I made another ten miles from Montpelier before pulling over for the night in Paris, in the grasslands north-west of Bear Lake. I celebrated the thousand mile mark with dinner in a little cafe, and then called my parents from inside the local gas station. As I was talking, a lady came up and wrote a note on a napkin, then held it out to me. 'We heard you were a traveler. Come by for a beer at the first trailer south of here. We'd love to hear your story.' So after hanging up the phone I walked down the street and knocked on the door.
The lady who'd written the note - mid thirties with long black hair - welcomed me in and introduced me to two men sitting on the couch. Jerry - close to fifty, a brown ponytail, high cheekbones and dark eyes - and Steve - younger, maybe thirty, with a thick beard, his flip flops perched on the coffee table.
They call Jerry 'Trapper' and it's easy to see why. It's his trailer and spread out through the room are hundreds of pictures of hunts he's been on, of coyote and bobcat and raccoon that he's caught and of the mountains and forests nearby. There are all kinds of odd rocks around the place, too. One that looks exactly like Idaho - "Took a blue ribbon at the fair for that," - one that looks like a mushroom - "Saw it from a mile away," - and so forth. He shows me a handful of rings that he's carved from antlers, elaborately decorated, and hands me arrowhead after arrowhead. He holds up a little one - no more than an inch long, knapped out of a glassy green stone - and says "I could get a hundred thousand for this one. Made out of jasper. Worth more than diamond. You just have to find the right buyer."
Steve sits quietly on the couch. I think he's already put back some beers. Every once in a while he'll take a look at a picture or an arrowhead that Jerry shows him and say "Oh....oh yeah. That's really... something. Huh."
As the night winds down Jerry offers to let me crash on his floor. He spreads out a thick pad in front of the t.v. and I lay down and watch Family Guy. Steve keeps saying something about a guy named Bill, and having to go get something from him, but Jerry is intent on keeping him in the trailer. "You take my bed, man. Wait to go see Bill until morning."
"No, man. I don't need your bed."
"Come on. I don't care. Honest. You need a good sleep." Steve spreads out on the couch and starts snoring, and Jerry leaves for a little while. When he comes back he rouses Steve and tries to get him into the bedroom. Steve seems confused.
"Shouldn't I go see Bill?" he says.
"No, you just need to sleep."
"Oh...ok. I'll just take this couch if nobody's using it." He plops back down, happily, but Jerry stands him back up and manages to walk him into the bedroom. I fall asleep.
In the morning Steve is up before me.
"How's it going, drifter?" he says, as I stir.
"Pretty good."
"How far you headed?"
"Florida."
"Shit. You going down along the lake, huh? That's a long walk. It's a long lake. I work down in Laketown. Long drive. Really long drive, just to get to work. It kills me. Thank God I'm a substance abuser. I'd never make it, otherwise."
Jerry comes in from outside. "You sleep well, man?" he asks Steve.
"Oh man. That bed of yours did the trick. I feel so good right now. Walked all the way out to my car and back without a twinge." He turns to me and explains. "I cracked a vertebra a week ago, jumping on the trampoline. I'm moving all kinds of slow, now. It kills me. I have a new rule: No jumping on the trampoline drunk."
"You have any plans for the day?" Jerry says, and I shake my head. "You really should go up and see Minnetonka. It's a good ways off the road, though."
"I could drive him up," Steve says, from the couch.
"That'd be cool. Really, man, you should see it," Jerry encourages.
So Steve and I shuffle out to his car. He throws a bunch of stuff in the back to clear off my seat and we head south, then turn up toward the mountains. When we get to the parking lot for Minnetonka caves Steve waves me on. "A lot of stairs, in there," he says. "Don't think my back could take it. Besides, I've already seen it all."
There's a tour group just heading out, and I catch up with them. Minnetonka's a really cool place. 444 steps, up and down, through the cave, and it's forty degrees inside, so my t-shirt and shorts weren't a great idea, but other than that it was pretty cool.
Steve meets me after the tour is done and we head back down the road. We talk about things.
"My life's all jacked up right now," he says. "My wife left me and took the kids. After ten years of marriage she decided she was gay. I mean, what am I supposed to do? I mean, if a guy has a handlebar mustache, or something, and she likes that, I can grow a handlebar mustache. I can do that. But I can't be a woman."
We eat lunch when we get back to the highway, at a drive-in by the road.
"I was studying Anthropology. Minoring in Philosophy. Till I figured out I could do it all for free. Just sit in on any class I wanted to. I paid for fifteen. Took another sixty for free. It was all over. I mean, I'm not an anarchist, or anything. It's just that - well - learn what you can, I say. You never know where life's going to take you. You never know what you're going to be doing to make money. I mean, I'm a carpenter, now."
