Arizona: Dancing to 'Done'

 September 6

28 miles into Arizona, I'm less than five hundred miles from the finish line. Tonight, I had the privilege of attending a squaw dance with Vivian, her husband Emerson, and their family. This time, I was the only “anglo.”

Over two hundred people gathered on the flat dirt plane just out of sight of the main road. Cars lined one half of the circle. On the other side, a small tent shaded some picnic tables.
As we approached the gathering, Vivian pointed to a man on the edge of the dancing circle. He was sitting stiffly in a lawn chair, wrapped in blankets.

“The squaw dance is a healing ceremony.” she explained. “This dance is for him. A tent pole fell on him while setting up for the last squaw dance.”

She pointed to the West. “There are two sites for the dance. The healer presides over both sites, riding back and forth between them. It used to be that he would ride on horseback, but nowadays most medicine men ride in pickup trucks.”

I asked, “How long is the ceremony?”

“It goes on for four days and four nights, during which time neither the injured person nor the medicine man sleeps. This is the last night of the dance. That man will be walking before the night is over.”

Big yellow coolers of cold water and Kool-Aid were available on one of the tables. In an oil-drum grill, sizzling ribs and warm tortillas sent up heavenly smells. A kettle of greasy mutton stew beside the grill smelled equally tempting.

The man tending the fire smiled, “Help yourself!”

People milled about eating, talking, and watching the festivities. A group of men stood just outside the dancing circle, beating their hand-stretched drums and chanting in low voices that sounded more like moaning than song.

“The sound of the Earth,” said Emerson. “Can you feel it?”

I nodded yes and continued nodding to the rhythm of the drums. I asked Emerson what the men were singing. I expected to hear something about pushing out bad spirits, but I had noticed that many of the listeners were smiling to the music.

Emerson smiled too. “The healing ritual is also a social ritual. They call it a ‘squaw dance’ because the women ask the men to dance instead of vice-versa. Not only that, but when the dance is over the men must pay the women for the privilege of dancing with them! This song is about a man and a woman courting.”

Two seconds later, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around. A big, brown, wrinkly-faced man with a huge grin on his face and a dollar in his hand pulled me towards the circle.

I laughed, “Aren’t I supposed to ask you to dance?”

The man kept grinning. A new song began, and we fell in behind the lead couple. With slow, shuffling steps, we walked around and around the little circle in time to the drums. I concentrated on feeling the earth beneath my feet and smiled for the old ladies at the edge of the circle who giggled to each other and pointed at me good naturedly. I made sure to collect my dollar when the dance ended.

Afterwards, Emerson and I sat and talked about Navajo culture. I mentioned that I was a little surprised that everyone had greeted me, an outsider, so warmly.

“We are a very open people,” Emerson explained. “A few nights ago, this retired Anglo’ couple from Texas showed up at the dance in their camper. They drove right up and parked. The lady danced all night. No problem.”

Emerson grew up in a more traditional Navajo home than Vivian. For instance, he believes that church is anywhere that you kneel to pray. “The sound of the earth is everywhere,” he says. “The younger generations of Navajos don’t want to hear it. Since my culture's heritage survives mainly by word of mouth, it is very important that children learn from their elders. Nowadays, kids just want to get away as soon as possible.”

I told Emerson something I haven’t told anyone: When I was in Indiana, sitting at the Oxbow in the Ohio River, crying because it’s so beautiful, I heard chanting in the distance, Native American chanting, just like what I’d heard tonight. I thought I heard it then anyway; I’ve never been completely sure. At the time, my planned route wasn't going through any Indian reservations. Yet here I am.

Emerson listened very seriously.

“There is a reason for everything,” he said. “Maybe this is where you are truly meant to be. Maybe one day you will come back and be a teacher here. Maybe you will decide that you don’t need to walk any further than Arizona.”

Hey, anything’s possible. I like the idea of being a teacher someday - If not in Arizona, definitely somewhere.

September 7
Today I discovered the big, corrugated metal drainpipes that run under the road every half-mile or so. They are perfect for lunch breaks in a land without shade trees or rock ledges--Not that I’d want to sit under a rock ledge, anyway, considering the rattlesnakes. I spent a very pleasant and self-congratulatory hour in a drain pipe this afternoon; these shelters are going to make crossing Arizona bearable.

Susan Begay is a full-blooded Napa Navajo, “Navajo Dineh,” it is called. She has a stout body, a round face, big-framed plastic glasses, and a small mouth that smiles a lot. She drives a beat-up black pickup truck that used to belong to her son, though the terrain around here is such that she doesn’t so much drive the truck as ride it like a mule over the fissures in the road.

Her house is set a quarter mile off the main road in Red Mesa. When I arrived, the only people home were two young boys who ran around in circles in the beaten-dirt yard and introduced me to the dogs and kittens.

Susan lives with members of her extended family and various animals. I will never remember the names of everyone she introduced me to - All family, all in some stage of transition. Her firefighter daughter is visiting for Labor Day, her grandson is staying over while Mom works elsewhere, and her niece and nephew have dropped in for a short visit. It seems as though everyone in Red Mesa is related to Susan in some way.

Susan took me to dinner at the only public building beside the school that makes up this bump-in-the-road of a town: The “tradin’ pos'’” that her cousin owns. I felt uncomfortable not paying for myself when Susan’s got so much family to feed, but she insisted. My dinner consisted of a homemade tortilla wrap with green chilies and roast beef, a small bag of Bugles, a V-8 fruit juice, and a Snickers for dessert. Out in the parking lot, we met the steamed corn man and bought three ears of this Navajo specialty; it cooks all day beneath a bed of coals, and it tastes of the earth.

September 8
The majority of towns out here seem to be just trading posts. Today I walked fifteen miles to Mexican Water, where a trading post, restaurant, and gift shop line one side of the road.
Susan took me to lunch at the restaurant. The young waitress was far from cheerful, but my Navajo taco and apple pie with ice cream sure hit the spot.

I bought some postcards at the cash register. It’s very difficult to find postcards showing the landscape just as I see it. These cards captured the colors just right: The bright purple velvet that the ladies wear with their turquoise and silver jewelry, the neon pinks and greens of the woven blankets, the jet-black hair, and olive skin - All muted by a coat of desert dust.
Just before we left, a car with California tags arrived.

“Excuse me, can I use your phone?”

“There are no phone lines out here,” said the waitress.

The man didn’t believe her. He explained that he’d be using a calling card and offered ten dollars.

“I just need five minutes.”

The waitress was telling the truth.

Susan laughed, “Phone lines, ha! Ten years ago, we didn't even have running water and electricity here.”

Oddly enough, my cell phone works fine out here. Ma called one last time before she and Oma leave tomorrow for a month in Germany. I told Ma all about the squaw dance and my impressions of Arizona thus far. She was, as usual, relieved to hear that I’d found yet another place to stay. By now, her concern sounds more ceremonial than genuine.

“Well, just don’t get yourself killed while I’m gone.”

“I love you, Ma. Have a nice trip.”

When I hung up, Susan’s granddaughter Erica came over to me. She had been staring at the phone during my entire conversation.

“You should have mentioned that you are staying with royalty,” she said. “I was crowned Miss Little Red Mesa this year, you know.”

“Is that so?” I asked.

“Yup, and I’m going to win all the ‘Miss’ titles up to Miss Universe. I promised my mother that I won’t get pregnant until I do.”

I haven’t seen as much evidence of teen pregnancy on the reservation as I’ve heard about it. I’m hoping that that’s because, by recognizing the problem, people here are doing something about it. You can’t be Miss Navajo Nation if you have children, it’s in the rules.

Kodi, Susan’s grandson, has several worksheets to do for his first-grade homework. I helped him until Susan came back from rounding up the goats for the night.

Susan looked at me silently for a long time after Kodi ran off to his room for the night. She finally said, “I’ve been watching you. I can see that you are right at home here. I’m glad. You can stay here whenever you want.”

I replied just as seriously, “Part of the reason behind this walk is that I’ve never felt completely at home anywhere. Now, everywhere I go is home. I feel that I could talk to just about anybody. I am grateful that there are so many people like you.”

Kodi begged for thirty minutes of movie-watching before bed. We watched “Spice Girl Power,” a flick my college friends shocked me by seeing and liking when it came out in theaters. I always protested that it was too mindless.

