Heading Into No Man's Land--OK Panhandle

Woodward, OK

It will be a while before I am in a library again reading your notes, and leaving my own. Thanksgiving dinner was a rattlesnake cooked in ramen noodles, one chili pepper, and old conversations playing in my head. The snake, victim of the road, would have suffered a slow death, recently clipped by a car. Fresh meat has become a rare feature on the menu...even boney white meat that tastes a bit like fish. I thought about turkey, and fat red cranberries. I thought about homemade heavy pies teasing me with smells until my mouth sweat far more than the snake warranted.

I arrived in Woodward yesterday with every staple I carry on empty. First stop, after a full stomach, was the post office. Tony (White?) made a few calls, and between him and the chief of police I was given a motel room at the Sands for the night. Delighted, I washed off a few layers, bounced on the bed, and sorted new/old winter gear for the cart I now pull to help with the the great distance between supply points. I also patched my sleeping pad that kissed a few too many quills somewhere along the trail. Morning came too soon.
Now I head west along the panhandle of OK. Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico? Wewather will dictate alot of my couse taken although New Mexico is the course I will travel through.
This is a rather dry blog. Time is short and already the sun is heading off ahead. I am excited/nervous for the new roads, new faces, new lands. More years are falling away. Soon this 2006 will feel less than real, as my worries become water and twigs to brew my coffee......and the great unknown itself still moving in the wind before me with winter beginning to wake.

Heading Into No Man's Land--OK Panhandle

Woodward, OK

It will be a while before I am in a library again reading your notes, and leaving my own. Thanksgiving dinner was a rattlesnake cooked in ramen noodles, one chili pepper, and old conversations playing in my head. The snake, victim of the road, would have suffered a slow death, recently clipped by a car. Fresh meat has become a rare feature on the menu...even boney white meat that tastes a bit like fish. I thought about turkey, and fat red cranberries. I thought about homemade heavy pies teasing me with smells until my mouth sweat far more than the snake warranted.

I arrived in Woodward yesterday with every staple I carry on empty. First stop, after a full stomach, was the post office. Tony (White?) made a few calls, and between him and the chief of police I was given a motel room at the Sands for the night. Delighted, I washed off a few layers, bounced on the bed, and sorted new/old winter gear for the cart I now pull to help with the the great distance between supply points. I also patched my sleeping pad that kissed a few too many quills somewhere along the trail. Morning came too soon.
Now I head west along the panhandle of OK. Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico? Wewather will dictate alot of my couse taken although New Mexico is the course I will travel through.
This is a rather dry blog. Time is short and already the sun is heading off ahead. I am excited/nervous for the new roads, new faces, new lands. More years are falling away. Soon this 2006 will feel less than real, as my worries become water and twigs to brew my coffee......and the great unknown itself still moving in the wind before me with winter beginning to wake.

Wide Eyes

The blanket that I have been given by the Hunting Horse family has become my fire blanket just as the nights have put a thin skin on my water bottles. When the mornings begin below 30 degrees, ( already have too many pock marks on my good fleece sweater) I can now get as close as I want to the morning fire that boils my water and takes the stiffness out of my hands without the cotton showing any ill effect. The stay with the Kiowa family passed too quickly though I still hear them pray over me in calm smooth words asking for a safe journey. Before I looked at stacks of family pictures, and shared enough of my stories in trade, I was packing up my flute minus one western red-tail primary feather, and stowing two warm pieces of fry bread to eat on some far distant plains. People have become very kind in this part of the state. It is as if they wince when they see me and the length of my shadow moving down a long highway in front of my steps. They know this road comes from no-place near, and is heading to someplace far. It is rare for people to stop out here where there appears to be more eagles that trees. Still, some people do stop and hand me a few dollars, water, even a poem. The faces of hard punks soften and grow real when we share a few words. Something better inside of them is remembered.

