to get
more film, dang it! My camera's done it again--it's rewound after
exposing only half the roll. This is the fourth time it's pulled
this trick. The camera people say it's a problem with the film--oh
sure, blame it on Fuji and Kodak! Well, I'm tired of excuses; I'm
getting rid of the thing. It's an Olympus Stylus Epic Zoom 80, no
cheapie, for sure. I tried, unsuccessfully, to get Olympus to
sponsor me this odyssey. I'm glad now they refused, because I'm fed
up with them and their product--this camera's out of here. I think
I'll look at Nikon, Minolta or Canon.
Vango's been having some problems with the motor home, so Scotty
hangs back to make some repairs. I head out again, due west. Yes,
would you believe I'll actually be hiking west this whole day. If I
keep this up, I might actually make it to California!
The American Discovery Trail has come over to piggyback along the
North Bend route. Actually, I picked it up yesterday at the
Superfund site, but there were no ADT blazes anywhere along the
poorly maintained Harrison County Trail into Clarksburg. Here
today, though, where the trail is manicured and well maintained,
seems the ADT likes the recognition and association, as I see
numerous ADT blazes all along. Early in the planning stages for
this transcontinental thru-hike I had considered hiking the entire
ADT route exclusively, from coast to coast, but after I found that
the organization's main emphasis was on bicycling, with hiking being
a very distant, secondary consideration, I decided to hike my own
route.
The North Bend Trail passes through many tunnels, most constructed
before the Civil War. Each has a beauty and character all its
own--I pass through two today, #2 and Long Run, that makes seven
total so far.
This has been a good mileage and good progress day. Late evening I
am greeted by Vango and Scotty in the little village of West
Union. On a high hill, on High Street stands High Street B&B,
managed by Grandma Ellen. It's another beautiful and painstakingly
restored old two-story home. Kathy, from Gillum B&B in Shinnston,
had alerted Ellen that I'd be coming through, so she was expecting
me. For supper, Scotty fixes spaghetti, lots of it! Then Grandma
Ellen has us in for cake and coffee. This has been a great day.
Friday--May 24, 2002
Trail Day--37
Trail Mile--782
Location--North Bend Trail, Ellenboro, West Virginia, thence to
Lewis "Camo" and Becky "Never Again" Moyers' cabin, North Bend State
Park, West Virginia
West Union is a very fine trail town. The only thing keeping it
from being five-star is the lack of computer/internet access at the
library, otherwise, neat town. High Street B&B is definitely
five-star. The old two-story Queen Ann Victorian house has been
completely restored by Paul and Liz Jerrett. Liz's mother, Grandma
Ellen, is now the hostess.
Paul is here this morning; I can smell the coffee brewing and as he
greets me, I find he's prepared a grand breakfast. Paul has been
involved with caring for the North Bend Trail, and he speaks with
much enthusiasm about his work. At nine, Grandma Ellen sees me
off. Scotty and Vango have departed over an hour ago, to drive back
to Clarksburg where they'll get Scotty's bike repaired. Then he'll
catch up with me as I head toward Ellenboro. Three more tunnels
today, that's ten so far. By three-fifteen I'm in Ellenboro--no
Scotty. Vango is waiting at the DQ, as Lew Moyers will be here to
take us to his cabin this evening. At four-thirty, Lew comes riding
in on his bicycle. Still no Scotty. Lew's been out on the trail
and has found Scotty--another flat tire--he's waiting in Pennsboro
for Lew to drive back and fetch him.
In awhile, they're back, and we're finally ready to make our way to
Lew's cabin. A stop at the grocery and we're off.
Hamburgers, hot dogs, a few cold ones and I'm gone, no luck trying
to work my journal entry this today...
Saturday--May 25, 2002
Trail Day--38
Trail Mile--804
Location--North Bend Trail, Walker, West Virginia, thence to home
of Lewis and Becky Moyers, (AT, Georgia-to-Maine, '00) Parkersburg,
West Virginia
I used to have an old cabin in the mountains north of Dahlonega,
Georgia. It was a special place. What memories of those times came
rushing back as we crossed the creek up to Camo's cabin, his,
definitely a homemade place, just like mine, tucked back up the
"holler." The rain started just as we unloaded, the day turning
immediately into that kind of day, when a warm, snug place, equipped
with just the essential comforts--to be shared with friends, brings
times so memorable.
Strange to find the place warm and dry as we entered, none of that
musty odor so common to places prone to dampness, that have been
closed up for weeks. As Lew goes 'round lighting all the gas
mantels, he explains that he keeps the heat on all the time. I
remark, "Don't see a wood burning stove; why don't you have a
stove?" "Don't need one," he said, "Not when you got free gas!"
Seems most everybody up and down the "hollers" here in West
Virginia's got free gas. "The well's up on the ridge; I'm tapped
into the line that comes right by the cabin--got all the gas I could
ever use," said Lew, with a big grin. Oh yes, gas heater, gas cook
range, gas lights, and gas refrigerator. We really had to rough it
last night!
I thought we'd be out of the mountains by now, but we're not out of
the mountains. The road weaves back and forth and up and around for
the longest time it seems, Vango following, as Lew leads us back to
Ellenboro. We're in good shape for the twenty-two miles planned for
today as Lew gets us out and going by a little after nine. More
tunnels today, five in all, bringing the count to fifteen. The
first one is the most remarkable so far, not a long one, being less
than 400 feet in length, but the most impressive for sure, being
carved from solid rock, having no lining, the raw, rugged granite
jutting from the walls and ceiling in the most precarious manner,
making passage uneasy and scary. I hasten my pace and manage to get
through without the thing caving in on me (no pun intended).
We've been blessed with perfect weather, ideal for hiking, clear and
cool with a gentle breeze. Climbing and climbing (on a railroad
grade, that's an incline of two and one-half per cent), by three, we
reach the final tunnel on this grand North Bend Trail. Half way
through, Scotty and I hear what sounds like an old train whistle--kinda!
We both laugh, and Camo laughs, as he comes riding up with his
headlight on. We continue together to Walker, enjoying each other's
company and talking trail, jabbering all the while. Then off we go
again, Vango following, to Camo's home near Parkersburg. Here I'm
greeted by the other hiker in the family, Lew's wife, Becky. For
the evening meal, she's prepared wild hog, corn on the cob, all the
trimmings--followed by strawberry shortcake for dessert. It was
scrumptious.
One more day on the North Bend Trail and we'll be in Ohio. I am not
lonely these days; it's so good to be with friends.
Sunday--May 26, 2002
Trail Day--39
Trail Mile--821
Location--US50, Belpre, Ohio, thence to home of Lewis and Becky
Moyers, Parkersburg, West Virginia
Becky drives all of us to Walker. Camo will be hiking the day with
Scotty and me, and Vango has come along for the ride. We're out in
good order by a little after nine. The day starts iffy but soon
turns perfect again, cool and clear. The goal today is to complete
the North Bend Trail, with our final destination being Belpre, Ohio,
across the Ohio river from Parkersburg.
We're making remarkably good time, and by noon we've reached the end
of the beautifully groomed rail trail just east of Parkersburg. I
comment to Camo how it would be nice to celebrate our successful
completion of the North Bend Trail. He replies that there's a
convenience store just ahead, but problem is--there's no beer in
Parkersburg before one on Sunday. Bummer!
As we contine through the goose-egg-size rocks along the abandoned
and unfinished rail trail, and reaching the last section, where
rails and ties are still intact, I see a shopping bag, lumped up
with a can protruding, laying right between the rails. I give it a
poke with my trusty LEKI trekking pole. Instead of the usual
"dink," it goes "thunk," and doesn't move. I look at Camo, Camo
looks at me. "Hey, it's a full can of beer!" I exclaim. Reaching
down, and retrieving it from the bag, follows another, and dangling,
a third, three cans still looped together--half a six-pack, all
full! Well, how about this folks! By golly now if I don't believe
I'll challenge you to top this for utterly spontaneous and perfectly
timed trail magic! Together, Scotty, Camo and I hoot as we clank
the three cans of Natural Light, in celebration, a little after
noon, on Sunday, this the 26th day of May, 2002!
Continuing on, the abandoned rail grade soon turns to an active rail
grade. Here, we're in the Parkersburg switching yard, an old diesel
engine lugging and banging the continer cars around. Hesitantly, we
approach a switchman as he lifts and drops another switch lever,
then to release a single railcar, setting it free to rattle and roll
its way, shortly to slam into the line of other railcars in its
row. Funny, I never realized that railyards tipped a little
downhill! The switchman greets us with a friendly smile and a
cheerful "Hello" as we pass (we are trespassing on private
property).
Folks in West Virginia take pride in their hometowns. Camo beams
with pride as he walks us through his. He was born and raised
here. His family's all here--he's lived near Parkersburg all his
life. He frustrates that the old train depot's been torn down, but
points with joy to the beautifully restored old courthouse. It is,
indeed, a work of art.
On US50 now, we cross the Ohio River on the old iron-trussed
bridge. Another state behind me, West Viginia. Lew's brother, Tim,
soon comes for us at Belpre, and we're back to the Moyers' home on
the bluff above the grand old Ohio. Thanks for coming out with us
today, Camo, it's been a grand time!
Tonight it's cookout! Lewis cranks up his gas-fired cooker to deep
fry the mounds of fish caught by Jim, his son-in-law. The whole
Moyers family stops by, from Grandma Doris to young grandsons, Mark
and Stephen. What happy people. All linger. We have a grand time
together--much, too much food!
Monday--May 27, 2002
Trail Day--40
Trail Mile--838
Location--SR141, Frost, Ohio, thence to the home of Lewis and
Becky Moyers, Parkersburg, West Virginia
In the evening last, not such good news. There's been a death in
the Frey family and Vango and Scotty must return to Wisconsin. So,
after a fine breakfast this morning, they drive Camo and me out to
Frost, which is on their way home. Greeting old friends is always
such joy, but bidding them farewell is always so sad. So long,
Scotty; goodbye, Vango. May God keep you safe till we meet again.
To me, it really doesn't matter which direction I'm hiking on any
given day, as long as I cover the ground. So today, we're hiking
west to east. It's just a lot easier this way, especially for Becky
to come for us--yes, I've been invited to stay another day with the
Moyers!
From Frost to Belpre is a road walk, a delightful one. Camo and I
enjoy each other's company as we meander the back roads up and down
and over and around. We're by the river most of the day,
vacationers everywhere--this being Memorial Day. The weather is
again perfect, the day grand.
We're back to the Ohio River Bridge a little after three, and Becky
soon comes to retrieve us. In the evening, Lewis gets his old '48
Chevy out and we cruise the streets of Parkersburg. A couple of
cool dudes, oh yeah!
Tuesday--May 28, 2002
Trail Day--41
Trail Mile--856
Location--Athens to Nelsonville Rail Trail, Athens, Ohio,
Highlander Motel, Randy Bhakta, manager
Right at seven, Lewis taps on my door with a steaming cup of
fresh-brewed coffee. He knows how much I love my morning coffee.
Man, am I getting spoiled! Becky has prepared another tank-stoking
breakfast, then sends me off with a hug. Dang, Becky, I sure hate
to leave you folks. Lewis drives me back to Frost, then hikes out a
ways with me. We talk about the upcoming hike he'll be taking along
the SIA/IAT with our mutual dear friend, Jolene "Jojosmiley" Koby,
as she completes her northbound ECT thru-hike. Otherwise, not a
whole lot's been said as we walk the last couple of miles together.
By a guardrail we linger and chat nervously for a few minutes,
before facing the inevitable--time to bid farewell. So long, Camo,
and thanks, thanks for your kindness. This has been such a very
special time.
I'm hiking alone now, alone for the first time in many days, but I
will not be lonely, as I have such grand memories of these recent
times.
By early evening I'm in Athens, Ohio, home of Ohio University. All
along Union Avenue it's a pub crawl. I hit 'em all, and by the time
I reach the rail trail leading to Nelsonville, the sadness of
leaving friends has all but left me.
Wednesday--May 29, 2002
Trail Day--42
Trail Mile--872
Location--US33, Nelsonville, Ohio, Olde Townhouse Inn, Debby
Whalen, proprietor
A quiet night, the much needed rest from both physical and emotional
fatigue, a blessing.
The bike/rail trail from Athens to Nelsonville is called the
Hockhocking Adena Trail. It's a dandy, paved all the way through.
Many rollerbladers, runners, and folks out on bikes today. They all
pass me--guess I just need to keep in mind the story about the
tortoise and the hare!
The rail trail is a breeze and I'm in Nelsonville by three. The
Rocky Boot Factory is here. It's a big place with a grand showroom,
but Rocky makes no boots in the USA anymore. I'm hoping they've got
a compass for sale. Somehow I managed to lose mine. I'm in luck,
they've got just what I need, a little Silva. It'll work just fine.
Enquiring of the kind lady that's waited on me, as to accommodations
in Nelsonville, she says she knows of no place other than the Ramada
on the south side of town--but she does refer me to Jim Wilbourn, Mc
Fadden Insurance, on the square, with the Nelsonville Chamber of
Commerce. I passed the Ramada on the way in, and didn't even bother
to check their rates. I knew better. Oh yes, I immediately beat a
path to the square downtown, and to Jim Wilbourn with McFadden
Insurance! He greets this tired, sweaty old Nomad with a smile and
a glad handshake. As to a place to stay, Jim says, "We've got a
fine B&B, and it's reasonable. Wait right here while I set you
up." He heads to the back of the office, to return in a moment--to
lead me down the street and show me the way!
A couple of blocks and I'm at the Olde Townhouse Inn, where I'm
greeted with a grand smile by Debby Whalen. Jim's already told her
about me. The old inn is really quite a place. When I ask as to
the room rates, Debby simply says, "Follow me, I'll make you a deal
on a room." Out the front door and up the steps we go, then back
into the old inn on the second floor, through a spacious kitchen to
a little room behind the stairs. "How's this for ten bucks," she
beams! The little hiding place is clean and neat; the bath just up
the stairs--and there's a phone I can use, that will handle 877
calls. Doo Dah, "Yes Debby, oh yes, this will do just fine.!"
As soon as I'm out of the shower, Debby informs me of much good
goings on--Jim has brought the latest internet printout on the
Buckeye Trail, and a local, Gary Bergstrand, from Hocking College,
who is knowledgeable about the Buckeye Trail, will be stopping by!
In awhile comes Gary. What great help--and he invites me to
breakfast in the morning!
I stroll the old town by evening and have a few at Mine Tavern. The
square in Nelsonville is quite impressive, what with every old
storefronts all spiffy and clean, complimented by the classic
fountain right in the center. Neat old town, much pride. Stir in
the kind, generous folks, and the old Nomad hits the jackpot again!
Thursday--May 30, 2002
Trail Day--43
Trail Mile--897
Location--Buckeye Trail, Old Man's Cave, Hocking Hills State
Park, Ohio, thence to rental apartment, Mark and Trent Milano
My stay at Olde Townhouse Inn has been most restful. Thanks for
your hospitality and kindness, Debby!
Gary comes by at seven-fifteen to take me to breakfast. Waiting for
us at the Coffee Cup is Russ Tippett. Russ is Dean, School of
Natural Resources, Hocking College, and Gary is an instructor
there. The three of us have much in common, especially our interest
in nature and the great out-of-doors. We share much good
conversation.
This is going to be a great day. For today I reach the Buckeye
Trail, to actually hike in the woods after nearly 900 miles. First
I've a road walk though, over twenty miles, which I manage to knock
out by four-thirty. This is the last of the route laid out for me
by Tric Talone. It's been a great way to go, and the road walk along
the scenic back roads today is especially enjoyable.
The sun's really been pounding me, but I must toughen into this kind
of hiking as the summer comes on and I move along to Kansas and The
Oklahoma Panhandle. By two-thirty, old Sol's managed to kick up a
show, which comes grinding through. I pull off and make it under an
old hay shed just in time to get out of the deluge and away from the
accompanying light show. The rain comes in hammering waves but I'm
safe and dry. I'm even able to refill my water bottle from one of
the countless waterfalls cascading from the rusty old corrugated
roof. The dark and rain passes almost as quickly as it came,
leaving the pavement steaming, appearing as if on fire. Hot, hot,
steaming hot, here we go again!
Hocking Hills Pit Stop is just outside Hocking Hills State Park.
Brad Bruning is the owner. Kristen runs the register and Jerry
Culverson handles the Bar-B-Que under the tent right outside. After
checking the rates for a stay in the park, I hoof it right back to
the Pit Stop again. Under the tent, and while having a plate of
Jerry's finest--and a few cold ones, I meet Mike and Trent Milano.
They've stopped in for some of the same after a long, hot day
finishing concrete. Brad has offered to let me tent behind, but
Mike and Trent offer me the couch at their place. Oh yes, it's off
to Mike and Trent's. In the evening, they invite me along to Logan,
where we close Sam's, a local watering hole--at two-thirty! All
three of us have to be back on the job by eight. Well, you're
right, mine really isn't a job.
Friday--May 31, 2002
Trail Day--44
Trail Mile--918
Location--SR327, trailside, Buckeye Trail, Tar Hollow State
Forest, Ohio
Y'all have heard me talk about horses and humans on the trail, so
you know my thoughts and feelings on the subject. Comes now chapter
two on this mix.
My excitement's been building for weeks, in anticipation of actually
hitting some hiking tread way. So now I must tell you: there is
just no way to describe my utter disappointment yesterday evening.
What I experienced upon reaching the Hocking Hills Buckeye Trail
section was worse than a nightmare. I should have guessed what was
coming when I saw the huge stable of horses just outside the forest,
and the road shoulder just past, all the way from the stables to the
trailhead, pounded to a muddy rut. Oh yes, the tread way in the
forest--more muddy rut, a disgusting, indescribable mud-bogging
quagmire the likes of which I've never before experienced, and it
continued up and down, over the ridges and along the bluffs for the
better part of three miles. What an absolutely disgusting sight,
nearly impossible to hike, all the work of horses. Oh well, so much
for my introduction to the Buckeye Trail!
This morning, Trent delivers me back to Pit Stop, where Brad cranks
the fire for the day and prepares us a fine breakfast. Thanks Mike
and Trent--and thanks, Brad, Kristi, Jerry and all at Hocking Hills
Pit Stop, you've been very kind.
At the Old Man's Cave Museum this morning I'm told that no horses
are permitted in the state park, that the trail I hiked yesterday
evening was in the state forest, not the park. Don't know, but I'd
be willing to bet that the stable owner and the county commissioner
are both related to the forest supervisor.
Old Man's Cave gorge is like no other place I've ever seen. The
groomed trail is not really a hiking trail, being mostly a path for
those who come to experience the marvel that is Old Man's Cave. The
gorge is not huge or deep by any standard, but it is a remarkable
place, cut and carved over the eons. The cave itself is really not
a cave, but rather a sculpted-out half-bowl-like amphitheater. The
magnitude of it, the tons and tons of rock that make the bowl
overhang, defy all laws of nature. Pausing, turning, looking, it is
impossible to take it all in. And forget trying to get a picture.
Three more tunnels today, natural ones, cut in the solid rock, the
pathway going right through! That's eighteen so far now.
From Old Man's Cave, the trail leads to Cedar Falls, then on to Ash
Cave, another huge, carved out half-bowl in the side of the bluff.
It got its name from the piles of ash left by the Indians over the
ages. Both Old Man's Cave and Ash Cave are spiritual places,
issuing forth and emanating much energy.
In the evening, I'm back on the road and to a little store along
SR327. I get a sandwich from the little deli, then pitch for the
night behind the building at the grounds of Singing Gospel. The
heat of the day has generated another dandy, and I'm no sooner
pitched than the quarter-sized drops begin, but I'm snug and dry in
my little Kurt Russell Nomad.
Saturday--June 1, 2002
Trail Day--45
Trail mile--942
Location--US23, trailside, Buckeye Trail, Scioto State Forest,
Ohio
I follow the Buckeye Trail off and on today. Late morning, I make a
side trip into the little village of Londonderry. At the post
office, I meet the postmistress, Connie Snyder. She's just closing
up for the day and invites me to stop by her place in Richmond Dale,
which is on my way. I can sure use a shower, so I avail myself of
her kindness. At her lovely home, I meet her husband, Michael.
After getting presentable, we enjoy some time together. They had
met and knew most of the early folks on the American Discovery
Trail, including Bill and Laurie Foot who biked it, and Bryan Stark,
who ran it.
By evening, I'm back on the Buckeye Trail on South Ridge Road in the
Scioto State Forest. There's some very pleasant tread way along the
Buckeye Trail, which I enjoy today, and I'll certainly long remember
Old Man's Cave gorge, Cedar Falls and Ash Cave.
Sunday--June 2, 2002
Trail Day--46
Trail Mile--965
Location--SR124, Long's Family Campground, Lathem, Ohio
The blackberry and raspberry bushes are in full bloom now, so too,
the multiflora rose. And a huge tree (is it the buckeye?), that is
festooning the roadways with its large, fragrant flowers. More road
walking today, but there is shade along, as the dusty backroads lead
up and back and around and about. In Waverly, I stop at Bob Evans
for their famous biscuits and gravy--and plenty of good-morning
coffee.
The heat kicks in again and the open road I'm on now turns to a
frying pan. As I hike along in my dream-like hypnotic daze, pulls
over this toppered Toyota pickup. It's sporting a Maine tag which
reads TCABIN. Looking at the TCABIN tag for the third time, and as
both doors open, I'm finally jolted back to reality--but how can
this be reality? For, standing before me now are Marge and Earl
Towne, Honey and Bear from The Cabin in East Andover, Maine! Good
Lord, how can this be? How in the world have they found me out here
on a back road in the middle of no place in Ohio? I'm not even on
the Buckeye Trail! But here they are, in honest-to-gosh real life,
filled with excitement--their success in tracking down the old
Nomad! Here, by the side of the road, we hoot and hug. What an
incredible experience, what a happy, joyful time. As Bear hands me
a cold one, he takes my pack and stows it in the back. "Let's go
find someplace to stay for the night. We've got so much to tell you,
and we'll bring you right back here in the morning," Bear exclaims.
They take me by the arm and leads me around. I don't know what to
say; this is so incredibly unbelievable.
A sort distance ahead is Long's Family Campground. Here, we get a
cabin and a camper space for the night. A delicious pizza, a few
tall ones, and oh-so-much great catching-up conversation, and this
day proves to be another amazing one as the old Nomad continues
along, "From Sea to Shining Sea."
Monday--June 3, 2002
Trail Day--47
Trail Mile--998
Location--SR321, rear porch, abandoned house, Mowrystown, Ohio
Comes a knock at my door a little before seven. I'd asked Bear to
get me up. He and Honey offered to treat me to breakfast, so don't
want to miss that!
What a wonderful surprise and a great pick-me-up, this time spent
with my dear friends, Honey and Bear. There really isn't anything
better than being with friends; the problem always comes in saying
goodbye. They're headed for California to spend time with family.
That stay, however, will be cut short by at least a day--the time
spent tracking down a member of their other family--their trail
family. Folks, you exemplify the best of trail angels, your love
and caring, the epitome of trail magic. Thanks, Earl, thanks,
Marge, your friendship has become so very special!
Lingering, solid hugs, then time to turn, the old Nomad back to the
trail, and the folks from The Cabin, off to California. A beep, a
final wave, then they disappear over the next rise in the road and
are gone. "Don't get in a funk, Nomad, think of the good times, put
your head down, dig in your sticks--and go." So, off I go, to
hammer the miles today, it's a reliable and comforting way to chase
the blues. That's the best way for me.
I'm headed this direction because I want to see Serpent Mound, an
ancient, earthen, Indian artwork. For sure, I'm not disappointed.
It is a remarkable thing to behold, resting on a high hill,
overlooking the valley of Brush Creek. There is much energy within
this place. From an observation tower, one can get a partial view,
but the only true way to view this work is from the air. There are
pictures in the museum. Interesting, I'm right here at the very
site, but I must view pictures in the museum. Know what, I bet the
Indians knew exactly how it looked from the air!
From Serpent Mound, the Buckeye Trail dips down to the southeast,
away from the direction I really want to go, so I hike out on the
back roads, generally west. I'm right at a thousand miles now and
still haven't left the eastern time zone. It's time to go west.
The heat comes up again, no clouds, no breeze. I beg water from
farmers along, and spend the day in dreaming of seeing my loving
sister, Salle Anne, and all her dear family in Missouri.
I've been on the road for nearly twelve hours today, well over
thirty miles. My legs don't want to go anymore. As dusk arrives, I
find an old abandoned house on the outskirts of Mowrystown and pitch
on the dilapidated back porch. The night brings a gentle, cool
breeze.
Tuesday--June 4, 2002
Trail Day--48
Trail Mile--1015
Location--Buckeye Trail, Williamsburg, Ohio, Valley View Hotel,
Buck Walter, proprietor, Brenda Anderson, manager
More road walking today, mostly on busy four-lane (shade less)
SR32. By early afternoon, I'm in Williamsburg at the grand old
Valley View Hotel, a site once frequented by Morgan's Raiders. A
tunnel beneath the old hotel, leading to the East Fork, Little Miami
River, is still intact. Here, at this historic old hotel, I'm
greeted with a glad and friendly smile from Brenda Anderson, manager
(more aptly: Valley View's barmaid, and chief cook and
bottle-washer), as she pops a cold one for me. Good news coming
from the fellows sitting out front was that there's rooms for rent.
However, bad news coming from Brenda is: they're full up. Sensing
my disappointment, and after mentioning that all I really need is a
shower and a corner to lay my head, Brenda leans over the bar, and
in the most comforting voice assures me that she'll find me a room.
In awhile, comes Buck. Brenda gets him aside. Right away he's back
with a key. Whoohee, looks like I'm in! Buck shows me to a room on
the second floor, and while handing me an armful of sheets and
towels, says, "If a fellow tries to get in this room tonight, just
send him downstairs to me!" "Okay, Buck," I say, "this'll work."
I'm off now to the post office to retrieve my bounce box. Hey, it's
right here waiting for me! The evening brings rain, but I'm up to
the bar with a tall one in my hand as Brenda prepares my supper,
compliments of the house! A couple games of pool with Bob, a local,
and this one racks up just fine.
Wednesday--June 5, 2002
Trail Day--49
Trail Mile--1015
Location--Buckeye Trail, Williamsburg, Ohio, Valley View Hotel
Williamsburg is an absolutely perfect trail town--old hotel with
class-act bar right down, post office close up, pizza, laundry,
pharmacy, library with no-wait internet--all within five minutes.
Oh yeah, this is it. You folks know I'm a trail-town boy. Would I
lead you wrong? Okay, lets get this into Appalachian Trail
perspective. Hiker trash AT thru-hikers know their trail towns.
Might I mention Duncannon? Thought so! To hiker trash, Duncannon,
Pennsylvania is a five-star trail town. It's got it all, including
the Doyle Hotel, the old Anheuser Busch turn-of-the-century grand
marquee. The Valley View Hotel is nothing less than the Doyle of
the Buckeye Trail; take my word for it, it's the Doyle. Yes--well
no, you wouldn't bring your momma here, but to hiker trash, you just
couldn't find better. When Buck showed me up the stairs last, I
knew I was home. Only difference I could see, as opposed to the
Doyle, the ceilings are still in this place. "I'd like to stay two
nights," I comment to Buck. "No problem," says he. "How much I owe
you?" I come back. "Aww, give me fifteen bucks, that'll cover it,"
he says. Oh yes, Williamsburg, Ohio is one fine trail town!
Brenda fixes me breakfast--on the house again, and I drain the
coffee pot. Late morning, I'm still trying to get caught up on
journal entries. In the afternoon, I while a couple of hours at the
library. I guess by now you can tell I'm not hiking today. I
really needed a day off, haven't taken one since Harpers Ferry, and
what better place than Williamsburg!
