To The Smell Of Wet Leaves And Fresh Donuts

Manhattan, MT

Waking into Manhattan is walking into a small town in Maine. I trip over the smell of donuts frying in a small shop as I enter town and forget to rest in the park although I haven't sat in six miles. My boots begin to dry. Clouds burn off on a large blue plate that has been hidden for days. Locals speak of snow and the predictions of the Almanac cement the incoming as I pound french fries and blink out the window, pleading for more time before snow is a regular. Debbie Wilbanks rushes out from her real estate office to catch me. She is warmth and smiles as I answer her questions about gear and tricks of my wayfaring trade. She eyes my cart and walking sticks admiringly. Her son Luke is walking around the world for the children of Africa. We part too soon for she is working and the phone won't sit still. Debbie is working and my stomach growls about its tax for labor given. At the corner dinner I eat turkey and swiss, slug three quarts of water and rise to find that Debbie called to cover my tab. I'm thankful, and glad for the excuse to talk with her again.

At the diner Garden Cafe' Nic, owner of the restaurant,grabs me as a guest for the night. I know little of Montana and welcome a table covered with maps, suggestions and talk of the artic wind to come if I linger in Idaho too long, and tales of our separate Swiss memories. Out behind the Garden, when no one is looking, I take the plastic bread bags out of my wet boots and wiggle my toes. Very high tec. Yesterday's core soaking miles are weak memory now. My boots begin to dry fragrantly and I wish someone would smoke a big cigar.