I have cooked my dinner on the dried dung of cattle to prepare myself for the time ahead when these few remaining trees wander off behind me too. The resulting fire is smokey and weak. The dry dung biscuts boil water and brown a flapjack if time is of little concern. Thankfully, out here time is a rolling tinder waiting on the wind or spark, and then it moves just a little when the day shifts toward that evening bend in the sky.
No longer can I just sleep with the slender likes of trees. Two nights ago killer winds and the first ice drove me out of my tent into a dry river bed to sleep between stones on the belly of a waterless hole. The winds blew at over 50 mph. It was 2:30 a.m. when exhaustion over came me and I was sure all would be lost if I held camp. I was forced to shove everything into CrowDog and then tackle my own tent so it did not feed the barbed wire fence sitting just down wind with its jagged mouth open. I had leaned against the inner wall of my tent with earplugs in my ears as long as I could stand it. With the growing gusts my weight was becoming nolonger enough to hold the fort down. When I pulled out the earplugs all that I could hear was the train of wind rolling down to me. I opened the tent door I saw death doing a crazy dance around the place where the fire was, around where everything was. Winds pushing everything it could carry roared from over the top of the bluff directly toward my camp. My mission became saving as much as I could and running for it. I lost a few things but in the end I saved more than I believed I could. Even the tent, stuffed into my clothes, survived. What is remarkable is how soundly I slept in that dry riverbed without a tent over me as the whole world untied blew past. I thought about lions, boar, and wished them well as I closed my eyes smelling good sweet earth and the fallen leaves until I smelled nothing until morning. I awoke covered in a thin layer of ice. The wind was still dancing as it had remained doing until another night came. Only ten miles away, I took refuge in an old barn with a metal roof that clamoured for attention with every shift of the wind. On a bed of dried and partially powdered cow dung I set my tent inside a barn with only three sides remaining. In my little fire box I pampered a little cone of flame to turn the water over for tea. I spent the early hours of dark standing in the big doorway that was once a wall. I looked out at a far away town twinkle and blinking at me in the freezing night. Sipping a weak tea and listened to the still angry wind looking for a bed to settle in I was thankful for the three walls that would let my tent rest without stakes or tearing walls. I watched the animals move past that were forgeting they were animals as the wind made them into creatures that just wanted to find their way home. No mouth worried to eat. No belly wanted to hunt. We were all just walking for a shelter away from the world where everything falls, and all the worry of the world blowing in our ears.

Night Walker

Chicasha, OK

It is no small feat that I survived the final miles of route 19. The sky has been strewn with dark clouds of promise for over a day. Without water to drink, or food that would outlast a storm of any length, I favored to leave the shelter of the one room brick face cabin that was engaged in the bluff of a field I pass rather than wait out a storm that might not even wet my boots.

When the earth and red brick hut was enough miles behind me to make a retreat unthinkable the sky opened up with more lightning than rain. At times there were four hit in the air at once. Darkness was an uneventful switch from gray to black, and then the real rain came. My legs, already tired, were pummeled against the tar to clear the miles of empty flats before all of my life went black. With a aluminum frame pack, and two walking sticks of the same material, I favored the idea of other deaths rather than a spear of energy thrown from the sky. Flask. Crackle! My legs go faster. I can ask no more from them. I am the tallest thing for what looks like miles in any direction. The sky above strobes in blue light flickers. I feel static move over me. "Walf faster," I say out loud to my horses that are already running full tilt considering the weight on their saddles. "If I get struck we all die."
At an overpass, where trains run beneath, I divorce myself from the high top in leaps and wet bounds that I am amazed doesn't land me on my ass sliding on a ramp of concreate. I am safe and giddy. Water follows me under in spit but I have no worries for it. I am again sitting with the living rather than peering over some nameless ledge while dancing top-heavy.
In high winds I set the tent. There is no need to swear it erect. Having seen the face of death I consider even the spraying wind to be a blessing I turn into. Most of my tack is dry. Camp is set before I consider that I am three miles from a city. If I was homeless and wet this is where I'd flee to. If I was homeless here I would be dry under cover by now.
At one in the morning I wake up to walk outside and releave myself. The red earth above the tracks is soft as powder. I void toward the railroad tracks below hearing nothing but wind coming back. The word is at rest. Even far away, the lights are lazy. The rain falls without working the earth hard. Back in my tent I read a silly book I shouldn't waste my energy carrying. Tomorrow it will start my fire.
At seven a.m. I leave my tent again for the same call, and because I am eager to be in the cool air. I walk the three paces to the same drop above the tracks below. I do not void. Below, covering the heal of my size 13W bootprint from my one a.m. water call is the full print of a mountain lion that covers the heal. I stare. I kneel. A few feet from the door it stood checking my scent. It is my habit to always look for sign, tracks from the night, bent grass giving the direction taken when the earth is hard, a check of wind and the moisture it holds to tell age of a track. My camera takes a picture using chapstick for a guage in size. Looking down the railroad tracks that wind off into a weak sun rising I hear the words come to me, "Check Mate."

