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11-2
In
the morning, the fog hung low and thick and K and I had to cross a bridge
that was under construction. I had been listening to it since the night
before – cars and logging trucks crossing the temporary bridge that was
made of the same steel construction that drawbridges are made of. I
don’t even know how to write the description of the sound the vehicles
made, but it was loud! And there was no room on either side to walk
without being in traffic. I asked one of the workers if we could walk on
the bridge that was under construction and he must have misunderstood me,
because he said, “Sure” – until we headed off in that direction.
Then I heard him yelling, “You can’t cross this bridge – you’ll
kill yourself with the dog and that pack on!” Well, I thought, that is
exactly what I am trying to avoid by walking on your temporary bridge.
I
asked if there was another way across and he stared at me for a second,
blinked, and said, “No.” So I walked back over to the temp bridge,
waited until the traffic cleared (as much as I could see through the fog),
said a little prayer, and said, “Klondike, we get one shot at this!”
and started running across the bridge. I actually was quite proud – made
it over halfway before I had to start slowing – not bad, considering I
used to huff and puff going up two flights of stairs in Colorado and I was
now carrying close to 80 pounds. K wasn’t doing so well on the metal
grating either, but we made it with only one car passing us. Of course,
just as we cleared the bridge a big logging truck came around the corner!
Whew!
Walked
the two miles or so to a cross roads in the middle of nowhere. There was a
convenience store there where I filled up on water, took a look at my map,
ask the clerk where the next real town was, and received the same answer
the map told me: 60 miles or so. That did it. If I was lucky, I could only
make 30 miles on one load of water, and there were no creeks or rivers
between where I was and the next town. Time to really try to hitch a ride.
Went
to the side of the intersection I wanted to be at and waited. And waited.
And waited. And I wondered how anybody ever made it anywhere hitchhiking.
. . .
After
a while, I hoisted my pack and decided to try a different technique, which
would largely consist of walking down the road with my thumb out. About
this time, I noticed an old fellow wobbling across the grass in my
direction, with a small brown paper bag in his hand. It seems he had come
out of the bar across the street – it was about 11 a.m. I didn’t want
to deal with a drunk at this hour!
About
the time I got my pack situated, he wobbled up with this big grin on his
face. “I was sittin’ there watching ya just now and you made me so
thirsty! I just had to buy you a beer!” And he slapped a beer wrapped in
the bag into my hand. I told him I couldn’t take the beer, but thanks
anyway. “No, no! I insist – you look really thirsty!” I smiled and
accepted his offer. “That’s how I get around, you know. Just like you
are doin’!” and he patted me on the shoulder and trudged back to his
bar. I looked at the cold beer in my hand . . . and l looked some more.
And still again looked some more. It was cold, and it was talking to me, I
swear! It had been since, aw, heck, I had forgotten when I had last had a
beer! Damn! But all I needed was beer on my breath when someone finally
offered me a ride – supposing that actually happened!
Still,
the beer talked to me as I shoved it in my camera bag and started down the
road. It went something like this: “NO! NO! Don’t stick me in here!
NO! NO!”
Just
as I took my first steps, a fellow in a fancy Ford pulled over and asked
where I was headed. “Carrabelle, or Apalachicola,” I told him. He was
going to Carrabelle and offered a ride. Duh, I accepted!
James
was a sign painter and was headed to a marina to put a name on a
friend’s boat. Arrived there about an hour later. Ah, a town! I could
wash my clothes and take a shower in water that didn’t stink. The marina
people said there was a campground (the only one in town) about two miles
down the road. Kewl! A safe place to sleep for the night, too!
I
thanked James for his kindness and K and I headed off down the road, first
crossing the Carrabelle inlet bridge. The inlet snaked out to the Gulf,
marinas and boats dotting the shoreline. Sunlight glistening through masts
and around hulls. The tide was low – I love the smell of tidal flats.
God, I love ocean towns! Reminds me of the Oregon coast. And I love
crossing bridges, too! (Fully constructed ones, that is!) K has to stop at
every break in the bridge wall and look out – just like a little kid!
About
a mile down the road, an old, clunky car pulled off and squeaked up to us.
A “weathered” looking woman was driving it. Her face spoke of a hard
life and too many days in Gulf Coast sun without sunscreen. The car’s
back seat was full and spilling well into the passenger seat with items
that told me she might be in the middle of moving – either that or she
was having a garage sale in her car.
