Walking On Water (Camp Supply)

Fort Supply, OK (Last fort visited by Custer before his last battle far to the north)

Tomorrow I head out of Fort Supply with one winter storm behind me, and a desert of white sand and stone ahead. I have been through larger towns, but the number of friendlier towns is a very short list short. Upon entering town I was pointed to Marty Logan's tornado storm bunker/cellar where I could set up my tent on the stone floor, work out my meals over my titanum zip stove, and be free to hear my thoughts out of the artic wind. I was told straight out by Marty that if I went further than Fort Supply on this night they would be looking for my body to put on a slab tomorrow. I was no sooner out of the 10 degree evening air in the cellar than the steel hatch door opened. A kind neighbor handed me a plastic bag with an assortment of food and dark chocolate. Mr. Young handed me the food and in a few minutes returned with a cot and a lattern to read by. In an hour the church came to save my soul from the remaining cold, and wouldn't hear my defense of the fine bunker that I felt I was more than blessed to have. In less than a hour TJ Diner opened its doors , and gave a table to this wandering wayfayer with my wallet being stapled shut by their kindness. "We're like family here at TJ's. Until you leave our town your part of our family."
At a diner named for being one of the top ten hamburger makers in OK I ate until the cold red left my face and a number of the locals in this town of four hundred people came in to talk the new off me.
When I first entered town I was stopped by prison guards on the bridge entering town. "He's not one of ours. Cut him loose."
The number of young pistols wanting to know my business has increased dramatically in the last few weeks until the worry of it began to invade not only long open miles but also my sleep. Alot of law inforcement officers have asked my story before OK. with lawful curiosity, and then crossed over into kindness. The ante' has increased. Hands now often rest on pistol grips. Eyes flinch like sparks trying to light. I have been taken from the fire while cooking buffalo burger in the dark by my tent and put in a state trooper car while my stats were run because my tent was forty five feet from the road even though the barb wire had no end in sight. When I was found to be clean, I was released without a handshake, a courtous good-night nod, or anything else more than the feeling that I was trash that should have a real job/life if I was worthy of breathing, or being a real man. Moving back away from Trooper Jones the same way I did when I got caught in quicksand and finally pulled myself free, I stared at my dead fire, the thin white fat in the fry pan and began to wonder if I would ever feel clean again.
Fort Supply is the beginning of the inner sun coming out. Miles ago Keith Carpenter and his son Brian gave me seven pounds of venison jerky to see me through the barren regions ahead. They also gave me back a sense of honor back in my step. Being alone, sleeping in the cold hungry, dirty, and tired, watching the holidays pass over the tables and backyards of strangers--everything within me becomes brittle the more the miles stretch, the harder the ice wind blows.
New people have entered my life that I could not have not known to pray for--yet pray I did because sleep and peace were being taken from me. I simply asked for the ability to cross open water without having ever seen water before. My mind, journey strong, still knew no way to feel safe as I passed over open ground where weathered cops, street battle worn, see drug runners in their sleep. In Osa McDowell's knife shop that sits on the main throughway or Fort Supply I pull out my MercWorks knife to show Osa my pocket trail blade. It is a serious professional blade. My clothes do not fit the dust and tumble weeds outside. My voice and cadence did not register as a local. Osa and I had already drew a bond and had shared many engrossing hours sharing our different worlds. A FBI sniper is in the shop to order a custom blade to fit his trade. He eyes me cautiously, deciphering, stacking details toward reason, toward questions he asked himself. When the air began to get to thick I explained who I was, what I was doing, and my tour with the elite 82nd. The air changed instantly, and a fasinating new friend entered my life. Special Agent John Davis did not fit ideas and prejudices that I managed to carry across America. John quickly asked me out to dinner to share our unique histories. John also served in the eighties and moved onto college, then the federal gov. I became a federial walker.
The waitress came to our table in Woodward three times and we still hadn't stopped rattling our mouths long enough to do more than glance at the menu's of the Italian resturant. When the waitress came back again I told her to pick out something for me. Food, the mother dream of my walk had fallen into the land of the unimportant. A relation that I did not know I had was just introduced. I wanted to hear every story. Time raced past with the food geting cold in front of me. Still, I ate and swollowed quickly so I could get to the next course of conversation.
Dinner moved meeting John's wife and daughter, my mouth running like a motor for hours, a couple of pictures taken, and the peace that my inner traveler needed was given to me. John gave me a contact to call if I should begin to drown. The evening rushed past in a blink. It was hours before I could sleep in the empty church. I had on a bright light on inside my head keeping me awake. Blessed, I finally fell asleep.
Days move quickly when everything is new. Rest soaked into my blood. Osa worked on a beautiful ivory handled knife I can wear on my yoke. His son stitched the new sheath. Fort Supply will be walking on with me when I saddle my pack in the morning. This is Fort Supply. Walking in to town with dejection on my brow, I am supplied with new reasons, warmth before the storms, and friends that demanded I open journal pages and untape the tip of a new pen. At Osa's house I eat pizza, yelp when I think I almost lost this story because I hit the sleep button by mistake. Osa Jr. saves it.
It would be easy to get mad. Why do wonderful souls scatter themselves so across this gigantic country? I can no longer look at these roads like I will never see them again. I walk across the road back to the church knowing that I will see Osa again. This road will know my feet.