She touched My Knee While Laughing

Lindsay, OK (Southwest of OK City)

To walk America solo is to wash many feet while remembering that my hands are getting cleaner in the process. Walking these miles is to take the lowly seat while remembering to give thanks that I am, for now, sitting without fire ants running up my shorts, and the sun is not making me hear things that aren't there. It is listening to a country move in heavy cloth, and trying not to interprit it, and the knowing that I will.
What does it matter if children coming into the resturant point and stare at the man sitting on the floor by the stock shelves eating cold beans out of a can? It amuses me that the parents choose not to see me as they rush to their tables, children, heads darting back to me, seeing nothing else. I have become , of all things, Peter Pan without the ability to fly. At least I have managed to retain my shadow.

Leaving the Lindsay Library late, I am heading out of town with my mind all over the idea of a night of flat land and lush grass. It will be a couple of miles before there will be a fence to hop. The sun is already pulling down the shades. Passing the Shell station that is also a Mexican Resturant I wonder if the two cold sandwiches I'm packing will beat the frost, and 22 miles. My stomach holds the majority vote. The air inside is warmer than I expected.
Always squeezing dollars into more days of walking, I buy a can of baked beans for 99 cents, and a tall beer for a dollar to thank my back for carrying the brunt of my foolishness. At the cashier I smile feeling the cold in my cheeks flush into heat. "A cowboy dinner," I grin sheepishly at the teller who is clearly amused.
"Yes," agrees the dark skinned man that I like instantly,"I like beans very much." It is clear that he would be more at ease speaking Spanish. My Spanish went foolishly under when I left Central America in the eighties. "Would you like to have some warm tortias with that? It would be easy for me to warm those beans." The kind man is already far from the register collecting foil and four fresh hot tortias that he rolls as if he is caring for his son. He does not make me feel dirty, or poor. He is easy in me eyes. "Stay here at my tables," he insists. "Do you have an opener?"
My head has already promised me the cold quiet outside curb beside the building for a dinning. With this plan I am quite happy. "I would make your guests
uncomfortable," I grin.
"Please, it is cold out. The floor is clean. You and your things, you can rest and eat over there. Noone will care." His eyes are soft in worry. He is tending to my feet. He is is a hand over my own in concern. I take my spoils to the piece of floor that I have been given feeling my heart grow large for this man that sees me as a brother, a man moving just as people still move, through towns of uncertainity, praying for kindness more than for the luxury of warm tortillas. After opening the can with my old army P-38 opener, I spoon beans onto the steaming flatbread, I can not longer hear the children pointing their words at me.