Here I am, passively soaking up Modern Pop when I could be learning from this family's rich heritage. I’m ashamed of myself. Have I learned all I can learn from this trip? Am I burned out or just lazy? Maybe it’s just the child in me wanting to be there already. When every home is like the last, you yearn for the one where you’ll be able to stay put.

September 9
In a cruel feat of technology, this morning I was able to watch the LA news via Susan’s satellite dish. In the middle of the desert, where not everyone has running water and few have telephones, satellite TV is considered a “necessity.” It reminded me of West Virginia, where some people have no roofs on their houses, but everyone has at least two cars.

Before Susan dropped me off this morning, she told me to always keep in mind the four bases of Navajo religion: Earth = Mother; Universe = Father; Light = Grandmother; Dark = Grandfather. Water is the fifth element, which represents Males and Females.

Invariably, people’s first reaction when I tell them what I’m doing is to glance down at my feet. They always find it hard to believe where those feet have come from, where they're going, and how they're getting there. Well, People, sometimes I don’t believe it either! I often stare down at my feet as I walk, wondering how they keep going.

The majority of the license plates I saw today were from California, which made being almost three weeks away all the more painful. I stopped at the Trading Post in Tec Nez Lah. Susan had said a woman there named Anna might be able to locate the people in the church at Dennehotso.

Anna was there all right, but her reaction to my request was rather unusual.

“Susan Begay sent you? But Susan Begay is dead. I saw it in the paper six months ago.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, they said that Susan Begay and her daughter were killed in a car accident. For six months, every time I passed that little house across the street from the trading post I wondered who lives there now.”

It’s somewhat creepy, since I stayed with Susan and her daughter, but I assured Anna that she must have read about another Susan Begay because my host was very much alive.
Anna gladly told me where to find the church people I’m seeking. The preacher’s wife is a mail carrier and will be by the store, so I left a note for her there. Anna thanked me for coming along, “I’m going to go over and knock on Susan’s door.”

I’m glad I could reunite these friends; I’ve done my good deed for the day. After some wandering back and forth across the highway between the trailer park and the gift shops of Dennehotso, a few wrong turns in the maze of dirt roads of the neighborhood, and many stares, I found the Assembly of God Church. Martha Tom greeted me and took me back to the Mexican Water Restaurant for dinner, where the same unenthusiastic waitress didn’t greet us. I chose blueberry pie for dessert this time.

On the way back to Dennehotso, Martha had a surprise for me. She pulled over and told me to take a good look around. I scanned the dull blue sky, the hard-packed red clay mesas, and the cracked ground.

“I don’t see anything,” I confessed.

Martha leaned down and picked a tiny red pebble about half the size of my littlest fingernail out of the dust.

“Garnets,” she said. “This area is covered with garnets.”

We found a surprising number of the stones, none bigger than a water droplet. Within five minutes I had about ten of the tiny things in my palm. I was in awe. Even more so when, back at the house, Martha gave me a larger garnet as a gift.

The rock lover in me rejoiced. It’s a good thing I didn’t know those rocks were there earlier, or it would have taken me forever to walk here today. The garnets are only located on a small section of road that very few people know.

September 10
Today I saw another rattlesnake. I did the same little jump and gasp that I did when I saw the last rattler; then I realized that this one was dead. The snake was the same color as the yellow weeds it lied on with those distinctive diamond markings. Even dead, the snake’s half-open jaws made me queasy. I had been considering the flatter-than-usual ditch as an alternative to walking on the road but changed my mind.

The day’s walk did not improve when the partly cloudy sky suddenly came at me with gusts of dust-swirling wind and a wall of water that was almost hypnotic in its giant opacity. I’d been watching the storm clouds move towards me all day, but suddenly the air was cold, and they were upon me. I leapt over the guard rail, crawled down the embankment, and squeezed past barbed wire into a cattle tunnel, seconds before the storm hit.

Unfortunately, my shelter was already inhabited. The first thing I saw through the gloom was the very dead carcass of either a big dog or a small cow. Whatever it was, it is now a flat brown hide covered with bugs. I walked quickly to the other end of the tunnel, but the smell of decay was just as strong there. Just beyond that end, I found a newly dead German Shepherd. My gasp of surprise turned into a startled cough that almost drove me out into the storm with the need for clean air. The Shepherd smelled days old, but it looked so alive that I stared at it for several minutes, waiting for it to whimper or move. Desert air is a good preservative.

I spent an unpleasant half-hour crouched against the tunnel wall with a bandanna over my nose. It was hardly the rest stop I’d hoped for, especially on a twenty-four-mile day. However, the force and chill of the wind as it whipped through the tunnel proved that, even with a poncho, I wouldn’t have been better off walking. The downpour lasted fifteen minutes. As soon as the sky brightened, I grabbed my pack and scrambled out of the stench and back up to the road.

I arrived in Kayenta at five and call Shirley Montoya, pastor of the United Methodist Church. Would she mind driving me out to Monument Valley, Utah? It’s fifteen miles north of Kayenta. Several people told me that it’s a must-see.

The valley looked just as I’d been told it would, but more like a movie set than a natural phenomenon. The massive buttes and distant hills are larger than life--Suburban life, anyway. I compared that view with my memories of Leavenworth, Indiana, and Monarch Pass, Colorado; it was equally beautiful, except for the profit motive that filled the parking lot with kiosks for sunrise and -set donkey rides and hiking tours. We took pictures, tourist style, and left so that the next group can take their pictures.

Shirley has a husband and teenage son in Shiprock, but she lives alone most of the time.
“You and I have a lot in common,” she said. “All day long I drive from place to place, visiting parishes. Prolonged contact with people is limited for me, just like for you.”

I asked her how she feels about this. Why doesn’t she move to Shiprock to be with her husband and son, or have them move here?

“My husband has a good job in Shiprock, and jobs that pay well are hard to find. Besides, I wouldn’t have it any other way. The loneliness gets to me sometimes, sure. I look forward to being with my family on the weekends, and I call them every night. My son comes to stay with me every so often. It’s nice to have my own place.”

We talked about the changing role of women as they become more independent. I asked Shirley to tell me more about Navajo culture. She told me this story:

A Navajo Creation Story
In the beginning, men, women, and animals were all equal and could communicate easily. But men and women got into an argument and, not knowing that they needed each other to reproduce, they went their separate ways.

The women began to miss the men, sexually. They copulated with the animals and begat monsters. The men were getting along fine because they had ... Shirley stumbled on this word: “men-women.” 

I said “Hermaphrodite?” 

She nodded. 

“We have always had hermaphrodites in our culture” to keep them company. However, hermaphrodites cannot reproduce, and so the species began to die out. Finally, a wise hermaphrodite came to one of the men and told him that he must compromise with the women to survive. So First Man had a talk with First Woman and they reunited and became the parents of the Navajo race.

First Man and First Woman’s first child was a girl that they found on Blanca Mountain. They were walking through the valley one day and heard the baby crying. They sent their spirit bodies to the top of the mountain where they found the baby girl suspended in mid-air in the center of a lake. They took the girl home and in four days she grew from infant, to toddler, to adolescent, to adult. Her name was Changing Woman. The puberty ceremony she went through continues to this day; it’s called “The Blessing Way.”

All this time, the monsters conceived by the women in the Before Time were taking over the world. There was a danger that the monsters would kill off the new race of people.

When the daughter became an adult, a spirit voice told her to go and bathe in a stream. She conceived twins from the waters of the stream. Changing Woman told the twins to go to their father in the sky. They climbed a rainbow into the clouds and their father gave them the tools—lightning, wind, and powers—to defeat the monsters so that the new race could live. That race developed into the modern Navajo race.

 

September 11
A silver Taurus with California tags that read, “HARVEYS” passed and honked this morning. I froze. They didn’t turn around and I couldn’t make out the faces inside, but my thoughts immediately went to my half-sister -- My father’s daughter from his first marriage, whose last name is Harvey. I will meet her and my nephew Robert for the first time when I get to California.

A couple years ago, I made a list of things that I need to do in this lifetime; it was only four items long: 1) Travel cross-country, 2) Visit New Orleans for Mardi Gras, 3) Meet my half brother and sister, 4) Have and raise a child.