At the bar, in the evening now, and talking to the locals, I learn
that Stephen Newman of world-walking fame lives right down the road
in Bethel. I knew he lived in Ohio, but I never dreamed I'd come so
close to his place. I met Steve at the Appalachian Long Distance
Hikers Gathering at Dartmouth College, New Hampshire a couple of
years ago. Steve was the scheduled keynote speaker for Saturday
night. I was on for Sunday. Time passed that Saturday, and Steve
still hadn't come in. Gathering organizers were starting to get
fidgety. Larry Luxenberg and Noel DeCavalcante finally came to me a
half-hour before Steve was scheduled to speak to a full auditorium.
Larry said, "Steve's stuck in a traffic jam, he doesn't think he'll
make it." Noel followed with, "We need you to go on." A half-hour
to get my act together and go, cheez! Fortunately, Steve made it in
time, to put on an absolutely spellbinding show. So, that's how I
came to know Steve Newman.
Well folks, I've been able to get hold of Steve this evening, and
he's coming to fetch me to his place for the day and the night
tomorrow!
No more time at the Valley View Lounge tonight. It's back to my
room, to get everything caught up, my bounce box, then a (very
belated) spam to all my friends, then to get ready to go with Steve
first thing in the morning. What an incredible time I'm living!
Yes, Wolfhound, my hiker friend, life is good!
Thursday--June 6, 2002
Trail Day--50
Trail Mile--1015
Location--Ripley, Ohio, home of Stephen "Worldwalker" and Darci
Newman
The rain came late last evening and has set in for the duration.
Buck's got coffee on in the lounge, so I linger while waiting for
the post office to open at eight. I need to get my bounce box off
to Corydon, Indiana, where I should be in about two weeks.
Back from the post office, and in just awhile, Steve comes for me at
Valley View Lounge. Buck, who had walked with Steve over the last
two miles of his famous earth-encircling hike that began in 1983 and
ended in 1987, invites him to sit with us for coffee. Buck brings
out a magazine article that plainly shows he and Steve together.
What fun listening to them recall that very special time.
The rain is coming hard as we rush to Steve's Jeep. As I toss my
pack and sticks in the back seat and jump aboard, I'm thinking of
the great new friends I've made here in Williamsburg. Thanks
Brenda, Buck, Waldo, thanks all, for your kindness to me.
Heading out of Williamsburg, Steve comments that we'll be going the
long way around to his place near Ripley. On the way, he shows me
the home where he was raised in Bethel, where his mother still
lives--and the steps he walked down to begin his 'round-the-world
trek. Then on we go to this most impressive sign at the city
limits, that proclaims, "Bethel, home of Worldwalker, Steve
Newman." Steve cooperates, jumping out in the rain, as I snap him
standing by the sign (probably for the umpteenth time).
As we continue on to his home, Steve speaks with much joy about his
little corner of Ohio, its rich history, the good people who live
here. I am struck by our similar childhoods--two barefoot kids from
small-town America. Though he's roamed the world, Steve's managed
to keep his roots, to return home to where--I guess we would
say--"He belongs." I wasn't so smart. I did my share of roaming,
too, and I should have returned to my little corner of Missouri--but
I never did. And now it's way, way past too late. Oh yes, on this
journey I am hiking home, but I really can't go home. Steve, dear
friend, I truly envy you, the choice you made years ago, was the
right choice.
Up a steep hill now, along a narrow drive that was once a path
walked by Indian warriors and by Daniel Boone, we climb to the grand
Newman home. Here, I am greeted by Steve's wife, Darci. After a
fine breakfast, Steve settles me into their spacious guest room
where I'm able to get my feet up and write. Both Steve and Darci
are making preparations for guests who will arrive soon, friends,
and now business associates, that Steve met while hiking through
Japan. Yet both have taken time from their busy schedules to be with
me today.
In the evening, Steve and Darci show me some more local historic
sites, including the little house overlooking the Ohio River that
inspired Harriet Beecher Stowe to write Uncle Tom's Cabin. The
Newmans then treated me to dinner at one of their favorite spots in
the beautifully restored downtown section of Ripley.
This has been very fine day.
Friday--June 7, 2002
Trail Day--51
Trail Mile--1031
Location--SR32, Batavia, Ohio, thence to home of Erric Hutchins
and Lorry Maynard, Batavia
Steve insists on treating me to breakfast this morning. Then on the
way back to Valley View, he stops by East Fork State Park to get
maps for me. Everyone at the lounge really loves Steve. Most of
the regulars are here this morning, for they know that Steve will be
bringing me by. Buck's got coffee on--and sitting for a spell, as
we do, it quickly becomes storytelling time again. Steve lived some
amazing adventures during his walk around the world, and he spins
those tales and stories so well. Everyone is totally captivated.
Time soon comes, though, for me to hit the trail. Steve still
hasn't gotten around to all his chores in preparation for his
guests, so, it's time to say goodbye. Thanks, Steve, thanks, Darci,
for taking me into your lovely home at such a busy time...and thanks
especially for your kindness and your friendship!
While staying at the old Hotel Valley View, I made friends with many
of the regulars there. They all know where I've been and where I'm
headed, and today I'm headed for Batavia. Two who live there, Eric
Hutchins and Lorry Maynard, have invited me to stay with them this
evening. So, as I bid goodbye to Buck and Brenda (who now plans to
fly to California to be with me when I finish), Erric and I make
plans for him to fetch me just the other side of Batavia this
evening.
Ohio not only has a favorite daughter to brag about in its hiking
circles--Grandma Gatewood, but Ohio also has a favorite son--Steve
Newman. Both have trails named after them here in Ohio. I walked
the Grandma Gatewood trail last week in Old Man's Cave gorge. And
today, with the help of maps given me by Steve, I will hike some of
the East Branch State Park, Steve Newman Trail.
Heading in, I find I've got some tough trail; Steve warned me. The
recent rains have not only raised the rivers and creeks, but have
made a total sop of the woods. Some of the trails in East Branch
have had horse traffic, which makes hiking them nearly impossible
due to the mud, but I manage to get through. Back on the tarmac, it
doesn't take long for the skin to start coming unglued from my
totally soaked feet. I stop and wring out my socks as best I can,
then dry my feet. They've really toughened up, so I manage the rest
of the day okay.
By four, I'm west of Batavia where I stop at a Speedway to give
Erric a ring on his cell phone. The plan is working, and a little
before five, as the coming-from-Cincinnati rush-hour traffic builds,
Erric pulls out of the line and to the shoulder just ahead of me.
We're soon to his home, where I'm greeted by Lorry, who immediately
thrusts a tall frosty in my hand. "Double-R," as Erric is known to
friends around, as a fine cook, and for supper he prepares some of
the finest stroganoff I believe I've ever tasted--pure hiker jet
fuel!
In the evening I'm invited to go with he and Lorry to a friend's
birthday party. Randy has just turned 41. Many familiar faces from
Valley View. It's really nice how all these kind folks have taken me
in so quickly, how they've made me one of their own.
Randy's place is in the country, lots of room, lots of kids. As
dark-thirty rolls around, we're all treated to one incredible
fireworks show by Randy. He's turning loose of 40 with a bang!
Late night now, back at Double-R and Lorry's, we relax and chat
awhile. What a day, what a day, thanks dear friends, thanks, all!
Saturday--June 8, 2002
Trail Day--52
Trail Mile--1052
Location--SR8, Covington, Kentucky, Extended StayAmerica Motel
Erric has a special grill for the eggs and a cast-iron skillet for
the sausage and potatoes--what a grand breakfast. He and Lorry both
take me back to the busy highway where I'll continue on to
Cincinnati today. A few snaps, many good, solid hugs, and it's time
once more to leave dear new friends behind. Fifty yards, I turn,
and with tears streaming down again, I give them one last wave, my
sticks in the air as they pull into traffic and are gone. I turn
into it, toward Cincinnati.
This is one tough road walk today, especially the section of US50
where the sign reads, "No bicycles, pedestrians or slow-moving
vehicles allowed." There's no other way, at least that I can tell
from my sketchy map, other than miles and miles around, so in I go.
Three miles on this grinder and I'm little more than pulp. It's
tight, narrow, four-lane, a crash-rail less than two feet from the
eastbound solid white line, double yellows only in the middle, and a
four-foot "emergency lane" between the westbound solid white and a
continuous six to twelve-foot high concrete wall. I must walk with
the traffic, which I hate--it totally unnerves me--rear view mirrors
just off my left shoulder, whizzing by at seventy plus. Where the
wall dips down, drooping from it and blocking the narrow emergency
lane, are locust-like hard briars. I try stooping under them or
pushing them aside. I dare not step over the white line. The black
barbs let me have it, and my scalp and arms are soon!
a bloody mess. It's ninety degrees now though, so my sweat helps
wash me. Somehow I manage to make it through without becoming road
kill, and the cops don't spot me. Another gauntlet safely
run--thank you, Lord!
In Cincinnati now, I pick up the familiar blue blazes that mark the
Buckeye Trail. I follow them to where they and the trail ends in
Eden Park, a beautiful spot overlooking the grand Ohio River. A
gentleman obliges and I get a couple shots of me standing by the
overlook.
The state of Ohio, the Buckeye Trail, and all the great people it's
been my privilege and joy to meet while hiking here, will surely
bring good and lasting memories. I really hate to leave this state
behind, but I am bound for California, and I must go.
I pass the grand towers of Cincinnati, to trek along their
promenades, then to pass the beautiful stadiums and cross the broad
Ohio on the old suspension bridge built in 1886. This structure,
the prototype for the Brooklyn Bridge, is still a striking feature,
blending the skyline of this fair metropolis.
At five, I cross into Kentucky to the city of Covington where I
check into StayAmerica, right by the river. The clerk is both
inquisitive and concerned when greeted by the grimy, bloody old
Nomad. In the evening, I give my dear friend, Alvis "Paw Paw"
Kinney a call. I remember that Paw Paw lives close-by in Highling
Heights. He's a dear hiker-trash friend. I get his son, Matt, on
the phone. Plans are to spend tomorrow together--more good times
comin' up--ahh yes, let the good times roll!
Sunday--June 9, 2002
Trail Day--53
Trail Mile--1052
Location--Highling Heights, Kentucky, home of Alvis "Paw Paw"
Kinney
I've decided to take a day off and spend it with Paw Paw, his family
and friends. He and Matt come for me around ten and we're soon back
to their home in Highling Heights. It's so good to see these dear
friends again.
Paw Paw is pure hiker trash. Retired military, as are a good many
of the trash fraternity, they took him right in. I met him at Trail
Days at the Hobo Central hangout a number of years ago. We've been
good friends since. Paw Paw was an honest-to-gosh WWII doughboy.
He started carrying a pack when he was just a kid in the army. That
was in 1936. He gave them his twenty, retiring from the army in
1956. Yes folks, that was awhile ago, for you see, Paw Paw is 85
now--and he still can put on a pack and go! He was already in his
80's when he hiked the Appalachian Trail.
There's a Time/Life picture book about Pearl Harbor laying on the
couch. As I thumb through it, Paw Paw begins reminiscing those
years. For you see, Paw Paw was on Pearl, at Schofield, on that
infamous day in 1941. Up till that day, he had been living the life
all adventuresome, footloose kids dream. He was known around simply
as "Speed," being the featherweight boxing champ of all of Pearl.
His eyes drop and his kind face saddens. With voice trailing off,
he whispers, "I lost a lot of good friends that day."
In the afternoon, Matt cranks up the grill for a grand cookout.
More family and friends come by. We have a great time.
Paw Paw and me, we make plans to hike some together in a few days.
Matt will bring him out. This sure has been a joy filled day!
Monday--June 10, 2002
Trail Day--54
Trail Mile--1082
Location--US50, Lawrenceburg, Indiana, Wishing Well Motel
After breakfast at Frisch's, compliments of Paw Paw, I'm back on
SR8, headed west by eight-thirty. Thanks, Matt, thanks Paw Paw,
thanks dear Kinney family and friends, it's been a great stay!
In a short while, I board the Anderson Ferry, to cross the Ohio.
Another state behind me today, Kentucky. A final, short stretch
through Ohio and I'm into Indiana. This should have been a routine
twenty+ mile day, but I screw up and hike nine miles in the wrong
direction, so it's eight-thirty and thirty+ miles before I finally
pull into Lawrenceburg. I am finding that US50 is not the most
friendly highway in the whole world.
Tuesday--June 11, 2002
Trail Day--55
Trail Mile--1104
Location--SR62, Friendship, Indiana, pitched in a farmer's
pasture, by Raccoon Creek
Thought I finally entered the Central Time zone when I crossed into
Indiana, but all the clocks here are on the same time I've been
on--Eastern Time. At the truck stop last night I asked the waitress
about the time. She said she thought the change was still some
thirty or forty miles west, but she wasn't sure. I know I'll be
glad when I get there, wherever it is, because until I do, I'll keep
wondering if I'm really getting anywhere.
It's a casino crawl this morning, all the way through Lawrenceburg,
like Vegas without all the tinsel. I wasn't aware that Indiana had
gone that way, but again, there are countless things about which I
have not a clue anymore--one of the wonderful (and acceptable)
virtues of growing old. Another thing about which I have not a
clue, is where I'm going now that I'm in Indiana. Been stopping in
all the gas stations along, hoping to pick up an Indiana DeLorme
Atlas and Gazetteer--no luck. There's a Super Wal-Mart just ahead,
maybe there.
Ever notice how Wal-Mart likes to sit off by itself, usually on a
high spot, if one's available? Even if one's not available, they
just push the top of a couple of hills together to make room.
That's what they've done here in Lawrenceburg. The store is right
off US50, but to get there it's a quarter-mile drive (walk) up and
around, so I just dig my sticks in and climb the 300 foot
weed-choked incline. Pay dirt! They've got the map, just one, what
luck! Back down the manmade mountain to the road, and to the local
fish place, I while the rest of the morning mapping my route. A
couple of locals, Ed and Sugar, enquire as to my adventure, then
help set me in the right direction.
US50 into Dillsboro is much easier going today, what with a fully
paved emergency lane. There's lots of traffic, especially
eighteen-wheelers on the haul to Cincinnati, but I've got some room,
and they all give me more. By late evening, I'm in Friendship, a
little berg nestled in the south Indiana hills, known far and wide
as the muzzle loading capitol of the world. Their annual event is
in full swing as I pass through, thousands of tents and campers
everywhere. I had planned on pulling into the local campground.
Forget that! Instead, I have a couple cold ones at the downtown
watering hole, then move on. Finally out of earshot of the rifle
reports, I pitch for the evening by a happy little brook, behind
some cedar trees, in a farmer's pasture.
Rain has threatened all day, the clouds most welcome, and a few
sprinkles come just as I roll in.
I believe that was the extent of the rain for the day--but I'm not
sure.
Wednesday--June 12, 2002
Trail Day--56
Trail Mile--1129
Location--SR62, Madison, Indiana, Englewood Motel
Aww Jeez, I can't believe this, cow doo everywhere, all over me, all
over my little Nomad tent. When I pitched in the tall grass last
night, I didn't notice what was lurking below. Tall grass has a
soft, cushy feeling under tent, never squishy or mushy--what a
mess. I break camp and get going as best I can, flies following
along.
The day has dawned cloudy, to remain overcast throughout the
afternoon, with intermittent sprinkles off and on--what a blessing,
not getting fried for a change.
The topography of southern Indiana is far from flat, the land being
cut through by many creeks and rivers meandering to the Ohio just to
the south. To call these deep cuts "valleys" is a stretch. They're
really ravines in the truer sense, having steep, rocky walls. The
highway gets in and out of them with only moderate success, winding,
climbing and pitching off, guided by crash rails, some of which have
decided to go their own way, leaning and sliding into the
near-vertical gulches. I glue myself to the rails as the traffic
leans and pitches the endless curves toward me.
By late afternoon the landscape flattens some as I near Madison.
Somewhere along, I finally entered the Central Time zone; in
Madison, I've picked up an hour. The cashier at the corner Big Foot
jiffy doesn't have a clue. Inquiring as to where I hit the
change--popping her gum, she replies, "dunno, don't never go that
way." I can sure understand why--there isn't much out there, unless
you're looking for (a little) Friendship!
I check into the local mom-n-pop motel, wash the cow poop off Nomad
and my Nomad, hit Taco Bell across the street, then call it a day.
Thursday--June 13, 2002
Trail Day--57
Trail Mile--1159
Location--SR56, Scottsburg, Indiana, Dollar Inn
Well, I thought I'd finally entered the Central Time zone, but
apparently not. I'm an hour behind Eastern Time now, but what's
happened is: folks hereabouts have never switched to daylight
savings time, electing to remain on standard time--anyway, I think
that's what's happened?? Spring forward, fall forward--I can never
keep it straight. I'll actually be there when I reach the
Indiana/Illinois line; my watch just won't know it.
I'll be hiking some trail today, a short section through Clifty
Falls State Park, another (but uniquely special) of the many ravines
and canyons all along the Ohio River in southern Indiana. The
canyon, with its delightful waterfalls, was formed during the last
Ice Age when the Ohio River was created. An old rail grade goes
part way through, along with a partially completed tunnel. So I
chalk up another tunnel along my journey today.
While in the park, and hiking down to Tunnel Falls, I meet another
hiker, a young fellow from Cleveland. Aaron Hay and his dog, Moses,
are out section-hiking the American Discovery Trail. Tired from the
constant road walking, they've pulled off to camp for a day or so
before moving on. Aaron is carrying seventy pounds. Needless to
say, he gives my pack a long, longing look! We share a good time.
I'm really late getting out of Clifty, and it's a fair road walk
into Scottsburg, my destination for today, so I dig my sticks and
hammer. The rain also hammers, coming in waves right at me from the
west. It's late and my feet are soaked and sore as I stomp out the
last of the thirty for today.
At Dollar Inn, and after a good tub soaking, I try calling my old
friend, Paw Paw. We've planned hiking a section of the Knobstone
Trail together, and I'm near the trailhead now--but no luck. I'll
take a day off tomorrow. Hopefully, we'll get together then, make
final plans, and hike out together this weekend.
Friday--June 14, 2002
Trail Day--58
Trail Mile--1159
Location--SR56, Scottsburg, Indiana, Dollar Inn
I've decided to take a day off in hopes of reaching Paw Paw, then
we'll make arrangements to hike the Knobstone Trail together this
weekend. I've also been in touch with Kevin Miller and John Egli
who live here in northern Indiana. I met them last year at Barb
Genge's Tuckamore Lodge, clear up in Newfoundland. They were on a
bear hunt and I was hiking the Newfoundland Appalachian Trail. We
became immediate friends and have kept in touch ever since. We'd
really like to get together, but they've got a long, six-plus hour
drive, and it looks like I'm going to be in the woods all weekend.
Maybe I'll see them next week further west in Boonville or
Evansville. What a disappointment.
I continue trying to reach Paw Paw all day and into late evening,
still no luck. Dang, I sure hope he's okay. Another
disappointment.
I received a real nice email the other day from Laurie Foot.
Laurie's the president of the American Discovery Trail Association.
Since I enquired about the ADT over a year ago, Laurie has kept in
touch, providing much information and encouragement, so too, her
latest email. She's been following my daily journals for this
transcontinental thru-hike, and has asked if I'd put in a little
plug for the ADT in a future entry. I fired a response right back
telling her there was no way I could recommend the ADT to the hiking
community. "The ADT isn't for backpackers, it isn't a hiking
trail," I wrote. Well folks, how's that for a grand show of
appreciation and thanks to a kind, helpful friend!
It is true, the ADT is not a hiking trail. It's really for bikes,
over 90% of it. Laurie and her husband, Bill, biked (and hiked
short stretches of) the entire route, including the northern loop
from Cincinnati to Denver, nearly six thousand miles, before Bill's
untimely death.
Regardless of the design, however, there is much good that can be
said for the transcontinental route the ADT folks have painstakingly
laid out. From a hiker's perspective, it can be looked at like
this: Every year, thousands of enthusiastic backpackers leave
Georgia, bound for Maine on the Appalachian Trail. Perhaps, over
all the many years and for all those thousands of people, perhaps
one or two of them had planned, as their initial goal, to hike from
somewhere in the deep south, to somewhere in New England--by
whatever route. Then they found out about the Appalachian Trail,
which goes from Georgia to Maine, and once having made that
discovery, jumped on it and went that way.
Okay, let's apply this scenario to the few folks who may, from time
to time, think about how exciting and romantic it would be to walk
across the north American Continent; the numbers sure fit. For all
that lift a backpack and go, for all those thousands and thousands,
probably no more than one or two ever seriously consider, let alone
plan and attempt a transcontinental trek. Ahh, and here's where the
ADT comes in! How to get there, where to start, which way to go?
The USA is wide and vast, many beautiful and historic places to
see. To look at all the possibilities boggles the mind. The ADT
folks have thought long and hard about this, and they've created a
route that takes in the most of the best any route could possibly
offer--national forests and parks, state treasures and historic
sites, and trails of all description make up the route of the ADT.
So, my suggestion is this: if you're that one (in thousands) that's
just got to trek this continent, then stop and take a good long look
at the ADT, it has much to offer. I did, and on my trek so far,
I've been on the ADT more than off.
My apologies, Laurie, and thanks for all your help and
encouragement. My 2002 Odyssey," From Sea to Shining Sea" continues
to be enriched by all you've done for me.
Saturday--June 15, 2002
Trail Day--59
Trail Mile--1177
Location--Knobstone Trail, mile marker 15, Jackson-Washington
National Forest, Indiana, pitched near New Chapel Trailhead
Kent "Tent-n-Kent" and Terry "Toccoah" Wilson live in Indianapolis,
Indiana. We met at the Ironmaster's Mansion on the Appalachian
National Scenic Trail during their northbound hike in 2000. We've
been in contact the last few days, as they've expressed interest in
hiking the Knobstone with me. I've invited them to come along.
As I hike out the eight miles to Leota Trailhead this morning,
they'll be driving two vehicles south, to leave one at Deam Lake on
the south end of the trail, then to drive the other back to meet me
at Leota. I depart Scottsburg a little after eight, which should
work well to meet them at ten-thirty. We've planned two,
thirteen-mile days to reach Deam.
At Leota, and as I wait, I'm entertained by four young fellows that
are headed north from Deam, three brothers and a friend. I believe
they said that today was their third day on the trail. As is
customary with beginning backpackers, they all started with entirely
too much gear, around sixty to seventy pounds each. I chuckle as
one of the brothers explains how he threw in the towel, turned
around at mile four and hoofed it back to the parking lot. From
there, he drove their vehicle around to the next trailhead at the
five-mile mark where they all dumped their huge external frame
packs, opting for smaller and much lighter fanny packs. That's how
they came into Leota today. I soon get a full briefing on the
"knobby" Knobstone Trail!
At one, Kent and Terry finally arrive--with both vehicles. Kent's
had an emergency at work and couldn't get away. Shuttling one car
south, we're finally on the trail around three.
Somehow we manage over ten miles for the day, ending on a ridge top,
to pitch just as the heavens open.
The Knobstone Trail is difficult only to the degree most backpackers
might experience practically anywhere in the southern Appalachians,
steep, short ascents and descents, with grand flat stretches in
between, and that's it. What a joy being on tread way for an entire
day, finally, after over 1200 miles of multi-use trails and roads.
As the rain settles in to a soft, gentle patter on my little Nomad,
I'm quickly off to slumber land. Kent and Terry are neat folks;
we're going to have a grand time hiking together tomorrow.
Sunday--June 16, 2002
Trail Day--60
Trail Mile--1192
Location--Intersection, SR111/60, Bennettsville, Indiana, pitched
in abandoned mobile home
The rain is still with us this morning, but soon slacks off as the
clouds burn away to present another glorious hiking day.
Kent and Terry are seasoned backpackers. They've learned not to
carry the store with them; both have lightweight gear and use Leki
trekking poles. We find the treadway quite soggy, but are able to
dodge and dance along, making very good time. By late morning, and
as we comment on having the trail to ourselves, comes through a
train of hikers, probably over thirty in all. They're members of
the Singles Hikers and Walkers, a hiking club from Louisville,
Kentucky. As the last hiker approaches, I hear, "Nimblewill
Nomad!" It's Dennis Crowley, whom I'd met at the first Southest
Regional Foot Trails Conference at Unicoi State Park in April. With
a broad smile, Dennis says, "You don't ever stay home, do you!"
Kent and Terry are both spelunkers and rock hounds. During the hike
today I get up to speed on ancient artifacts, sparkle rocks and soft
worms.
The Knobstone Trail is turning to be a very pleasant but demanding
hike. A couple of the straight-ups involve staircases, one rivaling
the infamous stair steps of Albert Mountain on the Appalachian
Trail. It's late evening when we reach Deam Lake Trailhead; time to
say good-bye to more dear new fiends. So long Kent and Terry, I've
really enjoyed our hike together.
Just before dark, I manage to make it down to the Petro/Food Mart at
the intersection of SR111/60. I had reset my watch and PocketMail
two days ago to reflect the time change--I'm an hour off again.
This Indiana time is really screwy. The lady making my sub says the
time changes a couple miles from her house. She didn't know how far
west I'd have to go before it changed back again.
By the tracks behind the station, I'd noticed an abandoned house
trailer. After finishing off my fourth fountain Pepsi and one of
the best ham, salami and bologna subs I've enjoyed since I can't
remember when, I stumble in the dark to the old trailer. The place
is empty except for a mattress on the living room floor--ahh yes, a
perfect ending to a perfect day.
Monday--June 17, 2002
Trail Day--61
Trail Mile--1225
Location--SR62/337, Corydon, Indiana, Kintner House Inn, Mark and
Michael Wiseman, proprietors, Dee Windell, innkeeper
I'm back to the food mart first thing for biscuits and gravy, and
half a pot of coffee.
The hike today takes me through downtown New Albany, a fairly large
city on the Ohio River. Making great time, I'm in by noon, so I
decide to hike on through to Corydon, my next mail drop.
Over the eons, the rivers and brooks here in Indiana have created
what is known as a dissected plateau. The Ohio River has carved out
one of the deepest valleys, which I must climb out of. Motorists
probably don't much notice the extreme elevation change, but my legs
and back sure let me know. Once back on the plateau, the highway
pops right along, with only minor ups and downs. By late evening
I've made the 33 miles to Corydon, the old capitol of Indiana. Here
I check into the Kintner House Inn, a beautifully restored old three
story home, now a B&B on the list of national historic places.
The traffic and the people all along have been kind to me. This has
been a good day.
Tuesday--June 18, 2002
Trail Day--62
Trail Mile--1225
Location--Corydon, Indiana, Kintner House Inn
Corydon is a beautiful town, neat old homes, a thriving downtown
business district--I decide to spend another day, to rest and get
caught up on my writing.
I hit the jackpot on my mail drop. It's good to receive letters from
friends.
Late last evening along the highway, a fellow stopped to talk with
me. It was Dave Whipple with the Corydon Democrat, the local
newspaper. He'd invited me to stop by his office, so I spend some
time with him today. Two other hikers, a husband and wife team, are
also doing a transcontinental hike. I'd heard about them along the
way, but information was sketchy. They passed through Corydon a few
weeks ago. Dave interviewed them and he shows me the neat article
he'd written about Peter and Joyce Cottrell from Whiteford, New
Hampshire.
Somehow I've ended up with an upset stomach and the chills. I spend
most of the day buried under the covers--bummer.
Wednesday--June 19, 2002
Trail Day--63
Trail Mile--1247
Location--SR62, Sulphur, Indiana, pitched behind their fire
station
The day starts with a great breakfast with Dee and guests. My tummy
is still queasy, but I'm going on. A final walk through the
beautifully restored and maintained Corydon business district and
I'm across the bridge over Indian Creek, to the new post office--to
send my bounce box on ahead to my sister's place in Missouri.
