I need a pep talk for Kansas. Everything I've ever heard about the place is a reference to its flatness, and when I consider the 400 miles from here to the Colorado state line my nerves are suddenly jangling. The mountains of West Virginia and the hills of Kentucky and Missouri may have been hard on my legs, but they always had something for the eyes. Faced with the idea of being able to see a town two days before I reach it, I get the urge to go south, north, anywhere but past the "Welcome to Kansas, the Sunflower State" sign.
I pull my feet over at the first opportunity and call Janet Peery. Janet is my friend Jo's mom. They used to live in Wichita before Jo's parents divorced and Janet, Jo, and Jo's two sisters moved to Norfolk, Virginia. I'm calling ostensibly because I know Jo is staying with her father in Wichita for the summer and I want to get her phone number there. Really, I'm calling because I don't know anyone else from Kansas. Janet is a writer, I'm hoping she'll have some eloquent things to say about the place.
Mrs. Peery's voice has a soothing tone and a rich, slow melody—A blend of genteel lilt and southern drawl: "Oh, Kansas is a wonderful place," she sighs, a good start. "The endless fields of wheat, the miles of cloudless sky . . ."
"Endless . . . miles," this doesn't sound very promising. "What about trees, Mrs. Peery, everyone says there aren't any trees."
"There are trees in Kansas, just not that many trees. But don't worry, Niki, that just means there's more sky."
I'm remembering a photo montage Jo did once. She took pictures of the horizon in several areas around Wichita and put them all together. The result was a perfectly flat horizon with a perfectly flat road running through it. You never would have guessed that each picture was taken in a different county. My knees are growing weaker and weaker.
"Don't think about the ground, Niki, think about the sky! Kansas really is a beautiful state, you'll see."
It takes another ten minutes of un-Kansas-related chat before I am willing to hang up.
Bolstered more by the friendly voice that what it's told me, I head into Olathe, Kansas.
July 16
Julie Nelson reached the West of Olathe at the same time I reached the east side. A reporter from the Olathe Daily News told me that I had just missed her.
Julie is walking across Kansas for Poverty Awareness. The front-page article on us both has a big picture of Julie and the headline, "Woman Walks with a Purpose."
My story is a sidebar. I guess I'm a little jealous. I tallied up our differences: She's walking the state, I'm walking the country; she's 40, I'm 22; she carries only a fanny pack, I carry a 50-pound backpack ... and so on.
I remember the conversation I had with a group of friends at dinner one night. That night Jenny, a grad student in religious studies who lived in my building and served as sort of a dorm mother, found out my plan and came to talk me out of it.
"If you do this, you will die. Someone will kill you. The world is not a safe place. You'll get killed."
I knew that Jenny loved me and was worried about my safety. She wasn't alone in her convictions, just the most plain-spoken. With all the thinking I'd done about the risks I'd be taking, Jenny's words didn't make me afraid, they made me determined.
What right does the world have to make me fear a passage through it? And what good is a life lived in fear? I'd heard the phrase, "It's better to die on your feet, than to live on your knees," but I never thought that it would apply to me.
That night, I became a patriot. I put my trust in America and became determined to make this walk an example of how safe our country is. The media is wrong to portray only the tragedies in our lives and we are wrong if we believe them. We cannot sit in front of a television and let it dictate our views about the world outside.
Now I realize that I have always had a cause. This walk is proof that, though there are terrible things like poverty, homelessness, and violence out there, this is still a country where a person -- even a woman on her own -- can live and travel and not be afraid. There are people everywhere who will help even the strangest stranger. I'm happy to say that I haven't been wrong about America yet.
July 17
Tonight, I am at Baker University in Baldwin City -- More people my age, yipee! Robyn works in the student union office. She reminds me of that song, "Shiny Happy People," with her openness and bright smile. She said that she'd been waiting for my arrival since yesterday morning. I joined her and a group of students for dinner in the cafeteria: Three kinds of fried fish (sticks, balls, and fish shapes), and "Simpsons" quotes -- Just like the good old days. I can't believe "the good old days" were only nine weeks ago!
A group of high school wrestlers are on grounds for a competition. They seem unusually sedate for high school wrestlers. Word from the cafeteria staff is that they had a milk-drinking contest last night where everyone brought a plastic bag and when they'd drunk their fill, they threw up into the bag and kept going. Ah, the joys of high school.
One thing Baker U. has that UVA doesn't is six flavors of hard ice cream for dessert. We all scooped ourselves a cup full before we head across town to an art opening. I made sure to put a word in for Richwood, WV, as an up-and-coming art farm/paradise.
I spent the rest of the evening in the student union office. The school has free long distance anywhere in the States on Fridays. The only problem is that it's Friday night, so everyone I want to call is already out partying. I finally got through to some of the gang in C'ville; we laughed and yelled, and I missed them, but in a good way. Laila wants to get a picture of me to blow up poster-size and hang on the dining room wall Thursday nights when she has the whole neighborhood over for dinner.
I had an e-mail message from Steve that struck me as so wonderfully impossible that it made me laugh out loud for a good five minutes. The message read, "Do you want me to get you a job in San Francisco?"
As if life weren't good enough -- I'm healthy and chugging right along, my friends and family doing well, and new friends showing up every day, and now even my post-walk life is being taken care of for me. Everything is falling into place.
July 18
This morning I found a brown bag lunch that Robyn left had outside my door. It included a napkin note just like the ones Mom used to slip into my bag lunches in elementary school: "Please take care and best of luck!"
I needed all the help I could get today as the Kansas heat began to take its toll. Nine miles outside Overbrook (Town motto: "Don't overlook Overbrook"), Mary Pierpoint, the reporter for the Osage County Chronicle, drove out to meet me in her beat-up black Saab. She came bearing water and a slice of convenience store pizza that I devoured like manna.
Mary drove my pack into town for me and lent me her very chic neon green camera bag to carry my bag lunch and water bottle. Still, around 4:30 and three miles from town, I’d drunk all the water and was sucking breath.
