Bryan's Corner, OK Mid Pan Handle

Miles from nothing has not slowed the attention of police jacking this hiker. Days pass making them the only conversation I have--and once I get my identification back proving I am not a highly wanted tumble-weed marketeer on the lamb I am hung back out in the wind to regroup and carry on. OK has provided more police background checks than all other states combined. Not a nice feature....especially when there is nothing out here but the illusion of America the free. Thankfully, this is not the nature of the people here. The kindness of Fort Supply is one staple that has not worn thin or lost its shine. It was more than a little difficult to leave that blanket of warmth. It was a full week before I was able to leave Ft. Supply, and make it out of town.

The term tenderfoot no longer applies to me, which allows me to weather days of silence in exchange for a few minutes of moments and people that feed the heart. A kind semi driver named Jeff stops late yesterday. He has seen me walking for days on his delivery run to Guyson dropping to off pigs. Jeff hands me a buritto and a cold water. We talk about the coming of cold and hills that are relentless even though everyone talks about the panhandle as being flat. He says more than this but I am listening to the sound of his words, not so much what he is saying. He moves his words in an easy way like sliding his feet on smooth boards in a country way that makes me like him right away. I want to engage him. My mouth is out of practice and he is gone before I remember words. An hour later another driver stops to hand me spiced jerky. I reach out and take the No Man's Land jerky having run low on everything and no stores till Guymon; what I am really reaching for is conversation with someone that isn't considering arresting me. He too is gone too soon. The day is tipping its hat. Night comes with the turn of the wind coming through my clothes.
In a field of waist deep tumble weeds that have flowed down into a hollow under a overpass I stash my gear. For nearly a mile I wander far out into the black and purple of bluffs, the homes of burrowing owls talking softly, and past the coyotes that seem to know me by name. "This is it," I say out loud. "This is all my wanting. This is what I have walked for, lost for, hurt for, hoped for, and would walk all those miles again for. This is a place where I can hear the world as it once was." My legs are moving like dance. My head are moving like song. Pulling my blanket tight around me I feel the knife hung at my chest. I feel the compass and flint stick on my neck. For a second I let it all fall away, the pack, the gear, the cart, dried food, letters half written. I look to where there is still some red in the earth far to the south-west, considering. I could just walk on from here, this moment, and it will all still come to me. No roads. No police. Nobody constantly trying to pull the curtain down. Looking back to where the weeds have swollowed my gear I stop dancing, singing. My hands find my pockets. They are empty. I walk back the mile in the purple dark.