The hike today leads me across and through more of Indiana's
dissected plateau, where the Blue and Little Blue Rivers cut through
to the Ohio. As I climb, I'm reminded of the catchy little jingle
that Kent and Terry kept humming last weekend as we climbed in and
out of the chasms, "Thank you, Lord, for the level ground; oh, thank
you, Lord, for the level ground; yes, thank you, Lord, for the level
ground--'cause everythin' else is up 'n down." It's another
blistering hot day, high humidity, temperatures hovering near
one-hundred, little breeze, no shade, weird, fantasy-like mirages
pulsing and lifting above the bubbling tarmac. It's hard to work up
an appetite in this kind of heat, but I do stop for supper at the
Overlook Restaurant in Leavenworth. A baked potato and a dish of
applesauce is all I can manage. I'm having a real problem with the
air conditioning when I go in anywhere--become chilled immediately.
Leavenworth is the little town right next to the Ohio River's grand
horeshoe bend. There's also a pricey B&B right on the bluff, with a
spectacular view of the Ohio in both directions--with spectacular
room prices to reflect the view. I settle for the view and head on
west.
The country store in Sulphur is closed for the day when I arrive
late evening, but the pop machines are working just fine out front,
so I feed them all a good dose of one dollar bills. A fellow rides
in on his Harley--on reserve, and tries getting a few drops of gas
from the closed-down pumps. A little further west is Sulphur's
Volunteer Fire Department. Dark's a-comin' fast, so I pull off to
pitch behind on their neatly manicured lawn.
A hot, hard day. My stomach, thankfully however, is feeling much
better. A sweat-soaked grind it was, ahh, but there's no sweat
sleeping!
Thursday--June 20, 2002
Trail Day--64
Trail Mile--1277
Location--SR162, Santa Clause, Indiana, Santa Clause Hotel
I'm up and out, and into the beginning frying-pan of it by eight.
There's very little traffic on this section of SR62, thankfully,
'cause there's scarcely little shoulder, the roadway pitching off to
the gulches below. As I move away from the Ohio, the cut-up plateau
is less cut up, the valleys running wider, the ascents and descents
less steep.
It's another pressure-cooker day, little shade, only the slightest
breeze. I've just got to start carrying more water--20oz. no longer
cuts it over a 10-15 mile stretch. Problem is: hot water's never
been one of my favorite drinks. I should be using Conquest, the
thirst-quencher invented and produced for ultra-marathon runners by
my dear friend, Gary Buffington, MD. But the amount of powder I'd
have to carry for the two-plus weeks between mail drops is
prohibitive. I just keep gulping down the Sprite and Mountain Dew
at every little roadside oasis I come to.
I push hard today to put in thirty, and by late evening I'm in Santa
Clause. But Santa Clause isn't here. Smart fellow, because this
griddle is no where near the North Pole--the thermometer again
punching at one-hundred.
I'm a bedraggled, wasted (and smelly) mess as I enter the lobby at
Santa Clause's Hotel. Bobby, the evening clerk, takes pity on the
old Nomad, giving me their rate for the likes of bums, and I'm in
for the night. What a blessing, a good tub-soaking for my tired,
creaking old bones, followed by dinner in their fine restaurant.
I'm not feeling nearly so sorry for myself now.
Back in my room, I string a line, hand wash my clothes, then
collapse for the night. What a day--gotta get acclimated to this
heat, I just gotta, or I'll never make it across Kansas and the
desert southwest.
Friday--June 21, 2002
Trail Day--65
Trail Mile--1302
Location--SR62, Boonville, Indiana, pitched on lawn behind tire
store
There'll be a break in the hike today, a stopover at the Lincoln
Boyhood National Memorial located about five miles west of Santa
Claus. As I hike west this morning, it isn't even ten before the
tarmac starts cooking, so I stop off at the little gift shop and
grill run by Kathleen Crews. Cool lemonade in hand, we chat.
Kathleen sets me up on how to tour the Memorial, then gives me a
short introduction to the animals she's raising, woodland buffalo,
herds of which roamed the area during Abe Lincoln's time.
At the Memorial, I find the museum to be most interesting. It's a
"U"-shaped building constructed of locally-cut stone with many
carvings and inscriptions--featuring the likeness and words of
Lincoln. Outside, I meet Sam, a ranger with the park service. He
speaks with enthusiasm about this place, his work. Then he becomes
intrigued by my pack, the little I'm carrying. Before I've finished
answering his questions--Sam's ready to pack up and come along!
Walking the manicured grounds along the "Lincoln boyhood trail,"
then past Nancy Hank's grave to the Lincoln family home site, brings
a feeling of pride and connectedness, pride in what America's become
since Lincoln's time, and connected with life in his time as a
result of my presence here.
Kathleen has informed me that at Gentry, I'll have my last
opportunity to get anything to eat or drink before Boonville, nearly
twenty miles away, so in Gentry I stop at the food mart for some
orange sherbet and lots of fountain fizz.
I'm carrying two 20oz pop bottles of water now, good thing, as the
road is long and hot. In Boonville, I manage some fish and a small
baked potato at the local mom-n-pop, then move on to pitch behind a
tire store for the night. I fall asleep in a sweat. Dang if it
ain't hot!
Saturday--June 22, 2002
Trail Day--66
Trail Mile--1320
Location--SR62, Evansville, Indiana, Baymont Inn
I do a little better this morning, two cups of coffee and an egg
biscuit at Arby's. I start out with two pop bottles of water
again. Good thing, as there's no more until the eastern outskirts
of Evansville, and it's another hot, humid day, the sun making the
tarmac ooze, and turning my skin to leather. SR60 isn't quite so
friendly today, narrow shoulders, much traffic with heavy trucks. I
become covered with grit from the gooey mixture of my own sweat and
the dust-storm being hurled at me by oncoming traffic. The last
five miles, all the way into Evansville, is four-lane, sort of,
certainly a poor excuse for it, being no more than a slot created by
changing the solid white lines to dashes, opening up the emergency
lanes to traffic clear out to the curb and gutter. What's left is
the two-foot gutter to walk in, with two solid lanes of traffic
bearing down. The motorists are courteous, however, and I manage
okay, but it's sure a welcome relief to finally reach some sidewalk.
Evansville isn't much to brag about, at least the part I see. The
west end is pretty much train tracks mixed with industrial
buildings--and a pub crawl. I hit 'em all, mingling with the
locals. I dearly need a shower tonight, but there isn't a single
old mom-n-pop motel clear across Evansville, at least that I can
find, only the ritzy large chain operations on out, I'm told.
I manage a healthy helping of spaghetti at Fazoli's, then check into
the Baymont Inn just off the four lane. Not a real long day--but
still a long day. You know what I mean.
Sunday--June 23, 2002
Trail Day--67
Trail Mile--1349
Location--SR141, New Haven, Illinois, pitched in abandoned house
at blinker west of town
SR62 and I have kept each other company for many a mile. It's done
a great job in moving me on west and has generally treated me
kindly. I'll follow it to the state line today, where it changes to
Illinois 141.
I had planned to spend the night in Mt. Vernon, Indiana, but as I
pass through early afternoon, I find there's only one motel on the
west side, which doesn't appeal to me. There's still many hours of
(hot) daylight left, and I really do need to get on into New Haven,
Illinois, where Kent and Terry have left maps and data for the River
to River Trail for me. Yes, Kent and Terry drove 400 miles round
trip from Indianapolis just to leave the RtoR info for me, under a
rock by the side of the New Haven post office, so I really need to
get there before someone else finds it.
SR62 is long and straight, with good, wide shoulders, the traffic
heavy, but not a problem. It's just so blaming hot. I stopped at
the Subway in Mt. Vernon and all but drain their soda fountain.
Just west of town, what I've feared for years finally happens. I
had hemorrhoid surgery years ago, a very successful procedure, but
ever since, I've had to tend more urgently--to the urge to go.
Well, I don't know, perhaps it was the heat, the constant exertion,
hydration imbalance, a combination of all three, I don't know, but
suddenly, out of the blue, with no warning whatsoever--comes the
URGE. I'm on a five-mile stretch of elevated straightaway, not a
tree or bush in sight, the traffic whizzing. I bail off the side,
down into the tallest weeds I can find, slinging my pack off as I
go. I grope frantically at my shorts--too late. Aww cripe, Nomad,
why are you telling this? Don't you have any privacy--at all?
Well, life sure ain't all honeysuckles and happiness, and as long as
you're along for the joy of this journey, you might as well have to
put up with the other side--and today, the other side ain't pretty.
Oh, what a disgusting mess. With curious motorists flying by, I try
bathing myself with the one, precious, 20oz bottle of water I have
left. If you could see me, you wouldn't be laughing, you would feel
sorry for me! Oh my, I'm a frightful mess as I shoulder my pack and
head on down the road. In awhile, comes some trees and a drainage
canal. Here I'm able to bathe and wash my clothing. What an
improvement!
So now, I'm out of water. It's got to be a hundred degrees, not a
breath of air, the traffic coming from and disappearing to a
pinpoint on the horizon. It's late evening by the time I finally
reach the Wabash River and the Illinois state line. At the toll
booth, I stumble to the building just beside. The lady gives me
some bottle water. We sit and talk. I must not smell too bad.
It's dark when I finally reach New Haven. There's no store, only
one pop machine in the whole town. I keep feeding it dollar bills
and slogging down the Sun Drop until the machine quits. I retrieve
the maps from under the rock at the post office, then head back out
of town, passing the same fellow tending his burn barrel as I passed
coming in. "Looking for a store, weren't you?" he asks. I stop to
chat and he gives me some snacks and water.
In the pitch dark, and by the blinker west of town, I happen upon an
old abandoned house. Here I pull off and call it a day. I'll sure
remember this one for awhile.
Monday--June 24, 2002
Trail Day--68
Trail Mile--1377
Location--US45, Harrisburg, Illinois, Super 8 Motel
It's nine miles into a little place called Omaha, and my head and
the little bit of water I have left are both boiling by the time I
get there. On the way, I pass more and more oil wells, their pump
arms lifting and falling as they continue their perpetual pushups.
Some of the pumps still have the old Waukesau single cylinder
engines running them. These old external crank engines have huge
twin flywheels, which keep them turning and chugging...pucka, pucka--pock,
pock--pucka, pucka--pocka, pocka, pocka--puck, puck, puck. One
fellow has his rig painted up real nice. It's right in his front
yard where he can sit on his porch and keep guard on his own little
bank.
At the store in Omaha, I strike up a conversation with Bill, one of
the locals. Bill is a horseman and likes to ride in the Shawnee
National Forest--on the River to River Trail. Oh no, not another
horse trail! He says he sees hikers there some, but mostly horses.
Okay, time to make some adjustments. I'd planned on hiking down SR1
and intersecting the River to River Trail near its eastern terminus
at Garden of the Gods. From there, I could have hiked all but a few
miles of the entire 160 mile RtoR Trail. Change in plans. Decision
now is to hike on over to US45 and head southwest to intersect the
trail near Tunnel Hill. From there, I'll be able to hike the
western half of the RtoR on into Grand Tower. With the horses, I
figure that'll be enough. Thanks, Bill, for the timely info.
So over and down US45 I go, to the town of Eldorado. Two little
motels. At the first, the lady doesn't like my looks; at the
second, the place is full. Okay, time to separate the hikers from
the pikers. Here's what: we can slink out of town and pitch in the
bushes and eat some cold pop tarts; that's one alternative. After
all, it's already four-thirty and we've got in over twenty for the
day. Or, we can bust it another seven miles on down to the next
town and get a cool room, a baked potato and some medium-well prime
rib. I can smell the prime rib from here. Oh yeah, Nomad's hikin'
on!
Doo Dah, jackpot! Super 8 Motel first thing, with hiker trash
rates. And get this--right next, a Ponderosa Steak House! And
their special for the evening? Oh yes, prime rib! Go ahead, feel
sorry for me!
Tuesday--June 25, 2002
Trail Day--69
Trail Mile--1402
Location--Tunnel Hill State Trail, Tunnel Hill Road, Tunnel Hill,
Illinois, pitched trailside
The hike today takes me southwest along busy, shoulder-less US45.
Funny thing, US45 is cutting an almost perfect forty-five across
Illinois!
In the little town of Carriers Mills, I figure I'd better pick up
provisions for three or four days on the trail. Looks like this is
the last place to stock up before hitting the River to River Trail
just south of Tunnel Hill. At the little food-mart, the lady asks
where I'm headed, then, with a puzzled look, asks why I'm on US45
and not their spiffy rail-trail just beside! Sure enough, a couple
of blocks over is this mighty fine rail-trail, going all the way to
Tunnel Hill. It's shaded and there's no eighteen-wheelers. Duh!
Oh yes, this is worlds better. The miles pass much faster as I'm
able to get water from the trailheads along the way. Just at dusk,
I arrive at the tunnel in Tunnel Hill, where early tomorrow, I'll
pass through.
June 26, 2002
Trail Day--70
Trail Mile--1421
Location--SR37, Goreville, Illinois, Town and Country Inn and
Suites
Tunnel Hill is a sleepy little place passed by, with more
abandoned houses (and stores), it seems, than lived in ones. Once
upon a time this little berg was front and center, with the railroad
passing right through. But that's gone now, and all that's left is
the tunnel--along with the grand rail-trail that passes through--out
in the middle of no place.
I've hiked a number of different rail-trail conversions since
beginning this odyssey seventy days ago, but none compare to the
delightful work that's been accomplished in bringing this one up.
It's called the Tunnel Hill State Trail, and it runs some forty-five
miles in a southwesterly direction, from Harrisburg to Karnak, near
the Ohio River here in Illinois. In addition to the 543 foot
tunnel, there's much to see, what with 23 trestles along the way,
the longest and highest being Breeden Trestle at 450/90 feet. Yes
indeed, the Illinois Department of Natural Resources has done a
great job developing the Tunnel Hill State Trail.
I bag Tunnel Hill Tunnel first thing this morning (that's #20), and
it's a dandy, not nearly as long or as big as some, but certainly
one of the most picturesque, especially near the southwest entrance,
where 300 feet of the tunnel collapsed in 1929. This narrow, semi
arch-like section, with vines hanging, is strikingly beautiful--even
if haplessly manmade.
I'm looking now with much anticipation for an upcoming trail
crossing, where the River to River trail intersects the Tunnel Hill
Trail. Just south of the sky-perched Breeden Trestle, I find it.
Bill, the equestrian I met in Omaha, had told me about horses on the
River to River Trail, and about the stables at both ends. I'd hoped
that by coming on at the midway point, that I'd avoid dealing with
the degraded tread way I know horses can cause--but I was wrong.
Don't know if any of you have ever tried walking plowed ground. If
you have, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, you can
certainly imagine what I'm talking about. Walking wet plowed ground
is an absolute mess. Walking dry plowed ground is even worse, if
that's possible. Horses plow up trail, especially where there've
been lots of horses on the trail. Hiking where they've passed can
be very arduous and unpleasant, and at times, downright dangerous,
especially after the whole thing dries out.
To my dismay, what I encounter here today on the River to River
Trail is what I'd feared, degraded tread way caused by heavy horse
traffic. To me, it seems what's left, what the hiker must deal
with, is little more than the devil's work. After only ten miles of
this, I've had enough, especially after two, too-close-for-comfort
calls with turned ankles, the result of stepping on dry, clodded-up
tread way concealed beneath hip-high grass.
Reluctantly, at Ferne Clyffe State Park, I pull off--to head out
again for Whitman's "open road."
Thursday--June 27, 2002
Trail Day--71
Trail Mile--1449
Location--SR13, Murphysboro, Illinois, Super 8 Motel
I start the day in a funk, hike the day in a funk, end the day in a
funk.
I know the hills of southern Illinois have a beauty all their own,
and I missed almost all of it. I'm so disappointed with the River
to River Trail--but mostly, I'm disappointed with the way I
reacted. I've got such an absolute intolerance for the damage
horses make.
Dear Lord, please help me work harder on the virtues of patience and
tolerance--but dang, I just absolutely hate hiking with horses.
Long day, short entry.
Friday--June 28, 2002
Trail Day--72
Trail Mile--1479
Location--SR3/SR150, Chester, Illinois, Best Western Motel
An intense storm came through just as I arrived Super 8 last
evening. I could see it coming up behind me from just west of
Carbondale. I hastened my pace, just beating it, as the full light
show entertained me all the way to Murphysboro.
Today, the sun comes up in a blaze again, and it sure doesn't take
long for the tarmac to start bubbling. I'm rolling through the last
of the Illinois hills now as I near the Mississippi River. At a
place east of Chester, I pull in to camel up on water. It's a
little mom-n-pop cafe pinned to a straightaway on the narrow
farm-to-market road I'm trekking--in what seems like the middle of
no place. From a distance, I can see a bunch of cars parked out
front; the place looks busy. On arriving, however, it's evident
that what's now a cafe, was sometime past, a used car establishment,
with a number of the poor, rejected orphans still awaiting adoption
as the spreading weeds and crabgrass keep them company. Grasping
the door knob, I'm half expecting it not to turn, but the place is
open. I enter, to be greeted by Doris, proud owner, and chief cook
and bottle-washer. It's way too hot to eat; there's no way a body
can work up an appetite in this kind of weather, even after walking
half a day. I settle for two iced-down Pepsi's as I while the time
with Doris. "Folks come by on bikes once in awhile," she says, "but
no hikers--you're the first hiker." I ask her how much further it
is to Chester and if there's a motel. She says she doesn't know how
far it is for sure or if there's any place to stay in Chester.
Moving around the counter, she returns with the phone book.
"There's a Best Western," says Doris, as she flips through the
Yellow Pages. Back on the road now, and not a hundred yards west of
the cafe, there's a full-sized billboard that reads: "Best Western
Motel, Chester, Illinois, 18 miles!
I get in just before dark. The motel's on the other side of town,
on a different highway, a mile east. I need to take a shower, make
some phone calls and get my feet up, so I tromp the mile.
I raid their pop machine, then Tia, the hostess, fixes me a couple
hot dogs, compliments of the motel. After getting cleaned up, I
call "The Family" (AT GAME '98), for they live in Festus, Missouri,
just a little north of where I'll be crossing the Mississippi in the
morning. I get Curtis on the phone. They've been expecting me and
are excited about coming to fetch me from the trail tomorrow evening
somewhere west of Ste Genevieve.
Saturday--June 29, 2002
Trail Day--73
Trail Mile--1507
Location--SR32, New Offenburg, Missouri, thence to home of Curtis
and Suzy Allen, Festus, Missouri
I retrace the mile back, to pass through Chester and past the
"Popeye the Sailor Man" statue--for Chester, Illinois is where the
cartoon character, Popeye, was "born." I reach a real milestone this
morning on my trek "From Sea to Shining Sea," as I cross the grand,
expansive Mississippi River, to enter the state of Missouri. There
are two gas stations just across the bridge, but neither one has a
map of Missouri--okay for Arkansas, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio,
Kentucky, you name it, but not a single map of Missouri. A kind man
overhears my pleading with the attendant, goes to his truck, and
brings me back his map of Missouri, which he gives me, then shows me
a back roads shortcut to St. Marys.
The shortcut works, and by mid-afternoon I'm in Ste Genevieve, where
I call the Allen family again, and make plans to meet them this
evening somewhere along the road to Farmington. The Allens are a
great bunch. I met them while on my northbound transcontinental
hike in '98. They were on a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail at
the time. We became immediate and forever friends. "The Family,"
as they're known on the trail, consists of: mother, Suzy (Suches
'75); daughters, Sarah (Rosey), Martha (Artist), Anne (Appy Anne);
sons, Jesse (Sport), Casey (4x4); and husband, Curtis, who keeps
them supplied and shuttles them from time to time.
They pick me up at six-thirty near New Offenburg, only a short drive
from their home. Suzy has prepared a great dinner, from produce
grown on their farm; new potatoes, green beans, squash, fresh corn.
Also at the table with us is Matthew, a young lad, a friend of the
family, who is staying with them for a week or so.
We share a wonderful evening together, "The Family"--and me.
Sunday--June 30, 2002
Trail Day--74
Trail Mile--1546
Location--SR8/21, Potosi, Missouri, thence to home of Curtis and
Suzy Allen
The Allen farm is a quiet, peaceful place located in the hill
country just west of the Mississippi, back a long, private drive,
away from the main road. Their home, in a nicely shaded coppice of
oak, was built with their own hands. And what a spacious and
comfortable home it is. I've certainly received the royal
treatment, as they've insisted I use the master suite while their
guest. What a cool, quiet night; I slept well.
Curtis makes sure the coffee is ready before rousting me at six. We
drain the pot, then he and Suzy drive me back to New Offenburg. I'm
hiking by seven.
I've got a thirteen mile hike along an abandoned rail bed today,
which I reach by nine. There are some neat cuts and fills as the
old grade makes its way along and through the undulating Missouri
countryside. If you've ever walked the tracks, you've probably
noticed that when the crossties aren't filled level with gravel, it
makes for slow, awkward plodding. Three hours, and the old train
tracks (and the heat and humidity) have put a whoopin' on me.
Working my way through the village of Park Hills, I arrive at US67
and the local petro/food mart. Enquiring of the kind, young lady
attendant--as to the cost of a medium fountain drink, and three
refills--she (having taken but a casual look at this drooping old
Nomad) replies, "Just give me seventy-five cents, and help
yourself." I thank her kindly, then promptly proceed to drain all
the Mountain Dew and Cherry Coke.
My thirst slaked, I enquire as to directions to CR8. The sweet
young lady responds by offering to call her boyfriend and have him
come to drive me the two miles to CR8 on the outskirts of town! She
seems puzzled when I decline the offer.
Out of Park Hills, the road turns to winding curves, twisting up,
down and around. Passing a home tucked back in the trees, I nod to
a man sitting peacefully in the shade reading, his two dogs by his
side. As soon as the dogs spot me, ends the "peacefully," as all
hell breaks loose. Both dogs go bonkers, barking and racing across
the yard and into the roadway after me--just as an eighteen-wheeler
comes careening around the bend. The man jumps up, screaming at his
dogs. The dogs continue barking as they charge straight at
me--until they see the semi, all eighteen locked up, skidding toward
them. The dogs go skidding. I dive for the ditch. Somehow the
truck driver avoids hitting them--and a car coming the opposite
direction. It all happens in a flash. What a miracle. The truck
gets back straight and continues on, the dogs, tails tucked, retreat
to their yard, I go back to the road--but the fellow reading
peacefully in the shade doesn't return to his reading!
It's less than five miles to Leadwood. The tarmac is really
cooking, and by the time I arrive, I've drained all but a few ounces
of the two 20 oz. bottles of water toted from the food mart. The
map shows Leadwood to be of respectable size. There should be a
store here, but there's none, not a building or a single dwelling to
be found, only a westbound lane sign that reads, "Welcome to
Leadwood,"--and a mile later, an eastbound lane sign (as I turn and
look back), that reads, "Welcome to Leadwood." The new road
bypasses Leadwood! Oh my, the rest of this day is going to be one
long, tough pull. Potosi, my destination, is still nearly fourteen
miles to the west.
Two more hours of grinding and I'm totally out of water. As luck
would have it, and just as I'm telling myself how sorry I am for me,
I round a bend and pop a rise to find a little mom-n-pop cafe--and
they're open. After chugging two tall cups of water, followed by
two iced-down Dews, I'm back chugging out the last seven miles to
Potosi. I arrive at the main light right at eight. Not a minute
later, as I'm dropping my pack, Curtis and Suzy arrive.
From Potosi, it's a tad further back to the Allen home, and it's
dark when we arrive. The kids are all on the porch waiting for us,
except for Martha, who is away at school in Denver. Miss you,
"Artist." Suzy prepares another hiker feast. I stuff myself.
After dinner, their eldest daughter, Sara, and her husband, Phil,
stop by.
Before bedtime, Suzy calls Honey and Bear, trail angels from "The
Cabin" in East Andover, Maine. Their home is always open to weary
hikers passing by on the Appalachian Trail. They've befriended both
me and "The Family," dispensing much trail magic over the years.
We're all great friends. You'll recall Honey and Bear came and
tracked me down on the back roads in Ohio. Suzy comments as to how
she and her family are running a "The Cabin" way out here in
Missouri--dispensing trail magic to weary transcontinental hikers!
It's another memorable evening with "The (Allen) Family." I've been
truly blessed this day.
Monday--July 1, 2002
Trail Day--75
Trail Mile--1583
Location--SR8, Steelville, Missouri, Meramec Inn
It's not six, but everyone's up at the Allen house. Curtis makes
great coffee, and Anne's made scrumptious sugar cookies for me.
Many pictures--along with sad good-byes. Suzy and Curt drive me
back to Potosi, and I'm hiking again by seven-thirty. Thanks,
Curtis, Suzy, Sara, Martha, Anne, Jesse and Casey, thanks so much
for all your kindness to me over the years.
Most all the hike today is through the Ozarks in the Mark Twain
National Forest. It's beautiful country, but it's also a long,
tough, hot day. I dodge MODOT mowers and maintenance trucks
painting road lines.
It's dark when I arrive Steelville--baseball under the lights. Four
sugar cookies and three Cokes for supper.
Tuesday--July 2, 2002
Trail Day--76
Trail Mile--1614
Location--US63, north of Vichy, Missouri, abandoned hunter's
lodge, pitched on porch
Though a long mileage day, the hike proves interesting, the time
passing quickly.
First comes the beautiful Meramec River with its countless canoe
liveries. There's one spot right on the river that has more stacked
up canoe trailers than I've ever seen in one place before. Each
trailer rig is equipped to hold twenty canoes, and I count over
forty rigs at this one place alone. The Meramec is a popular spot!
Next comes the Missouri wine country near St. James, a rolling, but
lush and fertile region. I was raised not so far from here but
never knew this place existed. I'll definitely return to tour some
of these wineries--someday.
By late afternoon the rising heat has generated some wicked storm
cells. They chase and soon catch me from the south. First comes
the distant thunder, then the wind, followed by the ominous curtain
of carbon-black clouds--then the lightning and the driving rain. It
chooses to greet me on the open road. Ahead, I can see a farmstead
with accompanying out-buildings half a mile distant, but they're ten
minutes away--and I don't have ten minutes. Starts the splat of
quarter-sized raindrops, soon followed by the
thunder-and-lightning-driven waves of rain. I bail off to take
refuge in a fencerow of low trees and brush. I drop on my pack
while covering us both with my poncho. The torrent continues
howling, then pausing, for over half an hour, as the traffic also
continues, crawling and splashing its way through.
The storm passes almost as quickly as it sets, though, and I'm soon
able to return to the steaming tarmac, which cooks itself dry within
the hour.
At ten-till-eight, I reach a little mom-n-pop cafe just fixing to
close. But the waitress and the cook take pity on the water soaked
old Nomad, welcoming and fixing a fine fish dinner for me. They
then send me off with a fish sandwich for the morning. Just across
the highway there's an old abandoned hunter's lodge, complete with a
tin-roofed shed porch, which somehow has stayed dry. From the pop
machine by the cafe, I extract two twenty oz. Dews, then hasten to
the cabin porch where I pitch in the lingering light of dusk. The
sight of a million flickering fireflies, accompanied by the
continuous grinding sound of rumbling eighteen-wheelers passing, and
the tired, bedraggled Nomad's not long for this old world.
Wednesday--July 3, 2002
Trail Day--77
Trail Mile--1649
Location--CRB, St. Thomas, Missouri, thence to sister Salle's
home, Russellville, Missouri
I slept well, am up early, but to my amusement, I become immediately
confronted with the most bizarre situation. All during the night
(not fully awake, yet conscious of), I kept brushing off
crawly-bugs. Not biters, not those kind of troublemakers, just
crawly-bugs. As I reach for my hiking shorts hanging on the old
porch railing this morning, everyting moves! Apparently, and
unwittingly, I've pitched in roly-poly central city! Roly-polys are
everywhere. As I lift my shorts off the railing, a hundred
roly-polys fall free--and roll every which way. This is a hoot;
I've never seen so many bugs in one place. My tent, which I'd laid
out on the porch decking as a ground cloth, is covered with them.
My sleeping bag and everything in my pack, which was leaning against
the old lodge wall, are covered with roly-polys. I try not stepping
on them as I shake everything out. I'd need a shovel to completely
clean this up. After considerable effort, I manage to get shed of
the bugs and get back on the road. It's 7:00 a.m.
