Dayville

The morning after the thirty five mile day I woke up, in the post office, to more rain. Coming seemingly just as strong, though considerably less bleak, now that I was in town. I crossed the street and walked into the nearby cafe, and ordered eggs and pancakes and coffee, and spent the next five hours watching it rain, my brain still swirling thickly with the cathartic images of the day before.
I was told that the little library, just down the street, was open from two to five, and so at one forty five I packed up, paid my bill, and left. The rain had almost given way, but the clouds were still rolling leisurely above. After waiting around outside the library for half an hour, I decided that maybe they weren't going to open, and was disappointed. Looking at the map I figured that I wouldn't get anywhere else with a public computer for another four or five days, at least. But on the way out of town, looking in a shop window, two ladies motioned me inside. As if they knew what I was looking for.
I tell them my story - where I'm from, where I'm going. We talk for a minute or two.
"You don't have a computer, do you?" I ask, and they say that they do. "But not one that I could use?"
"Oh sure," they say, and they take me to the back of the store and let me type up my entry to the blog.
I didn't make my way out of Fossil until close to five, and knew that I wouldn't make it far, but was told that there were some campgrounds up the road, not too far, and so I didn't worry. The first one, after six miles, was full. A big biker rally.
"I can get you in," the man said, "but it'll cost you thirty five dollars." Thanks, but no thanks.
The next campground was four more miles, but not a difficult four. I only had to put in ten on the day, and so my aches, though they complained, weren't severe. I set up my tent for free, and slept well.
The next day I made it to Spray, following the river down through the rocky hillsides, and found the little place bustling. I guess they have an annual rodeo and I hit it just right. The county park down by the river was full, but I walked up toward the showgrounds and saw a fire burning in someones backyard. As I got closer, they spotted me, and motioned me over, and I sat down and we talked.
"There's a place over there for you to roll out your bag," one of them tells me, motioning to the lawn behind the woodshed. "Nobody'd mind." So after watching the flames for a while, and hearing some stories, I camped in the grass.
In the morning, rising around nine, the dew starting to steam in the sun, one of them came out to say good morning.
"We've got a big breakfast inside," he says, "and you're more than welcome to come in and eat." Pancakes and eggs and coffee and fruit and donuts and sausage are laid out on the kitchen table. All of the kids sit here, while the adults have spread themselves out around the rest of the room.
"So the rodeo is a pretty big thing?" I ask.
"About as big of a shin-dig as a little town like this can have," they respond. I eat, and we talk, and I feel great just to know that there are people out here who are so willing to give me a place to sleep and a warm meal. It makes everything easier.
Leaving Spray, my aches seem to have diminished. My shins are strong. My feet are light. I follow the river thirteen miles to Kimberly, eat some lunch and then continue on, turning south. The clouds churn and swirl and froth above me, but they aren't ominous, and the rain doesn't come. Alongside the river cattle graze in pastures, and gardens grow greenly in the shadows of the sagebrush bluffs.
I spend the night in the ditch, just a little ways off the road, with my poncho spread over me, and I watch the stars, shining behind the wasps of clouds that float in front of them.
I get up early in the morning, and make my way down to the main part of the John Day Fossil Beds. At the visitor center I watch the twenty minute movie, and then walk through the museum. It starts to rain, outside, right about the time I'm ready to leave, and so I extend my visit a little. But I want to walk, so although it continues to rain I head out.
From the visitor center it's only eight or nine miles back onto highway 26 and into Dayville. My aches, though, have returned, and in the rain, it feels like a long way. I get to the little town and stumble into the convenience store and pick up some food around five in the afternoon. As I'm leaving, the lady behind the counter mentions that the church, just up the road, offers free lodging for travelers.
"They've got a shower and laundry and a kitchen for the bikers," she says. "Make sure you check it out." She doesn't need to tell me more than once.
When I arrive at the church nobody is around, and I quickly take a shower and spread out my things to let them dry. I make some tea in the microwave, and pull up a bench at the practice piano near the kitchen. I'm in heaven.
I don't see anybody the whole evening, and I roll out my sleeping bag on the floor and crash.
In the morning I feel stiff, and tired, and decide to give myself a day off, to rest up.