Though I’m sure that the list is not complete, I have yet to find anything else my heart desires. I met my half-brother Brad and his family for the first time last year when they moved to Virginia. I want to extend my family as much as possible. Now that I think about it, I consider everyone I’ve met on this trip family in a way. How lucky I am!

Tonight, I helped deliver brown-bag dinners to the local coal mine. They had super-sized bulldozers there with tires taller than I am!

September 12
We were somewhere around Tuba City when the realization that I was going to Las Vegas took hold ;)

Last night, I stayed with the Tucker family at the Anasazi Inn. Janice and Dave own the place--The only sign of life at a spot on the map called Tsegi Canyon. They put me up even though their son Dave, his son Andrew, a woman named Linda, and her son Harrison were visiting on their way to Las Vegas.

I didn’t see much of the younger Dave and his crew, since they got here at 8pm for a late dinner and I only stayed awake long enough for a short game of dominos afterwards.

As I was packing up this morning, Dave asked if I wouldn’t like to join him and the boys on their trip to Vegas for the day: That’s where Andrew lives with his mom during most of the year. I considered the proposition for as long as it took to finish rolling up my sleeping bag, then agreed.

I hadn’t planned to take a day off today. We figured out, though, that I'll save two days if I walk straight down to Flagstaff instead of taking the loop to the Grand Canyon. We’ll stop by the Grand Canyon on the way.

The only thing that concerns me now is that Linda isn’t coming too. When Dave explained that they’re just friends it made me a little nervous about going with him. He flirted with me this morning in his smooth, 30-something way and paid more attention to me than to his son, which was definitely a bad sign. I didn’t want to crash a guys’ day out, but I couldn’t resist the adventure.

We hit the road at eleven, after a big family breakfast. There’s no avoiding the road that I’ll be walking on for 90 miles down through Tuba City (it’s the only road), so I tried not to look out the window much. I felt reckless and giddy with excitement, though I realized how ironic it was to feel that way on a side trip that’s fairly tame compared to what I have been doing. I needed the change of pace.

We swung by the convenience store that Dave used to manage and bought A&W root beer floats. Then we headed for the place west of Tuba where a beat-up, hand-painted sign by the side of the road reads 'Dinosaur Tracks:' There are three-toed dinosaur tracks embedded in the sandstone in this area, which is on the Navajo reservation and so not maintained by the National Park Service. When a Navajo man tried to charge us five dollars for admission, Dave blew him off and told us to keep walking.

You have to find the tracks yourself, and there are no information signs or pamphlets telling you what kind of dinosaurs walked here and when. The only paths were made of ragged pebble outlines. We puddle-hopped around the site until we found some prints: They were about two inches deep and half a size larger than my hand.

We stopped at the jewelry booths on the way back to the car and Dave bargained the women down to half the price they were asking. The women looked thin, tired, and hot. I felt sick watching Dave take advantage of these people, so I was relieved when we got back on the road again and on our way to the Grand Canyon.

We drove through the bellies of several thick rain clouds as we approached the canyon. The attendant at the gate told us to save the $20 entry fee if we were only driving through, a solid wall of fog had come in that morning, and it wasn’t expected to lift any time soon. We paid.

We could hardly see five feet in front of us as we pulled up to the first viewing area. I’d never seen fog as solid as that. Andrew was enchanted when we told him that he was walking in a cloud. Like the other tourists, we stood at the railing and stared into the white void. I began to wonder for the second time this trip if Karma was at work: Punishment for traveling by car. Every so often, a patch of fog shifted like Mother Nature’s Dance of the Seven Veils. Then, all at once, all the ‘veils’ lifted and there before us stood the truly Grand Canyon.

A mad camcorder rush ensued among the German tourist group behind us, as well as appreciative applause by all. I took several pictures, knowing full well that I could never capture the grandeur of this place in a picture. As I’ve said before, there are just some things you have to see to comprehend.

We ended up spending more time at the Canyon than we’d expected; we drove to all the viewing areas. Every spot we came to was blanketed with a fog bank that would lift five minutes after we arrived. We began boasting to each dismayed gaggle of tourists that we had arrived and, so, soon would the view. At 3:30, after a swing by the most expensive McDonald’s in the country just to check out the prices ($5 Big Macs), we set out again.

We stopped for a lunch of buffalo burgers (another first for me) somewhere on Route 66, then again at the Hoover Dam for just a second so I could see it lit up at dusk.

The best time to see Las Vegas is at night. You crest the hill from the South and BOOM, there it is, in all its sprawled-out, blazing glory. Awesome.

After picking up Andrew’s brother Zach we began the evening’s activities with a roller coaster ride at NewYorkNewYork. Dave and I dropped the kids off in the pinball arcade. Then we headed downstairs to the adult arcade.

I preferred to watch rather than gamble myself, my sister got all the luck in our family, but Dave insisted that I play the slots a couple of times. Then I watched him win $700 at the blackjack table. Then we all drive over to the Stratosphere, a 108-story lookout tower with a free-fall ride at the top called the Big Shot that shoots you up at 4G’s. We did that ride twice.

I was impressed by how many attractions there are for kids in Vegas. My impression of this city has always been of a place where negligent parents leave their three-year olds wandering the slot machine rows for hours while they hit the craps tables, but there were arcades and indoor playgrounds everywhere we went.

By the time we’d finished with the Big Shot, it was nearing 1am. The arcade area had closed. We still have not eaten shrimp cocktail at the Fremont or banqueted at the Mirage. Dave would have liked to visit several other casinos, but our whirlwind tour had to end by morning. We drove the Strip, past CircusCircus, Caesar’s Palace, and the Coca-Cola Museum, before dropping off Andrew.

Dave wiped tears from his eyes as we pulled away, “I won’t see him again until Thanksgiving, you know?”

It was 2:30am. Even the gas station at the edge of town had slot machines. Goodbye, Vegas.

September 13
We arrived in Tsegi at 9:30am with no sleep. I ate breakfast and, true to my schedule, walked twenty-two (comatose) miles. Fortunately, I didn’t have to carry my pack since I’m staying with the Tucker family again.

Dave picked me up at the Route 98 intersection with the gift of a Snickers bar and took me back to his parents’ house for one more family dinner and good night’s sleep. Good people, these Tuckers. Dave has decided to meet me next weekend in Flagstaff and put me up in the Days Inn there.

September 14
Two beige pickup trucks drove past. They stopped at the top of the next hill. Immediately, I began making the usual mental preparedness checklist: 

Why are they stopped? 

Are the looking at me? 

Where can I go if they come at me?”

Before I’d finished surveying the nearby barbed wire fence for places to leap over it, both trucks drove away. I breathed easier. Then I saw that they’d left a black and white collie dog by the side of the road.

Oh geez, what a sight. The thing is, this sort of thing is very common on the reservation.

Besides dogs, I’ve come across herds of cattle and sheep grazing on the shoulder of this narrow road, the fence that was supposed to contain them in a gnarled heap. In Dennehotso, three lab pups—chocolate, blond, and white with a black spot on its head—followed me for two miles. I had to shoo them away from the traffic several times before a woman in a pick-up truck pulled over and demanded to know what I was doing with her dogs.

“Herding them,” I replied, and helped pile the dogs into the back. On the way to dinner that night, Martha almost hit the same blond pup as it ran across the road. I’ve come to the conclusion that the poorer an area is, the more likely there are to be stray animals.

Now, I tried to get the collie to come to me, figuring I’ll make a leash out of my rope and at least get it safely to the next town, whatever good that would do. But the dog wouldn’t come; it kept darting just out of my reach. After a few glances to where the trucks had gone, the dog started running back east on the shoulder.

What could I do? I watched the dog for a few minutes. It seemed far enough from the road to be safe. Then I trudged west again, wishing I’d gotten those trucks’ license numbers.

No more than ten steps over the hill, a half-heard thump made me turn around and run back to the top. A white pick-up truck was slowing to a stop a quarter mile down the road.

I stood there, numb, mentally replaying my attempts to call the dog over to me, trying not to blame myself. I couldn’t see the road, but I could see a man’s head and shoulders as he got out of the truck. Then, blessedly, I heard barking. When the man crouched down to pick the still figure up and put it in the back of his truck, I continued walking.

Tonight, I’m sleeping in the office of the only church in Red Lake/Tonalea.