Mary showed up again with ice water just in time. Then Dad called, so I sat and talked with him for a half-hour and caught my breath. I finally made it into town an hour later, exhausted but so eager to finish the day that I jogged the last hundred feet. Max and Dee Friesen welcomed me to their home.
July 19
Jo is coming for a visit today! She and her dad are driving up from Wichita for lunch after Max and Dee and I get back from two hours of church (United Methodist).
What I miss most about being away from my friends is having someone to lean on, literally. As many times as I've hugged a friendly host goodbye, it can't compare to the months of snuggled-up movie watching on the couch with "the girls" or walking down the hallway with our arms around each other every day. Watch it, Niki, you're starting to sound nostalgic.
I hug-tackled Jo as soon as she pulled into the driveway. We spent the entire visit hugging each other and grabbing arms, shoulders, and hands. Though everyone made polite conversation, Max, Dee, and Mr. Peery mostly basked in our gleeful glow.
Mr. Peery pronounced Max and Dee "two of the most salt-of-the-earth people I have ever met."
"They're Rotarians," I explained, as if that explained it.
Max and Dee haven't just taken me into their home, they've made certain that we'll be a part of each other's lives for a long time. Last night they took me out to visit their son and his family on their farm. They introduced me to their best friends and their church. I'm glad I could introduce them to part of my world with Jo.
The Friesens jumped right on the task of finding me more places to stay, though clearly Dee wishes I wouldn't go. She made repeated references to her very cluttered garage on the way back from church. She said she'd like to pay me to stay on for a week or two and help her clean it.
"However long it would take, you know. We certainly have the room, and you'd be doing me a favor."
After several other kind offers that I had to refuse, we spent the evening at the kitchen table pouring over maps and Max's Rotarian Directory.
July 20
Burlingame is the first town I fall for before meeting the people. People, I've discovered, really make or break a visit, no matter how pleasant the surroundings.
Burlingame's got this HUGE main street, made that way originally so that ox carts could make U-turns during the days when the Santa Fe Trail was still a trail. Now there's enough room for two-way traffic and parking on both sides of the street as well as in the center lane.
I spent some time in the newly renovated library before meeting the Osage County Chronicle publisher, Kurt Kessinger. I’d promised to stop by when I got into town and Kurt definitely made it worth my while.
First, he gave me a summary of Burlingame's history as the intersection of the Sante Fe Trail and Railroad; almost everyone I’ve met in Kansas has something to say about “their” railroad. I've heard about the caravans that traveled twelve to fifteen miles a day, risking Indian raid, starvation, and storms to find new land and new profit potentials. I'd rather be standing out on the prairie examining the wagon wheel ruts.
Then Kurt took me across the street to his player piano repair shop.
The sign above Kurt's store reads, simply, "Player Pianos." The shop is less a retail store than a workshop and it looks the part. There isn't much immediate business for a player piano repairman in the area, but people send their broken pianos to Kurt from all over the country. His space is full of pianos in various stages of dis- and assembly. I couldn't believe how many pianos he had. He said that he's two years behind in his restoration projects and has a storage space full of pianos that customers have shipped to him from all over the country.
The player grand that Kurt is currently working on stood in the middle of the room – It was half-covered by a thick cloth, its valves and tubes arranged haphazardly in several beer cartons. The jewel of his collection is in the front window: A gilded upright piano with golden cherubs adorning its sides that Kurt built from scratch out of several retired models. It’s a ten-instrument one-man band, including a tambourine and triangle.
Kurt "played" a Man of La Mancha medley for me on one of the more practical-looking uprights. He pumped the pedals to work the bellows that spin the spool of paper with its many holes – piano Braille. Touring Kurt's workshop was like being allowed behind the velvet rope at the Smithsonian.
I am staying in a gorgeous brick house with Pastor Burgess and his wife Lou Ann, who live on one of many tree-lined streets in Burlingame. Pastor Burgess and Bonnie have become fast friends in their conversations about my visit. When I called Bonnie to check in she gushed about the many great people she's met over the phone because of me. I wish she could meet them in person as I am.
We had homemade vanilla ice cream for dessert. It brought back memories of summers at my grandparent's house: Opa would make lemon ice cream in his wooden, hand-cranked ice cream maker and Oma served up small bowls of strawberries in sugary cream. Good food always makes a good day better.
July 21
Let me dispel some myths about Kansas once and for all: Kansas is NOT totally flat; you CANNOT stand on one side and see the other. The pain of having to walk up and down hills all day was worth it just knowing that there are indeed hills here.
The southeastern part of the state is all rolling hills, and all used for cattle grazing. There are no fences except along the road; ranchers identify their cattle by ear tags and brands.
The section of Kansas I walked through today is called the Flint Hills. It was so green that it reminded me a little of England without the hedgerows. From the crest of a hill, I could see miles of pasture all around me. Occasional crops of flint and the rarer clumps of trees broke up vast expanses of short green grass. The brown, white, and black cow herds roamed all over, sometimes on a hill in the distance, sometimes right up against the fence.
It's true that the number of trees decreases the further west you go, but like Mrs. Peery said, that just means there's more sky. I have yet to reach the truly flat area of Kansas and I'm almost halfway through the state. I've been told that the flat part extends a couple hundred miles into Colorado, so I'm in no hurry to see it.
This trip is turning out to be more of a geography lesson than I thought. Some say eastern Colorado (Colorado -- which I've always associated only with mountains) is even more desolate than western Kansas.
There's something new to see every day. If the land gets as barren as people say it will, well, I like to think I have enough going on in my head to keep me occupied for quite a while. With all the time I’ve had to examine my psyche, by the time I finish this walk, I probably will have straightened out any kinks up there.
Tonight I'm with Pastor Roberta "Robbie" Fall in Admire, a town so close to extinction that the only distinctive building on Main Street is the Last Chance Cafe. Yipe!
July 22
Oh wonderful, oh delicious rain! The temperature dropped from 100 degrees to 80 degrees today, and a thick layer of clay-colored clouds covered the sun and dropped a refreshing light rain every so often. It’s one of less than five days so far that I’ve permitted myself the freedom from the usual all-over layer of sunscreen.
