The Walk (18 page)

“I got them off, but . . .”

She
had taken them off.

“. . . they rolled down the hill.”

The side of the road sloped steeply down several hundred feet. Those babies were gone.

“How did that happen?”

“I’m just clumsy.”

No lug nuts. Probably no cell phone reception. She was probably just waiting for a highway patrolman to come along, which considering where we were, could be a very long wait. “Do you mind if I put it on for you?”

She looked at me quizzically. “There’s nothing to put it on with.”

“We can borrow them,” I said.

She was still vexed but relented. “I guess.”

“Is your parking brake on?”

“Yes.”

“. . . and you’re in park?”

“Yes.”

I set down my pack. I took her tire iron and pulled a lug nut from each of the other wheels, then mounted the spare with the three nuts and tightened them. It would
be enough to get her to wherever she was going. I let the car down from the jack, then put the flat tire, wrench, and jack in the trunk and slammed it down. I walked back to her window.

“You’re good now. I took a nut from each of the other wheels. Just take it into a garage when you get home.”

For the first time I saw her smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” I lifted my pack, swinging it over one shoulder, then the other. “Have a good day.”

“Wait, can I pay you?”

“No. Take care.” I adjusted my hat, then walked on. The woman waited for an oncoming car to pass, then I heard the gravel spit from her tires as she pulled out onto the road. She drove slowly past me then pulled off the road fifty yards ahead where there was a small turnoff. When I reached her car, she had rolled down the window.

“Can I at least give you a ride? There’s nothing on this road for miles. And it’s raining. You’re going to get wet.”

“I’m used to getting wet,” I said. “Thank you, but I’m fine. Just happy to help.” I sounded as magnanimous as Superman (
Just doing my job, ma’am
), which, frankly, kind of bothered me. Einstein said, “I prefer silent vice to ostentatious virtue.” I agree.

The woman looked flustered by her inability to help me. She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “Here, if you need anything, just call. That’s my cell phone number.”

I took the card without looking at it and slid it into my front trouser pocket. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

I waited for her to drive off in a shower of road water, then started walking again. I watched her car disappear around a bend. I wondered how long she’d been stranded there and what would have happened to her had I not come along.

The rain had stopped and the sun was high when I reached the small town of Waterville. The highway ran through the middle of town, and the local coffee shop was appropriately called
Highway 2 Brew
. I stopped for a tall coffee, a cranberry-orange muffin, and a chocolate-dipped biscotti. I sat on the concrete pad outside the coffee shop to study my map.

It looked like I would be walking through barren wilderness for the next few days—the kind of terrain you speed through in a car with your stereo turned up. I was eager to get through it.

The Waterville homes lined the highway, and it was the first time since I left Bellevue that I had walked through suburb, even a small one like this.

I thought Waterville was a peculiar name for a town that looked like Death Valley compared to what I had just walked through. At first, I guessed that the name was really just a marketing ploy like, say, Greenland—which, incidentally, is about as green as an ice cube and a whole lot colder. Then I remembered what I had learned earlier about town naming and decided that a Mr. Waterville either owned the bank or everyone’s mortgages.

I wondered what people in a small town like this did for entertainment until I saw Randy’s Ice Cream Parlor and
Putt Putt Golf Course. I’m betting that the average citizen of Waterville could putt like Jack Nicklaus.

After another twenty miles, I reached Douglas. There were no services on the road, so I walked a hundred or so yards off the highway and pitched my tent. It was cold as the sunset, just a little above freezing. I wanted to make a fire, but there was nothing to burn.

For the first time on my journey, I took out my portable stove and fired it up. I opened the can of SpaghettiOs I had purchased in Leavenworth, tore off its wrapper, then set the can on the blue propane flame until it started to boil. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to buy utensils. I tore off a piece of French bread and used it to scoop up the spaghetti. For dessert I ate a Ding Dong. I rolled its foil wrapping into a ball and threw it at a rabbit that was watching from the outskirts of my camp. I missed.