I made it down to Garden City, Utah, that night. Rolled out under a tree in a little park, off the road. The next day I walked thirty five miles, out into Wyoming, and slept in the ditch, then did another thirty the next day, through Kemmerer. Another thirty miles got me down into Lyman, below the interstate. I took Sunday off. Went to church and met some people. Did a load of laundry. Rested up. The next stretch, down to Vernal, is going to be rough.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Montpelier
Well, I've made a thousand miles. Plus an extra thirteen, now.
Friday morning I crawled out from behind the juniper hedge where I spent the night and brushed off the dead thorns. I walked down the street to do some laundry, and ate breakfast - chocolate milk and maple bars - while the dryer spun. By the time I left town it was ten thirty, and the sun was already cooking the sidewalks.
I headed south, down highway 91, toward Pocatello. Ten miles got me to Fort Hall, where I pulled over at a cafe and got a strawberry milkshake. Dozed off for an hour in the cool of the air conditioning. In Pocatello it was still 94 degrees at seven o'clock. The heat isn't bothering me as much as it was at first. I drink lots of water and rub lots of Vaseline on the feet. As long as I keep moving the asphalt doesn't burn, and when I can I walk straight down the white line, which is a lot cooler and smoother, though when the traffic is bad I have to stay farther off on the shoulder.
I ate dinner - macaroni - in front of the movie theater, and then spent two bucks to see Stop Loss. I'm not sure why this particular theater is so cheap, but it might have to do with the fact that nachos are $6.15. (I didn't have any.) After the movie I rolled out my sleeping bag under a restaurant awning and slept.
I've developed a lot of tricks for keeping my mind occupied while I'm walking. And when I'm a little down I can normally trick myself out of feeling bad. Force the face into a big grin and curse loudly. Amazing how much that does. And yelling at cattle is fun, too. 'Are you crazy, or just plain stupid, cow!' They look up from their grazing, munching nonchalantly, pondering the question. 'Stupid is as stupid does, sir,' they answer. And then go back to munching.
I come up with a lot of songs, too:
I met-a-phor in the road
smiling carelessly
He said 'No no, you've got me wrong
I'm just a simile!'
And I ponder other people's words: 'Go west, young man!' West? No thanks. (Another song)
East I say! Its' the only way
for me
Feast on today! It's the only day
you'll ever see
And I don't know why the world turns
And I don't know why the fire burns
And I don't know how the universe came to be
But that's all right with me
All that matters is the next step toward the sea
Out of Pocatello I walked slowly. Above ninety, again, and I didn't get far before pulling over for a couple of hours. Decided to wait it out, instead of keep going. Ate some peanut butter sandwiches in the shade of a fire station. Plodded a little more, into Inkom, where I waited some more, then left at nine-thirty in the evening. Following old highway 91, now, which isn't on my map. I was planning to have to follow the river for a stretch, to stay off the interstate, but I'm glad that I didn't have to. It took me four hours to get to McCammon, and I stopped just short of town and rolled out in the ditch.
Sunday I started early. Up by six to try and stay ahead of the heat. Now on highway 30, heading east into the hills. In Lava Springs I stopped and filled up the water bottles, and watched the clouds build, in the west. By five it was drizzling, which was pleasant. By six it was raining steadily. By seven I reached Soda Springs, and a man outside of the Subway offered to let me pitch my tent in his yard. I sat on his couch watching Extreme Makeover until the rain let up, and then rolled out my tent in his yard. The rain came back, in the evening, and poured and blew and thundered, but I stayed dry, in the tent, and in the morning the sun was back.
I decided to take the day mostly off, yesterday. The feet were feeling pretty sore. So I found the library, and spent six hours reading (The Pearl, Steinbeck). In the evening, feeling rested, I headed out, and made fifteen miles last night, before sleeping in the ditch, a thousand miles from Ocean Shores.
Friday morning I crawled out from behind the juniper hedge where I spent the night and brushed off the dead thorns. I walked down the street to do some laundry, and ate breakfast - chocolate milk and maple bars - while the dryer spun. By the time I left town it was ten thirty, and the sun was already cooking the sidewalks.
I headed south, down highway 91, toward Pocatello. Ten miles got me to Fort Hall, where I pulled over at a cafe and got a strawberry milkshake. Dozed off for an hour in the cool of the air conditioning. In Pocatello it was still 94 degrees at seven o'clock. The heat isn't bothering me as much as it was at first. I drink lots of water and rub lots of Vaseline on the feet. As long as I keep moving the asphalt doesn't burn, and when I can I walk straight down the white line, which is a lot cooler and smoother, though when the traffic is bad I have to stay farther off on the shoulder.
