Old 36 just north of I72

Another beautiful day in Illinois. We hit the road around 9:00 after a wonderful night at Ebaugh camping and picnic area. What a blessing! I sorta just ran into this free spot by happenstance, but I know Bud was happy about it.

In Illinois

What a wonderful day to be alive and walking around the US! It's warm but not too hot. There's a delicious breeze blowing all the best fragrances of summer: sweet clover, fresh hay and the newly blooming apple and pear blossoms. Crossing over the Mississippi, we enter into the birth state of our nation's 40th president and it doesn't take long before several differences become apparent. The grass is easier on Buddy's feet (not like the poky swamp grass in MO). The hills seem to have much larger trees. The deer are more intrepid and so Bud gets a little closer before they bolt. There are a number of public areas where a pair of tired travelers can rest at shaded picnic tables. Moreover, there aren't quite as many parasites attempting to drain our life fluids. Sufficed to say, I'm glad to be in a new state.

After Friday's intense rain there are lots of places for the pooch to get wet. His mission is, for most of the day, searching for the next best place to cool off, though intermittently that purpose gets blindsided by a woodland creature that happens to cross his path. Just before getting into the town of Barry, a family pulls over to contribute a nice cold bottle of water. It's always much appreciated.

We arrive in Pittsfield around 22:30. Normally I'd want to look around and read all the historical placards which mark notable homes of influential 19th century people, but it's late and Buddy's tired. I don't have much remaining energy myself and so eventually I decide to just pitch the tent at the town's little league field. Hopefully no one will mind.

No dogs in the cave

Here in Hannibal, the town where Samuel Clemens spent his childhood, Bud and I are taking time to smell the roses, or more correctly stated, The Mississippi. The old part of town is a typical tourist area, nearly every business bearing the name of Mark Twain. However, I'm really only interested in the cave that served as inspiration for the climatic end of Injun Joe in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. What a let down when I find out that pets are prohibited from entering.

'Humh. Some cave!'

Well I'm certainly not gonna leave my friend outside while I wander through a tourist trap. We walk back to town and Bud enjoys a little rest while I fill out a few post cards. It's another hot and humid day, but a nice afternoon shower brings the temperature down a bit.

After chatting with a few folks we head to the coolness of an AC room. Tomorrow we'll be entering Illinois.

Southern speech

Wow! It's a wet morning. Buddy and I have been pretty thoroughly soaked. But instead of continuing east with Bud's pitifully waterlogged expression causing me guilt, we're waiting it out at a gas station. What a bummer!

Incredibly, the fellow behind the counter seems to know every person who comes in and greets most by name. His attitude toward the weather quickly changes my perspective. 'It's a beautiful rain.' He says. 'Them beans are gonna be nice.'

Another guy in the store adds, 'We ain't had nearly enough.'

Suddenly a woman enters the store and exclaims, 'It's pourin' out there. I'm plumb soaked. Plumb!' She reiterates. 'It's done flooded my backyard.'

Man, I love how people talk down here.

Looking for sleep

23:00 hours and we're sitting in front of a Casey's General Store in Shelbina, MO. I had thought that we'd find a park or a place to stay but--oh hold on. A city police officer has just pulled up in front of me. This is the second time today. Pulling out my licence, I stop to consider for a moment, 'Maybe I need a shave.' Just a few hours ago a sheriff had stopped us, but that was just fine. He gave me a couple bottles of water when he learned of the endeavour. This fellow is alluding to not staying--no, scratch that. Everything checks out and we get to talking. He kindly suggests that we can pitch a tent over at the fairgrounds and assures me that no one will bother us. 'Yeahhhh!'

That's so much better than the alternative of staying awake all night in front of a petrol pump and then walking 18 more miles to the next town at first light. I love how even when things start to look as though they've taken a turn for the worst, good folks are ready to help.

Missing the AC

(Correction, the named of the Civil War battle was Painter's Creek)

Still relaxin' in northern MO

Established in 1859, the town of Brookfield is a pretty mellow place to hang out out in. Apart from general "Black Jack" Pershing's birthplace being just up the road, (He was apparently the first officer to be commended to 'General of the Armies.')  I haven't found a whole lot of historical significance to the town, but the folks sure are friendly here. Buddy's warmed up to the kids that come 'round, and he's even made friends with a little pup named Leo. Two more days of R&R at the Martin House and we ought to be ready to tackle the remainder of this journey. Just under a thousand miles to the sea.