September 15
I think I’ve contracted Andrew’s cold. He was sniffling on the way to Vegas and I thought it was just allergies, but my throat began to ache this afternoon. The twenty-two mile walk to Tuba City felt more like twenty-six, which is no small distance when you know every mile to the step. I only hope that the vitamin C tablets I’ve been taking will do their thing and stop the baddies before they get too bad.

I’m staying at the Presbyterian Church in Tuba City tonight. Dave gave me the number of a Thriftway manager here, but she said that her dog recently brought fleas into the house, so I found a church. It’s very much a bachelor pad, with the pastor, his son Lee, and their tenant, a tribal lawyer named Jim, hanging out and doing their own things. I was free to talk with a friend on the phone until 3am.

September 16
God bless short cuts. What was going to be twenty-six miles became twenty-three miles today, when Lee pointed out a bootlegger’s road between Tuba City and Cameron. It was a wonderful dirt road; I encountered only three cars all morning. I’ve been somewhat apprehensive about the stretch of Highway 89 between Tuba City and Cameron because PVC crosses and Thunderbird bottles take up equal space on the roadside, cause and effect grimly illustrated.

Alcohol is illegal on the reservation, so people drive off the reservation to get the stuff and drink it on the way home -- With disastrous results.

I made it to Cameron in one piece but felt exhausted because of this blasted illness. I stumbled over to the Assembly of God Church after fortifying myself with a Gatorade against the obstacle course of red volcanic rock and barbed wire that a woman in the RV park across the street had called a short cut.

The family I’m with tonight was not expecting me until tomorrow night and the cupboard is bare. All there is to eat is tortilla and bologna sandwiches, RC cola, and canned peaches. There is no hot water in the trailer they put me in, but neither inconvenience phases me. I only care about the bed, which is just fine.

September 17
Gray Mountain is a no-stoplight town. It consists of a gas station, restaurant, curio shop, and an Anasazi Inn just like the Tuckers’. Randy Wolff manages all the establishments in Gray Mountain. Every bit as gracious as those who recommended him, he was quick to welcome me to his mini community.

The inn is only nine miles from Cameron, so I stopped by for lunch, put my pack in a back room, and then walked the rest of my twenty-three mile day. Randy drove out to bring me one Gatorade in the afternoon and another when he picked me up . . . on his 20th Anniversary Edition Honda Goldwing motorcycle.

“I thought about bringing the car, but I figured this is an important addition to your tour of America, a ride on the best touring bike ever made,” he said.

Randy is a big guy, and the Goldwing is an equally big bike: A big, shiny, beautiful, blue bike. As I stepped up onto the peg at the side and swung into the back seat, I felt equally nervous and excited. The closest I’d ever been to riding a motorcycle, before, this was the back of Dad’s moped when I was a kid.

 
After reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, I wanted a bike myself. Meeting people with scars, pins in their bones, and vivid accident stories changed my mind; the emergency room technicians call them “donor-cycles” for a reason.

Still, there I was, riding at 75 mph with no helmet, feeling completely at ease, albeit a little wind-blown. The bike had a radio, cushy leather seats, even a heater, and it didn’t wobble and jolt as I expected a motorcycle to do. Randy assured me that he’s been riding for over twenty years, but I didn’t need his assurance to feel safe. What I felt wasn’t the immortal rush of a young heart, it was confidence in a beautiful machine. I should allow myself this kind of calm certainty more often. Sometimes we caution ourselves out of great things.

September 18
The Anasazi Inn has a monstrous-yummy breakfast buffet. Mindful still of my unpleasant buffet experience in Kentucky, I skipped the sausage and grease. Instead, I filled up on fresh fruit, waffles, and fantastic cheese blinis in blackberry sauce.

Randy joined me for breakfast. He said that I remind him of the two daughters he hasn’t seen since his divorce two years ago; they are a few years older than I am. He confessed that they both blame him and won’t speak to him. Randy has been so kind to me, I can’t imagine the pain his daughters must feel to shut him out of their lives. I hope that helping me has helped him.

Randy took two Polaroids, one for the bulletin board in his office where he keeps pictures of himself and his friends, and one for me. He gave me another Gatorade for the road. I give him a big hug.

Another television news crew, Channel 2, interviewed me on my way into Flagstaff. This “crew” was just a guy with a video camera who drove out to ask a few quick questions for the evening news.

Dave picked me up at the edge of town; he’s in Flagstaff for the weekend selling Kachina dolls and silver. I’ve seen him more than anyone else on this trip.

I wasn't sure that sharing his hotel room was the smartest thing to do, but since my intentions were strictly shelter-based, I decided to trust that his were based strictly in good will.

I began to think twice when the lady at the front desk asked if we want one or two beds, and he hesitated.

“Two please,” I said, and stared at the side of his face as he looked guardedly ahead.

Dave unpacked his entire house into the room: Computer, monitor, VCR, racks of clothes, goods for sale, candles, and special soaps.

“Candles?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “My house is full of candles. When you travel as much as I do, you realize that the only way to go is to make yourself completely at home wherever you are.”
I had nothing to unpack.

At 8 o’clock I was starving. We wandered around downtown until we found a perfect hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant called Pasto. The harried hostess informed us that, without reservations, we might cross our fingers and try back at nine.

While waiting, we started a conversation with the male couple waiting behind us, doctors from Phoenix who come up here to vacation because Flagstaff is more gay-friendly. When we got the last table available, Dave asked them if they’d like to join us. The hostess called us a “a hostess’s dream.”

The food was well worth the wait. The olive oil that came with our bread was so ultra-virgin that it tasted effervescent. I chose "chambota" as my entrée: A warm pasta salad with fresh red and green peppers and basil that made me nod my head in pleasure several times at its delectable simplicity.

I was grateful for the company, since the atmosphere might otherwise have been a bit beyond platonic for my taste. As it was, Dave and one of the men shared a bottle of wine and, halfway through the meal, he began making off-color jokes in a loud voice. He mumbled something about “finally loosening up.”

As soon as we got back to the room, I cleared Dave’s stuff off my bed, thanked him formally for dinner, and went straight to sleep.

September 19
My first thought this morning was, “Today could be scary.”

I had failed to find an alternative to Interstate 40 from Flagstaff to Ash Fork, three days’ walk away, and walking on the interstate is illegal. Hardly anyone ever pays attention to them, but there are signs on the entrance ramps that read: “No pedestrians, farm equipment, bicycles, or animals permitted”.

Until today, I’d only been on one Interstate for three miles in Louisville. It was not pleasant; I was afraid of being caught the whole time. Not that there is much precedent for my fears; police thus far have been more than helpful. If an officer did stop me, the worst he’d probably do is ticket me and drive me back to Flagstaff. Still, there I was, over 2,000 miles’ walk across the country and worried sick about a minor legal infraction.

Dave drove me to the edge of town, so I could scope out the situation. There was no frontage road in sight. As a final effort, we went to the nearest convenience store and asked the clerk there if she knew of any alternatives.

“Not for seven miles or so,” the woman said. Any hope I had left went slinking away.

Then she said, “Oh. Don’t you know? Walking on 40 in this area isn’t illegal. This is part of the Bike America route.”

“WHAT? REALLY?!”

“Sure, you don’t see any signs here, do you? People bike through here all the time.”

I did a little jig for joy in the parking lot. Dave dropped me at the on ramp and I strutted confidently past the “Speed Limit 70” sign onto the interstate.

It was an up-and-down day in many ways. Walking on the interstate was just as I’d expected: Wide shoulder, which is good; semis doing 80 mph, which is bad. I spent two hours fighting tail winds.

The narrow, two-lane frontage road paralleled the interstate for a while, then veered north. It didn’t take long to realize that the back route was going to be a few miles longer than I-40. However, the scenery was worth it. The road wound away from the noise of traffic and into a green and yellow meadow. Beyond the meadow, I could see mountains and pine trees. Then the asphalt turned to gravel and angled south into a grove of pines.

A car rumbled past every twenty minutes or so.

A driver going the opposite direction stopped to ask if the road led to the interstate. I told him yes and asked if it led to the interstate going my way, too. It did -- The driver said it was about three miles to the exit. I could not have been happier.

Have you ever been in a place that just screamed “Get naked!”? That densely tree-lined dirt road was just such a place; I didn’t resist for very long. I leapt off the road, found a clearing reasonably hidden from traffic (should there be any), and stripped off all but my boots and socks. I tramped around a bit, feeling feral. Then I stretched out on a sunny bed of soft pine needles and purred a while. The woods were silent. I would’ve spent all day there, but Dave was scheduled to pick me up in Parks. Reluctantly, I put my clothes back on, hoisted my pack, and walked out of the woods.