As my mouth moves over the warm bread, my heart is a dozen blocks back sitting next to a librairian that talks in a soft southern voice. She has warmed a cup of coffee for me, and brought me pumkin bread that smells like fall. There is a small circle of us sharing words, and fears of winters past, and the uncertainty of snows coming. We talk about black powder hunters, and I remember the risk of the coming season of hungry rifles and open land. The ladies are very kind as they look at me through eyes that I do not have for myself. We are laughing over stories or some silly quip I've said, some turn of words. It was then that she touched my knee while laughing. Wearing shorts; my skin bare. Everything that is me becomes swirling light to sound falling just like her hand to my knee, just a brush, and it is gone.
Behind the book house she hugs me with that thick sweater that feels like fur between my fingers. This lady is telling me how to find the reporters office through her radiant face, and soft blue-gray water eyes. Of course I hear nothing she says. If I were to suddenly fall I could not be expected to find the ground beneath me.
An hour later, maybe two and my legs are being pulled by dogs that have had kindness paid to them. They want to leave the hardness of this resturant floor and return to the room of books, and the smell of women talking in autumn. I tell my feet that it is late. The trees are waiting for us. My feet grow quiet still watching the door.

Is this it? Is this the all of it looking at me while I sit, night coming on? Is this what I have become? Tonight I will be awake in my tent feeling a hand fall delicately like a leaf while still breathing. The last tortilla is still warm, though no longer hot. I roll it slowly as I spoon the remainder of beans. This is the known world falling away, no longer told to me through television, magazines. I know this. Still. One last piece of bread comes up to my mouth and I hear you laughing with your hands.

She touched My Knee While Laughing

Lindsay, OK (Southwest of OK City)

To walk America solo is to wash many feet while still remembering that my hands are getting clean in the process, as well as my heart. Walking these miles is to take the lowly seat while remembering to give thanks that I am, for this moment, sitting without fire ants running up my shorts, and the sun is not making me hear things that aren't there. What does it matter if children coming into the resturant point and stare at this man that is sitting on the floor by the stock shelves of oil cans eating cold beans out of a can? It amuses me that the parents choose not to see me as they rush to their tables, while their children seeing nothing else. I have become , of all things, Peter Pan without the ability to fly. At least I have managed to retain my shadow.

Leaving the Lindsay Library late, I am heading out of town with my mind all over the idea of a night of flat land on lush grass. It will be a couple of miles before there will be a fence to hop, afield of horses to cross. The sun is already pulling down the shades. Passing the Shell station that is also a Mexican Resturant, I wonder if the two cold sandwiches I'm packing will beat the frost, and 22 miles of walking to Chicasha. My stomach holds the majority vote. The air inside the station/resturant is warmer than I expected.
Always squeezing dollars into more days of walking, I buy a can of baked beans for 99 cents, and a tall beer for a dollar to thank my back for carrying the brunt of my foolishness. At the cashier I smile, feeling the cold in my cheeks flush into heat. "A cowboy dinner," I grin sheepishly at the teller who is clearly amused.
"Yes," agrees the dark skinned man that I like instantly,"I like beans very much." It is clear that he would be more at ease speaking Spanish. My Spanish, what little I could flub, went under when I left Central America in the eighties. Not smart. "Would you like to have some warm tortillas with that? It would be easy for me to warm those beans." The kind man is already far from the register collecting foil and four fresh hot tortillas that he rolls as if he is caring for his son. "Stay here at my tables," he insists. "Do you have an opener?"
My head has already promised me the cold quiet outside curb beside the building for dinning. With this plan I am quite happy. "I would make your guests uncomfortable," I grin.
"Please, it is cold out. The floor is clean. You and your things, you can rest and eat over there. Noone will care." His eyes are soft in worry. He is tending to my feet as if God is watching. He is a hand over my own in concern. I take my spoils to the piece of floor that I have been given feeling my heart grow large for this man that sees me as brother, in his eyes I am a man moving like his people, quiet across a large land--but alone, through towns of uncertainity, praying for kindness more that warm tortillas now radiating into my skin. After opening the can with my old army issue P-38 opener, I spoon beans onto the steaming flatbread, I can no longer hear the children pointing their words at me.