I ate dinner - macaroni - in front of the movie theater, and then spent two bucks to see Stop Loss. I'm not sure why this particular theater is so cheap, but it might have to do with the fact that nachos are $6.15. (I didn't have any.) After the movie I rolled out my sleeping bag under a restaurant awning and slept.
I've developed a lot of tricks for keeping my mind occupied while I'm walking. And when I'm a little down I can normally trick myself out of feeling bad. Force the face into a big grin and curse loudly. Amazing how much that does. And yelling at cattle is fun, too. 'Are you crazy, or just plain stupid, cow!' They look up from their grazing, munching nonchalantly, pondering the question. 'Stupid is as stupid does, sir,' they answer. And then go back to munching.
I come up with a lot of songs, too:
I met-a-phor in the road
smiling carelessly
He said 'No no, you've got me wrong
I'm just a simile!'
And I ponder other people's words: 'Go west, young man!' West? No thanks. (Another song)
East I say! Its' the only way
for me
Feast on today! It's the only day
you'll ever see
And I don't know why the world turns
And I don't know why the fire burns
And I don't know how the universe came to be
But that's all right with me
All that matters is the next step toward the sea
Out of Pocatello I walked slowly. Above ninety, again, and I didn't get far before pulling over for a couple of hours. Decided to wait it out, instead of keep going. Ate some peanut butter sandwiches in the shade of a fire station. Plodded a little more, into Inkom, where I waited some more, then left at nine-thirty in the evening. Following old highway 91, now, which isn't on my map. I was planning to have to follow the river for a stretch, to stay off the interstate, but I'm glad that I didn't have to. It took me four hours to get to McCammon, and I stopped just short of town and rolled out in the ditch.
Sunday I started early. Up by six to try and stay ahead of the heat. Now on highway 30, heading east into the hills. In Lava Springs I stopped and filled up the water bottles, and watched the clouds build, in the west. By five it was drizzling, which was pleasant. By six it was raining steadily. By seven I reached Soda Springs, and a man outside of the Subway offered to let me pitch my tent in his yard. I sat on his couch watching Extreme Makeover until the rain let up, and then rolled out my tent in his yard. The rain came back, in the evening, and poured and blew and thundered, but I stayed dry, in the tent, and in the morning the sun was back.
I decided to take the day mostly off, yesterday. The feet were feeling pretty sore. So I found the library, and spent six hours reading (The Pearl, Steinbeck). In the evening, feeling rested, I headed out, and made fifteen miles last night, before sleeping in the ditch, a thousand miles from Ocean Shores.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Blackfoot
North-east of Mountain Home the landscape stays pretty dry for fifteen or twenty miles, climbing up into the forest, where the sagebrush thins away and the green starts to come back. The first night I camped in the woods, not too far off the road.
The towns, in this stretch, are spread thin. Fifty eight miles to a gas station out of Mountain Home, to Fairfield. Then another forty five into Carey, forty four into Arco, and a final fifty six all the way down to Blackfoot. And the weather, after such a cool and rainy spell, is finally getting warm. So I'm carrying a lot more water, now, and packing a lot more food, and I've been walking close to thirty miles a day, to get beyond this stretch and into a more populated region.
In Fairfield I slept at the city park, sleeping bag rolled out on the grass. A group of cyclists from Fort Collins joined me, on their way to Portland. The next night I put up my tent in the ditch, fifteen miles out of Carey, and then made it another thirty miles the next day into the outskirts of Craters of the Moon. The pastures that spring up in the shadow of the Sawtooths fade away. The iron red rock creeps up over the valley like rusting scars over old wounds. I stopped at the park visitor center, but didn't do a lot more than fill up my water bottle. The more interesting features of Craters of the Moon are a good ways off the road, and I wanted to keep moving.
Arco is an interesting little town. The first in the world to be lit by atomic power, and the government testing facilities down the road are still open. Here they celebrate an annual 'Atomic Days.' I made it a little ways out of town in the cool of the evening, sleeping in a little park in Butte City, which doesn't have so much as a post office.
The first day of the two down to Blackfoot from Arco and Butte City was nearly unbearable. Twenty nine miles of sagebrush, of hot pavement and of sun. The roadside buzzed with a constant warning from rattlesnakes - three or four at a time, leap-frogging for hours. No shade to eat my peanut butter sandwiches in. Not a farm. Not a house.
Atomic City has a race track and a liquor store; I slept and moved on.
As I neared Blackfoot, the hills became dotted with life, again. Wheat fields and Zimmatic sprinklers. Trees.
A bank sign read eighty-seven degrees as I made my way into town. I stopped at the nearest grocery store and sat in the air conditioning for a while, then made my way downtown, to the library.
