Honking trucks, curious crews, and the eastward sun woke me. I still took my time emerging from my little cocoon but eventually I was up and walking again. Soon enough I passed through Jamieson three miles up and kept on another six past that to Brogan where I expected merely a gas station for food and water. To my surprise there was a café in the store/post office.
When I asked about the menu I was told it’d be a fifteen to twenty minute wait since the cook still had her post master duties to attend to before getting to the grill. I figured what the hell and stayed for a very filling Brogan Burger. This was another double pattied, double fixin’s delight accompanied by coffee and ice water. I debated an ice cream fudge pie and caved on it, but was saved from my temptation by lack of availability.
As I ate I chatted up a guy hanging out there who would occasionally jump behind the counter to help out. I wasn’t sure if he was the owner, a lazy worker, or a helpful regular. He seemed mostly like a helpful regular. He showed me some pictures of the town in it’s hey day as a train depot in the ‘30s and before so I kept three of them and sent them off as postcards to some hometown friends.
Aiming to get some good mileage in on that gravel road I made my way out of town and took the first turn off. Of course, after a mile, I realized I’d turned too early but continued on figuring they’d meet up. Soon I spotted the right road about 200 yards away but my own was narrowing more and more steadily into a canal wall which eventually squeezed me out entirely with the application of thorny bushes. Between me and the proper road was a wide creek, Willow Creek in fact, but luckily to my left just as I was getting squeezed out was a wide beaver dam that looked structurally healthy. I made my way down the steep gravelly road to the dam and crossed over with my shady sense of balance, Checks never being much of a help.
On the other side I stepped off on to a thorny shore of thick hostile foliage waiting for me to try and thwart them. If the boys of Normandy could take those cliffs, I could surely take this one and up I went. Several nasty looking claw wounds from angry bushes later, I popped up by an open field with the road now just ahead. My creek then went from foe to friend and followed me faithfully up my mountain pass for the next nine miles.
I went quite a while watching that bubbling creek play among the rocks and after eight miles decided to jump in with them to beat the 100 degree heat and dust. Inspired, I snapped off an ode to Gollum picture of me crouched in the buff on a rock with a Clif bar in my mouth like a fish. Then I sat in the cool creek and pumped water into my camel back. I soaked the front of my shirt and dipped in my head before leaving then was off to Bridgeport again.
The rest of the day went fairly without incident until the last hour or so. I took a rest at what I had figured to be three miles from my next crossroads land mark. Half a mile after, I passed a northward turn off that turned into a two track. I paid it no mind until my road went another mile west then turned south instead of north. I went a little further down it and was noticing more and more it was behaving like the other turn off I was supposed to pass, not go down. After another mile I turned back, figuring that little turn off must have been my road and my map was just a little off.
Back at the scene of the misdirection I was completely unconvinced this was the right way and turned back around thinking maybe that southern turn was one of those little squiggles that are occasionally not reported on the big state maps. Three miles back down that southern road there was no way it could be a lacking minor detail so back I turned again. I’d spotted a house down the other two track road and figured at least if it isn’t the right road I could ask someone where I should be. The house was a barn, though, and no one was to be seen. The road still continued north, which was how my turn off was supposed to go, so despite its fraying quality as it drifted toward the mountains I continued on.
Two miles in the sun was set so I dropped my pack. I walked up another mile leaving Checks behind but was given no comfort nor doubt about my path. The pack was set down right where a little spring trickled across the road, as Markus had said there would be, so I figured perhaps this is right and it’s just a dying trail. After pumping my water full from the spring I pitched my tent in the middle of the road so that if anyone used it while I was asleep they’d have to stop and wake me to get past and then I could see what was going on.