The road will wait

After the 40 mile hike from our last camp, it's become clear that both me and Bud need an extended break from the road. So we're going to remain here in Brookfield for a week. That should be enough time to get Buddy's pads back to tip top shape, and help me plan for the next leg of the trip.

As an update, I've decided to change our route to continue east on our current path. Instead of going south to St Louis and then east through a labyrinth of roads, 36 will take us into the mid west, bringing us as far as Indianapolis.

Generosity at Starbucks

We've had a bit of rough time of it today. With the temperature in the upper 90s and the humidity quite high, Bud's been overheating, and I find it really hard to push him. So here at the start of the Pony Express we end our day after just 8 miles.

However, it's not without another example of the altruistic tendencies, which, as I've reiterated numerous times from my personal perspective, qualify people as innately predisposed toward doing good.

Here at Starbucks I've had the pleasure of meeting two benevolent baristas who, when learning of our trek across the country, decided to bless me with a gift card. Cheers Jennel and Darcy.

Fish fry

Morning time catches me about 10 AM. I awake earlier, but with these long days, it's nice to just lay around for a couple hours and enjoy the cool of morning. The 'not again' thought of my recurrent tent routine also dissuades me from being on the ball.

Down at the office the coffee's strong and the fellowship is sweet. Buddy's gettin' all sorts of attention and pretty much warms up to all the camp hosts immediately. After 'bout 2 hours, I'm fixin' to hit the road when one of the hosts, I think it's Scott, mentions there's gonna be a fish fry in the evening. All the rest of staff join in to make sure that I feel welcome. But the clincher comes when Cindy mentions there'll be a fresh cucumber salad--I love cucumber salads.

So turning to Bud, I try to get a second opinion, 'What do you say, my friend? Are you up for a little fish?' In his usual nonchalance, he shifts his position ever so slightly, stretches pretentiously, and then lets out a small sigh. I usually take this behavior to mean, 'It's up to you.' And with that confirmation, I happily accept hospitable invitation.

14:00 hours and me and Bud are embarking on a small trip down the road to pick up some beverages for the evening's get-together.

"Man! Ronda hit the colloquial nail on the head when she'd said: 'It's hotter than blue blazes today'."

It's only a mile to the convenience store, but even that much gets me sweatin' like a horse that's just done the Derby. 'Sure am glad we're takin' the day off,' I exclaim to my panting pooch.

That evening, Scott's the man, frying up an assortment of beautifully battered fish: Crappie, Blue Gill, Bass and Cats. Others have brought their dishes to the table and it's lookin' like a southern feast fit for a king. Our conversations drift through realms of religion and metaphysics, taking brief tangents to dally on the topics of war & politics and whether aliens might have had a hand in building The Pyramids. I definitely dig this kind of diversity in discussion. It allows barriers to be broken and people to relate openly. I certainly add my two cents around the camp fire...hope my contributions weren't taken as mere rhetoric, Kevin--hey man, I really value many of your insights and enjoyed hearing your input. Nevertheless, I stand by my paradigm: a) People are, on the whole, good at heart and desire to do good, b) Truth is Truth, none of this 'It is, but it isn't' stuff.

Bud and I return to the tent just after 00:00 with happy stomachs and new friends. I'd like to give a big 'thank you' to all the folks at AOK who've made our stay so rewarding. Your kindness and acceptance have made us feel a part of this group.

More than just okay

36 miles from Maryville and we arrive safely at the AOK campgrounds just on the fringe of Country Club, MO. It's ten o'clock at night, but the park hosts are still awake, ready to welcome us in with smiles and gracious words. We're given a pretty little site to set up in, and before leaving, Ronda invites us to come 'round the office for coffee in the AM. I tell Bill and Cindy--actually, it's just occurred to me my father's cousins have the same names--anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I let 'em know that we'll be by for some conversation and caffeine in the morning. cousins

It only takes a few minutes and Buddy's out like a log. Listening to a croaking bull frog in the nearby pond and imagining how its paunch-like gullet fully distended might look, I quickly follow Bud's lead and fall asleep.