I trotted through downtown Council Grove soaking wet and happy to be so. Though people did stare from the storefront windows at my sodden vagabond personage, I long ago stopped worrying or caring what people think of me.
Council Grove is jam-packed with historical stuff: The Madonna of the Trail statues, the Post Office Oak, the Cowboy Jail and the Kaw Mission -- to name a few. I'm finding that the more historical artifacts there are in a place, the less interested I am; I'd rather go out in the middle of nowhere and look at some anonymous old grave. Propped-up, fenced-in pieces of history are too plastic for me, too untouchable. I’m not into access-controlled tourism. Dorothy's house, the world's largest ball of twine, and the largest hand-dug well are in Kansas, too, but I won’t miss not seeing them.
Max and Dee have tried to set me up with big families because I told them that I want up to six kids myself. Tonight I'm with the Kurtz family: Alan, Tammy, and their four boys.
It was an educational evening for all. When Tammy called, "Dinner's ready," we all filed around the island in the kitchen and piled our plates high with beef stew, carrots, bread, and butter. I filed away the hint that a buffet-style dinner means no chaotic passing.
The boys all politely excused themselves after they'd eaten their fill. I spent the rest of the evening talking about anacondas with the two younger boys who just saw a scary movie about one. We pulled out the encyclopedia to read about them and a measuring tape to see just how long a 35'-foot anaconda is.
July 23
New rule: Wave to all truck drivers -- It alleviates some of the boredom of walking on an interminably flat road and the alienation of being on no-shoulder roads where the big rigs scream by at 70 mph and I have to stand down in a ditch and crouch in their tailwind. Plus, I figure if anyone on these roads is as lonely as I am, it's them.
I was awakened several times by a storm last night. From the pull-out sofa by the window in the family room, I watched lightning bolts touch down miles away across the prairie. The light woke me up, not the sound -- The storm was so far away that I never heard it.
The weather today was like yesterday, which suited me just fine. I'm staying with Rev. Pat Ireland and her husband Mike tonight in Cottonwood Falls. They just moved from San Francisco so they rave about it to me, especially about the food. For breakfast tomorrow we will have coffee from Pete’s -- a local San Francisco chain. I'm a little over halfway there!
July 24
When I gotta go, I gotta go. This has not been a problem until now, when the prairie looms treelessly all around. There are ditches, but they're not deep enough to get completely out of sight. My only saving grace is that you can see a car coming from a mile away. The road slopes gradually up and down and if you stand at the top of one slope you can see to the tops of the slopes in front of and behind you.
This morning I found a ‘Road Work Ahead’ sign lying in the grass. I used it as a shield from the part of the road I could see the least. Wouldn't you know it, though -- as soon as I dropped trou', a car approached from the other direction. I had to pick the sign up and turn it around with one hand while holding my shorts up with the other. I imagined the people in the car laughing hysterically.
I took my rest break in Grant Tower Cemetery today. It was exactly the kind of historical place I love – not a rope or placard in sight. The first grave I came to had benches beside it that had been etched in 1944 as a tribute to the pioneers. The graveyard was obviously well cared for, but there was no one around when I stopped there. I ate lunch in a clean but rundown little groundskeeper's hut just outside the gates.
It was nineteen miles to Marion today, where Esta Hall and her three grandkids -- Hannah, Emily, and Caleb -- drove up from Burns in an ancient yellow sedan to get me. Burns is where they filmed much of the movie “Mars Attacks.” It’s the epitome of the nondescript mid-western town.
Emily is the talkative one, a tomboy with short dark hair. She perched on the armrest up front and asked questions all the way home. Hannah is the oldest, and tries to be more sophisticated. She honored me with a showing of her birdhouse entry in the coming 4-H fair. Caleb is shy and silent; he sat next to me at dinner and wouldn't put anything on his plate without first checking to see if I did. I made them all promise to write me and I promised to write back.
July 25
I began to tire only nine miles into the walk this morning. That’s my cue to take a day off soon.
I discovered a baby mole only an inch long tottering along the shoulder. I spent an hour trying to figure out how I could help it, if at all. It refused the peanut and water I offered. Its only food interest was the insect remains that it sifted out of the gravel. I sifted too and found some mosquito wings for it.
Any attempt to steer the tough little thing into the grass, further from the road, failed as it wobbled feebly but stubbornly forward. I hadn't seen any dead moles by the side of the road so I wondered where its mother was. I couldn’t really carry it with me, so I finally left it to its own devices. I hope it got wherever it was going—My fellow road walker.
Around noon, I began searching for a place to nap. The only option was what looked like a gravel road that led into a small grove of trees. Trees are extremely rare out here.
The gravel road turned out to be an old railroad bed. All that remained of the tracks was a section of bridge over the creek. It was in the shade, though, so I took my boots off and lied down on one of the trestles. I used the track as a pillow and was soon sound asleep, thus proving that I can sleep just about anywhere.
When I woke up an hour later, the shadows that were over my face had shifted to my shoulders. I surveyed my surroundings again and was pleased. Something about railroad tracks -- the interstate highways of recent history -- really appeals to me. I did what any red-blooded American kid would do; I carved "Niki Krause slept here 7/25/98" into the old wood. Then I spent an hour peeling the two oranges that Esta gave me this morning and the bag of peanuts that Mom sent. My mother: She loves me, but her love is as eccentric as she is -- When every ounce counts, she sends me unshelled peanuts.
Crack, split, scoop out, drop – The rhythm felt really satisfying after a while. Maybe Mom’s madness had a method. The pile of peels and shells looked rather beautiful in a still-life way.
My reverie was interrupted when three boys in a beat-up brown two-door spotted me as they drove by. They backed up to ask what I was doing.
Though alarm bells sounded in the back of my head, Almost physically incapable of lying.
I said, “I’m taking a break from my walk to San Francisco.”
They pulled over and get out to investigate. Uh-oh, three gangsta'-styled kids with baggy jeans and squirrely facial hair and me sitting barefoot on a train trestle above a creek. I made sure that the pepper spray was within reach and tried to remain calm.
The meeting did not begin well.