She
poked her head partway out the window. “How ya doin’?” she said.
“You want some water?” and she held out a bottle of cold water. I
always found this really cool. It seemed those who often had the least to
give, were always those who offered the most.
“Actually,
we are doin’ great, but thanks anyway,” I answered.
“Where
ya headed?” she asked in a way that reminded me of a detective looking
for a clue.
“Alask
. . ."
"Ah,
HA! I knew there was a story here!” she chortled, obviously proud of her
discovery. She pushed around in some of the junk piled in the passenger
seat and produced a stenographer’s pad. “I used to write for one if
the local papers,” she explained, while she poked around for a pencil.
“But they were jerks! So now I freelance.” Ah, the old
this-is-my-story-and-I’m stickin’-to-it routine. I laughed.
About
that time a truck clunked up on the other side of the car – it was in
much the same condition. A male version of the woman was driving and I
knew right then that I didn’t want to get on the bad side of this
fellow.
He
poked his head out the window and yelled in a Gulf Coast accent (a bit of
Georgia mountain twang mixed in with muddy tidal flat), “Susannnn! Yew
awlll-right?”
“OF
COURSE! I’m just doin’ a story!” she bellowed back.
“Uh
. . . .” he grunted, and he clunked off down the road.
She
found her pencil and prepared to write, “So, why are you doing this?”
I
started to answer her and she interrupted me.
“Say,
I wanna get a picture. You wait right here and I’ll be right back!”
Yeah,
right. My pack and feet felt OK as long as I kept moving. The minute I
stood still for too long, some part of me would start complaining.
"Actually,
I’m headed to the campground for the night.”
“OH
GOOD! I know the owner – Linda – she’ll take good care of you! Tell
her the ‘paper lady’ sent ya!”
“I’ll
do that,” I answered as I started down the road.
“I’ll
come find you tonight and we’ll do a story on you!” she yelled out her
window as she drove off.
Another
mile down the road and we came upon the campground – a public beach was
just across the highway. It was about 2:30. Signs on the road announced
C-store and “coldest beer in town,” and hot showers and laundry! Yep,
I thought to myself, I can hang here for a day or two – relax a little,
eat a real meal. Sleep without worrying about being hit by a hunter’s
stray bullet. And there was a nice sea breeze – NO BUGS!
There
had been several seafood restaurants between the marina and campground and
their smells had my stomach aching for something other than my regular
diet of ramens or mac and cheese. This’ll do fine, I thought.
I
didn’t even take my pack off before entering the office. I walked in
with K and looked around. There were racks of snacks and other items,
stuff crowding the walls and counter – and ice cold looking coolers in
the back. There were several men scattered amongst the stuff and a woman
behind the counter.
“Hi,
I was told to ask for Linda.”
“I’m
Linda,” the lady said, with a sidelong stare at me and K.
“Great!
The ‘paper lady’ told me you would take good care of me,” I
announced with ease, glad at having been indirectly introduced.
She
didn’t say a word – nor did anyone else. In fact, it was the kind of
silence that settles in a room when you accidentally mention a name that
you are not supposed to mention. The kind of silence that hangs in the air
just before the “local boys” jump on “the guy with the pack” an
beat the pulp out of him.
In
a moment of complete and utter clarity, I realized that Linda’s opinion
of Susan was different than Susan’s of Linda. If I wouldn’t have had
my pack on, I would have kicked myself for making such a stupid mistake.
And this neon sign glowing “HOT SHOWERS” in my head started to
flicker, with a “zzzzziP” and a “pop.”
“So,
you guys take tents?” I asked with a smile, trying to put some words in
the dense atmosphere between us.
She
shook her head. “Quit takin’ tents about six months ago – now all we
take’s RV’s – more money for the same amount of space.” She said
it in such a way I almost expected her to spit some “chew” in a bucket
on the floor beside her. The fellows standing around just grunted and
nodded in agreement – I think one of them spit into a cup he was
holding.
In
my head, the “HOT SHOWERS” sign winked out and the “LAUNDRY” sign
began to flicker and pop.
“We
have been on the road for days,” I started to beg. “You sure there
isn’t a corner someplace I can pitch my tent for the night – I don’t
need power or water.”