For the first time that week, the stars were visible. For me, it was one of those times we all have when we look up at the night sky and feel remarkably insignificant. That was a hopeful thing. Maybe God had more on His plate than ruining my life. I climbed inside my tent and went to sleep.

The next few days of travel were tedious and largely forgettable. I walked from Douglas to Coulee, Coulee to Wilbur and Wilbur to Davenport, averaging about 28 miles a day.

Fortunately there were places along the way to stay and eat. In Coulee, I lodged at the Ala Cozy Motel and had a green chili burrito next door at Big Wally’s Shell Station and Bait and Tackle Shop. I only wished they sold T-shirts.

Coulee had an industrial feel, and it made me miss walking in the mountains even more. I realized how fortunate I’d been that the first part of my walk had led me through nature and her healing. In this landscape, there was nothing to do but walk and think.

It was a 30-mile walk to Wilbur—the biggest city I’d been through in days. Wilbur was a proper city with a bank, a real estate office, and a medical clinic. I stopped at the Eight Bar B Hotel, which claimed the “largest rooms in the county,” which seemed a reasonable claim. The hotel was located next to a small burger joint called the Billy Burger.

I left my pack in the room, then went to the Billy Burger to get something to eat. I was famished, and I ordered the Wild Goose Bill Burger named after the founder of
Wilbur, Wild Goose Bill. I was sure there was a story there, but I never got around to asking.

The Billy Burger’s walls were lined with the largest (and only) salt-and-pepper-shaker collection I had ever seen, which included a pair of dice with Vegas written in gold glitter, a couple of hula girls, some politically incorrect Little Black Sambo shakers, a washer and dryer, and a seated JFK.

They also sold Billy Burger T-shirts and a book chronicling the history of Wilbur, which I seriously doubt will ever hit the
New York Times
bestseller list, though stranger things have happened. I had noticed that nearly everything in Wilbur started with the letter B, and I asked the woman at the counter, Kate, why.

“Good question,” she said. “A big shot Wilbur citizen, Benjamin B. Banks, had eight sons, and he and the missus, Belva, gave ’em all names startin’ with B.

“He was big on hard work, so he made all his kids start businesses to fund their college tuitions. Billy Burger was Billy’s project. He sold it when he left for school.”

That explained the Eight Bar B Hotel as well. As I was eating, I noticed a plaque on the wall.

Certificate of Award
Thanks to the Aliens who made
Wilbur their Vacation Destination.

Beneath the plaque was a framed, double-spread newspaper page with pictures of crop circles. I had seen these
pictures somewhere before, but I didn’t know they had come from Washington. I got up to read the article.

Apparently the little town of Wilbur had been blessed with crop circles not once, but twice. The first was discovered by a crop duster in the spring of 2007. The second appeared two years later, in 2009.

I said to Kate, “This happened here?”

“You betcha. Twice. Over at Jesse Beales’ place.”

“What is it,” I asked, “local teens playing a prank?”

The woman’s eyebrows fell. “No sir. Ain’t no one here done them. They came from the sky. There weren’t no tracks in nor out of the field. The trails you see on that picture there were caused by the tourists and UFO chasers.”

“Tourists come to see these?”

“Yes, sir. From all over the world. Really put Wilbur on the map. They come wearin’ football helmets wrapped in tinfoil and Jesus robes. Mr. Beales says those aliens owe him $500, and he’s gonna get it, even if he has to take it from their sorry green hides.”

“That would be some headline,” I mused. “Farmer assaults aliens with pitchfork. World destroyed.”

The woman didn’t smile.

“Mr. Beales should just charge the tourists admission,” I said.

She looked at me as if I’d just solved world hunger. “That’s a darn good idea. I’ll mention that next time he
comes by.”

“So you think the crop circles were made by aliens?”

“No, sir.”

I turned to face her. “But you said they came from the sky.”