I've another long and hard grind-it-out day, as I continue closing
the gap, a breach of many miles, to make it to Russellville--my
childhood home and my sister's place--by the 4th of July. If I can
get this 35 behind me today, I know I'll be able to make it in by
tomorrow afternoon.
I've been dreading the twelve mile hike into Vienna on US63. US63
is a heavily traveled, winding and dangerous road. I know, I've
driven it many times while attending professional school in
Memphis. It was the shortest route I could take to visit my family
in Russellville. But to my surprise and good fortune today, I find
the going to be pleasant and not a problem at all.
I'm in Maries County, Missouri now, a beautiful place. Out of
Vienna, I take a series of state and county roads to the little
village of Meta. Along the way, on CR218, another afternoon
thunderstorm catches me. This time, I've heeded the early warning
sign of thunder and have pulled off the gravel to seek shelter in an
old hay barn. It's really quite amazing how rapidly these storms
make their way. I'm no more in the old barn than the heavens open,
emitting an absolute deluge. I climb atop one of the round bales
just as the dust and loose hay on the barn floor become whipped into
a frenzy. Again, I seek protection under my poncho as the dirt
flies and the rain beats through the old barn boards.
The storm lasts a good hour. I'm concerned now about reaching St.
Thomas by eight. Don and Berniece Jungmeyer, dear old childhood
friends, are coming for me at St. Thomas at eight. I must be there,
for they will be waiting to shuttle me to Russellville for the
evening, where I'll see my sister and her family for the first time
in many months.
The storm finally moves off to the north and I'm able to resume. In
places, the gravel road has been turned into 4WD territory, with
deep washouts and ruts, but I've no problem making my way. By
seven, I'm in Meta, home to the Keebler cookie elves. I've got
another five miles yet remaining to reach St. Thomas. Time to put
it in overdrive and haul. I make remarkable time, reaching St.
Thomas a little after eight. Don and Berniece are waiting patiently
for me. What a joy seeing these dear friends again. In the
evening, I'm reunited with my dear sister and her family.
It's been quite a day, but I'm home. Tomorrow morning, Salle will
drive me back to St. Thomas, so I can hike the remaining 23 miles to
Russellville.
It truly a joy being home again.
Thursday--July 4, 2002
Trail Day--78
Trail Mile--1672
Location--CR"C", Russellville, Missouri, home of sister, Salle
Anne Vanderfeltz
I had a great evening last with family and friends. Thanks, Don and
Berniece, for coming to St. Thomas to fetch me.
The afternoon thunderstorms are setting themselves to a pretty
predictable pattern. Now what I've found, is, they're not only no
fun to be in, but they're downright dangerous. Having been struck
by lightning--and still around to tell, I've come to gain a healthy
respect for it. Take my word, the open road is no place to be
during an electric storm! So, we're up and out early, as sis drives
me back to St. Thomas, where I'll resume my hike to Russellville.
I'm on the road by seven. Hopefully, I'll have time to complete my
hike today before the storms hit.
The Ozark Highlands around are characterized by lesser hills and
ridges, with lush, fertile farmland between. The secondary roadways
I'm hiking today wind and weave over and through these ridges and
valleys. First comes Upper Bottom Road, then Lower Bottom Road,
just before the Osage River crossing at Osage Bend. Then it's a
climb to Osage Bluff before descending again to cross Honey Creek.
Up another pop and I've a short zigzag along US54 before descending
again to cross Moreau Creek. Comes then the final pull from
Millbrook to the ridge at Highway "C" and the last four miles on
west to Russellville.
It would have been another rationing and "sippin'-hot-water" day,
save for a refueling (cold lemonade) brought to me by niece, Becky,
near Millbrook, followed by unlimited trips to the soda fountain at
Whoa-n-Go, compliments of the Amos sisters, Dwynda and Lylis.
Friends are waving and honking now as I close on the last three
miles: Jim Campbell, on his way home from work, and Bill and Linda
(another Amos sister) Smittle, on their way to help celebrate the
old Nomad's arrival in Russellville.
Shortly before three, and with the sky darkening to an ominous shade
of mud-bottom-green, I crest the last short hill below old Tambke
Station--and the city limits of Russellville. What a trip it's
been, but I'm here--back to my childhood home; it's the 4th of July
and I'm again with dear family and friends. Thank you, Lord, for
such a wide, safe path.
It's time now to pause and rest. This odyssey, "From Sea to Shining
Sea" will take a break, to resume, along with accompanying journal
entries, in a week or so. Please check back, I'm sure more
adventures await.
Thanks so much for coming along!
Thursday--July 18, 2002
Trail Day--79
Trail Mile--1694
Location--CR"O" Pisgah, Missouri, pitched behind Pisgah Baptist
Church
Well, I'm rested and ready to go--at 5:30 this morning! The hike
resumes by the road where my sister lives. Here, many dear friends
have come to hike the first 2.2 miles with me, out to Rockhouse
Bridge, the site I wrote about in the book, Ten Million Steps, where
the old, steel, box-frame bridge once stood, that would "shake and
rattle and make a joyful sound." That old bridge is long gone, but
my family and many dear friends are still here! Hiking along with
me this morning are my sister, Salle Anne, Josh (grandson to my dear
childhood friend, Donnie), Dwinda and Lylis (of the Amos sisters),
Darrell and wife, Joyce, their friend, Margie, and Jim and wife,
Norma Jean. At the bridge, Darrell has brought "refreshments," and
we drink a toast to our many years of friendship--and to a safe and
joy-filled journey as Nomad continues on to San Diego. Time now to
bid that inevitable, sad farewell to all--except Josh, Dwinda and
Joyce, who will hike on to California, Missouri with me.
And now, I must tell you about the restful (but excitement-filled)
time I had, the two weeks spent at my sister's place in
Russellville. It really started off with a bang, literally with a
bang! As you recall, I reached Russellville the afternoon of the
4th. Well, my niece, Becky, absolutely lives and loves fireworks,
she being a mortar fireworks and roman candle nut! Even before
dark-thirty the show began and was in full swing. Niece, Kim, and
her husband, Bob, and children, Rachel and Ashley, live on a farm
situated on a little rise just out from Russellville, with spacious
fields below and around; oh yes, the perfect spot for a grand
fireworks show! And that show, my friends, took a backseat to none
I've seen. With flashing bursts, she kept the sky lit for the
better part of an hour. The heavens turned red, white and blue, in
the most patriotic "rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air,"
report after grand report. The kids jumped and shouted with glee to
every exploding spray, especially Becky's daughter, Grace. It was a
wonderful, happy occasion.
I finally took the time to finish a project for Salle, which I'd
been putting off, replacing the landscape timbers around her many
and colorful flowerbeds. Becky and friend, Dean, helped. On the
final day working the project, an afternoon storm, like those I'd
gotten caught in down in southern Missouri, came roaring through,
packing tornado-like winds. Dean and I had no more finished hauling
the old rotted timbers away than the storm hit. It blew leaves (and
limbs) everywhere. Across town, at Donnie's house the winds were
driving so hard that they launched a boat from two houses up and
behind his place, and crashed it through the side of his house!
Grandson, Josh, and granddaughter, Lee Ann, were there at the time.
They retreated to the basement. Josh said when the boat hit the
house, that "It made a loud bang." A loud bang, I guess! Thank God
no one was hurt. Donnie's street was completely closed down, parts
of nearly-whole trees everywhere. Friends from surrounding states
later called Donnie and wife, Berniece, to check on them. They'd
seen the reports on TV!
Once you leave home, you can never truly return. But it's nice when
some things remain pretty much the same. And so, for the old tavern
downtown, which was run by the Amos sisters' dad, Halcy--where my
dad and his buddies used to while the time shooting pool. Halcy,
dad, and all his buddies have long passed, and returning, I've found
the old place closed from time to time, but it was open, so I whiled
a couple of afternoons there, reminiscing.
Friday--July 18, 2002
Trail day--80
Trail Mile--1714
Location--CR"B"/I-70, Boonville, Missouri, QT Inn, Raj Patel,
proprietor
The hard, cool rain of last evening has left its mark on this
morning. Everything is refreshingly clean, and the day dawns cool
and clear.
The hike today is along little-used county paved roads and
lesser-used gravel roads. These gravel roads don't show up
anywhere, except on county maps--and my DeLorme 3.0 software
program. While at my sister's I availed myself of niece, Becky's,
computer to print out 55 8 1/2 x 11 detailed maps that will get me
from Russellville, Missouri to Santa Fe, New Mexico. So far,
they're working great. I really enjoy hiking these little-used
byways; there's usually some shade! That's just one benefit.
Another is the many miles I save by hiking these back roads. Oh,
and an additional benefit today: I pass a house where the family dog
just lays in the yard and looks at me. Well, he (or she) raises its
ears and bangs its tail on the grass a couple of times, but not a
growl, not a single bark. That's major amazing! And the dog? It
was a black lab.
Along the second gravel road for the day now, I have the pleasure of
crossing a ford. Frankly, I'm surprised by the number of people
who've never heard of a ford! In case you're one, I'll explain.
Traditionally, there are two ways to cross a stream, one is over,
the other, through. The "over" way is to bridge the stream with,
well, a bridge! The "through" way is the way of the pioneers, like
those who traveled the old Santa Fe Trail. Those little-improved
stream crossings along were called "fords." This stream I ford
today has been fudged on a little. It's made up of a three-foot
high concrete slab with a bunch of culvert pipes run under it.
Setups like this one are really nifty, since 98% of the time the
stream isn't running enough volume to overwhelm the drainage pipes.
And the remaining 2% of the time? Well, for half that 2%, the
waters running up and over the slab, but with the way passable. For
the final 1%, heed need be given to the signs located on higher
ground to either side that read: "Impassable during high water."
Today, the odds are in my favor--I don't even get my feet wet!
As I proceed slowly west, the searing heat isn't dropping, but the
heat index certainly is, because slowly but surely, the humidity is
dropping. With this lower humidity, an interesting phenomenon is
developing, one I haven't experienced while hiking before. That is:
my sweat is actually cooling me off! But even more interesting, I'm
finding that my sweat-laden water bottle pouch, hanging by my
groin--that, as my sweat evaporates, is actually cooling down my
water bottle! It's 5-10 degrees cooler than the ambient air. What
a surprisingly delightful discovery!
I'm having to manage a few hot spots, minor rubs here and there, as
I break in a new pair of New Balance 804s. It's been two days now
and they're settling in just fine.
I make Boonville early evening. It's been a perfect day.
Saturday--July 18, 2002
Trail Day--81
Trail Mile--1742
Location--US65, Marshall, Missouri, Marshall Inn
No afternoon storm to cool things off last, so the sun and me aren't
the only thing up at seven this morning. The heat is also up--the
temperature rising. Raj, the motel owner, tells me it's supposed to
break one-hundred today. Odds seem good it'll make it.
There's a large truck stop/restaurant just across from the motel, so
over I go for breakfast. Bad idea. The place must seat nearly a
hundred people, and it's packed. All fifteen or twenty stools at
the counter are taken. I back out and go next door to the gas
station, grab a styro of coffee and hit the road.
Starting out this morning, on my way to SR41, I'm following a
service road west along I-70. This is working fine--until the
service road dead ends. Oh, this is great. "Why didn't you read
your maps, dummy? You can see right there, there's a
three-quarter-mile gap in the paralleling service road," so I scold
myself. As I look at my options, I'm thinking, "Don't even think
it." But I am thinking it, as there's no way, save five miles
around. So, up on the shoulder of the eastbound lane of I-70 I go,
to scramble it to the next exit and the continuing service road.
I'm hiking a fully-paved emergency lane, slap against the crash
rail, but the eighteen-wheelers are charging hard and heavy; they're
nearly flying. I'm no sooner set to this stupidity than an unmarked
patrol car goes whizzing by. I don't look back--just keep on
hammering. It seems to take forever to reach the exit. I could see
it right away, but distances in wide-open spaces like this are so
deceiving. I make it safely, but what a loony thing.
Realizing now that it's a good idea to study my maps a little more
closely, and in the process, I also discover that I've miscalculated
the mileage to Marshall, my destination for today. I'd figured
around 29 miles up SR41, but what I failed to do was add the five
miles along the I-70 service roads. So now I've got a 34 to knock
out, as the tarmac ahead retreats and continually submerges into its
shimmering, mirage-like sea.
During my hiking "career" I've had to tackle some pretty tough
obstacles, in both weather and terrain, but today has got to go
down as the most difficult day I've ever spent with a backpack on,
ever.
Nearing the SR41 exit, and hiking the service road toward there, I
find to my dismay that there's no gas station/food mart. I'd
planned on at least grabbing a sandwich to fuel me for the day.
Passing through little villages or past the mom-n-pops as I do, I've
pretty much quit carrying any food. It's heavy and a burden to
haul, especially for long-haul days. In the little berg of Lamine
there's a small store, but it's closed, and the pop machine out
front won't take my dollar bill. There's no faucet; I'm already
nearly out of water. I hoof it on, toward the little town of Arrow
Rock. Along the way, I'm able to get some precious water from a
farmer. He isn't working today. He can't believe I'm walking the
road. It isn't yet one, but he tells me the latest report he'd
heard has the temperature at 102 and the heat index at 115 (the
humidity, somehow, is definitely back up). At the little store in
Arrow Rock I gulp down a pitcher of unsweetened raspberry tea. And
at the gas station in Hardeman, I nearly drain their fountain
machine.
It's pretty amazing, how we've managed to encapsulate ourselves in
cocoons of comfort. Out of Arrow Rock, I see the old wagon ruts
that were once the Santa Fe Trail, where the pioneers certainly
struggled along in the stifling heat, as am I. But along go the
motorists today, in total comfort, care freely rolling the highway,
right next the old Nomad, right next the ruts, totally oblivious,
windows up, air on, cell phones to their ears, as they effortlessly
ply the miles. Indeed, the way I've chosen, and of necessity, did
those brave souls who toiled west over 150 years ago, choose--It's
truly a different way. Please take a moment now and click on
"Poetry" in the content bar, then "Life/Inspiration," then "How the
West was Won." Here, you can test the flavor and get a taste
"...for the days of the dust-blown haze, when the West was an infant
child, when the brave, the few, joined lots and threw, their cares
to the wind and the wild."
It's five-thirty, and the sun is final-turning me on its slowly
rotating rotisserie. I'm facing it straight on, not the least
breeze, as it hastens to beat me west. The last five miles into
Marshall are brutal. Fresh, coal-black asphalt has just been laid
along the emergency lane, and although it's rolled down, there's a
molten, liquid-like, ooze as it yields to my unsteady footsteps.
At Gene's Motel in Marshall, I get the bad news, "just rented my
last room twenty minutes ago," says the proprietor. Oh my, looks
like it's tent time in the corn and soybean fields tonight.
The Chuckwagon Restaurant right next is still open. I've had
nothing to eat today, so I beat a slow path there. The waitress
greets me with: "Looks like you've been in the sun today."
(Translated, I'm sure that means, "You look terrible!") I order a
helping of cottage cheese, a serving of corn, and a small baked
potato. That's the best I can manage. The sweet gal returns often,
refilling my water glass. Finally, she just leaves the pitcher.
She also takes pity on me, for soon a man approaches my table,
obviously her friend. He tells me about the motel across town, then
offers to take me there. I take the ride.
Well, dear friends, it's apparently time to recalibrate, the scale
that is, for "There are no bad days on the trail, some just better
than others." What a day; what a day. This one has definitely left
its mark.
Sunday--July 21, 2002
Trail Day--82
Trail Mile--1761
Location--US65, Waverly, Missouri, Banded Bird Lodge, Wayne
Smith, proprietor
The ride I took last night I back hike this morning and I'm soon
trekking west again on US65. Before I get ten miles though, I'm
totally dehydrated, out of water. Another hothouse day is in the
making.
In the little town of Malta Bend, folks are congregating for service
at the Methodist Church. By the parking lot, I ask a man for
water. He ushers me in, right to the water cooler, which is located
by the church entrance. As I'm filling my empty pop bottles,
everyone passing invites me to stay. Before I get my second bottle
filled, the minister comes over to speak to me--so I stay.
During "Greet your neighbor," Pastor Payne introduces me, and I must
explain why I'm on this journey. There is total silence and all are
taken as I recite the words to "A Path by the Side of the Road."
Nearly everyone has to shake my hand. After the service, another
line forms, as people come to me again--to hand me money. I depart
Malta Bend with not only my water bottles filled, but my heart is
filled too, to overflowing, from the goodness and faith of the kind
and generous folks from Malta Bend.
Today's hike is much shorter, less than 20 miles. What a blessing.
I'm able to reach Waverly, my destination for the day, by late
afternoon. I was told by the kind lady at the fruit stand just out
of town that there's a hotel in Waverly, down by the river, she
said. But as I arrive, I find it to be more an apartment rental
setup than a hotel. A call to the toll-free number on the sign out
front gets me the owner. After talking awhile he decides to rent me
a room for the night. Doo-dah!
In just awhile comes Wayne Smith. As he shows me to my room, he
explains how he and ten other friends (all duck hunters) went
together and bought the place, then renovated it to rent to other
duck hunters. Guess that's why it's called "Banded Bird Lodge!"
Oh, it's so good to be in out of the heat. Thanks, Wayne!
Saw some more wagon ruts near Grand Pass today--and lots more
shimmering tarmac. 104, heat index 118.
Monday--July 22, 2002
Trail Day--83
Trail Mile--1782
Location--US24/SR13, Lexington, Missouri, Lexington Inn
The corn and soybean fields still look green and healthy, but they
won't hold up much longer in this unmerciful heat if there isn't
some rain pretty soon. I'm out this morning to a little cooler
start, and the forecast is calling for 60% chance of rain late
afternoon.
Where I turn onto US24, I stop in the little store for coffee. Here
I meet Russell, a farmer who tends 7,000 acres of crops. As we
talk, I'm surprised he isn't the least down about the drought. In
fact, when I tell him where I'm headed, I get the most positive
words of encouragement. As to San Diego, my destination, Russell
replies, "You're almost there!" Thanks, Russell! I pray your yield
on corn and beans this year is the best, ever.
By late morning clouds are forming, but not rain clouds, more
cirrus, which later thicken and haze down the dome a click-stop or
two. This keeps the temperature in the low to mid 90s; much more
tolerable. The cooler road surface is such a blessing, as my feet
have been taking an absolute pounding. I know now what causes
blisters. It isn't the rubbing that everyone has trouble with.
Rather, it's the heat generated by the rubbing. Oh yeah, it's the
heat that gets ya!
I'm entering the plains now and the horizon is really starting to
open up. And the sky? The sky seems twice as wide and twice as
tall. To the northwest this afternoon I can see the thunderheads
rising, forming huge dome-topped mountains to the heavens. I can't
recall seeing clouds so enormous as these. And they're moving,
unfortunately away. But they've kept the sun under wraps all
afternoon, and the hike has gone quite well for a change. By three
I'm in Lexington where I check into the Lexington Inn.
For supper tonight it's rib eye and baked potato, washed down with a
few frosties. Later, I talk with two dear hiking friends who live
in Kansas City. I'll see Dawn "Belcher" Stringer tomorrow, then
Wednesday evening I'll spend time with Jim "Dragon's Breath"
Damico. Jim designed the Eastern Continental Trail map for my book,
Ten Million Steps.
I also receive a call from dear friend, Nancy "Magellan" Gowler.
Nancy is nearing the end of her Eastern Continental Trail hike. She
called from Cap Chat, on the St. Lawrence Sea in Quebec. She's
hiking by herself and having a great time. She'll enter Parc de la
Gaspesie and the magnificent Chic Chocs soon. Godspeed Magellan,
I'm so proud of you!
This has been a very good day, and there's even more excitement just
ahead.
Tuesday--July 23, 2002
Trail Day--84
Trail Mile--1811
Location--US24/SR291, Independence, Missouri, Great Western
Motel, Hasmlikh R. Patel, proprietor
The hike today continues along US24, a long, straight highway with
fully-paved emergency lanes. A narrow gravel road comes to visit
and run along beside from time to time and I hike it some. It's the
original path of the old Santa Fe. And the name of the old road?
Why, Santa Fe Trail, of course!
The temperatures remain moderate, in the mid to low 90s, and I'm
able to stay reasonably well hydrated, peeing only day-glow yellow
instead of the usual neon orange for a change!
I arrive in Independence around four, check in, and call my dear
friend, Dawn "Belcher" Stringer. I met Dawn during "Odyssey
2000-01." She was on her northbound Appalachian Trail hike at the
time and our paths crossed near Killington, Vermont.
In the evening, Dawn comes for me. We dine at her favorite pizza
parlor, then spend the evening with her friends.
A fine day. I even have some energy left for a change.
Wednesday--July 24, 2002
Trail Day--85
Trail Mile--1831
Location--75th Street and State Line Road, (Missouri/Kansas),
Kansas City, Missouri, thence to home of Jim "Dragon's Breath"
Damico, Kansas City, Missouri
What an interesting gentleman, Has, the motel owner. When I checked
in last evening, I could hardly get away from him, especially after
he found out about my journey. He said, "You should read a book
that I distribute, about a woman who walked across the United States
five or six times." I replied, "Are you speaking of Peace Pilgrim
and the book about her life?" His face literally lit up! "You know
about her," he asked. "Yes" I said, "And I know her name, her true
identity, although it is not revealed anywhere in all her
writings!" Indeed, it is a delightful book about the life of
Mildred Lamb, one of the first women to have hiked the Appalachian
Trail. The connection between Mildred and the woman known only as
Peace Pilgrim was finally made a few months ago by a gentleman with
the American Hiking Society, an historian and my dear hiking friend,
Ed "Tric" Talone. From 1973, and until her untimely death in 1981,
Mildred Lamb walked the United States, crisscrossing back and
forth--as the Peace Pilgrim. "If you give your life as a prayer,
you intensify the prayer beyond all measure" [Mildred "Peace
Pilgrim" Lamb 1908-1981]. For more information about the life of
Peace Pilgrim, click on <www.peacepilgrim.com>.
I've a short hike this morning on into Independence and The National
Frontier Trails Center. Here I'm able to relive the adventures of
those thousands of men, women and children, who sought "the promised
land" of the west--and forever changed our history. There's an
award-winning film, trail diaries, authentic covered wagons and
period artifacts. And just south of the Center, I'm able to walk in
the first of what I hope prove to be many of the old, remaining
wagon ruts.
As I hike out of Independence and into Kansas City, I'm following a
route laid out for me by Jim Damico. And what a great route it is.
Kansas City is the greenest big city, with more fountains than any
city I've ever been in, and Jim has me pass along the greenways and
wide boulevards. One of the little parks has a striking bronze
statue of Jim Bridger, a true western hero. He pretty much opened
the west, for it was Bridger who discovered South Pass and the Great
Salt Lake.
On south of Broadway and the historic district of Westport, I follow
the Trolly Track Trail, another delightful greenways. Soon I reach
the state line between Missouri and Kansas at--State Line Road!
Here, Jim comes for me. I get to meet Jim's mom, Shirlene, and in
the evening we go for the great spaghetti dinner at Minsk's. Back
at Jim's, I answer a few emails, then it's ZZZ for me.
Thursday--July 25, 2002
Trail Day--86
Trail Mile--1846
Location--I-35/119th St., Olathe Kansas, Comfort Suites
Jim has me back to State Line Road by seven-thirty and I'm soon on
my way to Olathe, Kansas. Thanks, Jim and Shirlene, for your
kindness and hospitality. I had a grand stay in KC!
The route I'm following today is another one prepared by Jim.
Instead of walking the busy streets, he has me hiking the Indian
Creek Greenway Bike Path. Many folks are out today, walking, biking
and rollerblading. I stop and talk, then hike a ways with Herb and
Norm, a couple of old gents out for their daily stroll. They get me
straightened out when I make a wrong turn. I also meet and talk
with Spencer. As I tell him about my journey, he asks, "Didn't
Backpacker Magazine do a write-up about you?" Neat, eh, folks!
Following Indian Creek Greenway as it continues southwest, I'm soon
at 119th Street, where a wide sidewalk takes me all the way to the
I-35 interchange in Olathe. Here, I check into the Comfort Suites
and call it a day. Another state behind me now, Missouri--that one
took awhile!
Friday--July 26, 2002
Trail Day--87
Trail Mile--1858
Location--US 56, Gardner, Kansas, Super 8 Motel
I'm looking forward with much excitement to the conclusion of
today's hike, for I'll be spending the evening with my dear friend,
Dwinda (of the Amos sisters), and her daughter and family, Julie,
Mark, Jennifer and Jamie, who live in Olathe. Weeks ago Dwinda told
me about her daughter, and she gave me Julie's address and phone
number. "When you get to Olathe, make sure you call her and make
arrangements to spend some time," I remember Dwinda saying. When I
expressed some hesitancy, barging in on folks I didn't know, she
said, "Well, I'll just come and get you. It's time I visit them
anyway." So, looks like I'll be with Dwinda and her family here in
Olathe tonight!
The hike today hooks me up with US56. As I make its acquaintance it
looks like we'll be friends. That's good, because we'll be together
clear across Kansas, through the Oklahoma Panhandle and down into
New Mexico.
Today is another relatively short day as I pull up in Gardner. Thank
goodness--hot, hot, hot, lots of traffic. Dwinda comes for me and
we head for Julie's. I've found that she's a great golfer--kinda
runs in the family, because her daughter, Julie and son-in-law,
Mark, are also great golfers. For the evening, Julie and Mark take
us to Freddie Ts for steaks, where they redeem seven
tournament-winning coupons given out by Freddy Ts (just the right
number, as Jennifer's friend, Lisa has come along).
Saturday--July 27, 2002
Trail Day--88
Trail Mile--1875
Location--US56, Baldwin City, Kansas, thence to Super 8 Motel,
Gardner, Kansas
Still no rain. The corn is beginning to look bad, wilted brown and
stunted. The soybeans are fairing some better; not much. The sun
is blazing hot--again; the tarmac mushy.
I'll be trekking right on the historic old Santa Fe Trail most all
day, for US56 has been paved right over it. Reaching Black Jack
Creek crossing, a virgin prairie preserve, I leave the highway to
walk the tall grass prairie--along the old wagon ruts cut deep in
the sod over a century and a half ago.
Friends, there's just no way I can put into words the shudder of
emotions flooding over me here, now. The incredible energy those
courageous pioneers brought to the frontier, to this old trail--that
energy was never truly spent, for here it remains, in a legacy
nearly as timeless as time itself; so powerful is the presence of
those who passed this way so very long ago. As I look through the
dust-blown haze of time, I can see the weary travelers. They are
full around me, and I become momentarily whirled and swept up, to
abide in their presence--a bright-eyed youngster astride the seat on
father's wagon. It's 1824, and we are but one wagon in a train of
25 wagons bound for Santa Fe. Col. Meredith M. Marmaduke is our
wagon master. To our fore, the Mahaffey wagon lurches along, and
just behind, the Sibleys. In awhile, the Colonel rides by, telling
us we'll be circling the wagons for the day, just below Black Jack
Creek. Comes now also, the loud, rasping commotion from an
eighteen-wheeler jake-braking US56, and I am abruptly jolted back,
to be left standing here in these timeless old ruts, looking across
this glorious prairie of time. In the fading glow of evening light,
I hear the wagon master's call, and can see faint shadows as the
wagon train passes, moving ever west.
I was invited last, to spend another evening with the Rectors in
Olathe, and Dwinda promised to come for me at Baldwin City, the end
of my hike today. That was a no brainer!
Comes Dwinda right at 4:30 to fetch me and whisk me back to her
daughter's place. Oh--and indeed--it is another grand time spent
with these kind, generous people.
Tomorrow's journal: HOW THE WEST WAS WON, a ditty by N. Nomad.
Sunday--July 28, 2002
Trail Day--89
Trail Mile--1897
Location--US56, west of Overbrook, Kansas, pitched in abandoned
house
Dwinda drops me off at Baldwin City a little before ten, and like
the wagon trains of days long ago, I'm once again headed west--but
not before more sad good-byes. Thanks, Dwinda, and thanks Julie and
the Rectors, all. The goodness, your kindness and friendship, will
keep my heart filled with joy for a long, long time.