Parks consists mainly of a general store. Outside, several citizens had set up a mini farmer’s market with their home-grown fruits and veggies. One of the men recognized me from CBS. When they learned who I was, they showered me with Utah peaches and local sand plums and insisted on taking a group photo.

“After all,” one of the women said, “it's not often you can get your picture taken with a town’s entire population.”

Again, I would like to have stayed awhile, but Dave arrived with the announcement that he’d arranged a surprise for lunch. The surprise was a chair lift ride 11,500 feet up one of the San Francisco Mountains in the Arizona Snowbowl.

“I hope you’re not afraid of heights,” he said, as his car began to overheat on the steep drive up the mountain.

The ski lift ride to the top took twenty-five minutes. They don’t make mountains this big where I come from.

The view from the top was literally breathtaking. I was reminded of Wolf Creek Pass as I gasped my way up the path to the highest vantage point. From there, I could see several other mountains shrouded in fog like giant green waves: The Coconino National Forest. We could also see Flagstaff and, way in the distance, the north rim of the Grand Canyon. It was incredible, and very cold -- At least ten degrees cooler than at the bottom of the mountain. I definitely appreciated the fact that I didn’t have to walk up to get that view.

September 20
Dad called this morning; he was just as excited as I am that I this walk is almost done. He kept repeating “One more week, one more week,” like a mantra.

Breakfast at La Bellavia was worth the fifteen-minute wait and the crowded tables. I ordered a Cafe Aloha (cappuccino with coconut milk) and sunflower seed french toast with strawberry butter. Dave insisted on paying. He drove my pack to Reverend Lyle and Paulette Johnston’s house in Williams after dropping me off at Parks. When I hugged him good-bye, he got that tender, love-trounced look in his eyes again.

“I could get a hotel room in Kingman next weekend; I was thinking about going over there anyway.”

“No, Dave.”

All this super-friendliness towards people who help me has warped my sense of how friendly I should be. I can’t let myself feel guilty for an attraction I didn’t encourage.

Paulette Johnston welcomed me into her home with a hug. Her newly adopted dog, a formerly abused collie named Sasha, did not. Sasha is the most perpetually afraid dog I’ve ever met -- She barely stuck her nose outside the bedroom door all night; I wasn’t even aware of her presence until Paulette went to feed her. The pretty dog with her cookies-and-cream-coat ran to the furthest corner of the room when I appeared, as she apparently does with everyone. Only after I’d crawled over and scratched her belly for a good ten minutes did she relax her cringe. I’ve met a couple of dogs who are afraid of men in baseball caps or run if you raise your hand. I wonder if a woman beat Sasha.

Paulette took me to Rosa’s Cantina for a good, filling Mexican dinner. Then she gave me the tour of Williams, which didn’t take long. The train that goes up to the Grand Canyon every day was my favorite sight: It's an old-fashioned steam engine with velvet seats and “Grand Canyon” written on its side in thin, ivory letters.

The people in Williams were very optimistic about their town’s growth potential. They put the town line far from the edges of early development, but the town never developed. Now the hotels are run down, the streets are bare of any interesting businesses, and the town line is still far from the edge of town. The best thing about Williams’ location is its view of Bill Williams Mountain and the dam below. The Johnstons have the best view of both the mountain and the dam in the two-story, mountain-side home that they are renting from the church.

“He’s a big one,” says Paulette of the mountain. She refers to many inanimate objects by gender-- The dam is a “she.” It’s very Paul Bunyon-esque speech, and I like it. Paulette has an air of sturdy pioneer woman about her.

September 21
Tonight I’m staying at the Ashfork Inn in Ashfork, Arizona, courtesy of Steve Hicks of the Church of the Nazarene. Ashfork’s claim to fame is as “Flagstone capital of the U.S.” There are three hotels, but the only good place to eat, according to Steve, is the deli at the Chevron station.

My dinner was a roast beef sub, a quart of milk, and a Snickers bar. I sat on the pavement outside the hotel office and made my weekly family phone calls on the pay phone there. Mom wanted to know when I’m coming home. Dad read me the Washington Post article about me, entitled “A Nation of Friends.”

“You know, Niki, I couldn’t help thinking that ‘A Nation of Friends’ would make a fine book title.”
I agree.

September 22
Today I walked twenty-two miles to Seligman, the place I stopped with Dave and his crew for buffalo burgers on the way to Vegas.

The first place I came to in town was the KOA campground. All day long, the sound of my feet on the gravel shoulder and the squeak of the straps on my pack was my only company. I asked the lady at the front desk for a tent site near other people.

Unfortunately, when I introduced myself to my neighbors, I found that neither group spoke English very well. One group is from Germany, the other from France.

What are international tourists doing in the deserts of Arizona?

“Oh sure,” said the front desk lady, “The desert is a very popular spot for European tourists who want the feel of the Wild West. There are several motorcycle companies around here that rent Harley-Davidsons, 'for the modern-day desperado.'”

Both groups of neighbors quickly became involved in their own activities. I went to the restaurant across the street in hopes of finding some company there. My luck wasn’t much better.

A couple with heavy Irish accents who don’t speak more than five words to one another their entire meal occupied the only other table in the non-smoking section.

The kitchen kept running out of the things that the Irish couple ordered, and it took fifteen minutes for the woman to get her cup of soup. The woman stared at the wall in something like disbelief as the waitress apologized and explaining that her boss had called her off vacation at the last minute to help tonight. I heard the waitress mumble “I sure hope we still have lemonade” as she passed me for the fifth time.

My meat loaf special arrived five minutes after I’d ordered it, burnt and smothered with the gravy I wanted on the side, but anything tastes good after a day’s walk. I would have ordered dessert, but the waitress brought my check without asking. The Irish couple were gone by then. I sat and wrote so that I can listen to the oldies on the jukebox a little longer.

I called a friend at the pay phone outside the restaurant. He wondered if our talking wasn’t detrimental to the independence factor of my quest. I didn’t care, I needed to talk to someone. I feel as if I’m in a twilight zone of languages here.

September 23
Trains parallel this part of Route 66 just across the road from the KOA. They blast their whistles when they come through every twenty minutes, so I was surprised when I woke up this morning having slept soundly.

The sky was sparkling blue, as if it had been scrubbed clean. A herd of round little clouds danced to the oldies radio station playing on a roofer’s tinny radio. “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag” and “Lollipop” were in my head as I bounced out of town, head held high.

Bonnie left a message in my voice mail with places for me to stay for the next three nights and in Seligman, though it was too late for that one. Her effectiveness amazed me; to call this part of Route 66 “sparsely populated” is a whopper of an understatement, but in a town with three people in it, Bonnie’d know one of them.

Today, my destination was the Landis' ranch and “Tent & Breakfast.” I found it by looking for the bucking bronco silhouette above the front gate. A charter bus had parked out front.
Following the smell of slow-cooked meat around behind the house, I found a group of about thirty women gathered at picnic tables. Karen Landis, the only woman in a cowboy hat, called out, “You look like someone who’s walked twenty miles!”

I smiled with relief that she was expecting me, but before I could say anything in return, the women in the tour group bombarded me with questions.

Karen pointed to one of three little cabins nearby, “You’ll be staying in there tonight, because you’re special.”

Gratefully, I dumped my pack and talked to the women, who sat and ate and asked questions until they noticed me salivating. They released me just long enough to attack the dinner spread. In the cast-iron cooking pots set over a low fire were cube steak, potatoes, biscuits, and beans, with strong coffee and a choice of peach or pineapple cobbler for dessert. I soaked some biscuits with bean gravy, smothered more biscuits with strawberry jam, wolfed down the steak and potatoes, and felt like I’d died and gone to cowgirl heaven.

I was much more sociable with food in my belly. I told a few stories and asked the women how they’d heard about this place. They are on what’s called a Mystery Tour: Everyone pays for the trip without knowing where they’ll be going. This tour went to the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

Karen explained, “There is a road off 66 that goes down to the west edge of the river where the canyon isn’t so steep. A lot of white-water rafting tours start there. They come here for supper afterwards.”