“Air Force,” she said, her voice dropping as if to avoid detection. “They done it.”

“The Air Force did it?”

“Yes sir. We got Fairchild Air Force Base just down the road a piece. They’re always conducting top-secret research. Probably some new, high-tech laser beam.”

I thought of another headline but kept it to myself.
Air Force declares war on Farmer Beales, burns circles in crops.

“Course it could also just be aliens,” she relented. “It’s a strange world we live in. You never know.”

“No,” I agreed, “you never know.” I sat back down and finished eating. “That was a good burger. Thank you.”

“We got shakes too. Intergalactically famous.”

I was tempted to stop and see the crop circles but not curious enough to add the miles.

Eight miles out of Wilbur, I stopped for breakfast at a roadside café in a tiny farming town called Creston, which, incidentally, I thought was a much better town name for an alien landing.

I ordered biscuits, fried ham, and scrambled eggs, which I heavily seasoned with Tabasco sauce. The café’s chef and proprietor (he introduced himself as Mr. Saville), was a balding Korean War veteran with a Marines tattoo and the build of a greasy-spoon chef.

It was as if Mr. Saville hadn’t talked to anyone for a few years as he spoke nonstop about whatever came to mind, though most of what came to his mind involved the New World Order conspiracy and 1992 Populist presidential candidate and former Delta Force commander “Bo” Gritz.

Mr. Saville was a life-long resident of Creston and was proud to inform me that Harry Tracy, the final surviving member of the Hole in the Wall Gang, was shot at a Creston ranch not 3 miles from the café. I suppose every city has its claim to fame.

I paid my bill, promised I’d buy Mr. Gritz’s book, and started off again. It was a long, dull day of walking, and the afternoon’s highlight was watching a bobcat cross
the highway about 50 yards ahead of me. I wasn’t sure if I should be worried about the animal or not. I’d read that bobcats rarely attack humans and usually only when they’re rabid, which really isn’t a comforting thought since, if I had my druthers, I’d rather be attacked by a nonrabid bobcat. Just in case, I picked up a large rock from the side of the road, which turned out to be a total waste of motion since the cat was gone when I stood back up.

It was twilight when I reached the town of Davenport—
a real town with a Lion’s Club sign at its entrance. It also had a pretty good Mexican restaurant where I ordered the chile verde burrito combo plate and a flan dessert. McKale always ordered the flan dessert.

As I was paying my bill, I asked the waitress where I should spend the night. The way she looked at me made me a little uncomfortable, and I was afraid that she was going to suggest her place. I was relieved when she suggested the Morgan Street Bed and Breakfast and Coffee Shop just a few blocks further down the highway. I left her a $5 tip, lifted my pack, and walked off to find the inn.

The Morgan Street Bed and Breakfast was a quaint, Victorian-style home built in 1896. It was simple, as far as Victorian motifs go, though it still had some decorative spindling, a large, front-facing gable, and a Queen Anne turret with a bell-shaped dome.

McKale would have loved this place
, I thought. McKale was a bed-and-breakfast connoisseur. As I wrote before, her surprise plan for our lost weekend was to stay in a bed and breakfast on Orcas Island. She had made a list of B&Bs in the Pacific Northwest, and every few months we’d hit one of them. One time, when I was too busy with work, she stayed in one on her own.

I pushed open the wrought-iron gate and walked up to the porch. The front door was locked, so I rang the doorbell and almost immediately heard footsteps. A deadbolt slid, and the door opened to a middle-aged woman with silver hair and blue-rimmed glasses. She wore a yellow sweater over a red print dress.

“May I help you?”

“Hi. Do you have any vacancies?”

She smiled. “Yes, we do. Come right in.” She stepped back from the door.

I walked inside onto a Persian rug. The room was warm and elegant.

“Just set your pack down right there,” she said, pointing to the floor next to the stairwell.

“Thank you.”

She walked over to a mahogany Victorian writing desk against the wall and pulled a register from a cubby. “Are you alone?”