One of the guys sees my pile of shells and quipped, "Like peanuts much?"
I heard him wrong -- so did the other two guys.
One of them said, “Man, I thought you said 'Like penis much?'”
They all laughed a little too long for my comfort. I thought, maybe they're just nervous...
They asked the usual questions. Some, like, "How much money you got?" were more disturbing than others. One of them sat down next to me on the track, his hip pressed against mine. I tried to slide away without seeming as if I wanted to get away, which I did.
Then, my cell phone rang -- I only turn it on for twenty minutes a day, but these were the appointed minutes. It was Dad. I stood up and excused myself. I managed one of the best lies of my life because I was beginning to think my safety depended on it.
“Hi Dad! Yeah, I just finished taking my afternoon rest stop, but I’ll be moving on soon. Sheriff Jones said he’d drive out to see how I’m doing right about now ... Yes, I’ve got a place to stay tonight – Jo is driving up in her Dad’s bright red Pontiac to pick me up. I’m going to spend the weekend with her in Wichita.”
There was no Sheriff Jones. The part about Jo was true, but Dad didn’t yet know about it. He immediately went into high panic mode.
“Niki, what are you talking about? Are you okay, Niki? Niki, what’s going on?”
I kept babbling about police escorts and all the people who knew where I was. I stepped off the tracks and watched the guys watching me. I looked at my tent and the gear that I’d strewn around it and wondered if they’d take anything. One of the boys pulled a chunk of wood off the rotting trestle; the other two kicked at it idly. Then, they left.
I calmed Dad down and explained what had just happened. Fortunately, Kansas is too far for him to contemplate driving out to get me. Then I called Jo to find out how soon she could come get me.
She knew exactly where to find me. Apparently, when she stopped at a gas station in McPherson, those same guys just happened to be there. After several hoots and “Yo, what's your name girl?”s, Jo asked why they want to know. They told her that they’d met me and where.
I was amazed to hear this, but Jo reminded me that the population in most areas of Kansas is sparse enough that it's not that astounding after all. Now I wonder if those kids were really as much of a danger as I worried they were. I’d rather not know than to have found out in the worst way.
July 26
I spent most of my day off at Jo's grandma's house in Haysville, a suburb of Wichita. We drove by what was until recently the largest grain elevator in the world. A grain elevator is a row of large cylindrical buildings like silos. The one is Haysville was two cylinders wide and a mile long. The "head house" is in the middle; it's a rectangular building a little taller than the cylinders. Underneath the elevator is a tunnel where the grain drops onto conveyer belts and men work to sort it.
Wheat is very volatile. Wheat dust is very dry and the thousands of pounds of wheat pressing down on it create immense constant pressure. Sometimes, the heat that builds up inside the cylinders can cause a spark. Like a bomb igniting, that spark can blow the whole building sky high. That's what happened here. A couple of weeks ago, the world's largest grain elevator exploded. It blew the sides of the head house apart, the tops of several cylinders off, and buried the men underneath them. Seven men died. One body, the father of a man who was taking over a shift for his son, is still missing. Grain elevator explosions are not uncommon, but they're not something you hear about in the suburbs of Washington, DC.
Wichita is one town that I did not tour, though when we drove past a Pizza Hut Jo told me that Wichita is where they built the first Pizza Hut. Instead, we toured Jo's, grandfather's workshop, where he’s built a Ferris wheel, a fire engine, and a radio all from scratch. Jo and I ate lots of her grandma's homecooked food and took naps. In the afternoon, we attended a church social and gorged ourselves on homemade ice cream and lemonade while discussing politics with the locals.
July 27
Sidewalks are a wonderful thing. I love when I get into a town and the terrain goes from ditch or gravel shoulder to the neatly lined concrete or even grass-cracked brick of that pedestrian pathway. Sidewalks are for walkers -- No cars allowed. You can’t fully appreciate that until you’ve walked in a roadside ditch for six hours.
Tonight, I was supposed to stay with Dr. and Jeannie Watson and their eight home-schooled children, but Jeannie's good friend just went into labor and she wants to be there for it. They set me up with the Anderson family: Larry and Anne and their kids Ian and Sadie.
As I approached the address, a small face at the window disappeared and I heard a young girl yell, "Here she comes! She’s pretty!"
I knew I’d do well here after a greeting like that. The Andersons are living in a dorm at Central College. They just moved from LA, which they clearly miss and recommend highly to me. Larry's parents are visiting from northern California. There are three more kids running around -- I'm not sure whose they are.
We had a big dinner of tacos and Kool-Aid and stayed up late playing card games and eating warm brownies on paper napkins. I was a hit with the kids, and they with me.
Toward the end of the evening, Ann made a confession: "Once, when we were still living in LA, a girl who was biking across the U.S. knocked on our door and asked to stay with us. I was suspicious. I told her that she could sleep in the garage. Then, later that night, I felt so guilty that I woke her up and invited her inside. I've always felt bad that I didn't invite her in in the first place."
I can understand where Ann is coming from -- People today don't pick up hitchhikers and they certainly don't invite strangers into their homes. I haven't figured out what's changed to make this the case, but it is, and most people would feel just as unsure about letting some strange girl sleep on their couch as Ann did.
There’s a level of trust that’s been fading across the generations. Maybe we’re losing our instincts for deciding who’s good and who’s bad news. I’ve redeveloped mine over the course of this walk because I had to. People in single-family homes and gated communities no longer have to rely on their instincts to protect them, their socio-economic status determines it for them. Us is us and them is them. Then I walk into the picture and things get confusing.
I wonder how well I would've been received here if I had shown up without Max and Dee's intervention. This trip would certainly be different if I had to explain myself everywhere I went.
July 28
I walked nineteen miles to Little River in the continuing cool weather today. Though I am immensely grateful for the coolness, the nightly rains that provide it have brought the mosquitoes and horse flies out in droves. I spent every third step slapping at my legs and ended the day with purple-bitten calves.
Guy and Bert Buchanan are putting me up for the night. The only time the bugs let up was during the twilight hour, which we spent sitting on their back deck, jackrabbit spotting in the vast green pasture that is their back yard.