Today, US56 is a straight arrow. Shoot a gun down this thing and
the bullets will bounce along for miles, eventually coming to rest
right on the highway centerline!
The day starts--and remains (glory be!)--overcast, with temperatures
staying below 90. This is grand! Finally, I'm suffering no foot
pain--for the first time in over two weeks.
Out of film (again), and just east of Overbrook, I miss a great
shot, the beautiful, life-sized silhouette of a wagon train running
the prairie ridgeline, moving west. Oh well, what better excuse to
come back again some day? And in the little village of Overbrook, a
funny situation. I get the bum's rush from the lady at the (empty)
cafe there. To say that she wasn't nice is a stretch. Ha, maybe
that's why the place was empty!
In the evening, and just as a most-welcome thunderstorm comes
driving through, I find an old abandoned house just off the highway
and pitch in one of the upstairs rooms. All the windows busted out,
the raging wind whips a fine, swirling mist clear through. Guess
the gal at the cafe had me pegged--lives like a bum, looks like a
bum, acts like a bum, must be a bum!
The place cools right down--for a delightful bum's night's sleep.
*HOW THE WEST WAS WON
I yearn for the days of the dust-blown haze,
When the West was an infant child.
When the brave, the few, joined lots and threw
Their cares to the wind and the wild.
Thru bone-weary pain, thru mud and rain,
They traveled, a-trustin' God,
As their dear-loved kin and many a friend
Were set to rest in the sod.
On the Oregon Trail, o'er the Santa Fe,
Thru ruts worn weary and long,
'Cross rivers deep, scant rest or sleep,
Passed this destined, fateful throng.
On mules, in prairie schooners,
On buckboards 'n walkin' tall,
Thru Indian lands, their fate in the hands
Of the wagonmaster's call;
Thru prairie grass, up mountain pass,
They journ'd to'rd "The Promised Land."
'n along the way, set adrift they lay,
Their past, in the shifting sand.
No turning back, thru rut and track,
The wagon trains moved on,
To'rd the western sky, with dream-filled eye,
On the trail to a brand new dawn.
And to this day, do the brave there stay!
Born new from the pioneer age.
A dream fulfilled, as God had willed,
In the land of the purple sage.
Oh, what I'd give to have journ'd...'n lived,
On that trail with those brave and strong.
Now history, times wild and free,
For those days do I yearn and long.
Ahh! Those were the days, ere time-dim'd haze,
When the West was an infant child,
When the brave, the few, joined lots and threw
Their cares to the wind and the wild.
[N. Nomad 12-99]
*I was raised in the Missouri Ozarks, near that grand old muddy
river. A spur, one of many beginning spurs to the overland trails,
passed by our place. I can remember dad oft showing me, with a far
away glint in his eye, an old rock post, once part of a hitching
rail along the track to Santa Fe.
Ahh! When he would talk about those bygone days, would I long for
them. That was as a child, and in the mind's eye of a child. That
childhood memory still resides and is alive and well in the mind's
eye of this old man. And here, finally, after all these years, the
humbling result of it.
Monday--July 29, 2002
Trail Day--90
Trail Mile--1917
Location--US56, Burlingame, Kansas, Prairie Maiden B&B, Susan
DeMars, proprietor
The rain of last evening cooled things nicely. Everything looks
fresh and clean this morning. The corn even looks better.
I'm offered a number of rides today by the kind Kansas people.
They're just not used to seeing folks walking along their highways.
The long, straight stretches with nothing but corn and soybeans, and
more corn and soybeans, make for not-so-exciting hiking. One fellow
the other day said, "Man, it seems to take forever just driving to
town, I can't imagine trying to walk it." On one stretch today, I
can see the road ahead for over four miles. From the time I spot an
eighteen-wheeler, a shimmer on the pinpoint horizon, until he comes
blasting by, takes nearly five minutes. That translates to over an
hour and a half of walking. Times like these, where there's nothing
but long, straight road, can seem interminable--and with the heat
and little or no water, it can seem even longer.
I've a break part way today at the little prairie village of
Scranton. Here I camel water, then bottle more for the hike on into
Burlingame.
The remainder of the hike today passes quickly and I'm soon at the
Burlingame post office to retrieve my bounce box.
Sharyl, the kind postmistress smiles as soon as I open the door.
"You're the hiker, aren't you? Your box came a week ago," she says,
with an even wider smile. I'd been told there's no place to stay in
Burlingame, but Sharyl says there's a B&B. "Susan at the Prairie
Maiden shop downtown rents out a room in her home--want me to give
her a call?" Doo Dah! "Sure," I say--saved from pitching in the
cornfields again! Sharyl returns in a moment and directs me to
Susan's shop. "Stop by, she's expecting you; she'll give you the
key," says Sharyl.
Nice friendly town, Burlingame, lovely, spacious room at
Susan's--thanks, Sharyl, thanks, Susan!
Wednesday, July 31, 2002
Trail Day--92
Trail Mile--1956
Location--US56, Council Grove, Kansas, Cottage House Hotel
I break camp and am going before seven. With the short mileage day
to Council Grove, hopefully, I'll avoid the unmerciful afternoon
sun.
Every day, more and more people are stopping to check on me, to
offer me assistance or a ride. Even folks going the opposite
direction offer to turn around and take me wherever I want to go.
Kansas folks know this awful heat.
I'm now in the land "...where the buffalo roam, and the skies are
not cloudy all day." This is cowboy country. Today, there's no
buffalo to be seen, but there's sure lots of cattle, miles and miles
of cattle. I've never been around such a curious bunch. From
across the prairie, and from great distances, over they come to the
fence. First, one or two, then the whole herd--to stand at the wire
and gawk. After awhile, and as I continue to pass, one of them will
break, lunge back and take off. This sets the rest in an immediate
and total tizzy. Soon the entire herd is stampeding. They'll
rumble away at a forty-five, shaking the ground, the dust and dirt
flying. Then, finally, way out in the field, they'll turn and come
right back to the fence right next to me a little further along. By
this time they're all in a lather, belching or farting, or both.
What a hilarious bunch of deadpans (Moo); it's a pure hoot as they
just stand there gawking--and belching and farting at me. Depending
on how far it is to the next cross fence, this ridiculously funny
act can be repeated five or six times. Obviously, these guys are
not used to seeing somebody "hoofing" the road!
Council Grove, my destination for today, enjoyed its heyday during
the days of the Santa Fe Trail. It received its name in 1825 when
council was held here under an old oak tree, between government
agents and the Osage tribe. This treaty marked the beginning of the
end for the plains (Kansas) Indians--and opened another segment of
the western frontier to friendly passage.
Early afternoon now, I pull into the Cottage House, an old, restored
Victorian prairie hotel built over a century ago. In the evening, I
dine at the elegant Hays House, the oldest restaurant west of the
Mississippi.
I'm in the west now--"Where seldom is heard a discouraging word..."
and there sure ain't no cloudy skies!
Thursday--August 1, 2002
Trail Day--93
Trail Mile--1981
Location--US56, Herington, Kansas, Sleep Inn
I'm up and on the road by six this morning. There's no other way.
I've got to get the miles in early or take another unmerciful lickin'
from ol' Sol. I'm sure there are hombres that can stand up and take
it all day in this heat, but I ain't one--and so far, I hain't seen
anybody. The tractors and other farm machinery here abouts most all
have air conditioned cabs; them what don't, by noon, are sittin'
under a shade tree.
At the edge of town, I pass the "Last Chance Store." During the
1850s, this was the last opportunity for those bound for Santa Fe to
get supplies for their journey--the last chance for "bacon, beans
and whiskey." Five miles west of town there are more old Santa Fe
Trail ruts, but it's nearly two miles round trip from US56 to see
them, so I keep hammerin' on west. There'll be lots more ruts to
see on out.
The hike is going well today, more like earlier in the summer when
it wasn't getting so hot every day. However, there's no water
anywhere along today, so I ration the two twenty ounce bottles I
have with me. At mile 25, and just at the edge of Herington, I sip
my last three ounces.
Near the Dairy Queen, I meet Rick, a local lad who's gone away to
New York City to make his mark as a playwright. He's come back home
to Herington to visit his father for a few days. He asks to walk
along, so I invite him to join me at Dairy Queen. He watches with
amusement as I toss down two thirty oz. cups of water--chased by two
of the same cherry Pepsis.
A short walk across to the sleepy side of town and I'm at the Sleep
Inn Motel. Rick stops by later with his dad and friends. We have a
good time.
Friday--August 2, 2002
Trail Day--94
Trail Mile--1993
Location--US56, Lincolnville, Kansas, thence to Sleep Inn,
Herington
I was going to take a day off today, but there came a cooling rain
last night and it's overcast this morning, so at ten, I decide to
head on west. Well, actually I'm headed south, as US56 takes a
twenty-mile bend straight south; the old Santa Fe Trail is headed
southwest--so here we go.
By late afternoon the sun breaks through to fire up the oven again.
Near Lincolnville, an approaching motorist offers me a ride. I take
the ride--back to Sleep Inn for another quiet night in Herington.
Saturday--August 3, 2002
Trail Day--95
Trail Mile--2015
Location--US56, Hillsboro, Kansas, Hillcrest Motel
I'm up early, manage a ride to Lincolnville, and am hiking again
shortly after six.
For the past number of days the road has been steadily climbing. In
an automobile, one would probably never notice, but on foot the
change is evident. I'm sure those weary travelers laboring along
the old trail in their wagons 150 years ago noticed. The climb is
subtle, but what's happening, as the road rolls along, up and down
over the little knolls, is there's the occasional up that doesn't go
back down--just stays up, to begin another, higher level along the
ever-heightening plains. And as the prairie climbs, the climate
becomes more arid, with fewer fields, more grasslands--and the
little towns are fewer and farther between.
To hike from oasis to oasis, where's there's water and a place to
stay, I'm having to bang out longer and longer mileage days, and it
seems no matter how early I start out in the morning, I still end up
hiking into the heat of the day. Not good. I do manage better
today, reaching Hillsboro before one.
Sunday--August 4, 2002
Trail Day--96
Trail Mile--2038
Location--US56/I-135, McPherson, Kansas, Red Roof Inn
I'm up and on the road again by six. The decline in corn has been
taken up by crops of Milo and sunflower--and lots of oil wells.
Don't know why, but the pumps on the oil wells out here in Kansas
are enormous compared to those in Indiana and Illinois--still got
the pucka-pucka flywheel engines on them, though, big pucka-pucka
flywheel engines!
I'm blessed with two watering holes along the way today: Canton and
Galva. So I can pull off for cold water and fountain drinks. In
Canton, two neat things. One, the grain elevator looks just like
the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz--two windows (eyes) way up high,
perfectly positioned below the (kinda funnel-shaped) roof. It's a
good enough likeness that, as I hike along, I can close my eyes and
picture him strolling along with Alice. Didn't that whole marvelous
dream take place out here in Kansas someplace? Oh, and the second
thing is just as neat. Canton's got two identical water towers,
one's marked "hot," the other, "cold!"
I also pass many road kill today. You probably wouldn't notice it
driving along, but I've got to step over these poor, flattened
creatures. Mostly, there's an interesting variety of non-poisonous
snakes--along with little birds, lots of yellow, orange, blue and
brown little birds. It's not just our crushing wheels that bring
nature's own to their final resting place here on the highway, our
windshields and grills take out their share, too.
The sun, and the heat radiating from the tarmac, absolutely fry my
feet and brains, again, for the final two hours into McPherson.
I've just got to start getting out earlier in the morning.
Monday--August 5, 2002
Trail Day--97
Trail Mile--2071
Location--US56, Lyons, Kansas, Lyons Inn
Another day hammering the long, straight highway. I'm out by
five-thirty, but it's still not early enough. By one, there's four
miles remaining to reach McPherson. The temperature literally
rockets, busting 100, and I'm out in it again.
Kansas is over half behind me now, so too, the Santa Fe Trail--and
the continent itself. I've just got to keep going.
On these difficult days, with the endless stretches of highway that
can try a man's soul, I seem to lose focus on what this journey is
truly about. Perhaps it'd be good to sharpen up that focus a
little. So, let's do that--let me share a poem with you, written
for me, about this odyssey, by my dear friend, Larry Amos:
THE NOMAD
He carries his pack up high on his back
As he walks through the land of the free.
And he hikes right along like a happy old song
Cause there's places that he'd like to see.
Each day's a new verse that he cannot rehearse
But the melody stays right on key.
Cause there's joy in his heart and he lets it impart
To all that he happens to see.
And those of us that are tied to the land
Sit and wonder just how it can be,
That the Nomad is doing what we'd like to do,
Yes he's hiking for you and for me.
For he surely is blest as he walks toard the West
Seeing things that we'd like to see.
Exploring the land that was made by God's hand
From Sea to Shining Sea!
[Larry Amos 5-25-02]
Tuesday--August 6, 2002
Trail Day--98
Trail Mile--2103
Location--US56, Great Bend, Kansas, Best Western Angus Inn
I've got a 32 staring at me today and there appears no way to avoid
hiking into the heat of the afternoon, but I'm going to give it my
best shot--I'm out and on the road hiking west at 4:00 AM. If I can
keep moving smartly all morning, I can get in before two, avoiding
the worst of it.
I'm into pitch black, no traffic, save an occasional tanker or
cattle truck. With little ground light, the stars are right there
to pluck. Constellations are aglow and the milky way is a splash
from horizon to horizon. And the moon--what an amazing compliment,
a perfect signet to seal this spell of early morning wonder. And to
cap the mood, a shooting star streaks by, illuminating and blazing
the sky. I make a special wish for a loving friend. The air is
cool and fresh, only the slightest breeze comes to dip and touch the
high-rolling prairie. What a grand reward for getting up and
going. I am lighthearted, this is a happy day.
There are two watering holes along this morning--guess I'll be
looking for true oases soon enough. These are the little towns of
Chase and Ellinwood. Both have a petro/food mart where I'm able to
camel up on water and ice down my innards with fountain drink. The
gentle climb toward the continental divide continues. Ellinwood is
standing at 1,800 feet--the old Nomad's a high plains drifter for
sure now! By eleven, the (dis)gusting wind has come up out of the
southwest again, shoving me toward oncoming traffic, a nuisance the
past three days, but it keeps the unmerciful heat from bouncing off
the tarmac. Time to dig down for needed patience, to take what
little pleasure there is in it. As in my little ditty "Why Go?"
there is always "...the pain and the trials."--always. But I have
good stamina and strength and am up to the task today. Days like
these provide the seasoning, the mix that comes from life's verve
and vitality that stir in, to give a delectable flavor to such a
remarkable adventure. Thank you, Lord, for this beautiful,
challenging day.
By noon, I've knocked out twenty-six miles--incredible. I can
recall those days long past on the Appalachian Trail when I
considered achieving a 10x12 (ten miles by noon) a grand
accomplishment. But twenty-six--never in my wildest dreams!
This oven, that is Kansas in the afternoon, hasn't had the broiler
on as high today, the temperatures not as intense, the heat index
down. By one-thirty, and still in good shape, I'm cruising downtown
Great Bend. I hit the local apothecary for more enteric coated
aspirin, then check into the Angus Inn on the western edge of town.
In the evening, I call "Rascal," a hiking friend who lives here in
Great Bend, and we make arrangements to spend some time
together--I'll burn a day tomorrow. Oh, are my feet expressing
their gratitude!
Wednesday--August 7, 2002
Trail Day--99
Trail Mile--2103
Location--US56, Great Bend, Kansas, home of Robert "Rascal" and
Ruth "Babyruther" Behrens
I've been invited to spend a day with the Behrens here in Great
Bend. This is an easy one--I've been hammering hard lately, my feet
are tired, I haven't taken a break in quite awhile--I accept the
invitation.
Rascal has hiked the Continental Divide Trail and the Appalachian
Trail. We have much in common, many mutual friends. It will be a
great day.
Rascal comes for me at Angus Inn and we're soon to his home. Here I
meet his wife, Ruth, and their son, Jason. We talk trail, Ruth
fixes lunch, then we're off to see the local museum and other sites.
In the evening, Bob cranks up to grill and Ruth bakes pies. What a
feast!
We all have a great time; I needed the break.
Thursday--August 8, 2002
Trail Day--100
Trail Mile--2127
Location--US56, Larned, Kansas, Best Western Townsman Inn
A great day and night, the guest of the Behrens in Great Bend.
Thanks, dear friends!
Ruth has me up and back on the road by five. It's a cool morning as
I set out for Larned. US56 turns southwest now, passing Pawnee Rock
as it bends toward the lower corner of Kansas.
I make great time, reaching Larned before noon. In awhile, Bob and
Ruth come to fetch me, to take me to the Santa Fe Trail headquarters
and museum west of town. I've been looking forward to this day for
a long time, and I am not disappointed. There is so much to see, to
read about, and to absorb.
Later in the afternoon we drive on west to Fort Larned, located on
the Pawnee River. The old fort, once the westernmost outpost along
the trail, has been painstakingly restored, making it possible to
return to those romantic and excitement-filled days on the
frontier. Both Bob and Ruth are from western Kansas, and they
delight in reminiscing the outings here when they were youngsters.
It was great--but as always, that inevitable time comes, time to say
good-bye. Bob and Ruth head back to Great Bend and I hit the
sack--four-thirty comes early.
Friday--August 9, 2002
Trail Day--101
Trail Mile--2153
Location--US56/US50, Kinsley, Kansas, Midway Inn
I'll climb Mount Katahdin today! Well, I won't actually climb
Katahdin, but I've sure done the miles to get me there.
I've found there isn't much going on in these little Kansas towns at
five in the morning. Most are too small to interest Wal-Mart or any
of the other large chain stores, so the old downtowns have managed
to survive, and the residents and business people take pride in
that. Here in Larned, the main drag is pretty much like it must
have been fifty years ago, the storefronts clean and neat. It's
still dark as I near downtown. A watering truck is parked by an
intersections, the city works employee busy watering the trees and
flowers. He greets me with a "good morning" as I pass.
When the iron horse finally made it to Santa Fe, running mostly
beside and along, its presence spelled the end to the Santa Fe
Trail. Modern roads have since been built right over the old trail
in many places--as along from Larned to Kinsley today, so the tracks
and the road run pretty much side by side. As I hike along, I pass
miles of container cars parked by the siding, waiting their turn at
the large grain elevators marking the prairie horizon for as far as
the eye can see. And as I trudge along, looking at the remarkable
graffiti so neatly and painstakingly painted on them, I'm
wondering--what is this "Zorro-looking" language, what does it mean,
and where is the school all the artists go to, to learn it? It's
sure a mystery to me!
The current drought in western Kansas is worse even than the dust
bowl of the 30s. But today, for the first time in weeks, the clouds
finally come, bringing much-needed rain--and with it, blessed cooler
temperatures.
In Kinsley I get some cards off to family and friends, then stop in
at the downtown pub for a couple cold, tall ones. I meet Charles
and Maxine at the museum next the VFW and the little motel. Folks
in these parts take pride in their heritage, in their past, and it
shows in the grand museums gracing most every little berg. After
settling in at Jim's neatly renovated Midway Motel, I walk around
the corner to the VFW for a mighty fine rib eye. It's beef in
Kansas, folks--gotta have the good old local grown beef.
Saturday--August 10, 2002
Trail Day--102
Trail Mile--2190
Location--US50, Dodge City, Kansas, Best Western Silver Spur Inn
I've got a long, hard, highway hammer ahead today, so I'm up and
gone by five. It's 37 miles to Dodge City, and I'm bound to be
there by late afternoon.
This long mileage day is just one of my options. Another, and the
one most would probably choose under similar circumstances, would be
to hike the twenty miles to Spearville and pitch in their park or by
the propane tank behind the food mart, and cook some mac and cheese
for supper. Me, I'm going the extra 17 for a shower, a bed with
linen, and a rib eye steak with a baked potato--my momma didn't
raise no dummy! Oh yes, I've taken a fair amount of ribbing about
"roughing it" this time around. But I like my conveniences like
everyone else, and I like traveling light, doing high mileage days.
So maybe a 37 wouldn't be an option for you--but I love it!
It's been a blessed cool day (below 95) with a light tailwind to
boot. By late afternoon I reach Dodge, do the old downtown and Boot
Hill, then head on west for the bed with linen--and the rib eye
steak!
Sunday--August 11, 2002
Trail Day--103
Trail Mile--2217
Location--US56, Montezuma, Kansas, pitched in the cottonwoods
Well, I've often used the old cliche, "...time to get out of
Dodge." But this morning it's for real! I'm up and gone by
five-thirty.
From Dodge City, I'll be following the Cimarron Cutoff, a Santa Fe
Trail shortcut that leads across the arid, high plains of southwest
Kansas. Hiking south, and within the first mile, I cross the
Arkansas River. But there is no river, not a trickle, not even a
puddle; hard to believe, but true. These folks need rain, lots of
rain--bad.
I'm into the climb right away again. Maybe only half a percent
incline, but it's steady on. When the next pop tops out, there's no
down, perhaps flat for a mile or two, then up she goes again.
The shoulder is wide, little traffic. Late morning the wind starts
kicking out of the southwest, shoving me around good. The plains
wouldn't be the plains without the relentless wind. Today, along, I
pass 170 wind-powered generators, like Cap Chat in Quebec, but not
nearly as big. By mid afternoon I'm in Montezuma. I pull into the
Conoco food mart to work my journal entries and to kill some time.
Folks here say we're at 2,800 feet elevation. I knew I was going
up!
No motel here, so it's off to the cottonwoods tonight.
Monday--August 12, 2002
Trail Day--104
Trail Mile--2242
Location--US56, Sublette, Kansas, Golden Prairie Motel
I was sure I'd gotten pitched just in time last night. I rolled in
as the wind began whipping in a rage and the sky turned black as
midnight. But just when it seemed the heavens were about to
collapse, came this eerie calm that pervaded--no rain, not one
single drop. I've never seen anything like it. The storm simply
evaporated before my very eyes.
It was really good to be on the ground last night, snug in my Nomad
tent for a change. I slept right through and didn't wiggle until
almost six this morning. No problem though. The days have been
somewhat cooler, and I haven't been hiking so far into the heat of
the afternoon. I've only got a 25 to knock out today. That'll get
me into Sublette, where I'm told there's a fine little motel with a
mom-n-pop restaurant right beside--so, I'm off to Sublette.
Right away, and for over a mile this morning, I'm passing cattle
"feed lots." I would never have believed it possible to jam so many
animals into one place. As I walk, I pass pen after pen full of
cattle, as many as 50-75 cows per pen. Each pen is numbered. The
last number I recall was 478. Lots of cows--lots and lots of cows!
The skies of Kansas are incomparable--like no other skies,
anywhere. Like the prairie I'm hiking, which seems to have no
bounds, no limit, the sky today is so amazingly high and wide. I
can see two anvil-topped thunderheads flashing and punctuating the
earth, each perhaps covering over a hundred square miles; yet they
are nowhere near each other. One is to the northwest, one to the
northeast. I must pivot nearly around to look from one to the
other. Either of these storms alone would dominate the entire
expanse of any other sky I can recall.
Kansas is huge, it's huge. If you've ever driven across it, then
you know what I mean. Walking it is another matter entirely. As I
look across these endless plains, my gaze is drawn up to the
boundless sky, and I can actually feel the curvature of the earth
beneath my feet.
Well, it's been brought to my attention that the Tin Man didn't walk
through Kansas with Alice, he walked with Dorothy--wrong dream!
Also, a terse email recently from my good friend and hiking buddy,
Ed "Tric" Talone, pointed up a number of errors concerning Peace
Pilgrim. It's only reasonable that folks like to be quoted
correctly. Historians, especially, pride themselves in keeping
things straight--like names and dates. I screwed up both as to
Peace Pilgrim. Her name wasn't Lamb. It was Norman, Mildred
Norman. Don't know where I came up with Lamb. I think she may have
hiked with him, perhaps was married to him--oops, here I go again!
To correct the date thing, I'll just cut and paste the note from
Ed. That way I won't screw it up worse: "...she walked from 1953
until her death in 1981, not 1973. She counted miles until she
reached 25,000 in 1966, then stopped counting." My apologies, Ed,
hope I've got it straight now!
I reach Sublette before two, a fine wind lifting and propelling me
along. I stop by the Dollar General, the post office and the
library before checking into Vic Yumol's fine little Golden Prairie
Motel out on the edge of town.
Tuesday--August 13, 2002
Trail Day--105
Trail Mile--2269
Location--US56, Hugoton, Kansas, Jackson Motel
I was planning on hitting the road by four this morning, as I've a
37 mile day to reach Hugoton. But as I roll out at three-thirty, I
hear the repeating thunder and can see the lightning flashing
through the curtains. Stumbling to the door, I look out just as the
deluge hits.
I believe the drought is coming to an end. I'm happy for the
farmers, they've really suffered. I pray some of this year's crop
can be saved. As for me, I trundle back to bed for a couple more
hours sleep, or until this storm blows on through.
I awake again at six to find the storm has passed. I've a long,
long hike today, time to hit the road.
The day begins remarkably cool. I thrust my hands in my pockets to
warm them. What a change from the brutal heat. A gentle breeze
comes up at my back that helps propel me along. By noon I've got
twenty knocked out.
The day warms up, but it remains pleasant throughout the afternoon.
A number of motorists stop to offer me rides. One is real tempting
as I'm passing one of many cattle feeding yards along. When the
wind is carrying across, it can make for very unpleasant hiking.
By five-thirty I've made the miles and am walking the main drag
through Hugoton. Another neat Kansas town with a thriving downtown
district. I pull off at Dominoes' Bar and Grille for a tall frosty,
then follow directions given me to Jackson's Motel down a side
streets.
At Jackson's, I'm in luck. Neat place, kind people--I decide to
spend a couple of nights.
Thursday--August 15, 2002
Trail Day--107
Trail Mile--2269
Location--US56, Hugoton, KS, Jackson Motel
I'm feeling much better this morning, my spirits lifted by the great
friendship and good humor showered upon me by all the dear new
friends here at Club Jackson. And so, I've decided to spend another
day, another evening with them, to enjoy their hospitality and
kindness.
The day begins fresh, cool--and early, five o'clock, to be exact.
Bob "Hoe" Passmore, one of the regulars at Club Jackson, has offered
to fly me over his spread and out to Wagonbed (Middle Cimarron)
Spring, on the Santa Fe Trail at the northern end of his place.
Last evening he said "...meet me at the coffee shop at five, and if
it's calm and clear, we'll head out from there." So, I'm up, to
hoof it downtown before dawn, filled with excitement in anticipation
for this day, for it is calm, the skies filled with stars.
The whole crew is here this morning. In between leaving Club
Jackson and showing up at the coffee shop, I guess they all passed
by their homes to catch a few winks!
Bob is filled with excitement, too, as he tells me about his little
'52 Piper Cub. "It's the only way to to keep an eye on the whole
spread, especially tending the cattle," says Bob. He's still a
traditional cowboy, for sure, horse, hat, spurs and all, but he's
modern day, too, with his other business--and his little airplane.
At his office this morning, on our way to the Hugoton Municipal
Airport, Bob hands me one of his cards. It reads, "Passmore Bros.,
Inc., Trucking, Forklift, Trenching and Backhoe Service [--and]
Roustabouts." I haven't picked up much on the trucking and heavy
equipment end of his business, but I'm sure getting a feel for the
"Roustabouts!"
At the airport now, Bob rolls the hanger doors open and wheels out
the little Cub. His arm over the cowl and through the hatch opening
to jiggle the controls, a couple flips at the prop, and he urges the
little bread-basket engine to life. A short stop at the pumps to
take on a couple gallons of gas, and we're soon down the runway.
The little Cub pops right up and into the sky. It's now the perfect
dawn to what is going to be a perfect day, as we hop the occasional
updraft along--to Wagonbed Spring.