Weathering the storm on the border of another state

What a joy to have met Mrs Karen Hagwood, PR person and grandma of The Tall Corn Motel, Shenandoah. She has a real zest for life and a passion for helping those in need. The testimonials of those who've met her say it all: she lives out her faith. Buddy and I say our goodbyes around 10 am and then it's off to Walmart for a few essentials. It's a good thing I remember to pick up more flea and tick medicine since the parasites are out in full force now. In fact, later on the trail, I pull 17 new ones out of the inside of his ears. Before heading out from the parking lot I'm again reminded of the predominantly caring nature of people when a lady approaches me and says that she'd seen us walking earlier. She hands me a bag with fruit, a big sandwich and some bottled water. Seems like a pretty good start to the day.

We catch up with the WT trail again just east of the Nursery and Seed Capitol of the US. This final section of the trail has so much beauty to offer. We take our time and stop frequently, just to cool down and enjoy the grandeur of creation. In the little town of Coin we make use of the picnic area and split the sub sandwich I'd received earlier. The forecast calls for severe thunderstorms and by 18:00 the skies are getting darker as turbulent waves of clouds start moving in from all sides. In my naive optimism, I figure we can probably make it the five miles into Blanchard before things start getting too bad... wrong.

Just a mile out of town and the sky turns dark green. Black billowing thunderheads virtually touch the ground all around and the energy flashing within them is quite disconcerting. Bud and I break into a run as the winds spiral and blow the beads of sweat right off my brow. A half mile from shelter and the heavens release a torrent that soaks both of us in seconds. We end up taking temporary shelter under a strangers porch while I try to get my bearings and locate the city park.

It's 00:00 by the time the rain's dissipated enough to pitch the tent. Once the storm finishes, there's a stillness and calm in the air that feels quite comforting. The only noise heard in the little town of fifty is the dull persistence of a storm siren, its tone rising and falling in continuous repetition.

A much needed break from the melee of the open road

Having had a good rest at the city park in Missouri Valley, we hit the road with Council Bluffs as our goal. The distance is further winding along the old Lincoln Highway, but the scenery is pleasant. In fact, it's the first time in over a month that I've felt at home with my surroundings, probably due to the verdure of the Loess Hills and the sweet smell of clover and wild roses that permeates the air. I admit the plains have a certain charm, but endless flat prairie just isn't my cup o' tea. I like the comfort of nearby peaks and troughs.

After about 31 miles we make it to the entrance of what is purported to be Manawa State Park, but for 2 more miles all I see are houses and residential blocks. 'Funny place for a campground,' I tell Bud. With a little encouragement from local residents we keep going and finally come into the camping area around 21:30.

Then, a park official meets us at the gate and informs us that there's no room. 'Go on!' I respond in disbelief, 'You've got to be joking.'

'No,' he says, 'we're full up. You're best bet is Glenwood.'

Leaving the park, I notice that there's a trail going in a south-eastern direction, and being in a capricious state of disappointment I turn to Buddy and say, Let's just follow this trail and see where we end up. Well, it turns out--as I later learn from a group of bibulous bikers--we've stumbled upon the beginning of the Wabash Trace Nature Trail, a 63 mile expanse that goes all the way to the Missouri boarder.

Revived and inspired by the sounds of the night I continue walking. No cars to compete with and sure footing all the way, this is like heaven. Buddy drifts in and out of sleep, stirring only at the occasional hoot of an owl, or the creaking of some rusty barn door as it opens and closes in the warm breeze.

By 4:00 am I'm all out of steam, so I role out my sleeping bag on a picnic table that's just off the path and try to sleep. It's hardly been an hour when the dawn slips between the cracks of my eye lids and beckons me to awake. A slight mist is wafting through the foliage on both sides of the trail, and the fresh dew which dabs the surrounding ground cover glistens with soft hues of the first morning light. Buddy comes to life and leaps from the cart when he notices a raccoon up ahead rubbing the remnants of sleep from its eyes. They say there's no rest for the weary, but even the weariest traveler would become instantly revived by the landscape painted on this canvas, of which I feel grateful to be a part.

Through all of the morning and into the afternoon we walk--actually, Bud runs with each new whiff of a rabbit or squirrel. Trees along the causeway form a canopy that shades us from the sun, and the banks of each brook and steam are espoused by wonderfully well-preserved wooden bridges, many dating back to the 19th century when this was a heavily trafficked train route.