July 29
Guy took me to the local diner for breakfast. He wanted to introduce me to some of the local farmers who gather there every morning for coffee and good-natured gibes. Our table for eight stayed full, but in thirty minutes' time fourteen men had come and gone. One man would come in, sit down, drink his coffee, maybe eat some toast, and leave, just as another man came through the door.
I was the only female at the table, though I was the only one who seemed to notice. As Guy told each of his friends what I'm doing, they all said that they were impressed, though monosyllabically so:
"Huh."
"You don't say."
"Well."
Some of the men were young and sinewy, some were old and gray, all dressed in long pants and long-sleeved cotton shirts, which made me wonder if I shouldn't reconsider my shorts and T-shirt.
Guy gave me a brilliant blue cowboy shirt to start my new wardrobe. The best thing about it is that I don’t have to wear nearly as much sunscreen. I called Mom and asked her to pick me up a white cotton work shirt. I’m being stubborn about the shorts – Jeans just seem too thick to be comfortable all day.
I hadn't walked far from the edge of Little River when a man in a giant neon yellow stocking pulled up beside me.
"Hey there, traveler, where are you headed?"
The man in the sock was Wayne Boone, a schoolteacher from Monterey, California. Wayne is biking from Maine to Monterey for Big Brothers and Sisters. He unzipped the sock that enveloped him and his reclining bicycle from the neck down to shake my hand.
"The sock is to cut down on wind resistance. I have to make the trip in five weeks so I can get back to school on time. I've been averaging 150 miles a day."
It takes me a week to get as far as he's traveling in one day.
I admired all the electronic gadgets that various companies have donated to Wayne's cause: A cell phone, a tracking system, and a mini-computer among them. We also compared our housing methods -- Wayne is staying in hotels along the way.
He was especially interested in my diet. He said, "I was a health nut before the trip but lately I've been eating a lot of Dairy Queen and Pepsi."
I can relate to that! I reminded him that at our level of physical activity we can eat almost anything we want. Our conversation lasted only a few minutes before Wayne had to go. He gave me his card and then was off again in his neon bike sock. Again, I marveled at his comparative speed.
I was not in the best of moods this afternoon. I was feeling frustrated at not being able to keep up my correspondence as much as I'd like.
The idea that this walk is some sort of vacation is laughable. I walk all day, seven days a week, and on my biweekly "day off" I try to catch up on my journal and keep up with my contacts by writing masses of postcards and e-mails. Still, I never feel that I've written enough. I can't keep in touch with everyone in my family back home, let alone all the people I've met so far, and keep meeting every day. Today that worry crawled around in my brain and made me crabby. The worst part was not having anyone to crab to.
July 30
The sign at the edge of Chase reads “Welcome to Chase from Everywhere.” There's something different about this part of the country and it took me a while to figure it out: It’s the racial make-up of the place.
I first noticed a couple of Mexican families driving by in Chase. The minority population is even more noticeable in Great Bend. I can't remember the last time I saw a non-white face—probably in Kansas City.
Great Bend is large compared to most of the towns I've seen in Kansas. Ninety-nine per cent of the towns I've stayed in thus far have been all white, and I'm only omitting the one percent in case I missed one. It bothers me that I didn't notice this discrepancy before. How is this possible in a country that, last I heard, is nearly fifty percent non-white?
Tonight, I'm staying with Jim and Reta Romine and their ten-year-old grandson Kirk. Kirk made me feel like a superhero when I found out that he'd begged his parents to stay and meet me -- They left yesterday. For dinner, we had healthy portions of steak, potatoes, bread and butter, and vegetables.
Jim sat me down and said, “Please, be at home.” He had to say it several times before I finally allowed myself to relax that much.
I will never get used to the way that some families treat me with such deference despite the fact that I'm the one dependent on them. I understand that people treat me this way not just because I'm their guest, but because by being my host, they are able to participate in this adventure that I've undertaken. I can't think of a happier arrangement.
July 31
"Damn Damn Damn!"
I curse a blue streak, between ever bluer lips.
Teeth gritted, fists clenched, I walked as fast as I could in the coldest rainstorm I'd ever endured. Jim drove my pack to Larned, which doesn't help this time because I didn't think to extract my poncho and extra socks this morning before I gave it to him. The sky was gray when he dropped me off, but I mistook it for the same friendly sunshield that has made my last week of walking so pleasant. This cloud is that cloud's big mean older brother. Seconds after it started to wale on me, my T-shirt and shorts were soaked. My socks got soggy almost instantly, and I was soon shivering so hard that I could hardly walk straight.
Thoughts of hypothermia worried at me. I switch the channel to dangerously escapist thoughts like "If I break my ankle right now, I can stop; I won't have to do this anymore."
“Cotton kills. Cotton kills. Cotton kills.” The hiker's mantra droned through my head as I pulled my arms inside my T-shirt in an effort to conserve some warmth.
For two and a half hours, the rain blasted me along. The deluge finally stopped just as I reached Pawnee Rock; I don't know whether to feel grateful or cheated. I wrung out my clothes as best I could and took a pee break in the bushes behind a historical marker. I was reluctant to pull my wet panties back up since my backside was warmer without them.
An abandoned railroad track runs next to Route 56 here. The wooden trestles were the closest thing to dry around, so I sat on them and let my prune-y toes air out for an hour before completing the day's twenty-three miles.
Though I knew that this part of the line was abandoned, I kept expecting to see a train coming. Every couple of minutes I jumped at what I could’ve sworn was a train whistle and looked nervously up and down the tracks. I wondered if it was part of same track whose trestle I sat on last Saturday.
In the parking lot of the convenience store just outside Larned -- pronounced "Lar-nerd" by locals -- a trucker hopped out of his cab and ran up to me with his young daughter in tow.
"Hey gal! I've been waving to you almost everyday since McPherson. Where ya' headed?"
I was too storm-beaten to respond with equal enthusiasm, but he didn't push me for it. He insisted on buying me a soda and a candy bar and wished me luck. I guess my new rule is a good one.