Karen gave a talk about cattle ranching, the theme of which was Things Aren’t Like They Used to Be.

“It takes six hundred and forty acres to raise eight cows. That’s eighty acres per cow. So those forty-acre lots they’re always trying to sell could only raise half a cow. I guess you’d better hope your neighbor raises the other half.”

Karen passed around examples of the leather spurs and accessories that her husband Mike makes and black-and-white pictures of Mike striking classic cowboy poses. Mike Landis is the classic cowboy; with his graying handlebar mustache and rugged features, he could have stepped right out of a Zane Grey novel.

The desert air cooled dramatically at sunset. After taking pictures of the desert landscape, the cowboy cooks, and me, the women headed back to their bus. I wasn’t sure until they turned to go that they wouldn’t be spending the night. I was sorry that such a boisterous group of women had to go. They all told me where they live, mostly in southern California, and invited me to visit. I huddled by the fire and settled down to an evening alone.

Just before they pulled out, one of the women ran back up to me.

“Here, I wanted to give my coat. It means a lot to me and I saw that you were cold and I want you to have it.”

It’s a really nice ski jacket that I probably shouldn’t have accepted because it’s heavy and I’ll have to carry it tomorrow. Still, I couldn’t refuse when I saw that look of graciousness on her face that I’ve seen so many times: The look that says this act means more to them than it does to me. I didn’t get her name. If you’re reading this, Lady, I am still grateful for that kindness.

Mike was the last one to leave the hill. He packed up without a word and left the campfire still burning and the coffee pot half full--I drank a cup before using the rest to put out the fire. I took a shower by the light of a kerosene lantern and snuggled up in the big easy chair on the porch of the mini cabin. Ian the dog is keeping me company while I write by flashlight in my journal. Every few minutes I have to turn the flashlight off to get another look at the millions of stars above me. I don’t feel alone at all, right now.

September 24
Over breakfast, Karen and I fell into a long conversation about wildlife versus modern-day family life.

“When a hunter or farmer needs to kill a mountain lion, it’s always important to find out first if it’s female and if it has any cubs. If you kill a mother mountain lion and leave her cubs alive, those cubs will grow up to be juvenile delinquents. Only deserted mountain lions kill for pleasure, otherwise they kill only when necessary and hardly ever in the same place twice.

So many of today’s kids are like that: Left to their own devices. Parents split up and neither one takes full responsibility for raising the children they both brought into this world.”

“Karen, what do you think is the most important thing a parent can do for their child?”

She stressed the importance of setting boundaries and establishing patterns from the very start. Then she said, “Time is the most important thing you can give another person. People say they don’t have enough time to visit their friends and family, but what’s taking up that time? TV, computers, work. What is most important?”

Karen’s home is noticeably lacking in electrical appliances. “That’s right, I didn’t have electricity until five years ago. Who needs electricity? I can bake biscuits just as easily over a fire. I didn’t have a phone either, until two years ago.”

Karen’s not thrilled about these so-called “advancements.” Before, she lived contentedly and self-sufficiently with her wood-burning stove and kerosene lamps. Whenever she needed money she advertised her Tent & Breakfast with flyers. Now she has to pay utility bills, so she has to make money all the time. “It’s terrible, I can’t make my own hours like I used to. I have to keep an appointment book.”

She thumped a thick, leather-bound day planner, like the one my father always tries to keep when he’s feeling particularly organized. It was well worn, with scraps of paper sticking out all sides.

She said, “The other day I lost this book, and I worried more over it than I ever have about a child or a grandchild. Is that progress?”

Unfortunately, modern society would probably say that it is.

One night on the Landis ranch has given me more peace than a hundred nights in the suburbs where I grew up. I can’t help recognizing the wisdom in Karen’s words. The Native Americans recognized the importance of staying close to the earth too, why does the rest of “civilization” insist that technology is the way to happiness?

Why is education considered more valuable than common sense? I’ve known many straight-A students who couldn’t start a log fire, let alone cook an entire meal the way Karen did last night. What values does a life of mental labor versus a life of physical labor teach? I know that a full life is one that incorporates the mind and the body equally, but is that possible in today’s society? There are enough questions in my head to more than occupy my walk today.

I am convinced that Route 66 is magic; there are so many hidden attractions along it. Even the names of the towns on 66 — Peach Springs, Valentine, Hackberry —sound enchanted. There's that road that goes from Route 66 to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. There’s also a place on the Hualapai Indian Reservation where you can park your car and either hike eight miles or pay for a horse or helicopter ride down into a canyon. I've been told that paradise is at the bottom: Hualapai Falls, a grotto filled with jewel-green hot springs. Someday I’ll have to go there.

September 25
A series of signs outside Peach Springs: “Old horses read / these signs each day / you see they get / their corn that way.”

There weren’t many trees (i.e. nature’s port-a-potties; grab the trunk to hold you steady while you squat!) on today’s stretch of road. When I couldn’t hold it anymore, I found the biggest clump of junipers I could and kept as much covered as possible. In other words, I stuck my backside in a bush.

On a road where cars pass every fifteen minutes or so, a red pick-up truck picked that moment to drive by. Worse, it slowed down and backed up twenty feet from me. There wasn’t much I could do, at that point. I kept my rear end in the foliage and hoped I wouldn’t have to defend myself in such an awkward stance.

A none-too-sharp looking skinny guy with long, stringy hair, a three-day beard, and a ripped T-shirt made me more nervous when I saw him.

He got out of the truck to say, “I’m going to Kingman, need a ride?”

I tried to act casual, squatting as I was, and answered with the usual “No thanks, I’m walking.”

The guy stood there for a minute, shifting from foot to foot. He actually scratched his head before he got back into the truck. I wondered if he even comprehended my, ahem, position.

Hackberry is a town of seven families, their homes nestled in the valley that Route 66 curves around like a protective arm. Across the road is the Route 66 Visitor’s Center, which used to be a gas station. The first thing I noticed about the Center were the placards: One gave the history of the surrounding buildings -- Now-decrepit shacks that used to belong to the railroad. Another placard described the meditation garden that grows in water barrels where the fuel pumps used to be. The owner, Bob Waldmire, wasn’t around, but his friend Don invited me inside to wait.

Maybe it’s that my walk was almost complete. Maybe it was the plethora of written material covering the walls and even the ceiling of the place that filled a gap in my reader’s heart. Maybe it was the enormous collection of kitsch, or the visitor-friendliness of the place.

Whatever it was, I knew as soon as I entered the Route 66 Visitor’s Center that it would be my all-time favorite place on the walk; it’s the best natural history museum I’ve ever visited. The Center is just little tin-walled shack by the side of the road, but it’s jam-packed with Route 66 memorabilia. Signs everywhere read “Please DO touch,” and “Yes, you may open the case.”

A small tray offers coffee, tea, and hemp seeds cooked in a solar cooker (“high in protein and totally legal,” according to another descriptive little card).

“We do NOT accept donations. You are our guest. Help yourself.”

Bob Waldmire’s handwriting and the pictures he’s drawn of Route 66 attractions remind me of R.R. Crumb’s work, if that cartoon artist had drawn road signs instead of jolly naked people.
There’s a table crammed with books--Edward Albey’s Desert Solitaire and Kerouac’s On the Road are among those that beckon me. Another table displays the first-ever Cozy Dog machine; Don informs me that Bob’s dad invented this predecessor to the corn dog.

“You sure came at a hectic time,” Don says. “Bob is leaving the center soon. He’s going back to his hometown in Springfield, Illinois. Springfield is on Route 66 too, there’s still a Cozy Dog stand there that’s now an official Route 66 historic site. When his father died, Bob promised him that he would write the old man’s life story, and now he’s keeping his promise.”

Don and I spent a pleasant couple of hours discussing current events over raspberry iced tea, popcorn, and Bob’s homemade vegan oatmeal raisin cookies. Long after dark, a wiry man with long graying hair, smooth almond skin, and a furrowed brow walked in the door.

Bob worried aloud about the move. The day after tomorrow he will drive his converted school bus to Illinois with most of his stuff. Then he'll make his final trip back here to make sure that the couple who bought the place are settled in. I’m afraid my presence here is imposing, but in a few minutes the furrow in his brow has smoothed itself out and Bob and I sit down with a cup of hot herbal tea together.

