Perhaps because of the length of the day before I rose just a hair behind what I was getting used to. It was merely a matter of getting on the road by 9 instead of 8, but it set the calculator going in my head as to whether or not I could make Boise that night or not. To further these doubts as I walked I began to notice that the dirt road was longer than anticipated.
I had thought it might be another six miles from camp to the interstate. By my first break I realized I’d still have another four miles possibly to go. I hit pavement by eight miles, then by ten I was still two miles away from the looming highway. This was when I was stopped by Animal.
Animal drove a beat up blue van and was a Vietnam vet Navy SEAL. He pulled up and offered me a ride which I, of course, declined, but we set to talking. He gave me a can of tuna and a P-38, code for a mini can opener that hangs around your neck by a dog chain. While I chatted and ate a guy he knew pulled up to see what was happening. When he found out I found myself in possession of a sandwich and a can of Pepsi as well. I told Animal I was looking to hit a rest stop for the night that was 20 miles up, having resigned my goal of Boise by then. He told me it wasn’t 20 it was 8 miles away and if I wanted I could see it. Reaching into the back of his van, guarded by the dopey eyes of his adorable Rotweiler, he pulled out a hunting rifle and showed me through the scope. So there I was, in the middle of a country road looking through a high powered scope with a SEAL standing by me and my huge pack on my back. Had a trooper driven by that would have been interesting to see Animal explain, though he’d have probably known him and his fun personality probably would have all made it as natural as me drinking coffee.
With a parting wave he drove off and I went another two miles to where the highway finally did meet up and sat for my sandwich. Looking through that scope I never did find the truck stop he was trying to point out. Never having hunted or even fired off a shot larger than a .22 I was useless at aiming the scope, so I simply dreamed as I sat with my bologna sandwich, of reaching that truck stop on my next break and sitting over some coffee and some sweet dessert treat.
Twelve miles down the road this dream became the heralded longing for the Promised Land. I’d skipped my break at six miles having spotted my truck stop. Upon getting closer I saw my truck stop sign that was deceptively over a horizon. It was a straight twelve miles I walked marking 24 by the time I stopped and something was stinging me with pain on occasion in my hip as I crossed the bridge to my salvation. I sat, at long last inside, and poured over the menu for the perfect reward.
It was a Monte Cristo on Texas toast with fries, of course coffee upon coffee as quickly as she could refill it, followed by the loving kindness of a small sundae with chocolate and strawberry syrup and whipped cream. This I ate over Dave’s script which I finally finished and began writing comments about. When I left two hours had passed and I was on course for my rest stop. Striding down the on ramp to I-84 I called my mom and visiting aunt to say hello.
Walking the interstate is by far not my favorite thing to do. For one, I wasn’t sure of the legality of it so I was keeping a vigilant eye out for state troopers who might disagree with my travels. Second, the abundance of loud trucks and whizzing cars is annoying. I like it on the smaller roads, but at 80 or 90 mph there’s no little waves that I can see, or smiles of hello, just the growl of passing autos feet from my laboring body. In the end my rest stop was two miles further than I’d figured on and I sauntered in quite ready for bed having beaten, only a day later, my longest day at 33 miles. In two days I’d covered 65 miles. I went to the bathroom, I bought a Cherry Coke at the vending machine after pitching my tent, then I lay down and chatted with Ang about the good days to come in September when I return. Life was good and I passed out to the thoughts of it.