When I finally reached Dale and Karen Otte's house for the night, I almost fell down with gratitude. A long, hot bath steamed all the chills away. I was much closer to room temperature when I sat down to dinner with the Ottes, their daughter Kim, and her four-year-old.
After dinner, we had home-baked cherry pie to celebrate Kim’s birthday. Then we played dominos.
I hadn’t played Cardinal Mexican Train since my sister-in-law taught me several months ago. I’ve known how to play the other most popular domino game, Muggins, for years. I used to take a set of double-nine dominoes down to the coffeehouse in C’ville whenever I went. I love “bones.”
Cardinal Mexican Train starts with the highest double in the set, called a “spinner.” From there, players build their “train” -- matching up as many dominoes as they can in as long a sequence as possible. The Cardinal Mexican Train is the junk train: Anyone can start it with a domino that matches the spinner. Anyone can play on the junk train. If you run out of bones to play on your own train and the junk train, you put a marker on your train that allows anyone to play on it and take a bone from the “junkyard” -- The pile of leftover bones. I love the ling: bones and trains and junkyards.
For their game, the Ottes have a wooden domino rack that I’ve never seen before. It’s a circle with a piece cut out in the center for the spinner and six domino-sized slots around the outside – You have play the game to understand how handy it is.
Like so many men I’ve met in the Midwest, Dale loves making things with his hands. He showed me the shelves he made, the gorgeous grandfather clock, and all the wooden toy trains and trucks. He makes me want to learn carpentry.
August 1
This morning, I discovered a plaque on the wall just outside last night's bedroom with one of the most beautiful things I have ever read inscribed on it:
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others you may become vain and bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and enchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do no distress yourself with imaginings; many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the tress and the stars, you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.
Max Ehrman 1872-1945
My hand cramped trying to copy all the above so quickly before breakfast. I think I've found a new life guide: Every sentence is its own bit of wisdom with no frills, no vagueness. I especially like the part about "God, whatever you conceive him to be" -- it makes the piece all-denominational.
Too bad everything that I saw today wasn't as pleasant as the Desiderata. During my first half-hour in Glenda Gentry's home I had the displeasure of witnessing a gruesome task.
Glenda's two-year-old granddaughter Katie was standing half in, half out of the screen door when I approached. She was shy and cooing when Glenda introduced me, but her tummy hurt so much that when Grandma picked her up, she pushed herself away at arm's length. After many apologetic "you're not gonna like Grandma pretty soon"-s, Glenda went to the refrigerator for the medicine—a suppository.
"Whoa!" I thought, "What about castor oil? What about Pepto-Bismol? What about anything but that!"
From my seat at the kitchen table, the back of the couch mercifully blocked most of the scene. All I could see was Katie's flailing little maroon socks. The little girl screamed and screamed until Glenda had to get her teenage son Steve to help hold her down.
It reminded me of when I was eight and my mother made the unfortunate decision that a penicillin shot would be better than trying to feed me a spoonful of icky pink medicine every day for a week. Holding me down took three nurses. I'm still afraid of needles.
Glenda's father stood by stoically over the whole affair. He stares and stroked his gray-stubbled chin and observed, "She acts like she's been abused."
Poor kid, what a nightmare-in-the-making.
You'd never know anything happened when, five minutes later, Katie was cheerfully running in circles around the room, albeit bowlegged. She begged wordlessly to turn the stereo on, and Glenda obliged by putting on Katie's favorite band: Credence Clearwater Revival. Baby rocked out to "Susie Q."
August 2
Susie Greenfield is the editor for the Jetmore paper. She and her son Josh and friend Catherine moved from Wichita to a town called Hanston, near Jetmore, three years ago. I met Catherine and Josh first when they pull onto the shoulder in a pickup truck and offered to haul my pack to the house for me. Catherine is missing all of her right leg and her left arm below the elbow. She drives the stick-shift truck with her crutch.
Susie fixed me an enormous helping of hand-mashed potatoes and fried chicken for dinner. Then she set a plate of giant gooey cinnamon rolls that she’d spent six hours making this morning out for dessert.
“There’s more where they came from,” she said.
The house is a small, one-level, three-bedroom place.
"Very few people rent out their homes in Hanston. There aren't many vacant homes to rent -- people here don't trust outsiders. We got one of the few houses that are for rent from an old lady up the street. She's charging us $175 a month -- that's the most expensive rent in town."
I've never heard of anyone renting a house for such a tiny price as $175 a month.
"Oh, it isn't the nicest neighborhood. The man next door shot and killed two of our five dogs when they kept getting out.
“Catherine loved those dogs. The second time he did it she went out there and beat him with her crutch. When the police came to break it up, they arrested the old man because they thought he was attacking a cripple!
"Across the street are two divorced men who constantly hit on me and Catherine with the most disgusting lines. Their favorite line is 'You girls are just sitting on pots of gold over there."
I've heard it called a "honey pot" before, but never that; how charming.
"If it's so unpleasant, why are you here?"
"Well, it's close to Catherine's family. We both want to go to some big city, eventually, but right now this job at the paper is a good one. We're saving up our money."
August 3
I talked to Catherine the next day. She spends most of her time in her room talking to people on the internet. She's proud of the large group of friends she's acquired there; but she’s embarrassed about many other things. Several times she'll start in on a story and then back out with a blush and a "Well, you don't want to hear about that."
When she took me to her parent's farm, the first thing she did was tell one of the many children running in the yard to "Go inside and make sure everyone's decent."
Catherine's sister has four children -- ages 11, 6, 4ï½½, and 2 -- with no father in the picture. When she isn't out and about, Sis apparently spends most of her time half-clothed. I've met people like this before, usually in the inner city. These kids are lucky to be growing up in a place where they can run free on the land instead of through the streets.
Shae, the eleven-year-old who looks fourteen, guided me through the chicken-filled back yard to the horses and the new bucket calf for which she's been given responsibility. Two of the children were climbing an apple tree; they presented me with a little green apple. All the kids seem healthy and carefree, and Catherine and her family seem to be doing everything they can to make sure this stays the case. She has no reason to be ashamed.