"Look down there," says Bob, only moments into our flight. He's
pointing out a pack of coyotes by their den in the side of a dry
gulch. "Want a picture of them," he shouts, above the hum of the
busy little four-banger. "Sure," I reply, as he banks hard, cutting
a three-sixty to drop us right in. Whew, what a ride!
Greg Morris, Bob's best friend since childhood, had told me what a
great pilot Bob is. "I taught him how to fly years ago," I remember
Greg saying. "In just a couple weeks, he was flying circles around
me, it just came natural; Bob's at home in the air." So I'm not
feeling the least bit uneasy, wedged in this narrow, cramped little
seat behind him. That maneuver was just a surprise!
Out here in the arid plains, it takes acres and acres of prairie to
support just one cow. We're flying over them, scattered all
around. Ranchers out here also grow wheat and corn, but these crops
require almost constant irrigation. The many circles of green to
the horizon strike accented contrast to the brown, barren earth.
Some of the systems are a half-mile long, arching a full mile
circle, the huge diesel-driven pumps supplying over three thousand
gallons of water per minute. There's no water on the ground around
here, but there's sure plenty under it.
The quilt work of green is behind us now, and out of the side
window, Bob points to the winding ribbon, a different shade of
green, on the horizon. "That's the Cimarron River, the Santa Fe
Trail follows it," he says. Flying along the river now (a misnomer,
for the whole thing is dry, not a puddle anywhere), and spotting
numerous antelope, deer--and more coyotes, we soon arrive at
Wagonbed Spring (also a misnomer, no spring here anymore, either).
"Want to land," Bob asks. "Yes, but where?" I reply. "I can put
her down on that short stretch of two-track over there," he says.
With some hesitation, I muster a confident-sounding "Sure!"
"Tighten your seatbelt," shouts Bob. Oh great, I'm thinking. If we
have to walk back from here, I hope we'll both be able to walk!
Well, Bob makes a bumpy but otherwise perfect landing, along the
narrow, bumpy two-track. We explore all around Wagonbed Spring.
Here was the first reliable water source for all those weary
travelers since departing Dodge City on the Cimarron Cutoff. Near
here, Jedidiah Smith lost his life. He was ambushed and killed by
Indians as he searched for water. And by this place, also, passed
the Mormons on their journey west. I take many pictures of the old
wagon parts scattered about, and of the many wagon ruts that
converge from everywhere.
Oh my, was the time spent here so very special. It was an emotional
time for me, for sure--as I continue making my way along this
historic old Santa Fe Trail.
Bob grabs the handle fixed to the tail of the little Cub, lifts it
easily, and turns her around. A short taxi, the engine humming,
prop whirring, and we're up and in the air again, to glide along and
above the winding Cimarron--the remarkable wagon ruts beside. Bob
flies us all the way to Point of Rock, a familiar landmark to the
weary intrepids of nearly two centuries ago.
In the evening, and back at Club Jackson again, I am the guest of
the Morris family, as they host me to a delightful time. Many of
their friends are present to hear me recite the ditty, "How the West
was Won." Ah yes, a perfect ending to a most-memorable and perfect
day!
Friday--August 16, 2002
Trail Day--108
Trail Mile-2304
Location--US56, Elkhart, KS, Elkhart Motel
I've found it so easy to linger and so very difficult to
leave--these delightful high prairie communities with their happy,
kind, and friendly people, but the time has come, indeed, the time
has passed for me to depart Hugoton, Kansas. So, with much
reluctance and a heavy heart, I'm off to a very unsteady start at
five this morning.
The hike today (if I don't want to pull up dry in a dry gulch) will
be a thirty-five mile tramp into Elkhart, Kansas, the next watering
hole. This vast, magnificent, high plains prairie just keeps
stretching and climbing, and the further and higher I venture ever
west onto it, the drier it keeps getting. The pioneers of nearly
two centuries ago most assuredly had to muster great faith--to
continue believing there could truly be anything worthwhile anywhere
out here at the end of all this. I know there's beautiful, lush and
fertile lands ahead, but I know the desert's also waiting. Ah yes,
the desert is waiting.
Well, you can see I'm feeling sorry for myself, a funky day for sure
is in store. But what great timing, for I am now at one of the few
intersecting roads to cross US56 today, by the grain elevator in
Feterita. And here waiting for me is my friend, Greg Morris, big
smile, grand handshake, as he extends to me his well-wishes and
encouragement. Greg was the first to greet me and to welcome me as
I entered Club Jackson. And now, he is the last to see me off as I
continue my trek across this vast continent. Greg, Ray, Hermie,
Bob, Jack, and all dear friends at Club Jackson, there's just no way
you could ever know this blessing--your kindness, generosity, and
friendship.
By ten, the wind comes up once more, steady out of the southwest,
and I must lean and push hard into it. By late afternoon, it's a
blast furnace of heat. The town of Elkhart has long been looming on
the horizon, but as I approach, it seems only to retreat. I must
look down at my feet, there for the reassurance that I am actually
moving. Finally, in Elkhart, and at the El Rancho Motel, I get the
bum's rush. The place sets a fairly extensive row of rooms facing
the road. There's not a vehicle parked by any of them. But as I
enquire of the proprietor, a room for the night, I get: "We're
full-up." Across town, at the Elkhart Motel, the lady greets me
kindly and takes me right in.
I am greatly relieved to find a place of rest, for this has been a
very long, trying, and tiring day.
Saturday--August 17, 2002
Trail Day--109
Trail Mile--2329
Location--US56, Keyes, Oklahoma, pitched in roadside park
I'm finally through Kansas, from Kansas City at the eastern boundary
with Missouri, to the southwest corner at Elkhart. It's been a
long, hard pull, one of the toughest hikes I've done. I'm entering
the Oklahoma Panhandle now, to cross at eleven-thirty for the
relatively short twenty-five mile hike into Keyes. I'm into open
range now, an occasional strand of electric wire the only limitation
to free travel. There are no more grain elevators. Today, the wind
is much less troublesome, which lets the sun cook. The climb
continues, slow but sure, as I begin looking for a break on the
horizon, the first sure sign the Rockies are coming, but no luck.
At the gas station/food mart in Keyes, I drain their pop fountain
and down a pint of the local dairy's finest. At my asking, the
station owner calls the local constable, who comes shortly to check
me out, then to grant my wish to pitch in their little roadside park
for the night. It's right next the gas station, and there's a water
faucet. Okay, this'll work!
Sunday--August 18, 2002
Trail Day--110
Trail Mile--2364
Location--US56, Felt, Oklahoma, pitched by highway west of Felt
The wind comes up early, out of the southwest again, 20-30 mph, with
gusts that push and shove. The heat, driven by the wind, hangs me
out to dry, and by day's end, a thirty-five miler, I'm dehydrated
and totally exhausted.
There are a couple of short side streets in Felt, and I stumble down
the second one. Here I see a lady in her yard, watering the little
bit of grass she has somehow managed to keep green. I wave to her
and she greets me with a kind "Hello." As I hold my empty water
bottle upside down and shake it, she motions me over, then to
watches in total bewilderment as I fill it, then down it three times
in rapid succession. As I lift the hose to let the fountain of
water shower over me, she moves away toward the door where her
mother is standing. In a moment she returns with a small paper
bag. "Here are some burritos for you. We've just eaten and they're
leftovers. I want you to take them," she says. I thank her as her
mother waves and nods approval from the porch.
Out of the little village now and moving ever west, and as the sun
bounces a few last radiating waves from the blistered tarmac--with
my tummy full and lots of water to burn, I pull off beside the road
and pitch for the evening.
Monday--August 19, 2002
Trail Day--111
Trail Mile--2389
Location--US56, Clayton, New Mexico, Allen Motel
I downed another liter of water during the night, and this morning,
I'm fortunate to find a windmill pumping away near the road. Here,
I gulp another two liters, then fill my bottles for the day.
At eleven, I put another state behind me, Oklahoma, as I enter the
northeast corner of New Mexico. Here, the highway dips and winds
its way to the northwest corner of Texas, where, by simply stepping
off the highway and onto the east/west boundary road--I'm able to
bag another state, yeehaw, Texas! It's taken me less than a minute
to get through the largest state in the lower forty-eight. This is
a hootin' high. Outfly that, astronauts!
Another very significant milestone behind me now (apparently I was
getting somewhere when it seemed I was getting nowhere in Kansas),
I'm in the Rocky Mountain Time zone-- still looking for the Rockies!
I reach Clayton, New Mexico early, after only a twenty-five miler
today. The heat was really lifting bubbles from the tarmac,
though. I can't recall ever being so happy to have an iced-down cup
of Mountain Dew in my hands!
I'm very tired and need to rest, as tomorrow I head out across the
83 mile no-man's land between Clayton and Springer, New Mexico.
Tuesday--August 20, 2002
Trail Day--112
Trail Mile--2437
Location--US56, Gladstone, New Mexico, pitched in dry gulch below
highway
The highway lifts and rolls today, climbing ever upward, appearing
no more than a narrow ribbon across this unbelievable vastness. I
can see for miles in every direction. The sky just keeps opening
up, higher and higher it reaches, as the horizon stretches wider, to
move ever distant. All this is taking place before my very eyes as
I watch in total disbelief. It all seems so mysterious, so strange,
as if there is not, nor will there ever truly be, an end--yet I know
that I must cross. I will cross.
This is turning to be one amazing day. I was up and out of Clayton
at three this morning. I hadn't gone two blocks till the police
illuminated the entire neighborhood with their convulsively eerie
lights. It usually takes less than two or three minutes to run a
make on me. I was becoming very edgy after five. "What is taking
so long? I need to get moving," were my thoughts. Turned out, the
guy just wanted to kill some time, and was looking for someone to
talk to. I quickly related my story, then moved on.
Late morning, the whole gang from Club Jackson came screeching to a
halt in front of me. They were returning from a four day golf
outing in Taos. They loaded me down with cold pop. It was great
seeing them again.
And the antelope--at first, I tried counting the number of animals
in each herd, but after seeing herds and herds of them, I gave up.
There were literally hundreds. They mix right in with the cattle,
taking water from the windmill watering tanks. And the wind came
whipping at me again, the windmills cranking, but, oh joy, there was
plenty of water!
There aren't too many ways to get across this part of the country,
and US56, though not considered a major US highway, is one of the
few ways. So, the truckers really roll here, and there are many.
The crude oil tankers appear first as little more than dots on the
ribbon of road. I'm able to see them coming well over five minutes
before they go grinding by. They're running a rut, back and forth
from the oilfields to the refineries, and I recognize many of the
drivers, as they have passed time and time again. Many give me a
wave and a WONK, WONK, as they fly by. I have been offered many
rides.
My plans today are to hike to a little crossroads oasis called
Gladstone. I knew it was a fair distance, so, reason for my
starting early. But somewhere along, I miscalculated. It's late
afternoon now, and I'm nowhere near Gladstone, but I keep my head
down, stubbornly plodding away. At dusk, I finally come dragging
into Gladstone, to find the little store closed. Luckily, I'm able
to get water from a faucet behind.
In the last lingering light of day, I finally pitch for the night in
a dry gulch, down from the highway.
After settling in, I recalculate my mileage. Then in disbelief, I
add up the miles again and again. Forty-eight is the number that
keeps coming up. I have walked forty-eight miles through this
barren space. Oh my, this has, indeed, been one amazing day!
Thursday--August 22, 2002
Trail Day--114
Trail Mile--2499
Location--I-25, Wagon Mound, New Mexico, LJM's Travel Center
Motel
From the remarkable vantage of yesterday, the road began dropping
for the first time in many weeks, and it continued dropping all the
way to Springer. There, I bid farewell to US56, my kind,
wide-shouldered friend who set my path across all the Great Plains,
from eastern Kansas, through the Oklahoma Panhandle, clear to
Springer, New Mexico. My path turns more southerly now, as I
continue following the old Santa Fe Trail, which winds its way
around the southern Rockies, through Glorieta Pass, and into Santa
Fe.
The elevation lost yesterday, into Springer, is quickly regained
this morning, as I climb, climb, climb again. I am now at the
western extent of the Great Plains, the end of the Short grass
(Buffalo Grass) Prairie. Here, the prairie gives way to the grand
punctuation of buttes and mesas that mark the juncture with the
Rockies. I'm soon back to over 6,300 feet, to look out and across
Gonzalitos Mesa, which loomed so tall and massive above Springer
only a few short hours ago.
There are a few more cattle along today, but all around are many
more antelope, one heard numbering in excess of twenty-five. They
move so swiftly, so gracefully. One minute they're right there, the
next minute, gone.
I am hiking the service roads paralleling I-25 now, and just south
of Levy, coming in and crossing from the northeast, appear the most
remarkable series of wagon ruts. Here, in these untilled, arid
lands, the ruts have been little disturbed for nearly 200 years.
Once I finally learned to distinguish between breaks in the earth
made by natural erosion and the wagon ruts eroded through time,
their presence has become so remarkable.
As the climb continues, and gaining a fair vantage now, on the
horizon before me rises such an impressive sight, that of the most
famous of landmarks all along the Santa Fe Trail--Wagon Mound! This
butte, which can be seen while approaching it for an entire day (for
the wagon trains of yore--and for me!), strikes such a remarkable
resemblance to a prairie schooner being pulled by a team of oxen.
The silhouette of the covered wagon stands out so amazingly sharp,
so too, the team of oxen pulling it. It's really quite uncanny.
The early pioneers must certainly have pondered what its presence
would foretell.
The time interval between first spotting one of the countless grain
elevators in Kansas, then finally getting there, has turned out to
be a preparatory exercise in patience, great patience--the kind of
patience needed to deal with the moment of first sighting these
natural landmarks on the horizon, and the time lapse of actually
getting there.
Case in point: I was thinking this morning about what a sort day
this would certainly be, my destination, the little village of Wagon
Mound, because there it was right before me! But little did I know
how incredibly far, how distant it was, nor did I know the slow,
seemingly endless hours (say miles) it would take to get there.
This was only a twenty-seven mile day, but it seemed so much
further. Wagon Mound, to my dismay, is deceivingly huge.
I am offered many rides today by the kind New Mexican people. Upon
declining Steven Garcia's offer, he just thrusts his hand out,
giving me his ice cold "Blue" pop.
At the little village of Wagon Mound, I stop at the gas station.
Around the side, by the toilets, they've got two motel rooms. I'm
in luck, they're only half full!
Friday--August 23, 2002
Trail Day--115
Trail Mile--2543
Location--I-25, Las Vegas, New Mexico, Inn of Las Vegas
Wagon Mound is just as impressive going as it is coming, its
presence dominating the horizon to the rear all of this day. Here's
another long, desolate stretch of highway with nothing much between,
so I've set my sights on the town of Las Vegas, although it lies
some forty-four miles distant. I'm following the service roads now,
which follow I-25, which follows the ruts of the old Santa Fe Trail
that wander and meander southwest, back and forth across the
highway. At times, where the ruts parallel the road and are nearby,
I sneak over the fence to walk in them. All along here, and into
Watrous, where the Mountain Route and the Cimarron Cutoff rejoin,
are the ruts so remarkably intact and continuous. Through eastern
New Mexico, the barren landscape rolls and undulates. Looking
across, toward the next gentle rise, along that incline I am able to
see the ruts diverge and rejoin time and again. This historic part
of our national heritage, this old trail, it's now part of me, and I
it. The intensity, the sheer emotion of being with those wagon
trains of times long past, though separated by captor time--somehow
I have finally breached that uncharted chasm of time, to journey
along with those brave souls, to agonize and triumph with them--for
I am a slow and wayward traveler as were they.
The low-hanging sun is setting now, yet as I trudge on, into dusk,
the earth and tarmac continue pulsing and radiating their store of
energy from this day. I see the skyline of Las Vegas, but I know it
will be hours before my arrival. Where the service road ends or is
interrupted, I must move over to the eastbound shoulder of I-25. I
stay down from the emergency lane, in the grass, away from the
glaring headlights, where I am not easily seen.
At nine o'clock, set against the mountains, in the valley below, I'm
finally looking down on the lights of Las Vegas, yet it will be
another hour before I enter there.
The first motel on the eastern strip is the Inn of Las Vegas. This
has been such a long, long day. I am very tired, but contentedly
so.
Saturday--August 24, 2002
Trail Day--116
Trail Mile--2571
Location--I-25 service road west of San Jose, New Mexico, pitched
in Pinon Pine
Mesas and buttes rising to over 7,000 feet, and box canyons--the
Great Plains are far behind me now. Finally, today, I cross a
"stream" with running water, though it is no more than a trickle.
Here's Tecolate Creek, which originates from Bear Mountain in the
Santa Fe National Forest some twenty miles to the northwest. Along
its course runs a narrow ribbon of green, which contrasts sharpely
with the otherwise arid desolation. By late morning the heat comes
on, and laboriously, I journey on. In the evening I cross another
stream, this one running like a stream should run, the first since
well back in Kansas. Here is a grand oasis, the little village of
San Jose on the grand Pecos, a river whose headwaters originate high
in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in the Pecos Wilderness.
Tomorrow I will climb to Glorieta Pass, and Monday I'll walk into
the Plaza at the Palace of Governors in Santa Fe, the end of the
Santa Fe Trail. My sights are set on that destination for now. It
is there that I am bound, and I am content with that thought.
Sunday--August 25, 2002
Trail Day--117
Trail Mile--2594
Location--Glorieta Pass, Glorieta New Mexico, pitched behind post
office (old Glorieta railroad station)
The Santa Fe Trail, the railroad, the old highway (Route 66 towards
Pecos), and I-25 all squeeze together to climb and twist their way
toward Glorieta Pass. It's another scorcher, but I have been turned
and thoroughly browned on all sides by this blazing southwest sun.
Though not a native, I'm certainly beginning to look and feel like
one.
Near the little village of Rowe, I come upon the largest road kill
I've ever seen, a 250-300 pound brown bear. He had been hit by a
late model Toyota traveling along the service road, perhaps as
recently as early this morning. The car's insignia, half the grille
and the entire right parking/directional signal housing were laying
in the road. The bear managed to make it about fifteen yards, down
the road and off the shoulder by a Pinon tree. There he stretched
his front legs forward and his hind legs back, then rolled over on
his side. I hastened to the post office in Rowe where the kind
postmistress called the folks at DNR.
Just below the pass stands a monument marking the Glorieta
Battlefield site. The first Union losses in the Civil War occurred
here. Though indecisive, this battle marked the beginning of the
end for the Confederacy in the west.
By late afternoon I have suffered my way to Glorieta--yes suffered.
Somehow, I know not why or how, but perhaps the heat, I've developed
blisters by the great toes and balls of both my feet. I did stop to
care for them and to tape them, which brought little relief.
Tomorrow, I will descend this pass to enter the grand old city of
Santa Fe. There I must surely interrupt this journey for awhile
before continuing on, across the Mojave to California.
Monday--August 26, 2002
Trail Day--118
Trail Mile--2613
Location--Santa Fe Trail terminus, the Plaza, Palace of the
Governors, Santa Fe, New Mexico
There is no service road below the pass, so I move over to the
railroad tracks. I've walked many a rail for many a mile, but none
like these tracks here through Glorieta Pass. For, as the tracks
reach the pass from the east, they pitch right off the other side,
to begin the steepest descent I've ever seen. Quite strange, going
downhill along a railroad. Helper engines called "pushers" are kept
at the pass to help the trains through.
As I wind my way, and before me now, is Santa Fe. I enter the city,
as did countless travelers from centuries past--along streets now
named Old Pecos Trail and Old Santa Fe Trail, which lead past the
old mission to the Plaza and the Palace of the Governors.
In the Plaza, I nod to the fair-skinned tourists and exchange
greetings with the natives displaying their wares. But by the
corners of the Plaza, where are enclosed the far away corners of
time--I join and am once more with the old wagon masters, and those
brave and noble pioneers of yesteryear. Here, we share the joys,
the sorrows and the triumph of enduring.
I will be away for awhile now, to rest my tired, weary body, and to
await another season, the less harsh days of fall. I'll return
then, to the Plaza here, to continue, then conclude this
transcontinental quest. Please check back often, then come along.
More adventures surely await.
Monday--September 30, 2002
Trail Day--119
Trail Mile--2637
Location--I-25 service/frontage road, pitched in mesquite by Tom
Payne Gulch, Santo Domingo Indian Reservation, north of Albuquerque
I'm back again to the the Plaza, Palace of the Governors in Santa
Fe, rearin' and ready! Folks who know me well couldn't believe I'd
actually interrupted my hike; it's not my usual way, but to the
person, they all agreed that I'd done the right thing--to wait it
out till things cooled down just the least bit. Oh, and was it the
right decision, for I was daily getting my head and feet fried. I
watched the local weather closely last night, and the daily highs
now are in the upper eighties, much more manageable.
I came back out here in my old pickup. Having it means I'll only be
stuck with a bus ride from San Diego to Santa Fe, not all the way
back to Georgia. And I've made friends with members of the Trail's
End Chapter, Santa Fe Trail Association here in Santa Fe. Joan
Sudborough, secretary, is letting me park my truck at her place for
the six weeks or so that it'll take me to reach San Diego. She
dropped me off at the Plaza a little after nine this morning.
Thanks, Joan!
After taking my bounce box to the post office, to bounce it on to
Springerville, Arizona, where I should be in a couple of weeks, I'm
back to the Plaza to resume my hike.
From here, I'll follow Santa Fe Trail (street) for a short ways,
then it's along Cerrillos Avenue, which leads southwest to I-25. By
two I'm at the interstate. Here, I'll hike the frontage roads along
to the Rio Grande River in Albuquerque, then it's down the river to
Socorro before turning west again.
By dusk, I have 24 miles in, so I pull off to pitch for the night at
Tom Payne Gulch.
Ahh, it's so good to be back on the trail (road) again!
Tuesday--October 1, 2002
Trail Day--120
Trail Mile--2658
Location--intersection SR313/44, Bernalillo, New Mexico, Days Inn
It was dark by the time I got pitched and in last, so I didn't
bother with the fly, just relaxed, watching the stars through the
no-seeum netting in my little Nomad tent. "It never rains in New
Mexico," I was thinking. Oh yes, by three, the rain had come. Up
and out I went, the little Photon Light between my teeth, dodging
the cactus, hastily rigging my tent fly! No problem, though, as the
soft rain quickly put me right back to sleep.
First thing this morning I pull a doozie. It's punishment, I
suppose, for trespassing on Indian lands. Crossing the fence to
return to the service/frontage road, and at a sagging spot in the
barbed wire, I push the top strand down and straddle it. Just then,
it breaks! Oh yes, the tension, followed by the recoil, sends it
raking, right between my legs--not good! Perhaps you've never been
bit by the razor-sharp barbs that make barbed wire fencing the
notorious menace it is. If not, believe me, you don't want to be.
The cuts inside both my legs are superficial, but nevertheless, I
had to mop them for some time before the bleeding stopped. No doubt
I clot slower, because of the high dosage coated aspirin I'm on.
In no more than a mile, the frontage road peters out, so over to the
northbound shoulder of I-25 I go. I'm concerned about the state
police, but as the second patrol car goes whizzing by, the officers
paying me not the least heed, I'm able to heave a sigh. The noise
from the heavy commercial traffic quickly becomes monotonous, and
looking at my maps, I'll be out here on this grinder for the better
part of the day.
As the roadway climbs and climbs, and as the jake breaks growl, by
late afternoon I've had enough. So, at the village of Bernalillo I
call it a day.
Wednesday--October 2, 2002
Trail Day--121
Trail Mile--2682
Location--SR314, Near Isleta, New Mexico, pitched in alfalfa
field by the Rio Grande
I'm out and heading to Albuquerque on a clear, cool day, following
old US Route 66 along a narrow busy state highway. The traffic is
running hard and fast in both directions, and less than a mile into
this eight mile section, I quickly realize that this is going to be
the long-feared road walk from Hell. The white line is painted on
the very edge of the pavement, no room to walk here, so, with the
unrelenting traffic, I'm forced to hike the shoulder. Here, the
thick, brush-like vegetation has been mowed, leaving 8-10 inches of
stubble, which is almost impossible to walk in. I stumble along for
nearly four hours before the road widens to give a paved emergency
lane. What a joy to get this behind me and move out again.
Things don't much rust around here. It's neat seeing all the old
cars and trucks still lined up in the junk yards. Relics from the
thirties through the fifties are common. I've even seen old
Studebakers and Willys' trucks still on the road. The sun has sure
baked the paint off everything, but the sheet metal on these old
jalopies is still good.
By mid afternoon I reach downtown Albuquerque. I walk right
through. The center-city--maybe a ten block square area with mostly
government buildings--looks modern and clean, but the rest of the
place you can have. Don't know when the city actually incorporated,
but I'm willing to bet that the streets haven't seen a street
sweeper since that very day. Nuff said for Albuquerque. I'm glad
to cross the Rio Grande and head on out of town.
The wind's been beating up on me again today, hammering hard out of
the south, but it isn't the blast furnace I had to endure a month
ago, and I manage the day just fine. By dusk, the traffic and
narrow streets have given way to a quieter setting with irrigated
alfalfa fields along. I turn down a dirt road between two of them
and pitch by the banks of the grand old Rio Grande.
Thursday--October 3, 2002
Trail Day--122
Trail Mile--2710
Location--SR314, Belen, New Mexico, Freeway Inn
The Rio Grande is running a fair amount of water, but I really don't
believe it would be difficult to ford. There are many places where
the river is very wide with gravel bars breaking it into numerous
smaller runs that could be crossed easily. The course of the river
is very impressive, however, and the Rio Grande Valley, which the
river has created, is wide, lush, and fertile. For the next two
days I'll be hiking beside the river in this grande (Rio) valley.
Most of the business and billboard signs I see now appear in
Spanish, and most all the people are of Spanish descent. So--but
for the exception of one very noteworthy characteristic, would it be
difficult for me to tell I was not in old rather than New Mexico!
And that characteristic? Well, the people of New Mexico are
patriotic, very patriotic--if not more so, I believe, than any other
state I've journeyed through on this odyssey. And they show their
devotion to this country by flying the colors--the good old red,
white, and blue! There are flags and freedom signs everywhere. Ahh,
we are a strange mix, are we not, with the countless nationalities
that have joined together to make up this glorious U.S. of A. But
we are all Americans. Indeed, first, last, and always, we are
Americans!
The wind has come up again, out of the southwest, as if I should be
surprised, and it hassles me all afternoon. Folks at the Chevron in
Isleta this morning, told me I'd find no place to stay in Belen. So
I'd pretty much set myself to pitching by the propane tank behind
the local petro/food mart. But upon entering the city this evening,
I'm surprised to find it a grand strip, with motels all along.
Here, I pull into the Freeway Inn and call it a day.
Friday--October 4, 2002
Trail Day--123
Trail Mile--2736
Location--BLM lands near Thieves Mountain, northwest of Socorro,
New Mexico
Green chili, red chili, everybody and his cousin is selling chili
peppers. You don't see or hear the word "peppers," though, they
just call them "chili." Local establishments put them in everything
they cook. My breakfast yesterday morning was the local tradition.
And, oh no, it wasn't an egg and sausage biscuit. Rather, breakfast
around here for everyone (and me, if I want breakfast) is the
"breakfast burrito," and I bet you can't guess what's in it. Oh
yes, green and red chili! The nice lady said, "It isn't hot at all,
you'll like it, you'll see." Well folks, if it ain't hot, it just
ain't food around these parts!
I'm still hiking south, by the Rio Grande, but today I'll leave it
to trek on west. By three, I'm in the little gas-stop of Bernardo.
Here, I leave I-25 behind.
I've copied maps from my 3.0 DeLorme software, showing a shortcut
southwest to Magdalena, bypassing Socorro, but as I turn west on the
gravel road out, there's no road leading to the right. I've already
gone through a BLM gate which said, "Keep Out!" in so many words,
but I climbed the gate and entered anyway. My maps didn't show me
what I was getting into. The roads don't go where they're supposed
to. The farther I go, the worse it gets--no roads, anywhere, like
shown on my maps. The two right angle sides I'm trying to cut
across are both 25 miles in length. That leaves the cut-across at
no less than 33 miles. What a way to start out! I can see two sets
of high tension lines, and they're both shown correctly on my maps.