As my mouth moves over the warm bread, my heart is a dozen blocks back sitting next to a librairian that talks in a soft southern voice. She has warmed a cup of coffee for me, and brought me pumkin bread that smells like fall. There is a small circle of us sharing words, and old fears of winters past, and the new uncertainty of snows preparing to speak. We talk about black powder hunters, and I remember the risk of the coming season's hungry rifles and open land. The ladies are very generous as they look at me through eyes that I do not have for myself. We are laughing over stories or some silly quip I've said, some turn of words. It was then that she touched my knee while laughing. Wearing shorts, my skin was bare. Everything that is me becomes swirling light, saturating sound falling just like her hand to my knee, just a brush, and then it is gone.
Behind the book house she hugs me with that thick sweater that feels like fur between my fingers. This lady, named Jan, is telling me how to find the reporters office through the alley, down a turn. There is her radiant face, and soft blue-gray eyes of water knowing somehow that I am swimming. Of course I hear nothing she says. If I were to suddenly fall I could not be expected to find the ground beneath me. My mouth says things that sound alot like good-bye, and then I am walking noticing suddenly that the day is getting colder in a sad familiar quiet.

An hour later my legs are being pulled by dogs that have had kindness paid to them and suddenly remembered. They want to leave the hardness of this resturant floor, returning to the room of books, and the smell of women talking in autumn through their forests of fragrant hair. I tell my feet that it is late. New trees are waiting for us. My feet grow quiet still watching the door.

Is this it? Is this the all of it? Is this what I have become now that the lead has been removed from the paint? Is this what it feels like to be clean? Tonight I will be awake in my tent feeling a hand fall exactly like a leaf. The last tortilla is still warm, though no longer hot. I roll it slowly as I spoon the remainder of beans. This is road wear talking. I know this. One last piece of bread and I hear you laughing with your hands.

River Walker

Trick or treat comes in at 3 a.m. Not able to sleep I was playing my cedar flute and combining words about trails done, and those sleeping behind the horizon, surprized at how finished it was sounding. It is the first cold night. The top of my water bottles is a quarter of an inch of ice. Surrounded by trees, I am on a flat clearing above Beef Creek. The sound of feet comes through the woods, intent and confident. It is the one sound I fear above all others at this hour. Only man walks the woods so boldly. Fearlessly I spring from my shelter because I am nothing but a target on my back inside a tent. She comes up easy as if smiling complete with her mask of black. She is young and hungry. Every leg in the forest is a worried belly searching under a full cold moon. Talking softly, my mind goes over my list of staples. Out of all the weight that I carry in materials I only come up with dried cranberries and spiced almonds. Hunger makes bold the shy...to a point. Tossing six almonds into the leaves, six almonds soon becomes a cup and a half, and my friend knows my life story. Delighted to watch my little friend with the white brow eat, and then catch an unwarry spider and eat that, it is an easy decision to share the rest of what was to be my mornings breakfast. Two hours pass. My little racoon friend is now coming into my tent foyer past my boots, and camp stove, beside my pillow to incline about perhaps just a few more of those almonds. All the almonds are already round in her belly. I do find a sweetened packet of instant coffee drink. Shrugging, I hand it to her. She no longer runs to devour her reward, deciding instead to hold up the packet squeezing it with her two mini hands and bite. Coffee mix powder goes all over her face in a poof. Alarmed, or insulted my little bandit runs from my tent, and keeps running until she gets to the tree line and then walks into the night. A date gone bad.

It is early morning. I am knee deep in the cold creek with my morning cup steaming from my hand. Fifty yards away is a steel I-beam and rivet bridge spanning above the waterway. The morning traffic of farm trucks, and the long fluted trailers of cattle and horses move along in gentle cadence. They slow on the bridge seeing this man perched in the water below. In earnest they wave their large cracked hands and weathered grins from under soiled brimed caps. For this one moment we are talking without words. We are America living. Exchanging dream for dream. Cameraless pictures taken. We are the freedom we feel tug at our insides when we watch wilderness movies. We are for this moment, the journey, not the destination. When I have emptied my cup I kneel like a prospector to swish away the holdings in the bottom of the cup, squinting up at the day. Walking up the bank to break camp as frost becomes dawn, I am better than clean, and saying thank-you.