On the way back from the farm, Catherine told me how she lost her arm and leg.
"It happened when I was four. I still remember it clearly. I was riding on the combine with my dad the way I always used to and he left me in the driver's seat for a second while he ran into the house to get his cigarettes. He always blamed himself for the accident. He stopped smoking after that.
“Anyway, I wanted to push the grain off the blade with my foot like I'd seen him do so many times. Then I felt a pulling sensation ... the next thing I remember was staring down at the ground as Daddy ran through the field with me slung over his shoulder. Then I was lying in the car, head on Daddy's lap as he drove and prayed, both as fast as he could.
“The doctors said it was a miracle that I survived at all; a brand new doctor right out of med school just happened to be at the hospital that day and he'd studied some of the latest trauma techniques. He saved me. I still keep in touch with him whenever I can.
“People say I'm a hero for all the wrong reasons – they say a lot of people have inspired by my story. My motto is, 'It takes all kinds to make this world and I'm just making my unique contribution.'"
For my day off, Susie, Catherine, Josh and I went down to Dodge City, "Cowboy Capital of the World." Our first stop -- the "scenic overlook."
Some twisted politician's idea of a joke, that. The "scene" is a valley that contains four cattle feed lots. Impressive, yes, but it is nearly impossible to spend any amount of time looking at this huddled mass of pre-hamburger before the smell overpowers you.
The smell: Take a field of manure and multiply it by four, then add a heavy dose of fear-stench and chemicals. Last year a big rainstorm caused a massive sludge runoff and the highway department had to close off the main road below the lots for a day to clear the stuff. After the scenic overlook, I was wary of any other sights in Dodge. If that was their idea of an attraction, I was beginning to think they didn't take too kindly to tourists in this town.
Our next stop was Boot Hill. I asked to see it because I thought it was a hill with some crumbly gravestones and the requisite historical marker. It's actually a tourist draw much like Williamsburg, Virginia, only smaller and with nothing authentic. We went anyway since Susie's never seen it either.
The best thing at Boot Hill is the museum. It has collection of dust storm pictures from the late 1800's that show tidal waves of dirt descending on the town.
Finally, we drove out to Fort Dodge. They'd been expecting me there since I e-mailed the Santa Fe Trail mailing list at the beginning of my trip. The Fort is now a dormitory-style retirement home. The smell from the feed lots is still strong here, three miles outside town.
I got inside fast and don't dare open the windows in my room though it's muggy and there's no air-conditioning. No one has stopped by my room to chat, but I heard the attendant telling the ladies in the hall about me. I'm too tired to visit anyway. Do people ever get used to this stench? I’m going to have to keep the covers up over my nose to get to sleep.
August4
Catherine insisted on driving down this morning to take me past the feed lots to the upwind side of town. Route 50 here is full of cattle trucks; I'm getting better at tuning out their roar.
Just outside Cimarron, I did my fourth television interview with the locally famous Betsy Webster of KAKE Channel 13 News. I'm getting better at those, too. The cameraman complimented me on only having to do one take as I studied a historical marker, looked out over the prairie, and waved to the passing trucks.
I discovered a dirt road that connects Cimaroon and Ingalls. At first I thought I'd miss having the mile markers to spur me on with their tenth-of-a-mile counters, but the terrain was so much more interesting that the two hours just flew by. There were five-foot walls of sunflowers on either side of the road and no 70-mile-an-hour semis!
I arrived at Ed and Charlotte Reist's house on the edge of Ingalls exactly when I was expected. The grandkids, Wes and Brandee, are here visiting. Wes shook my hand with a smile that glowed with more self-confidence than most 10-year-olds I know. He entertained me by throwing rocks for the family dog, Hank. Yes, rocks; there aren't any sticks in Kansas, so Hank has developed a love of rocks. To each dog his own, I guess.
Brandee's arena is the kitchen. Every night she writes up a menu of what Grandma is serving which she gives to everyone, takes their orders, and serves them. Tonight's menu: Sloppy Joes, macaroni & cheese, corn-on-the-cob, and baked beans.
August 5
I had my first encounter with a prairie rattler this afternoon; I almost stepped on one. Stepping off the highway as a cattle truck roared by, I must have jumped three feet straight up when I looked down and saw a bright yellow diamondback. It shook its rattle tail right where I was about to put my boot and slithered off before I could take two steps away.
"Yep, you're in rattler country now," said a farmer at the Co-op where I asked directions to the next dirt road. The majority of my walk today was on a dirt road, despite the fear that I am more likely to find rattlesnakes in the brush.
Harold Orosco, the "prominent businessman" that Susie set me up with in Garden City, roared up in a purple Trans Am just as I stepped onto the pavement. He said that he'd been driving around for forty-five minutes looking for me. He set me up at the Best Western on the edge of town and sped off to work again before I could thank him.
The only place for food within walking distance is the gas station. I picked up a dinner and breakfast of OJ, wheat bread, and Pop Tart. Ugh. The only garden I’ve seen in Garden City is an overgrown field of trailer homes: They grow like weeds just outside the city limits. Most of the employees of the packing plant (a.k.a. slaughterhouse) are poor immigrants.
August 6
I'm beginning to see Colorado license plates, which makes me happy. In four days I'll cross the border. I know the terrain won't change much for another 100 miles or so, but just being there -- four states from the finish line -- will make such a difference.
I called Nicole to tell her that I am once again several days ahead of schedule; she'll have to send the next care package further down the road.
She yelled, "Slow down!"
It's good advice, when I get going this fast, I start getting paranoid about burnout. Today I hiked only eighteen miles past Garden City to Deerfield.
I sat in the Deerfield convenience store for a couple hours. I watched a disgruntled wanna-be truck driver about my age scratch off lotto tickets and complain about not being able to get a license. A row of booths lined the front wall of the store. Every booth had a phone for local and 800-number calls, and every person sitting in a booth had an assortment of lotto tickets. I was beginning to wonder if there was some sort of unspoken rule I'd missed when my contact, Barb Hopkins, arrived.