One is leading off in the general direction I want to go, so it's
over and down. I follow it until dark, then pitch on a high point
giving me a 360.
The Milky Way is very close, plus bright, shooting stars. These
wonders take my mind off the problem at hand. Hopefully, I'll get
on track tomorrow.
Saturday--October 5, 2002
Trail Day--124
Trail Mile--2764
Location--US60, Magdalena, New Mexico, High Country Lodge
The nights are getting cold, the temperature dropping at dusk. I
was glad to be in my little Nomad Tent, on my Therm-a-Rest, snug in
my Feathered Friends Bag. This morning, my fingers turn stick-like
before I manage to break camp and get going. The day is another
blue one, from horizon to horizon, the brown, barren mountains
standing in bold relief and contrast against the powder blue.
It's great to be off the highway and back in the mountains again for
a change. The thought of that, however, doesn't lighten my fear nor
ease my apprehension, for, just what I was afraid would happen, has
happened. The power line I've been following, through dry gulches
and everything between, makes a turn, even further away from the
direction I want to go. So, reluctantly, I leave it behind, to
strike out southwest, cross-country. By nine, I reach the last
rise, to look out across a vast valley, wherein should be US60 and
Magdalena, but I see neither. I scan in every direction, and to the
mountain range across, but there is no town, no highway. All I see
is the high, open land and a small number of dots that I assume are
houses. There's a gap in the far mountain wall, and I decide to
continue on my southwest course toward it. Three hours later, I'm
still "continuing." Finally, still far across the valley and in the
bright sun, I see what must be the reflection from an auto
windshield, and the spot is moving. "The highway must be there,"
I'm thinking, although it's still nowhere in sight. Another hour of
stumbling through dry grass clumps and around the cactus, I finally
see what looks to be an eighteen wheeler. It's so deceiving, how
far and distant everything appears out here. The highway was right
where it should have been, I just couldn't see it from so far away.
By two, I finally reach US60, only four miles from Magdalena. I've
crossed the mountain and made the shortcut successfully.
It has been a very memorable and rewarding day. My legs and back
got a good workout, what with climbing in and out the dry gulches.
What a surprise to find, by one of the sheer gulch walls, a spring
flowing the coolest, clearest water. The little stream run flowed
no more than ten feet before disappearing in the sand, leaving not a
trace. Nature's own had found it long before me, and they've
treated it with utmost respect, leaving it untrampled and pristine.
It's antelope hunting season now, and at the motel where I'm staying
here in Magdalena, there's plenty of bragging about who shot what.
I didn't want to tell the hunters about the docile, curious animals
that played with me all day. Don't know how may I could have taken
out with a rock--but, of course, I didn't.
Congratulations to Jolene "Jojosmiley" Coby from Alaska, who's just
completed a thru-hike of the AMT/ECT, a journey of over 5,000 miles,
from Key West, Florida to Belle Isle at the northern tip of
Newfoundland. And to Camo, Nomad98 and Tennessee, who accompanied
her throughout Canada. Jojo has accomplished what is probably the
single most test of endurance for any woman, ever!
Sunday--October 6, 2002
Trail Day--125
Trail Mile--2800
Location--US60, Datil, New Mexico, pitched in wooded area behind
post office
Richard at High Country Motel had mentioned that he'd seen another
hiker pass through a few months ago. "That was probably my friend,
Dan," I replied. "Yeah, Dan, that was his name; you guys know each
other?" he asked. He found it hard to believe, that Dan "Sheltowee"
Rogers and I have been friends for a number of years. Truth is,
there just aren't that many nuts out here that walk the roads, so we
stick together. It's difficult to explain when folks ask, "Why?"
No matter the answer, they never seem convinced. I've just found a
neat parallel, a group of folks that find enjoyment in an activity
nobody can understand--the guys that engage in mudboggin. I saw a
big jacked up 4WD rig covered with mud the other day--you know, the
kind you need a stepladder to get up into. Across the top of the
windshield was stenciled, "It's a mud thing, you wouldn't
understand." So, I told Richard that story and he seemed satisfied!
I've got a tough hike ahead of me today, 36 miles into Datil.
That's the next place I'll find water. There's a gas
station/restaurant there, but the place is closed on Sunday, so I
must carry a day's worth of food besides four 20oz. bottles of
water, so my pack is noticeably heavier than usual.
I'm out and going to another bright, cool day. Two hours into the
hike, and on cresting a rise, I can see across the most expansive
valley, the road stretching down and away like a ribbon, to a point
on the far side. In the valley are 24 large antenna dishes aimed
toward the sky. It takes me over three hours to reach them. They
are the largest flexible array of astronomical radio antenna in the
world. Hereabouts, they're known simply as a "Very Large Array" (VLA).
Another four hours and I turn around to see where I've been hiking
all day. It's taken me nearly eight hours to cross this valley, and
I could see the road stretching before me the entire time--a true
test of patience. Along the Appalachian Trail, there are vantages
where one might see a day or two ahead...or behind. But then, it's
duck back in "the green tunnel," and put thought of distance out of
mind. But today, I can see where I'm going almost all day, and what
a day it turns to be. I see countless antelope--and my first
roadrunner!
Just at dusk I reach Datil. The gas station/restaurant is closed
all right, but there's a faucet by the pumps, so I'm able to camel
up and replenish my water supply. I find a spot in the trees behind
the post office, fix a couple cheese sandwiches and call it a day.
Monday--October 7, 2002
Trail Day--126
Trail Mile--2820
Location--US60, Pie Town, New Mexico, pitched at Pie-O-Neer
Restaurant.
The Datil Cafe is open this morning and I treat myself to a full
breakfast and plenty of coffee. I piddle in Datil (say daddle), not
getting out and moving till after nine, but not to worry, this will
be a relatively short hiking day of only twenty miles into Pie Town.
It's climb, climb, climb again as I near the continental divide just
this side of Pie Town. I'm standing on the divide a little after
three--at nearly 8,000 feet. From here to the coast now it should
be all downhill!
At the Pie-O-Neer Restaurant in Pie Town, I meet Chris Bennett.
Chris is from New Zealand. He's biking the Continental Divide Trail
and has stopped to work his journal entries and to have some--pie!
While we're chatting, the rain that had been threatening all day,
finally comes in. Chris laments about the incessant wind, and about
how on days when it's steady coming at him, he can make no more than
six miles per hour. It brings a smile to his face when I comment to
him, "That's still twice as fast as I'm ever moving!"
We both tarry at the Pie-O-Neer till seven, closing time. The rain
has finally let up. Chris bikes to the campground, the little red
tail light on his back blinking away. I sneak over to the shadowy
corner of the Pie-O-Neer front porch and roll out my sleeping bag
for the night. The restaurant is closed tomorrow, and I'll be out
of here at daybreak. Anyway, I just don't feel like pitching on the
cold, wet ground tonight.
Tuesday--October 8, 2002
Trail Day--127
Trail Mile--2842
Location--US60, Quemado, New Mexico, Allison Motel
The hunters are out and moving before daybreak. It's black powder
season out here on elk and antelope, and there are lots of
folks--many are families--heading for the mountains (elk) and the
open range (antelope). Some of their rigs are hilarious. Old, beat
up 4WD pickups dragging two trailers behind full of gear and ORVs
are common. For most, I suspect, the hunt is more an excuse to just
get away from the daily hum-drum and enjoy nature and the great
outdoors--more that than the actual hunt.
I'm up and off the restaurant porch at first light. It's a
crispy-cold morning. First time for my winter gear: gloves,
headband, and fleece jacket--feels good.
Folks run up and down the highway out here, constantly. I don't
have the foggiest idea where they're going; it's fifty miles from
here to anywhere (nowhere). Many who have come to recognize me stop
to offer assistance and to enquire as to my walkabout.
Two interesting distinctions about the Pie Town area (every place
has got to be famous for something): This county is the second
largest but has the least population of any county in the US. Here,
also, stands the tallest mountain in the lower forty-eight that's
still in private ownership (it's over 11,000 feet tall). Well, like
I said, "every place has got to be famous for something (even if
it's just good pie)!" So much for the continental divide, and Pie
Town.
On the twenty-two mile stretch today from Pie Town to Quemado,
there's a little dot on the map called Omega. This metropolis
consists of a fallen-down, boarded up gas station, a burned out
house trailer, a junkyard (a guy's house with lots of cars and
trucks on blocks for spare parts), and a kennel (same guy's
house--lots and lots of dogs).
Quemado is fifty miles from no place. Quemado could also be called
"no place," too. From Quemado, it's fifty miles to Springerville--the
next place that's fifty miles from no place. Folks, hiking this
far-off, no-man's land is starting to get to me. Out here is just
"no place" to be walking around. Certainly you've heard the old
saying, "You can't get there from here." Well, this is "there!"
Say, maybe the folks that are constantly driving up and down the
highway out here are just trying to get--"there."
I pull into Quemado at two-thirty--to: two cafes (one closed), one
bar (closed), and a motel (open), whoo-hee! This is it--I'm in.
Sure hope I can keep getting "there" from here in the morning!
Wednesday--October 9, 2002
Trail Day--128
Trail mile--2876
Location--US60, one mile east of New Mexico/Arizona border,
pitched by dry gulch under Pinon Pine.
I gave Quemado a bum rap in my last journal entry--said it "...could
be called 'no place'." Well, Quemado is really fine, a neat trail
town. There are three motels and at least as many cafes. The motel
I stayed at was okay. The food at the little cafe, El Sarape, was
great, and there's a grocery, of sorts. In keeping with the "gotta
be famous for something" concept out here, Quemado was home many
years ago to a grand entourage of rodeo cowboys that roamed about
with the western shows. They called a nearby canyon home. Don't
know their names. The word, quemado, is Spanish for burned. That
makes sense. Everything around here is brown.
Going out of town this morning, I pass a sign that says Quemado sits
on the site of what was an extinct volcano. That sets me wondering,
isn't it still extinct?
The next place for any services--that means water--is fifty miles
west, so I'm toting a ton of water, which wasn't needed. But better
safe than sorry. At twenty-four miles comes the crossroads of Red
Hill, where there's a realty office. And although they're closed,
there's an outside spigot that works. I fill up again and head for
the Arizona border some eleven miles west. Dusk beats me though, so
I pull off and pitch, just one mile short. This will be my last
night in New Mexico.
Getting across this state has taken a very long time, and it has
been a long, long walk.
Thursday--October 10, 2002
Trail Day--129
Trail Mile--2892
Location--US60, Springerville, Arizona, White Mountain Motel
As soon as the sun drops behind the mountain, the temperature drops
right along with it now. I'd sure rather bury way down in my
Feathered Friends bag, though, and have cold nights, than have the
sun drilling me like it was through Kansas, Oklahoma, and New
Mexico. These recent days have been great for hiking, cool and
clear, with just the least breeze. I'm out and off to another
perfect one today.
Just as the sun comes up, I reach the border between New Mexico and
Arizona. Here is the zero mile marker for New Mexico, and mile
marker 401 for Arizona. Numbers like 401 don't deter me anymore
though, because I know I'll get the miles whittled away. And when I
cross into California, there'll be only half that distance, a little
over 200 miles remaining.
To my delight, when I reach Springerville, I've picket up another
hour. Arizona ignores daylight savings time, so they're in the same
time zone as California part of the year. So I'm in at
eleven-thirty! And this is a neat trail town. Restaurants and the
post office right near White Mountain Motel, a very clean,
reasonably priced place. I've done 50 miles in the last two days,
and I'm in before noon. That'll work!
Another famous and historic western town, Springerville, Arizona.
Coronado passed through here. In 1910, the "Ocean to Ocean" auto
tour road was built through here, and to support it--and remaining
to this day--the oldest Ford dealership west of the Mississippi!
Friday--October 11, 2002
Trail Day--130
Trail Mile--2921
Location--US60, pitched under Pinon Pine by road west of Vernon,
Arizona
Heading out of Springerville this morning, and across from the post
office where I bounce my box along to Blythe, California, stands
another beautiful statue of "Madonna of the Trail." This likeness
of a pioneer woman with long dress, sun bonnet, and a smiling child
on her hip is even larger and more striking than the one in Council
Grove, Kansas. I don't suppose there've been many who've walked
through Springerville from such a far distance since those days
depicted by the Madonna. This statue certainly reminds me that many
then surely suffered and endured in their passing of these
incredibly long, open spaces--as have I.
Also near the west end of town is the old movie theatre. It has
been modernized, the old adobe walls plastered over, but it is still
the same building where silent movies were first shown in
Springerville. The original popcorn machine has survived all the
"flicks" since those bygone times, and is still happily popping
away!
By quarter to five, I'm at the neat little Midway Store near
Vernon. This gives me fifteen minutes to look around, get a couple
burritos warmed up in the microwave, and pick up some chips and a
pop. There's a payphone on the wall outside and an old wood stump
to sit on while calling family back in Florida.
As the owner walks by with the cash tray, to his home right next, he
wishes me well on the remainder of my trek.
I manage three more miles west before the sun sets on me. As dark
descends, I clear the scatter of volcanic rock from under a Pinon
Pine, set my tent, and call it a day.
Saturday--October 12, 2002
Trail Day--131
Trail Mile--2948
Location--SR260, Linden, Arizona, thence to home of Don and
Jeanette Gullett, Pinetop, Arizona
I'm up and on the road early, with childlike anticipation, for this
evening I've been invited to the home of Don and Jeanette Gullett.
Don and I were classmates during our time in professional school in
Memphis, Tennessee. The last time we saw each other was on
graduation day in 1966. That was thirty-six years ago!
I arrive just before noon at Dr. Gullett's office. His receptionist
looks at me with puzzled amusement when I tell her that Don and I
are friends, and that he is expecting me.
Don has done very well in the thirty-six years since I saw him last
(put on a little weight, though).
He's got his own modern office right on the main drag--called "Deuce
of Clubs." The name of the town and many of the streets, well,
that's another story. We spend good time in his lounge before I
head back out again to chalk up a few more miles before dark.
Don comes to fetch me at four, then whisks me away to his lovely old
home in Pinetop. Here I see Jeanette again. We sit and enjoy a
great time--and a great steak dinner! What a great day!
Sunday--October 13, 2002
Trail Day--132
Trail Mile--2978
Location--SR260, Heber, Arizona, Canyon View Motel
I had a great time with my old friends, the Gulletts, in Pinetop.
It's amazing what one can accumulate from day-to-day over thirty-six
years. Their house--plus sheds and a garage--are packed with all
sorts of it. For example, Don still has his first automobile, a 34
Ford five window coupe. It's stored in the garage, with lots and
lots of other stuff. A 34 Ford, folks, amazing!
Now, let me tell you about Show Low and the origin of this town with
the peculiar name. Seems as though, back in the mid to late
eighteen-hundreds, there were two families cooperatively ranching
100,000 acres of range in Arizona. They soon realized the land
could not support two families, so they decided that one of them
needed to go. Problem was, neither wanted to buy the other out.
They finally decided to settle the matter over a game of poker known
as seven-up. In this card game, seven cards are dealt to each
player. Each then turns a card up. The high card takes the point.
And so the game goes to the last card. In this game, each of the
gentlemen had won three points. So, the winner was to be
determined by the turn of the last card. Clark, one of the
gentlemen, knew that his odds of winning with a three, his last card
were slim to none. So, he said to Cooley, the other gentlemen,
"show low" and you win. Cooley turned up the lowly deuce of clubs.
By winning the last point, Cooley retained his 50,000 acres, and
became the sole owner of the entire ranch, including Clark's 50,000
acres. The ranch became known as Show Low Ranch. Clark lost the
card game--and his land, but managed to keep something much more
valuable, his friendship with Cooley. They became partners in land
development, creating a town in Arizona now known as Show Low. Oh,
and the main drag is called Deuce of Clubs!
Don and Jeanette have me back on the road by six-thirty, on a cool,
clear day. I hike it on into Heber for the evening and pull off at
Canyon View Motel.
Thanks, Don and Jeanette, for your kindness and hospitality!
Monday--October 14, 2002
Trail Day--133
Trail Mile--3007
Location--SR260, west of Mogollon Rim, thence to Budget Inn,
Payson, Arizona
Another day of great excitement and anticipation, for today I'll see
my very dear friend, Dan "Sheltowee" Rogers. Dan's true "hiker
trash" from way back. With thousands of trail miles behind him, he
began an incredible hiker's hiker odyssey in 2001. Coming out of
his home in Stubenville, Ohio, he headed southwest, through every
state, clear to Arizona. Here, last April, he interrupted his
transcontinental hike in Payson, the little town just ahead of me
here in Arizona. For the past few weeks, we've been in touch and
have made plans to link our individual odysseys in Payson, then
continue west together to the Pacific Ocean at San Diego. I've been
hoping on hope that all would work out, that we would be able to get
together as planned.
Well, Dan will be picking me up at the end of this day, on SR260,
just below the Mogollon Rim, here, east of Payson, thence to shuttle
me on into Payson! Tomorrow morning, he'll bring me back out, to
complete the remaining 25 miles or so into Payson, then, Wednesday
morning we'll head for the Pacific together!
The terrain changes drastically today. I see the last of the grand,
majestic Ponderosa Pine as I drop down, down, down, off the Mogollon
Rim. In the midst of extensive highway construction on SR260, and
right on cue, Dan comes to fetch me. Oh, what a great day, seeing
my old friend again--out here in what seems the middle of nowhere.
Tuesday--October 15, 2002
Trail Day--134
Trail Mile--3030
Location--SR260, Payson, Arizona, Budget Inn.
Dan and I had a great time last, catching up on everything in our
respective lives since we last hiked together way back on the
Appalachian Trail.
I'm out again to the dust and dirt at the construction site on SR260
before eight as Dan drops me off, waves and heads back to Payson.
This is the day I've been waiting for, as I'll finally catch up with
Sheltowee in Payson today.
The nice, fully-paved shoulder gives way and the traffic is heavy
and flying. By mid-afternoon, and as I'm hypnotically plodding
along, I hear, "Nomad, hey Nomad." I stop and turn to see Sheltowee
standing in front of the local American Legion. Arm and arm, in we
go, to laugh and have a few cold ones. Then it's back to the hike
as I hammer the remaining mile to the motel.
In the evening, it's a great steak and baked potato--in the company
of a great friend! Ah yes, life is good!
Wednesday--October 15, 2002
Trail Day--135
Trail Mile--3052
Location--Bull Spring, Mazantzal Wilderness, Tonto National
Forest, Arizona
This morning Sheltowee and I are out together, heading west into
the Mazatzal Wilderness, a vast tract of rugged mountainous terrain
that ranges in altitude from 1,300 to over 11,000 feet, smack in the
middle of the 3,000,000 acre Tonto National Forest.
The pavement is quickly behind us as we climb the rutted,
boulder-strewn road, up, up, up. It's so good to have company
again, to be hiking with a seasoned, veteran hiker, my friend,
Sheltowee. Loneliness can become such a daunting, clenching,
crushing foe. In awhile we reach a locked gate that controls
vehicle access to the wilderness. There are still a couple of
sprawling ranches totally within the forest. First comes Doll Baby
Ranch, then LF Ranch. Doll Baby seems remote enough, way back at
what we thought was the end of the "road." But, miles beyond, and
as we struggle up, down, around and through rocks, deep powder dirt,
and yawning washouts that would swallow a tank--and as we near LF
Ranch, we hear a vehicle approaching. To our disbelief, comes
lumbering an old two-ton stake truck, two cowboys--and a cow, all
lurching wildly.
What luck, as we're already in a quandary as to our location. The
happy-go-lucky fellow driving gives us good directions--along with a
frowning comment as to what we were about to head into.
Oh yes, throw the mileage measuring gauges out--might as well just
throw the maps away, too, for little did we know the weird time warp
we were about to enter. Our first trail junction looks to be about
two miles out. We climb, climb, and climb some more. We're above
the ranches now, above all the low-lying ridges--one hour, two
hours--no junction. Surely we've missed our turn, but at the top of
the climb, and in this gap, we finally reach our first turn, hours
after we should have been here. We had planned on reaching the
Verde River by nightfall. As we look at the map, to our dismay, we
find we've barely covered any of the distance to the river. "It's
closer to forty miles out there; it'll take you days to reach the
river," echo now the words of the rancher. Not near as smug, the
gravity of his words begin to sink in. "He doesn't know the kind of
miles we can cover," I remember thinking. Now I'm thinking, "We
better start covering some miles if we're gonna get out of here;
we've got two days of food, that's all!"
By late evening we're both out of water. We're in the true high
desert now, for earlier we passed the first saguaro cactus, the tall
human-looking cactus with arms. The map shows a spring ahead. It's
ahead all right, way ahead. We're in luck, the spring has stopped
running, but there are tadpoles at home, swimming the water in both
tanks. Sheltowee pumps the green haze out of quarts and quarts of
it. Our thirst finally slaked, we pitch for the night above the dry
gulch next the spring. We're already rationing food in anticipation
of an extended stay, much longer than two days, in these heavenly
heaved-up crags of the Mazatzal Wilderness.
Thursday--October 16, 2002
Trail Day--136
Trail Mile--3069
Location--FR18/Verde River, Mazatzal Wilderness, Tonto National
Forest, Arizona
I pitched last night, tent fly on but rolled back. About three,
and with haste, I scurried out to pull it down as a heavy electric
storm lumbered through. Okay, so apparently it does rain in the
desert.
By seven the storm moves on east and the sky clears, revealing that
remarkable haze-free blue that's typical of the desert, clear, clear
to the horizon. We're out and moving before eight, bound for the
Verde River. Hopefully, we'll get there today--where we'd hoped to
be yesterday. Mid-morning, our first stop is Cow Trap Spring, a
little trickle next an old line shack. Here, we water-up and have a
bite to eat--a cheese sandwich each.
As we venture further into the wilderness, and at seemingly every
turn and rise, is revealed more and varyied species of cactus--tall,
skinny ones, stumpy, barrel-shaped ones, spindly branched ones,
puffy, cuddly-looking ones, each with its unmistakable needles,
darts and quills. One particularly natty fellow comes on in
unavoidable abundance--as the day also comes on. It's called
"jumping cholla," for it seems to literally jump to impale with its
ball of spikes. We've named it "holy jumping hollow-points," for
once the spikes penetrate the skin they seem to literally explode,
making them painful and almost impossible to extract, worse than an
augered-in tick!
By early afternoon, we finally reach the Verde River, but we're
unable to find the trail crossing. The Verde is a formidable river,
wide and rolling. We look upstream, downstream, reluctantly
settling on an area of rapids. We both make the ford safely, but
the going is slow and scary. Once on the far side, we're unable to
find a trace of trail or the road leading west. Our maps show a
forest road within a few-hundred yards of the river, but as we climb
a ridge nearest for vantage, there is no road to be found within
miles. Something is wrong, badly wrong. Time to keep cool heads,
to make right decisions. Flashes through my mind now the rancher's
heedful words of warning, "People have perished in the Mazatzal."
We wisely decide to turn back. Once more, reluctantly, we ford the
fast-rushing Verde. By the time we return to the trail junction
high on the ridge east of the Verde it's mid-afternoon. Studying
the maps, we decide to continue hiking south, following the trail
along the Verde River canyon. At least we'll have water nearby
should our journey here turn even more protracted.
By late evening, the trail leads us once again to the Verde River.
Across the river, high on the river bluff is another corral, another
line shack. The river here is wide and shallow, so we decide to
ford again, to spend the night at the line shack. Thunderheads have
been building full around all day, and as the evening settles, they
unify their strength, bringing down a crashing crescendo of thunder
and lightning. We fill our water bottles, then make haste to the
shelter of the rusty tin building. We're no sooner in than the wind
drives through in a rage--but there comes no rain, not a drop.
Supper today is another cheese sandwich apiece.
We think we are at Sheep Bridge. We know we are on the Verde
River. Tomorrow we will find that we're half right--but out here
half right isn't good, not good at all.
Friday--October 17, 2002
Trail Day--137
Trail Mile--3092
Location--Horseshoe Dam, Tonto National Forest, Arizona
Thinking we're at Sheep Bridge and looking at our maps, shows a
forest service road leading further south beside the winding Verde,
all the way to Horseshoe Reservoir at Humboldt Mountain. So, we
ford the Verde once again to search for the road--no road, not a
trace of a road anywhere. Decision time again. Again we decide to
stick to the Verde and continue south on a rugged bushwhack, in
hopes of intersecting the road at some point.
Here, the river goes to meandering, as rivers often do, into
incredible oxbows and wide sweeping bends. The canyon is deep, with
sheer cliffs towering nearly a thousand feet. The canyon rim
becomes interrupted now, much as is the canyon of the far-off
Restigouche in Canada. Gulches cut deep, carving out their own
canyons, with their individual overhanging bluffs, to reach far
inland of the river. Putting these rim gaps behind us is incredibly
slow. We must scramble through loose rock, shale and the ubiquitous
cactus, for what seems like mile after painfully dangerous mile
before returning to the main canyon wall. Time and again we search
our maps for some hint of order to this incredible jumble. The
mountains, the cliffs, the canyons, they're so massive, so
magnificent and majestic--but there seems no rhyme or reason. We
are lost. We're right next the Verde River alright, but we're sure
as hell lost!
Finally, claiming yet another steep cactus choked ridge, happens a
faint trail. We jump on it. Hey, it's going where we want to go.
It's getting more defined, there's cairns now. This is a trail! In
awhile, we reach a fence, a gate. The sign reads, "Mazatzal
Wilderness, Tonto National Forest." We're out of the wilderness
now, but where are we? Finally, the puzzle pieces together as
Sheltowee heaves a sigh of relief, followed by, "Oh, no!"
Well folks, the reason nothing has made sense on the maps is because
we're nowhere near as far along as we thought. Two seasoned
backpackers--we should have known, or at least suspected as much.
Where we had expected to be on our first night in the wilderness had
taken us two full hiking days to reach.
At two in the afternoon we finally reach Sheep Bridge, a beautiful
pedestrian (sheep) bridge over the long, sweeping Verde. Here we
meet folks out on their quad-tracs for the day, Bob and Bev Wright
and Bob Dill. They load us up with all the food they've brought for
the day. From here, we hike on down the road we were looking for
all morning, to the reservoir at Horseshoe Lake. Here we pitch for
the night by the dam outfall to hastily down the MRE given us by the
Wrights. Tomorrow we'll finally complete our "two day" hike through
the Mazatzal Wildernes.
Saturday--October 18, 2002
Trail Day--138
Trail Mile--3117
Location--Cave Creek Road/Scottsdale Road, Carefree, Arizona,
thence to Motel 6, Phoenix
The excitement, the adrenaline-pump of chancing through the
wilderness is behind us now. We're up, break camp and are on our
way toward Carefree by eight. Ahead of us today is a road walk, a
good bit uphill as we pull away from the Verde River canyon.
Beginning the climb at the reservoir, we're at 2,120 feet, reaching
3,740 feet at the gap by Humboldt Mountain.
Gaining the pass, we turn for one more look back at Squaw Butte,
Cactus Ridge, and the grand, towering massif of Mazatzal. Before us
and on the southern horizon loom the mysterious Superstitions and
Weaver's Needle.
As we head on down the mountain I'm thinking, much as when the hike
was all downhill toward the conclusion of "Odyssey 2000-01"--the
excitement of it will add spice to life's great memories, but at the
same time, I'm definitely ready for the ending. We'll be in
California in just another week.
In Carefree, there are few commercial businesses despite a
population of nearly 5,000. The place is Ritz beyond description.
Even the main power, where usually there's clutter after clutter of
poles, is all underground. There are no signs, even on the
municipal buildings. At the main intersection, there's a lone forty
year old Shell station--and it looks like they'll be pushed out
soon.
After three nights and four days in the wilderness, we're ready for
a shower, a good meal and a bed, so we call a cab and head for
Phoenix.