Among the pile of Bob’s mail for the day, is a letter from Margie McCauley, a woman who walked from Landers, California, to Connecticut; she started the journey the year that she turned sixty-six. Bob showed me some articles on Margie, with whom he had developed a strong friendship since she came through in June of 1995.

He asked, “Have you ever heard of the Peace Pilgrim?”

I hadn’t.

“She walked over 25,000 miles to promote world peace back in the sixties. She’s written a couple of books about it.”

He grabbed a copy of an article about Peace Pilgrim for me to read, then excused himself to continue packing.

Bob insisted that I sleep on his bed and he on the floor.

“I’m going to be up pretty late anyway. I hope I won’t keep you up; I play the flute with my Chopin records as a relaxation exercise. I just play by ear to some of the slower tunes.”

Where did this gem of a character come from? I’d like to stay another day and find out, but this time, he’s the one leaving. I picked up the article he gave me. It’s from the January 2, 1986, LA Times: Mildred Norman, a.k.a. Peace Pilgrim, set out from Pasadena, California, on January 1, 1953, and walked until 1981 when she was killed, tragically/ironically, in a car accident in Indiana.

I read the rest of the article in growing awe of this woman who spent twenty-eight years of her life walking back and forth across the country. They say she was on her seventh cross-country trip when she was killed.

My journey seems small indeed compared to hers, but I remind myself that I am not walking for such a tremendous purpose as the promotion of world peace. I’m just working on me right now, and once across is all I require. Who knows? Maybe later in life, I’ll walk again. It’s a shock to discover that I am not the first woman ever to have attempted this; I’d become used to the idea that I was. Now it looks as if my claim to fame is as the youngest woman ever to have done so.

September 26
Early this morning, I drank the orange juice and fruit Bob left out for me, scribbled a heart-felt 'thank you' note on a scrap of wrinkled map, and tiptoed out the door. It’s twenty-six miles from Hackberry to Kingman. Kingman, I soon discovered, is not a very friendly town.

The edge of Kingman is a congested collection of quickie-marts, hotels, and exhaust-spewing traffic. The sun was setting, and I was weak with hunger, but I passed up the supermarket when I came into town in the hopes that the United Methodist minister I’d been leaving messages for would call.

At eight o’clock, I stopped making phone calls at every pay phone I came to and headed for the Silver Spoon Family Restaurant just ahead. Over a wilted house salad and a large plate of generic spaghetti, I considered spending money on a hotel room for the first time this trip. It wasn’t the idea of spending money that bothered me, just that I’d finally found a town where no one helped with only three days left in the trip

I passed an airport on the way into town. For a second, I imagined what it would be like to just skip these last three insignificant-seeming days and surprise my family with an early arrival ... but only for a second; I know me better than that.

I wished that I was in the desert instead of this unfriendly city, at least there I could set up camp. Although I know there are rattlesnakes and scorpions and coyotes, I’m no longer afraid of camping by the side of the road as I was in Virginia. I welcomed the idea of sleeping under that blanket of stars, but it was I-didn’t-know-how-many miles to the other edge of the city and I hadn’t seen anything like a city park yet--Only concrete and billboards. I thought that maybe I could find the United Methodist church and sleep on its doorstep or in the backyard, if it had one.

Meanwhile, the waitress made polite conversation. She asked me where I’m headed and how. She said that the Methodist church is several blocks off the main road back the way I came. The longer I sat there, the more concerned she became.

“Don’t you know that this is the meth[amphetamine] capital of Arizona? There are tweekers all over the place right now. This is a dangerous town to be in at night, especially alone.”

I was too tired for dessert. I got change from the cashier and started making phone calls to some of the hotels listed in the dog-eared Yellow Pages, but no one answered.

The waitress eyed me carefully, “It’s nine o’clock, most of the hotel managers around here won’t pick up the phone this late at night.”

She put my tab face down on the table and said carefully, “Look, I’ve got a room at the hotel across the street. It’s not much, kind of dingy, but I’m going to spend the night at my lover’s place so if you want, you can stay there tonight.”

Thankful, I of course accepted.

I sat half-asleep at my table with a five-dollar tip until the waitress pulled her apron off and her hair down at 9:30. She gave me strict instructions as she walked me to her room: “Just keep the door locked and don’t answer if anyone knocks. I spend most nights at my lover’s place anyway, my daughter is there already. There shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Lover,” it’s an unusual term, but I like it. It’s so honest. What is a lover? A lover is someone you have a romantic, probably sexual relationship with, but can’t officially call boyfriend or girlfriend for some reason. The term may be too superficial or inappropriate, like the difference between a husband and a lover. There’s no ring on this lady’s finger.

Then, quick-minded one that I am, the truth dawned on me, “Wait a minute, is this lover a woman?”

“Yes,” she replied, turning her deep brown eyes toward me. “Only one other person at work knows."

“Oh. Well, you don’t have to worry about me saying anything to anyone. You’re the only decent person I’ve met in this town. Hey, how did you know that this is the meth’ capital of Arizona?”

“Because I used to be an addict.”

She unlocked the hotel door, bid me a good night, and left, but knocked again a moment later.
“I just realized that I haven’t introduced myself. My name is [name omitted, for obvious privacy reasons]. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.”

So went my night in Kingman, Arizona.

September 27
Breakfast back in the Silver Spoon. Looking more refreshed than I felt myself, Hannah asked me how I slept with a wink and a friendly smile. She was much less tense this morning; she said she understands a little about what I’m doing.

“A few years ago, I bought one of those Greyhound bus tickets that let you go anywhere you want for one price for a month. I went everywhere in the US that I’d never been before. The only places I haven’t been yet are Alaska and Hawaii and I’m saving up for Hawaii right now. Yeah, I remember — travel all day, sleep, wake up and travel again — I remember.”

When I left, we wished each other luck on our travels.

Despite last night's bed and shower, I still felt too tired to walk much. I walked seven miles to a truck stop, checked my messages, and called my family to make travel plans. Two hours later, the stress of juggling flight arrangements and pleas to "Come here NOW" had sapped any of my remaining stamina. I decided to walk just far enough from the city limits to get clear of the concrete and make camp.

There is nothing on my map between here and Oatman, twenty-three miles away, except a mountain pass. I’ve got just one more mountain to climb, but I can’t do it today. I can see the unbroken chain of tall red mountains looming ahead beyond an open valley of cactus and chin-high, scraggly brush.

Just past the city line, where I expected to find open desert, I found instead a subdivision of sorts: Gleaming green street signs stand out every half mile on dirt roads. I can only see one or two houses on each road.

Incredulously, I came upon a billboard for a realty agency outside a pink stucco house that could have been an office, a home, or both. There are two picnic tables on the covered porch and the shade there tempted me enough to go to the open door and ask if I can rest there.

The owner, a tan and cheerful man in Bermuda shorts and a button-down shirt, told me to take my time. He offered me a big cup of water in a red Solo cup before returning to his big-screen TV where a football game was being broadcast. I blinked a few times and began writing in my journal.

That setup was just weird enough to land me another host. Shortly after I arrived, a younger man on a motorcycle pulled up and called inside to his father. The younger man asked me what my story is. It just so happened that he lived a few miles down the road.

“You’re welcome to stay with us tonight. I’m call my wife and let her know you’re coming.”

Tonight, instead of making do among the cacti, I am resting comfortably in the home of Darrin and Jen Blake on Bali Hi Road in the middle of the Golden Valley desert.

Dinner with Darrin and Jen was a mile-high stack of grilled cheese sandwiches, chips, and soda. Their diet seems to consist of mainly of foods with an unusually high fat content, though neither of them look it--They both have the tan, rugged look of people who ride motorcycles under the desert sun a lot. Part of me is sure that this is all a mirage.

September 28
For breakfast, Jen served up a stack of pancakes a foot high with slabs of butter wedged between each one, all for me. I only had to hike sixteen miles today, but I had to cross Sitgreaves Pass, 3,550 feet, on what was by far the most treacherous road I’ve encountered.

As you approach Sitgreaves, you can just barely make out the strip of asphalt that winds in and out of the mountain’s side. The two-lane road has no shoulder whatsoever: It hugs a wall of rock on one side and drops straight down on the other side. There are so many switchbacks that you can’t see more than twenty feet ahead. I spent most of the walk on the double yellow line, moving to either side when I heard a car coming, afraid that I wouldn’t hear the next one.
Thick ropes of tar, gone soft in the heat of the midday sun, crisscrossed the road. As I tiptoed through one much-patched area, I spied a squiggly smiley face among the mass of black lines: Some road crewman’s artistry, I guess.

