Day 17

Sage brush scratches against the side of the tent as powerful gusts of wind blow through the gorge. I can't say I treasure the thought of leaving the warm confines of my bag, but I'm encouraged by the possibility of putting up good numbers again. I decide to have a competition with myself to see how quickly I can tear down camp and be back on the road. Unfortunately, in my haste, I knock over the tumbler of drinking water I'd prepared the night before. An emphatic 'CRAP!' leaves my mouth when I see what's happened and I kick myself--idiomatically speaking, that is--for the next three or four miles down the highway.

Ten miles pass in good time so I rest for a moment just outside of Crow Butte Park. My parched throat is telling me to cross over the bridge and try to find water somewhere on the island, but I detest the thought of loosing two plus miles in order to quench my thirst. Therefore, with a little difficulty, I convince myself that a more conducive watering hole lies somewhere up ahead. Sure enough, within a couple miles I happen upon the Chateau Michelle winery wherein a guy named Jamie avails me of their water dispenser.

Another nine or ten miles and I reach the junction at Paterson, not much of a town per se, but there is a little store where my water can be replenished again. It's almost 16:00 and I've made twenty miles already, but the country here is flat and barren, not exactly what I've got in mind for a stopping place.

Continuing, mile after mile, the landscape stays pretty much the same. At one point a passing truck slows and tosses a full container of pomegranate juice out the window. There's no malice in his action, rather he's most likely seen me several times over the past few days and taken pity on me. He points to the jug and honks a friendly sequence of toots as he goes by. Tragically, when I finally find the gift amongst a tangle of brush, I see that its brief but powerful encounter with the pavement caused the bottom of the receptacle to shatter. Bummer! I think about how nice that sweet nectar would have tasted, but only lament for a moment. I suppose there's no use crying over spilt pomegranate juice.

As the sun begins to set I become a bit nervous. This is not the place I want to be walking come dark. Not only does the rural locality make this a treacherous spot to be in, but also the huge amount of traffic converging upon this area presents an even greater risk. Eventually, I reach a point when I take my situation up with my Creator. The following isn't verbatim, but it's quite close to my recollection of the monolog that transpired:

'Okay, God. This isn't an ideal situation. The light's going out, and I haven't seen anything close to a spot since Paterson. I'm not blaming you, maybe you tried to tell me to hold up back there and I was too numb to get it, but I'll tell you what, if you're not gonna offer something by the time I crest this next hill, I intend to put out my thumb. I know, it'll be a blow to my pride, but walking the next six or seven miles in these current conditions is a risk I'm not willing to take. So, that's all I've got to say I guess.'


Well, no sooner do I come over the crest of that small hill than I see a vehicle pulled over to the right. The window goes down and a head pops out.

'Hey man, do you need a ride?' the driver asks.

So I get in the car, introduce myself to Jose, and have just said 'thanks for stopping' when my latino host interjects, 'I'm a Christian.

'Ahhh, me too.' I reply, a bit hesitantly.

'I work in that onion processing facility back there.' he states, and then adds a query: 'What are you doing on the road?'

I proceed to tell him about my little journey and how I've met so many incredible people, and how hopefully this will generate income for some worthwhile charities and...Then suddenly Jose enquires,

'Have you had anything to eat today?'

No doubt you can tell how this ends. Yep. I get more sustenance. I'd say the gist of it is this: No matter what form a prayer may take, whether in doubt, or even when offered with a somewhat demanding undertone, words spoken to Jesus are always heard, and although it might seem like his response is stifled in silence, it is always there.

So the short and long of it is Jose drives me the last 6 or 7 miles into Plymoth and leaves me with a bag full of fruit and some water. The last remnants of light disappear as he pulls away and I head in the direction of the river, where a sign signals that there is a camping area.