Sunday--October 19, 2002
Trail Day--139
Trail Mile--3117
Location--Carefree/Phoenix, Arizona, Motel 6
We have decided to burn a day and rest our bones. I haven't taken
any time from the hike since coming back on at Santa Fe. I get
caught up on journal entries and email while Sheltowee enjoys the
football game.
In the evening, we are picked up by Sheri "Second Chance" Guida, who
I met on the Appalachian Trail during "Odyssey '98." Sheri lives
nearby in Peoria, Arizona. First, we run by REI to get new Leki
tips for Dan's hiking sticks, then it's to Sheri's lovely home for a
sensational pasta dinner.
Monday--October 21, 2002
Trail Day--140
Trail Mile--3141
Location--SR74, Lake Pleasant Aqueduct, Arizona
Second Chance comes for us at seven to shuttle us back to Carefree.
Along, we stop at a Good Egg, a local breakfast place for some more
hiker fuel. It's great to chat and spend some time with Second
Chance again. We met, then said good-bye, by chance, at The Place
in Damascus, Virginia, in '98. Second Chance had used up her
"second chance" and was leaving the Appalachian Trail, and I was on
my northbound AMT/ECT jaunt at the time. In my book, "Ten Million
Steps," I recall commenting, with much sadness, about the
reality--the likelihood of never seeing may of these new friends,
ever again, folks that had sought shelter that rainy night under the
old tin roof at The Place. So, indeed, it is a joy to see Second
Chance again, clear out here in Phoenix, Arizona. Thanks, Second
Chance, thanks for your help, for your kindness.
We've got just one turn to make today, off Scottsdale Road onto
Carefree Highway. Plodding, we walk right past it. Sheltowee says,
"I think that's our turn," then with heads down, we both walk right
through it--for a mile and a half. After awhile, we finally turn
around, adding the additional three miles to the twenty-four for the
day. "In the morning after blues, with my head down to my
shoes--Carefree Highway, let me slip away--slip away on you." Don't
know if Gordon Lightfoot ever tripped down Carefree Highway, but he
sure pegged it for Sheltowee and me, we both had our heads down to
our shoes this morning.
It's another blue-perfect day in the desert, what else! Guess
that's what attracts the hob-nobs and retirees to this barren
desolation of boulders, rocks--and cactus and mounds of sand and
dirt. Through the bluntly naked starkness of it, there does present
a forbidding-yet-seductive sort of raw beauty all about. The jagged
horizon for 360 does little to soften the edges, but the wide,
powder-blue dome above goes far to tone down and burnish the harsh,
hard, brass of it. I could never get used to living out here. Give
me a soft, green meadow, back dropped by that warm, purple mountain
majesty, a gently rolling river through--and close down this
incredible ocean of sky; there's my place, my home.
It's a long day of pounding to reach the only water in miles, the
Lake Pleasant Aqueduct leading to Phoenix. Sheltowee boosts me up
and over the chain-link fence where I pump water for the evening and
for all of tomorrow.
What a glorious night under the desert sky, stars and satellites,
and a near-full moon--but, oh yes, never far away, the
eighteen-wheelers jake-braking the hill down.
Tuesday--October 22, 2002
Trail Day--141
Trail Mile--3172
Location--US60, Wickenburg, Arizona, AmericInn
Dan slept under the stars on his Therm-a-Rest. I had my little
Nomad up, without the fly.
It's full no-seeum, all four panels, just like under the stars. I
like being away from the creepy-crawlies, all my things where I can
find them next morning.
We're up and out a little after six as we've got a thirty into
Wickenburg. That's the next water source along our route. We no
sooner get crankin' than both of us bail off by the rocks and
creosote bushes to tend our daily duty. Dan comes back on the road
wild-eyed. Seems that where he squatted was also the home for one
of the locals--a sidewinder. A few not-so-friendly rattles had let
Dan know he wasn't welcome.
Only a mile or so further we chance upon our first tarantula.
Danged if these aren't bigspiders! Then, just a little further
along, Dan breaks the monotony, the noise of our clicking poles, as
he opines that he'll probably pitch his tent, too, from now on!
The road to Wickenburg is straight and long, clear to the wide,
unreachable horizon. We plod toward it, each in our separate
hypnotic trance. Distances out here absolutely defy measure.
Wheels hack at the miles faster, but roads that lift in a mirage to
the sky testeven the most patient. Walking that path, well, that's
another matter entirely. Indeed,
to walk these barren landscapes leads one onto, then down the
endless treadmill of time--I
see Sheltowee moving, he can certainly see me moving, but the
roadway, the mountainsalong, everything seems to be making the
journey with us. Ahh, but it's just another of those days, I
suppose, one more day in the woof and warp that bends and weaves the
fabric of everything.
We arrive Wickenburg late evening. Once again the sun has beat us
in. We're both very tired, ready for an oasis. We find it in the
form of AmericInn, where we pull off andcall it a day.
Wednesday--October 23, 2002
Trail Day--142
Trail Mile--3172
Location--US60, Wickenburg, Arizona, AmericInn
The road west will be there tomorrow. This is a day for much needed
rest.
Thursday--October 24, 2002
Trail Day--143
Trail Mile--3199
Location--US60, Aguila, Arizona, Burro Jim Motel
What a great stay at the AmericInn of Wickenburg, first class all
the way. The people,
the service, the best. Thanks Marilu and Bill, and Betty Sheri,
Louie, Cheryl, Courtney,
Debbie, Carolyn, Brandon and Anthony.
We're out a little before seven to hike the remainder of
Wickenburg. But first, it's a stop at McDonalds for breakfast, then
to the food mart for a few snacks for the day. Then we're bound for
the little village of Aguilla, some 27 miles to the west on another
cool, clear day.
More wide open spaces, and more long, straight highway. The traffic
is light, however, and there's a fully paved shoulder. Conditions
just couldn't be much better. And we break below the 100 mile mark
for Arizona today. Less than 100 miles to the last
stateline...California!
By late afternoon, we've done the miles to pull in to the Burro Jim
Motel. It's been a good hiking day.
Friday--October 25, 2002
Trail Day--144
Trail Mile--3228
Location--US60, Salome, Arizona, Sheffler's Motel
Great stay at the Burro Jim Motel--and the next door bar with all
the gang, Sandra, Sandra, Topaz, Debbie, and Jimmy.
We're out to another fine day, although a long one, 29 miles, and no
water. Dan's been having some breakin with his feet again, but he's
a trooper, taking off full tilt, pushing all the way through.
It's another wide and seemingly endless valley-walk on the highlands
of Arizona, mountains looming both sides the entire distance. One
interesting mountain is named Eagle Eye Peak. Near the summit sits
a huge rock, which, with the light reflecting from it, appears the
mountain has a hole clear through it, thus the interesting name, as
it shines likes an eagle's eye.
Before sunset, we arrive at the little town of Salome--to a motel
and cafe right by. This has been a fine day.
Saturday--October 26, 2002
Trail Day--145
Trail Mile--3250
Location--US60, Brenda, Arizona, Black Rock Motel
A storm has slammed the coast of Mexico, moving across south into
Texas leaving the weather very unsettled north and west of us. I'm
up at six and head over to the food mart for coffee. On the way
back to the motel room the rain begins, so Sheltowee and I sit back
and enjoy our coffee before making a dash for the cafe for
breakfast.
By the time we're out and hiking at eight, the skies have cleared to
the west, bringing a cool, wind free morning. US60 follows a long,
expansive valley with majestic sawtooth mountains looming on both
sides. We climbed into this high valley Thursday coming out of
Wickenburg and have been in it ever since. Looks like we'll
continue for at least another day. More dust devils to entertain
us, high, near-perfect columns of dirt whipped and swirled upward
toward the sky for hundreds of feet.
I finally must hike awhile in the rain, as the clouds come across
the mountain draped with curtains of gray. We don our foul weather
gear for just awhile, until the rain moves on past. This is the
first I've hiked in the rain since western Missouri.
Lots of quail today--and bigger birds, fighters flying maneuvers up
and down the valley.
Fourteen more days to the sea. One more night in Arizona. We'll
cross into California day after tomorrow. It's great having
company; Sheltowee and me, we're having a grand time.
Sunday--October 27, 2002
Trail Day--146
Trail Mile--3268
Location--I-10, Quartzite, Arizona, pitched in dry wash across
from McDonalds
The storm of yesterday is way east of us now, but it's still visible
on the eastern horizon. We're off to another cool, clear morn as we
hike our last full day in Arizona. 401 miles is a very long
distance to watch the mile markers slowly tick down.
Four miles into the hike today we run out of US60, a wide-shouldered
friend that has treated us very kind. I-10 has buried the western
extent of this great highway, as there is no room through the passes
for both. At ten we hike down the on ramp to I-10. Within minutes,
we see the flashing lights of a patrol car coming toward us. Seems
it hasn't taken long to face the music. But just as it appears
we've had it, the officer pulls a motorist over right in front of
us. As we continue, we must pass the patrolman. He greets us with
a hello and a smile. After four or five minutes of conversation, he
gets around to explaining that pedestrian traffic is not permitted
on the interstate. The lady in the auto gets fidgety. Finally, she
comes out of her vehicle and walks back toward us. The officer
motions her back, telling her to be patient, that he'll be with her
shortly. Shortly lasts another five minutes as officer Parker
becomes intrigued with our respective odysseys. In awhile, he nods
his head and motions us on west--along I-10.
The truckers have quite the diversion today, two hikers walking the
interstate shoulder. Most all give us the high sign, and many pull
the air horn chain. The traffic is rolling hard and steady, but
it's great fun--a diversion for us, too.
In the evening, we take the exit to Quartzite to look for a room for
the night. There are two motels within a block of each other.
Seems they're in cahoots. Both are dumps. Both want fifty bucks
for a room. Neither one has phones. We opt to pitch for the night,
a good decision. The evening is cool, and we find the perfect spot,
a dry wash less than a block from McDonalds.
Monday--October 28, 2002
Trail Day--147
Trail Mile--3293
Location--I-10, Blythe, California, Royal Pacific Inn
Another day of excited anticipation. Today, I will cross the final
state line on this transcontinental odyssey--California! By
seven-fifteen, we're back to the grind of I-10. There's seventeen
miles of Arizona remaining, all interstate. By twelve-fifteen,
we've knocked them out. We're at the Colorado River, the state line
between Arizona and California. What a moment for me. North
Carolina is behind me, Virginia is behind me, so, too, for DC,
Maryland, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana,
Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, the Oklahoma Panhandle, the northwest
corner of Texas, New Mexico and now Arizona, over thirty-two hundred
miles. California and the desert is all that lies between me and
the Pacific Ocean. This odyssey is within two weeks of becoming
history. Yes, this is a special time--standing here on the Colorado
River bridge. Getting here's been a long, long haul.
From the river, it's a short hike along a little-used road into
Blythe. Crossing the Colorado has put us in the Pacific Time zone,
so we pick up another hour. First stop is the post office where I
retrieve my bounce box. Oh, and lots of mail! Sheltowee has picked
up an add booklet with motel coupons. After a little review we beat
it to the best deal, Royal Pacific Inn right downtown.
Tuesday--October 29, 2002
Trail Day--148
Trail Mile--3310
Location--SR78, Palo Verde, California, Lagoon Lodge
As we hike out from Blythe, I try to remember, but there is no way I
can remember all the great friends I've seen along this hike. Like,
just this past Sunday entering Quartzite--a car pulled to the curb;
the driver waved with much jubilation, passed, then turned and
returned. As soon as I saw the guy, I told Sheltowee, "This fellow
and me, we've met before." Sure enough, it's old Billy Goat. We me
at the ALDHA Gathering a number of years ago. He was present at my
first Gathering presentation that year. Billy Goat has hiked the
Appalachian Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail and the Continental
Divide Trail, the three trails collectively and commonly known among
hiking circles as "The Triple Crown." Billy Goat is a true hiking
veteran. We had a grand time talking trail at a local watering hole
in Quartzite.
The hike today zigs and zags along SR78, through the lush hay fields
along the Valley of the Colorado. Desert soil is fertile soil.
Lack of water is the reason things don't grow out here, but where
there's water, as here in the valley, the miles and miles of flats
can be irrigated. And that's just what they do. It seems
incredible, but it is true that the hay farmers hereabouts get
seventeen cuts a year from their irrigated fields, one every three
weeks. So, passing through today, we're thinking it's harvest time,
what with the mowers, rakes, and balers running, and the eighteen
wheelers hauling, but what we see is just business as usual. Here,
they've even got forklifts that are tagged and run the highways at
sixty plus!
So along we go, following the irrigation canals, first south, then
west, then back south again, along the perfectly squared sections of
land. Shortly comes a car and pulls to the shoulder, and we're
joyfully greeted by Cindy, the kind barmaid we'd met yesterday at
the American Legion in Blythe. She's headed to work and stops to
wish us well on the remainder of our journey. By two-thirty, we're
in Palo Verde, a short, wide spot in the road. Here's a post
office, two bars, a restaurant and motel (four rooms), a Laundromat
and food mart, all within a two block area. Palo Verde is a trail
town!
We check into the Lagoon Lodge, then hit the Lagoon Saloon for
supper, a few cold ones--and a friendly game of pool. It's been a
fine day, for sure.
Wednesday--October 30, 2002
Trail Day--149
Trail Mile--3334
Location--SR78, pitched behind Border Patrol Station near
Buzzards Peak, California
We had a really great stay last at Lagoon Lodge...and a great
breakfast this morning at Lagoon Saloon. Dan ordered ham with his
eggs and taters. Dang, tell you what, I've never seen such a
serving of ham! Two half-inch slices from the top of the hock, a
full eight inches in diameter. Dan tried, but he just couldn't put
it away. I ordered bacon with my eggs and had the waitress pack the
bacon in a Ziploc to stoke me later.
A block down, heading west out of town is a local grocery store. I
load up for the next three days we'll spend crossing (more of) the
desert--burritos, plenty of cheese, crackers, and, oh yes, sugar
candy. Palo Verde is one great little trail town--add this little
place in the southwestern desert to the list of great trail towns!
The gals at Lagoon Saloon even remembered Swamp Eagle, my dear
hiking friend from Florida, who passed through on his
transcontinental horseback trek a few years ago.
Dan heads out ahead of me. The day is another perfect one, cool and
wind-free. We just couldn't have timed our hike across the desert
any better. What a wonderful payoff for all we've endured--the
rain, the cold, the relentless, pressing, blistering heat, the
constant wind, and all the dismal days of just grinding the miles
along this disappearing road to the endless horizon.
We continue passing square miles of irrigated alfalfa fields, the
tractors working their perennial crop. Past the last irrigation
canal, we climb away to the west again, toward Palo Verde Peak.
The passing hay trucks, the drivers who've come to know us--and who
wonk-wonk as they pass, offer some diversion to the desert left and
desert right. By late evening, we've banged out another 24, to pull
into the Border Patrol Station. The place is shut down, has been
for awhile. We pitch behind, to spend the evening scanning the
crystal clear, star-filled desert sky...a great way to spend the
first day of my 64th year on this earth.
Thursday--October 31, 2002
Trail Day--150
Trail Mile--3359
Location--SR78, pitches in desert west of Algodones Dunes,
Chocolate Mountains, California
Dan made a sweep through the desert a few weeks ago while waiting
for me to catch up with him in Payson, Arizona. Along the way, he
cached a few gallons of water at strategic points. What a joy
yesterday and again this morning to arrive at the little oasis spots
he'd placed for us.
Our hike today takes us further southwest, past old gold mines right
and left, remains of the diggings still evident. I just don't know
how the old sourdoughs survived out here, hacking at the dirt and
rocks, no water within fifty miles, but it's apparent they did.
There's commercial mining here now, with piles of tailings that look
like mountains themselves--and miles and miles of six-foot high
chain link fence with razor wire on top, presumably to "protect" the
few turtles that somehow manage to survive in this God-forsaken
place. Fences with razor wire to protect turtles. No fences,
whatsoever, to protect us, to keep us out of the vast naval aerial
gunnery and bombing range all along the road--weird. But then, we
are in California now.
By early afternoon, we've reached the "beach," named for the
Imperial sand dunes--but there's no water, a minor oversight.
Officially, the 200+ square miles of pure, uninterrupted, undulating
waves of sands are known as Imperial Dunes Recreation Area. Dune
buggies, quad tracs, motorcycles and cool-looking jeeps are
everywhere. The two, big weekends of the year are upcoming.
Estimates are for over 100,000 people to show for great fun. The
whacko (socialistic) element of the environmental movement, they've
been here, too, oh yes. Predictably, and true to form, they've
managed to come up with something labeled "endangered"--a little
clump of "rare" grass that supposedly grows nowhere else but here in
these dunes. They've managed to shut down part of the area. Of
course, they could care less about eliminating this multi-billion
dollar industry that helps support the southern California
economy--that shrouded agenda being their true objective. It's sad,
it really is, because what damage is being done to the dunes, if
indeed there is any, will be quickly erased by the next good
windstorm that comes driving through--along with the little clumps
of rare grass.
Hiking up and over the dunes is near a spiritual experience. The
heaped-up mounds, the uninterrupted, undulating waves of sand
stretching to and beyond the horizon, it's baffling. There is no
number that man could possibly conceive let alone ever comprehend,
to get a handle on the individual and infinite number of grains of
sand that make up this little corner God's vast creation.
Hundreds and hundreds of vehicles towing campers and trailers loaded
with ORVs pass us as we hike on west. At dusk we pull off to
stealth camp on the road fringe next the bombing range
Friday--November 1, 2002
Trail Day--151
Trail Mile--3383
Location--SR78, Brawley, Califoria, Townhouse Lodge
Yesterday was a great hiking day. Late afternoon, as Sheltowee and
I shared the joy of it, and at that very moment did the hike turn
even better. A SUV pulled to the shoulder, with both driver and
passenger bailing out to greet us with beaming smiles. There we met
Kelly and Dick, two weekend sand rats. Lots of questions, but not
before the hatch door came open, the cooler lid went up--and
Sheltowee and me both had an ice cold Coors shoved in our hands!
Yes, it was one fine day.
We hit the road early this morning. No sooner do we get cranking
than we arrive at Sheltowee's last water cache. Perfect planning,
Sheltowee! We load, then hook the empty container to my pack. We're
graced with yet another cool, clear day for trekking west. By
mid-morning we drop off East Mesa into the lush Imperial Valley.
We've been hiking the high elevations, with low desert humidity for
many, many days, but in less than an hour, we're dropping below sea
level--zero, minus 100, minus 200, and we're still dropping, as the
humidity climbs. I'm not used to this moisture, and my shirt and
hiking shorts soon become soaked with perspiration. But no
complaints, no complaints at all.
The mountains are behind us for awhile now, the hazy horizon that is
characteristic of California before us. No more rugged, sawteeth's
looming, which we've become accustomed to seeing at the edge,
converging with the blue across the wide, bold Arizona and
California expanse of desert. Our destination today is the town of
Brawley. As we continue west, does the line of campers and
truck-drawn ORV trailers continue east to the "beach." It's really
quite remarkable, the numbers that pass us. Off-road riding the
sand is obviously great sport for both individuals and families.
By late morning we're in Brawley to check into the Townhouse Lodge.
It's steak and baked potato for supper. Late evening, just as
Sheltowee and I try guessing the location of his good friend,
Dodger, comes a knock on our door--it's Dodger! Dennis Ham, trail
name, Dodger, has hiked along with Sheltowee off and on since he
left his home in Ohio to trek around this grand country. Sheltowee
had called him weeks ago and invited him to come west to spend the
remaining few days with us and shuttle us around. Dodger and me,
we're friends, too, and it's great to see him again. Another great
day. Got to make the best of these remaining days west, not many
left till we reach Old Point Loma Lighthouse, at the ocean, San
Diego.
Saturday--November 2, 2002
Trail Day--152
Trail Mile--3404
Location--SR,S80 Seeley, California, thence to Coronado Motel, El
Centro
The hike today takes us further south toward El Centro, the road
following along the New River with canals feeding the lush valley
hay and vegetable fields. Dodger checks on us from time to time.
The traffic is light along Austin Road and we're at El Centro,
making the turn west by noon. Another six miles to the little
village of Seeley and we call it a day. Dodger shuttles us back to
El Centro where I Yogi a hiker trash deal at the Coronado Motel.
Prime rib and baked potato. Another tough day!
Sunday--November 3, 2002
Trail Day--153
Trail Mile--3404
Location--Coronado Motel, El Centro, California
Sheltowee and I cranked in some slack as we worked our tentative
final-days itinerary a couple of weeks ago. Today being Sunday, and
being on schedule as we are, decision is to burn a day. El Centro
has all the conveniences--and we got wheels, so we'll stick here
till tomorrow. Stock car racing, football--yup, another tough day!
Monday--November 4, 2002
Trail Day--154
Trail Mile--3425
Location--SR-S80/I-8, Ocotillo, California, Ocotillo Motel
Coffee and glazed donuts, and we're in the van and heading back to
Seeley. Dodger has us trekking west before seven. Oh yes, another
blue-perfect day in the California desert. By eight-thirty, we
reach the little berg of Dixieland. Just west of the city limits
stands this bar, just east of the city limits stands this bar--same
bar, the Desert Fox Saloon, owned and operated by Mike DeSoto. The
old codger's got Playboy magazines on the bar, autographed pinups
gracing the walls full around. Mike pops us a couple-a frosty
longnecks, then tells us all about this desert valley. "We're at
minus sixty feet sealevel here," he says, "and the New River which
runs north from Mexicali, loaded with sewage, insecticide and salt,
runs north right through here to evaporate slowly at 380 feet below
sea level in the Salton Sea.
Coming into Dixieland, I noticed a number of buildings with little
more than tarpaper roofs, some were occupied residences, bare
plywood showing. That set me to wondering--and I asked Mike, "When
was the last good rain y'all got around here?" Mike thought a
moment, then replied, "Nineteen...uh, nineteen-hundred seventy-six,
I believe!" Roofs seem to be more important for shade than for
protection from wet weather.
Desert hiking is slow and ponderous. The miles are long, and
they're all the same--sand and dirt. What few plants there are that
have somehow survived out here are, without exception, various
shades of brown--not making for the most exciting or joyful
experience.
I'm glad to end this day, and it is a great ending, at Ocotillo.
Here's the Lazy Lizard Bar and the Ocotillo Inn. Dan, Dodger, and
me, we've lucked into another great trail town!
Tuesday--November 5, 2002
Trail Day--155
Trail Mile--3449
Location--SR94, Manzanita/Boulevard, California, thence to
Jacumba, Jacumba Hot Springs Spa and Cabana Club
Dodger blazed us an interesting route out and around to the
interstate interchange (I-8) west of Ocotillo yesterday. Following
his directions late evening, we hiked a deadend road west, beat our
way through a typical, desert rock garden, then, up and over
railroad tracks to the off ramp for I-8--where it comes down off
Jacumba Mountain.
This morning, Dodger has us out and headed up the mountain before
seven. We're back on yet another interstate, not the sort of place
most hikers would prefer to hike--but here we go, for the better
part of this day. Thankfully, the traffic is light and the shoulder
wide and clear.
We could see the mountain wall that is Jacumba Mountain for the
better part of yesterday, and we couldn't help but wonder where the
road would go to get through it, for there appeared no way, the wall
being impenetrable. And today we find out, as the road before us
climbs and climbs. It takes three hours to break over the top,
nearly ten miles, up, up, up. The jumble of rock that forms the
face and features of the gulches and lesser knobs totally numbs my
visual sense. The desert sun is so incredibly intense, creating a
brilliant, reflected blaze of brightness in myriad shades of
burnished brown and glazed steel gray. Rocks are balanced on rocks
the size of boxcars. Boulders that have not budged from their
precarious perches for countless centuries appear to be flowing down
above us. And through this all, we run the main gulch that yields a
wedge, a chink in the seemingly solid armor of this mountain. Below
us, then above, appears the remains of the old highway built over
seventy years ago, when the pavement needed be little more than six
or eight feet wide. Along this old road, which we climb along for a
short distance, are there still the remains of old steel beer cans,
their "church key" puncture wounds still evident.
We had been concerned about being stopped along the way today,
pedestrian traffic being prohibited on interstates, but the single
patrolman we see waves, hits his siren for a short blast, and flies
right on by.
The day goes quickly and we're soon in Manzanita, our destination
for the day. Dodger brought us lunch, then cold drinks later--that
helped. Tough hike, eh!
Wednesday--November 6, 2002
Trail Day--156
Trail Mile--3472
Location--SR 94, Petrero, California, thence to ---Park, Petrero
Cold morning. Hiking along SR 94 built in 1932. Many old live oak,
moderate traffic. Lunch at Campo. Southern terminus, PCT. Lots of
Border Patrol. Holes in wall. Paths everywhere. Dodger came with
cold beer before Petrero. Went to border at Tecate for Subway.
Then to Petrero library to write postcards. Less than sixty miles
to the sea. Pitched in ---- Park.
Dear friends
On Saturday, November 9th, at Old Point Loma Light, overlooking the
Pacific at Cabrillo National Monument in San Diego, California,
Odyssey 2002, "From Sea to Shining Sea" was successfully
concluded--a trek that began 3,524 miles to the east, 159 days
earlier, at another old lighthouse overlooking the Atlantic Outer
Banks, Cape Hatteras, North Carolina.
Please know that I miss you, all dear friends, and would love to see
you again, but it may be awhile. I'm at my sister's in Missouri for
now. I've really come down with the post-hike blues after this
trek. It's hard to explain, kinda like the early days following
retirement--sorta, but not.
This odyssey was the shortest of all, yet it proved the most
difficult and challenging by far. The long, seemingly endless miles
of open road in the blistering heat across Kansas and the Oklahoma
Panhandle, then the remaining thousand miles of arid desert to the
horizon: New Mexico, Arizona and eastern California, those miles
were the most trying. But now, strange as it may seem, I miss the
dirt, the heat, the grind of those long and endless miles. Getting
up day after day in a different place, month after month, thence to
walk 20-30 miles each and every day, such a life quickly became very
exhilarating, very energizing.
Unquestionably, we each possess that instinctive, deep-down drive
called "wanderlust." Few of us, however, have given in to it, to
just go. Ahh, but those of us who have, those of us who seized the
moment, who pursued that "fire in our gut," we're the truly blessed;
we're the ones bestowed the opportunity to chase our dreams "...into
the hazy blue..."
When I'm out and moving, there's such an incredible feeling of
vitality, of strength, of freedom, freedom beyond description,
beyond comprehension, most-near nirvana. Consider then, in
addition, finding the Lord right there beside, through every
hardship, through all the tough times, especially through the
frequent, crushing episodes of consuming doubt and despair--consider
finding the Lord, always there. What joy, to be lifted and carried
along without the least earthly burden. It's intense, intense.
So, I must tell you--such a journey is really not a journey at all,
not in the least; it is, indeed, a pilgrimage.
Most assuredly, I'm but a nomad, a gypsy-like will-o-the-wisp, an
escapee from life's normal pathway, searching for who knows what--an
old vagabond lost to the ruts along life's long and bumpy road. Ahh,
but you see, life on the move is the ultimate life of freedom; it's
the totally unfettered way--bound only by what's on one's back, to
fade "... into the hazy blue..." like "...those of us lost to the
dust outward blown...," who head off down that trail, who take to
that open road, those of us "...who have gone and have never come
back...;" we come the closest to truly taking wing, to flying.
Indeed, our lives soar the nearest to heavenly bliss--on this Earth.
Hopefully, this offers a fleeting glimpse into the shadowy mystery
of it all.
So here I am, at this moment, perhaps ending such a way of life, a
way so perplexing to all who see (and envy). Yes, to interrupt it
even for a brief while, to plunk down and just sit, to move no
more--ahh, tis not such an easy thing to do. That's the letdown,
that's the dilemma.
Finally, I want to thank you, dear friends all, for your support and
encouragement during Odyssey 2002. Your kindness and caring meant
more to me than you could ever know.
God Bless, Eb
From Sea to Shining Sea |