“Nope,
don’t have no room,” she answered with no emotion. “Seafood
Festival’s got us booked solid – b’sides, already turned away some
tenters. Can’t have them see you here after I already turned them away
– what’ll they say?”
The
“LAUNDRY” sign silently went dark, and the “coldest beer in town”
suddenly changed to “coldest beer in town – AS LONG AS YOU AIN’T A
TENTER!”
Then
I heard myself screaming at her, “I DON’T CARE WHAT THE OTHER TENTERS
WOULD THINK – I WANT A SHOWER!”
Just
kidding . . . . But I was thinking it!
Actually,
I said, very calmly, “Is there anywhere else in town that ‘takes my
kind’?”
“They
got some campgrounds down the road in East Point,” one of the fellows
said – then spit in his cup.
“How
far is East Point?” I asked. I already knew it was about 14 miles, but I
was hoping that he would say it was closer – even if he was lying.
“About
14 miles,” he answered nonchalantly. It obviously didn’t bother him
that IT WOULD TAKE ME A DAY TO WALK THAT FAR AND IT WAS ALREADY LATE
AFTERNOON AND I WAS HUNGRY AND I WANTED SOMETHING COLD TO DRINK AND MY
CLOTHES WERE BEYOND DIRTY AND I WANTED A S-H-O-W-E-R!
“You
can hitch down there,” one of the other guys said. I don’t remember if
he spit in a cup.
“I
DON’T WANT TO HITCH TO EAST POINT – I WANT TO STAY HERE!” I shouted.
Just
kidding . . . . But I was thinking it!
"Thank
you,” I said quietly. I really wasn’t angry, but I wasn’t happy,
either. This was her business and it wasn’t her responsibility to help
me. So I turned, reached for the door, pulled it open, stepped to the side
to let K through first, turned a little more to go through the door, then
heard the sickening sound of my pack coming in contact with a crowded
counter. I turned back around apologizing as the lady struggled between
keeping the stuff from falling off her counter and giving me a “Get out
of my store before I shoot you!” glare.
I
quickly took her hint, stepped out the door and headed across the street
to the rest stop at the beach. There, I got K some water, had a tin of
mustard sardines (K loves ‘em, too!), filled up with water, and headed
toward East Point. If I were lucky, I would get in there around noon the
next day.
I
didn’t feel like hitching and there didn’t seem to be any population
between Carrabelle and East Point, so I figured I would just find a
secluded place to camp a few hours down the road.
It
had been over a week since I had received an ominous message to call
Colorado for “important business,” but I hadn’t been able to connect
due to conflicting schedules. That, coupled with the difficulties of the
week, then the encounter with Linda, and I was feeling a profound sort of
isolation. In fact, as I started walking, the feeling was so strong that I
wondered what it would be like to just keep walking through the night –
to really push myself – to walk through it. All I wanted was a place to
rest for a couple of days, a place to get the “phone call” out of the
way.
The
road meandered along the shoreline and the sun was hanging winter low as
it made its way west. It reflected off the calm Gulf waters and
silhouetted a thousand butterflies flittering in and around the roadside
brush. Salt air filled my lungs.
Just
as the sun was slipping below the horizon, we rounded a corner and I saw
two rusted poles with a cable strung between them. An overgrown road led
into pine trees and palmetto bushes. By now I had walked through some of
what I was feeling earlier and was thinking I was ready to stop. We were
at least seven or eight miles out of Carrabelle and this was the first
place I could see that we might be able to camp for the night. A sign a
ways back had said some company was developing some property into a
“luxury gated community,” and I wondered if this road led into that
area. I waited for the traffic to clear and quickly made my way over the
cable and disappeared down the old road. There were no marks on it, save
some deer tracks and another larger set of marks I didn’t recognize due
to the sand settling in on them. I didn't realize that the next
morning I would find out who was the owner of the tracks.
Around
a corner or two and through some brush we came to an open area that looked
out over a bayou, then on to the Gulf. About a half mile down the
shoreline to my left, where the glade met open water, there was a fancy,
multi-story house. At that distance, I couldn’t tell if it was occupied.
As I surveyed the surrounding area, I realized I might be on the far end
of the proposed gated community, so I opted to put my tent up behind some
bushes and stay out of site as much as possible.
As
darkness fell, lights came on in the house and I wondered who the people
were that lived there, what they were doing – and if they were having
mac and cheese for dinner.
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