Barb and Dan have housed many travelers; they used to live along the Bike America trail. They consider their hospitality pay back for the time, several years before they married, when the two of them got stuck out on the road in a blizzard.
"In those days, you just didn't stay out all night if you weren't married, blizzard or no blizzard. When we told this to the highway patrolman who informed us that the roads were impassable, he took us home with him and he and his wife put us up for the night.
"The next morning, we couldn't thank them enough.”
"'Just do this for someone else,' they said.”
Barb and Dan always have.
It would be hard to find a couple who are more in synch than Barb and Dan. They are as accommodating to each other just as much as they are to their guests.
Barb's dream since the third grade has been to go to Hawaii. It was in third grade that her grandparents took her two cousins to Hawaii after telling her that she was too young to go. Now, for their 25th wedding anniversary, Dan is taking her to the islands as he promised he would do 25 years ago.
Dan smiled, "Don't ever promise anything to your bride that you won't deliver."
August 7
A sign on the edge of Deerfield: "EAT BEEF. KEEP SLIM"
Red meat for a healthy diet? Since when?
Another sign I saw today read "Best Western Cowboy Palace Hotel. Lamar, CO—2 hours away."
The last time I saw this sign was right outside Dodge City; it read "3 hours" then. I walked for three days to get an hour down the road.
This was the first morning in a long time when I wasn’t sure where I'd be spending the night. I was on my way to the small town of Kendall, through the bigger town of Lakin. I wasn’t at all worried -- More exhilarated, really. Uncertainty keeps me on my toes.
No sooner had these thoughts run through my head than a woman pulled over to ask if I'm the girl she read about in the paper. She said that if I needed a place to stay, she'd be happy to have me.
Coincidence? I prefer to think it's more than that.
So my day started out wonderfully. The afternoon was not as pleasant, though not because of anything that happened. For some reason, as soon as I entered the town of Lakin I began to feel a bit off-center.
I asked a lady coming out of the liquor store how to get to the post office because I had to pick up a package from Mom. The lady instructed me to walk three alleys south, which I did, inciting every dog in the neighborhood into a barking frenzy.
I was looking forward to sending the five pounds of T-shirts and memorabilia that I've accumulated home. Then I find out that Mom's package weighs SEVEN pounds.
It's too much love, Ma! I've asked her repeatedly to keep the shipments light but somehow between home, the grocery store, and the post office she can't help but heap on the trail mix and jerky. I could repackage the stuff and send it further on but I never do. So much for lightening my load.
Halfway to the next town, making today's total twenty-four miles, Leo and Bernice Steinmetz caught up with me. They're the people I was going to stay with last night but couldn't get on the phone. They told me they looked for me and said it would be no problem to pick me up in Kendall, which they did.
The Steinmetz's took me out for Mexican food. When we got home, I called the woman from this morning to tell her that I'd found shelter for the night. Kim said that her manager at Walmart had offered to give me with anything I need. It's an opportunity that I would normally leap at, but this Walmart is a thirty-minute drive back to Garden City and the idea of going back to Garden City did not appeal to me. I don't like retracing my steps. Besides, I've got Mom's seven pounds of love.
August 8
Kendall sits on the Central/Mountain time divider line. I've arrived in Mountain Time! Only one more zone to go.
As I walked through the streets of Syracuse, scattering people and a line of clown cars reminded me that I have consistently missed all the county fairs that make summer, summer in the Midwest. Today I missed the week's final parade by ten minutes.
Fortunately, I didn't miss everything. On this last day of the fair there were two BBQ's: A 4-H fund-raiser at noon and a free BBQ dinner sponsored by a couple of the local slaughterhouses and the dairy farm.
I went over to the city park with Pastor Sneed and his family. There were five hundred people in line for the roast beef, beans, french fries, and ice cream bars: Locally produced, all plentiful.
Nobody complained about the line -- They were too busy socializing and watching the men in the pit turn all those rump roasts. There was more than enough food to feed the crowd and the hearty souls like myself that weren't yet full after one heavy plateful were welcome to seconds.
The evening’s entertainment was a talent show where the Little, Teen, and Adult winners of the Miss Hamilton County contest featured their vocal talents. Other events included Mud Volleyball, Cowboy Poetry, and the fair's finale—a Ranch Rodeo.
A Ranch Rodeo doesn't have the death-defying stunts that a "real" rodeo has, but I'd never seen either until tonight. Ranch Rodeo events include Wild Cow Milking, Team Branding, Team Doctoring, Double Mugging (tying up calves), and Trailer Loading. Each event is based on the things a cattle driver does every day. Teams compete all over the Midwest, from Texas to Nebraska, and many of them have sponsors who provide traveling expenses and spangled, matching uniforms.
Since twelve teams were competing, the first two events took over an hour. I had a belly full of good food and the mosquitoes homing in on me. I could only keep my eyes open long enough to see if they used heated branding irons for the branding—They didn't.
The biggest excitement during the event was when one of the bulls broke through the fence and shot off across the surrounding field at top speed.
The announcer said, "Well, ladies and gentlemen, if anyone sees Buck Johnson's bull tomorrow, you'll know where it came from."
Susan Sneed told me how to make a tomato plant give fruit: Beat it. "Whack the bejeezus out of it," is how she put it.
August 9
My final hours in Kansas were good ones. As I always like to do, I ate lunch in the last town this side of the line, Coolidge, and took a nap in the shadow of a grain elevator.
A truck driver pulled over to ask if I wanted a ride. I gave him my usual "Thanks, but I'm walking to San Francisco."
Then another trucker pulled over just a mile before the state line to say that he’d heard about me in church this morning; he’d brought me a Mountain Dew.
The best last goodbye came just a few feet from the state line. I heard a strange chirruping coming from the bare prairie just across the road. I looked over, expecting an unusual bird, but instead I saw a frantically active prairie dog town!
The little dust-colored animals all popped their heads out of their holes before scampering madly to a nearby hole. A few of them stood boldly at the top of their house-mounds, sniffing the air and looking in my direction. When I got to thinking about it, I wondered why I'd hadn't seen more prairie dogs; this is the prairie after all.
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