Again, at around 4:00 a.m. I heard coyotes make a kill on the other side of the road. It took a while to get back to sleep. But I did. In fact I slept right up to the point where my watch alarm went off.
I lay around not wanting to leave the warmth of the sleeping bag. But somehow I motivated myself. It was really cold and the tips of my fingers kept getting numb. The worst parts of the tent when it's cold out are the aluminum poles which need to be folded up and bagged. I would do one task, and then push my hands into my pants pockets for five minutes, then do the next task, etc. Eventually I had it all packed up and took a picture of the rough area...
Venturing back onto 172. It would be an eleven mile hike to Hartwell. That seemed like nothing compared to the day before, but it wasn't a walk in the park. With the accumulated physical wear and tear of the days before, there was a lot of discomfort at first. But the drifting came into play, and the thought of reaching a McDonald's in Hartwell (that I'd seen on the map) carried me forward. It was really nice to have full sun finally...
These cows were much more playful than the ones I'd passed in the couple days before.
Then I began walking forward again, and the whole herd joined the bull as he followed me, matching my pace. It was fun. And, I talked to him and the other cows, which only intensified their interest. Eventually the edge of the pasture was approaching and the herd became frustrated at their lack of being able to walk with me; getting into little disputes among themselves about running out of space. It was just fun for me, and broke up the monotony.
As I walked further and they receded from sight behind me, I heard them mooing and carrying on. This might serve as a symbol for how infrequently people walk in this part of the country. If I had been in the Northwest I would have passed at least twenty other local walkers and regional hikers. There were no other walkers on my trek (or really even in the last month). Driving a car is an absolute "well...DUH" thing. No one walks. Except - apparently - this crazy guy from Maine.
If you ever do what I'm doing, you must become immune to being stared at rubber-neck style by every car that passes you (except for the drivers who are texting--they are oblivious to everything). I still don't like it, but it is just part of the whole experience. Of course things aren't much better when I head into businesses or restaurants, it's just easier to deflect stares when there's no car exterior to make people bolder.
Christianity is not just a social religion here, but a brand--in the sense of a promotional tool. And the promotion itself is not based upon catchy slogans, but Bible passages; always the same ones. I was curious why - if someone wanted to really reach the nonbelievers, the fence sitters, the undecided (a thankless task most often fraught with miserable failure) - they wouldn't use some more creative verses? There are plenty of very beautiful and poetic, even psychologically useful and clever verses in the Bible. So, why is honey always rejected in favor of vinegar?
On a mailbox.
I knew I was getting close to Hartwell as the trash from fast food restaurants piled up on the side of the road. I could tell which places were there by the Bojangles, Burger King, Wendy's cups, fries containers, and bags. Despite these being trash, they were obvious and welcome evidence of "civilization". I was looking forward to getting into the McDonald's I'd seen on the map, in hopes of charging the now very dead laptop and getting online. Finally came the green town sign...
And thank god the D.A.R.E. system is in place!
Hartwell was a cute little town. It certainly had all the things that could have sustained a longer visit. I saw those golden arches and picked up my pace, with a bit of enthusiasm. But, when I got to the McDonald's I found it closed for renovations! Thankfully there were other options as I would learn...
Saggy resting in the sun.
I liked this place, with all the molding and the multi-paned windows of the second floor.
An insurance building.
I walked to a Burger King, further down the street, bought a coffee and got online (they had AC outlets). But the Wi-fi was a pain in the ass, cutting out over and over again. Looking up the local library and seeing it was open until 2:00 pm, I quickly packed up and walked the short distance to it.
Taking a reading. Ten and a half miles since Bowman.
I couldn't do very much, because 2:00 p.m. came pretty quickly. I noticed however that someone had donated $25. That could have been a million--I was so happy to be able to buy lunch and supplies! The laptop charged to about 20%. Surely there had to be some other place to plug in and work. After leaving the library I walked back toward the main street with all the restaurants. I checked in at Pizza Hut, but they didn't have Wi-fi.
I saw another place, called Huddle House, and their prices looked pretty reasonable. When I walked in and asked about Wi-fi and outlets, the young woman was very nice and let me know they did in fact have both, and pointed to a table in the corner where I could work. In short order she came by the table to see if I wanted a drink, and we got to talking.
She was very excited about what I was doing. Her name was Dakota and she had backpacked around the country with her husband some years back. We agreed that the Southwest was the hardest place to rough camp. She is Cherokee and assumed the tribes out West would be welcoming to her, but ran into problems with some of them--who hate Cherokees.
When I was in Gallup, New Mexico, they were trying to ramp down the tension between the tribes by having inter tribal festivals. While I was there and faced the same prejudices that many of the Native Americans face with walking instead of driving and having a backpack, etc, I thought it was so sad that with all the white-prejudice against "those drunk Indians" (Gallup's nickname is "drunk town", because of the tribal problems with alcoholism) that to be fighting among themselves was the last thing they needed.
We also talked about my next leg on the way to Anderson; that I'd be going by Lake Hartwell. She actually lives there at the lake and said the rain had raised the level of the lake to the point where it was now over her dock. I would see just what she meant the next day. I gave her a card and hope she pays this blog a visit.
When the sun had dropped below the horizon, I left intending to get to the state border (about seven miles away) and then pick a campsite. Anderson was twenty four miles away from Hartwell, and I thought maybe walking on this night would make for a shorter walk the next day.
But, as I trekked along Route 29, I noticed that it was way too dangerous. There was no shoulder to speak of and the cars were all highbeaming me. I just stuck out like a sore thumb and knew that at some point I would probably have another visit with the local authorities, or just be hit by someone who wasn't expecting to see a walker (that someone could have been anyone--since walking is just not done). So, less than a mile out of town, I saw a good spot and headed into the woods there.
I was close to the road, but up high enough that cars just wouldn't see my tent. It was really cold, and I got in it immediately, then wiggled into the sleeping bag, falling asleep immediately. Someone was having fun with a gun way behind me at a house in the woods. And across the road I could hear bigger shots. It was just the thing you do at night apparently in rural Georgia. Come home from work, crack open a beer and shoot bottles and cans off the proverbial fence post. I was getting used to it...
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From her page...
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