Eating lunch outside, my little cook stove boiling soup, I played a little harmonica in the shade. The locals gave me wary eyes as they passed, and after a little while a police car pulled up.
"How's it going?" the deputy says.
"Fine."
"You don't have a pony tail, do you?" he inquires, and I pull it out from behind my back to show him. "Uh-oh. A couple people mentioned there was a homeless guy down here. If you ask me," he says, smiling, "you don't fit the profile. But there's a lot of traffic coming through here. Little kids and such. I guess you unnerved somebody."
"I was going to use the library," I explain. "Just wanted to have a little lunch, first."
"It's not a problem with me," he says. "You're in the right. But there is an actual park just down the way," - he motions down the road - "and you certainly wouldn't bother anybody there, just to let you know." He goes on his way, and I pack up my things and head inside to get on the computer.
It doesn't bother me, that people mistake me for being homeless, or a hippie, or destitute, or whatever it is. I honestly don't care. But it's kind of curious that anybody would feel so inclined as to report me. So what if I'm homeless? So what if I'm destitute? 'Just eating lunch, folks. Not doing drugs. Not drunk. Not spray painting your library. Move along, now.'
Do we really have to shelter our children from such things? A guy eating lunch outside a library. Is that so harsh for young eyes? Do we really feel the need to pretend to them that homeless people don't exist? I don't know. I'm not a parent. But somehow I think that if I was, I'd find no reason to report myself to the police.
The towns, in this stretch, are spread thin. Fifty eight miles to a gas station out of Mountain Home, to Fairfield. Then another forty five into Carey, forty four into Arco, and a final fifty six all the way down to Blackfoot. And the weather, after such a cool and rainy spell, is finally getting warm. So I'm carrying a lot more water, now, and packing a lot more food, and I've been walking close to thirty miles a day, to get beyond this stretch and into a more populated region.
In Fairfield I slept at the city park, sleeping bag rolled out on the grass. A group of cyclists from Fort Collins joined me, on their way to Portland. The next night I put up my tent in the ditch, fifteen miles out of Carey, and then made it another thirty miles the next day into the outskirts of Craters of the Moon. The pastures that spring up in the shadow of the Sawtooths fade away. The iron red rock creeps up over the valley like rusting scars over old wounds. I stopped at the park visitor center, but didn't do a lot more than fill up my water bottle. The more interesting features of Craters of the Moon are a good ways off the road, and I wanted to keep moving.
Arco is an interesting little town. The first in the world to be lit by atomic power, and the government testing facilities down the road are still open. Here they celebrate an annual 'Atomic Days.' I made it a little ways out of town in the cool of the evening, sleeping in a little park in Butte City, which doesn't have so much as a post office.
The first day of the two down to Blackfoot from Arco and Butte City was nearly unbearable. Twenty nine miles of sagebrush, of hot pavement and of sun. The roadside buzzed with a constant warning from rattlesnakes - three or four at a time, leap-frogging for hours. No shade to eat my peanut butter sandwiches in. Not a farm. Not a house.
Atomic City has a race track and a liquor store; I slept and moved on.
As I neared Blackfoot, the hills became dotted with life, again. Wheat fields and Zimmatic sprinklers. Trees.
A bank sign read eighty-seven degrees as I made my way into town. I stopped at the nearest grocery store and sat in the air conditioning for a while, then made my way downtown, to the library.
Eating lunch outside, my little cook stove boiling soup, I played a little harmonica in the shade. The locals gave me wary eyes as they passed, and after a little while a police car pulled up.
"How's it going?" the deputy says.
"Fine."
"You don't have a pony tail, do you?" he inquires, and I pull it out from behind my back to show him. "Uh-oh. A couple people mentioned there was a homeless guy down here. If you ask me," he says, smiling, "you don't fit the profile. But there's a lot of traffic coming through here. Little kids and such. I guess you unnerved somebody."
"I was going to use the library," I explain. "Just wanted to have a little lunch, first."
"It's not a problem with me," he says. "You're in the right. But there is an actual park just down the way," - he motions down the road - "and you certainly wouldn't bother anybody there, just to let you know." He goes on his way, and I pack up my things and head inside to get on the computer.
It doesn't bother me, that people mistake me for being homeless, or a hippie, or destitute, or whatever it is. I honestly don't care. But it's kind of curious that anybody would feel so inclined as to report me. So what if I'm homeless? So what if I'm destitute? 'Just eating lunch, folks. Not doing drugs. Not drunk. Not spray painting your library. Move along, now.'
Do we really have to shelter our children from such things? A guy eating lunch outside a library. Is that so harsh for young eyes? Do we really feel the need to pretend to them that homeless people don't exist? I don't know. I'm not a parent. But somehow I think that if I was, I'd find no reason to report myself to the police.
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