Shortly after the smiley face, just before the 31-mile marker, I came across a rough sandstone staircase carved into the mountainside. Even at walking speed, I almost didn’t see the stairs. When I did, I could hardly believe my eyes.

At the top of the stairs there is a spring, or what would be a spring if any water were flowing out of it. Someone made a cement trough to catch the water, but the trough is only damp enough at the bottom to keep some moss and a few clusters of small, star-shaped orange flowers alive.

A pair of thin copper pipes jut out of the bottom of the trough, and a swarm of bees had made the lips of the pipes their water source. The bees didn’t bother me as I investigated.

I found two little brass plaques above the basin that read “Schaffer Fishbowl Spring” and “In memory of Sharon Pena, Angel in the Sky. 1944-1995"

It was such a magical place, just like I would expect to find on Route 66. I ate lunch in a shady overhang nearby with its view of the pale desert rock and blue sky. I felt like a desert hawk in its secret nest as I watched a car inch up the road below me.

The summit was only a few miles further. When I finally reached it, I couldn’t help thinking, “Well, it’s all downhill from here!”

Then it hit me just how true that was: Sitgreaves is the last mountain on my journey. I’m almost done! The mixture of relief, excitement, and, yes, disappointment, that I’ve been waiting for finally came. I looked down the mountainside and I let the flood of emotions soak in for a minute. This trip has been more exciting and fulfilling than I could ever have dreamed. As tough as it has been, physically, the knowledge that every day would take me to a place I’d never been before made getting up each day worth it.

I know that I could go further than Needles if I really wanted to do so. Though the town after that is fifty miles through the Mojave Desert; I’ve been in enough tight spots by now to know that I’d probably make it if I tried. Geographic impasses aren’t enough to stop me anymore; Dad was right, I really can accomplish anything I set my mind to.

No, now is the time to stop; I’ve made it to California as I said I would. This is as far as I need to go to prove to myself that I can do it -- Everyone else was convinced long ago. How many times have I heard people say, “Well, if you’ve made it this far, you can certainly make it all the way”?

Honestly, I’m somewhat afraid of all this good luck. Right now, I treasure every kind word and action that people have done to help me, but a person can get arrogant. It’s time to stop while I can still appreciate all the good deeds, instead of continuing indefinitely on this fortune-filled, golden way. Thoughts of the Peace Pilgrim ran through my head. No, it’s time to stop while I still want to stop.

I took one last, trembling look over the landscape and began my descent to my last stop in Arizona: Oatman.

Oatman is an oasis of humanity (one can’t honestly call it civilization) in a place where nature and geography weigh heavily against it. After zigzagging down the switchbacks at a much pleasanter speed than I went up them, I came to a sign that read, simply, “WELCOME.”

What the sign appears to welcome the traveler to is a group of three trailer homes and a mine shaft. Then the road loops down and around once more and suddenly there’s Main Street: A Old Western town of two-story clap-board buildings.

A sign hanging in the window of the jailhouse advertises a shoot-out at high noon, every noon. Inside most of the buildings are gift shops or concession stands of the sort you find in every tourist trap but would never expect to find out here in the middle of nowhere. The whole place is so contrived looking that I half expected the storefronts to stand by themselves like movie flats. The only things missing are the cowboys and their horses.

Instead of horses tied up outside the saloon, there are burros wandering the streets. There were four burros in the lot at the edge of town, mauling the garbage bins like dangerously oversized stray dogs. I wondered what the townspeople thought of this invasion until I saw that all the shops sell carrots. Wild burros, it seems, are good for tourism--The place is like a petting zoo.

Jen had given me the name of a woman who runs one of the shops here: Laura. Laura doesn’t live in Oatman, her home is back in Kingman, but Jen said she might find me a place to stay the night here.

The only possibility Laura had come up with was Brandy, the woman who runs the store next to hers and sometimes watches Laura’s two children for her. Brandy lives in a house that someone later assured me I wouldn’t want to sleep in, let alone visit; it’s full of children and stray dogs. Anyway, Brandy couldn’t take me because her ex-boyfriend, a roaring drunk who still lives with her because “he has nowhere else to go,” said no.

The boyfriend showed up, staggering, to introduce himself. He put his hand on my hip and slurred, “You’re more of a woman than I am a, uh . . .”

“A man,” someone finished for him.

I just stood there gulping the ice-cold water that Laura had given me and staring in disbelief at the wild burros. Three burros stood around our group of debaters. Laura’s daughter fed one of them carrots. When she ran out of food, the big animal started to get restless. Brandy put her shoulder to the thing’s rump and forced it off the wood-plank sidewalk.

The debate ended with the decision that I stay with Mitch, the sixty-six-year-old shopkeeper who lives on the other side of Laura. Though I protested, Brandy insisted on using some of her food stamps to buy me a Little Debbie goodie bag, a loaf of bread, and a damaged jar of peanut butter.

Mitch, a barrel-chested man with tattoos and long gray hair that he ties back, offered to carry my pack up to his apartment.

I made the mistake of saying, “I don’t know if you can, it’s awfully heavy.”

Mitch bellowed in protest, “This girl carries a pack all the way from Virginia to Arizona and doesn’t think I can carry it up my own stairs!” and chucked the pack up onto his shoulder.

From then on, Mitch and I got along great. He said that we get along so well because what I’m doing is crazy and everyone in Oatman is either crazy or well on their way.

After a hot shower and a change of clothes, Mitch invited me to join him at the hotel bar across the street. That is where most of the male population in town gathers every Monday night for football and fifty-cent hot dogs. I downed three hot dogs and two Cokes and had room for peanut butter sandwiches and Little Debbie snack cakes later.

The bar was small, dark, and crowded with men who all knew each other. The ceiling and walls of the place are plastered with dollar bills that patrons sign and staple, tape, or glue into place. The rule is: Every man at the bar has to bet a dollar on the game. Another rule is: Whoever wins the spread has to buy everyone else a drink. Mitch didn’t tell anyone who I am, so I got to spend the evening in peaceful anonymity.

Afterwards, Mitch and I stood on the porch overlooking Oatman’s little thoroughfare and took in the beauty of the clear night sky. Mitch told me a little bit of the town’s history.

“This area was a big gold mining center after the fever hit; you probably walked past the abandoned mines just outside town-- They only just quit drilling a couple years ago when the price of gold went too low to make drilling worth it.

The town’s claim to fame, besides the gold and the burros, is that Clark Gable and Carol Lombard spend their honeymoon at the hotel here, in 1932.

"And it wasn’t for the privacy,” Mitch laughs. “I have it from a reliable source that Gable chose Oatman because the hotel owner here was the best seven-card stud player in the country, maybe the world, and Gable was an avid poker player.

“They say he spent the whole honeymoon in the saloon while the glamorous Lombard sat alone in their room.”

We both laughed and enjoyed an amicable silence. Then Mitch let me in on a secret about the burros, prefacing it with a pause and a “You probably won’t believe this.”

“Burros hardly ever leave town except to sleep. The younger ones’ll lie down ever' so often: They’re a lazy bunch, like all teenagers. Usually the burros wait until sundown, when all the tourists are gone and no one is going to give them anymore free food, and retire to the hills until morning.

“When the males get to be adolescents they can get pretty violent, so the parks service will come in one night, round them up, and truck them off to the wilds. Next morning, the mama burro shows up galloping frantically down the street at sunrise, bawling for her baby.

But the really miraculous thing is that on Christmas morning, if there are any burros in town, they are ALL lying down. 

Of course you won’t believe me, but it’s the honest to God truth.”

I do believe him. Why not? It’s as good a story as any I’ve heard on this trip, and Oatman is as a strange a town as any I’ve ever visited. Whenever I think about fairy tales, I always imagine them happening in out-of-the-way places like this.

Tonight, I’m sleeping under the stars: Mitch has a mattress set up on the porch above the store for nights just like this one. The air is warm here in the low desert. The streets are empty and quiet after dark. In the distance, I can hear the burros braying their goodnights. Before I can wonder whether the excitement of tomorrow will keep me up, I’ll be dreaming.