Monday, October 22, 2012

Day 39: Glasgow, Montana

"Don't you think it's a little late in the year to be traveling?" asked the cashier at a Reynolds Supermarket in Glasgow, Montana. Sliding a box of Pop Tarts and a stack of jumbo-sized candy bars over the scanner, the cashier, an old woman, who, I sensed, was the type who normally radiated a grandmotherly warmth, asked her question with a steely coldness. This was not the innocent query of a stranger, but a stern admonishment of a mother, one who keenly and quickly gathered the foolishness of my enterprise, as if I was a member of her brood.

I felt embarrassed and guilty, and tried to reassure her--but was really trying to reassure myself--that I wouldn't have to deal with the Montana cold since I was heading south to warmer climes, far from the icy clutches of winter. She shook her head and warned me to at least stay away from the town of Wolf Point. "If anyone there as much as walks toward you, get away," she said.


Luckily my route doesn't take me through Wolf Point, but it's obvious that this is no longer an autumn expedition. My gait has been so slowed, and my days, so shortened--by injury and poor preparation--that I am now walking in 50 mph winds, sleeping in temperatures in the teens (F), and traveling under a sky that has seen fit to acquaint me with hail, freezing rain, and a few gentle--though unsettling--snowflakes. The cold is no longer at my heels. It's here. I am now on, it seems, a winter excursion.

I was a day's walk from the U.S.-Canada border in Val Marie, Saskatchewan. Before I picked up my package of food and began south, a few reporters from CBC's "The National" stopped by to talk with me. (They were following the XL pipeline and talking with landowners, like I was, except from their vehicle.) The interview was thoroughly enjoyable, largely because my mind, until that point, had not been deeply probed, as many of the strangers I've met have not thought it appropriate to ask anything other the same few polite, and basic, questions.

At one point in the interview, I was stumped by a question. I felt I had a response deep in the recesses of my mind, but as I had yet to turn my feelings into thoughts and my thoughts into words, I stumbled. I'd been explaining why this hike couldn't be an anti-oil protest, since all my gear, clothes, and food either had petroleum in the creation of the product, the shipment of the product, or was in the product itself. The reporter asked, "Do you think that's why they're building this pipeline?" In other words, "Do you think we need oil?" I forgot what I said exactly, but I mumbled and bumbled and wish I had said, "No, I don't think we need this pipeline. We don't need to expand the Tar Sands or transport billions of barrels of oil each day from Canada to the U.S. and then overseas. And I don't need that fancy backpack, or these trekking poles--all made or shipped with petroleum. I don't even need this trip. North Americans have a funny understanding of the word 'need.' We need more oil like a heroin addict needs another hit. We use twice as much energy per capita than Europe. The Tar Sands, themselves, emit more CO2 in the atmosphere than many countries. We need, rather, different consumptive habits, less cancerous sprawl, a whole new relationship with the world, a new religion. We need to quit destroying everything out of a sense of need, when all we really need is a fucking sweater."

Or something like that. You can watch interview here: http://www.cbc.ca/player/News/TV%20Shows/The%20National/ID/2295656851/

After the interview, I continued south. At night, I tried to set up my tent in the open prairie, but it was too windy, and I couldn't get my tent up. I went back to the road I'd been walking along and set it up in a ditch because it was the only place that offered protection from the wind. But in the middle of the night, around 2 a.m., the wind shifted direction, whipping the tent back and forth, until it pulled out one of my stakes, rocketing it off into a field, where I'd never find it. The tent collapsed on me, and the wind caused one of my trekking poles, which served as a ballast for one side of the tent, to beat against my chest. If a passerby had come by at this awful hour, he'd have cause to wonder if there were two inhabitants making violent love inside. But I was alone, frantically trying to stop the pole from beating me, searching for the tent zipper, and undergoing my first foray into claustrophobia. Though windy, the night was strangely mild, so, after escaping the tent I walked along the gravel road, unearthing large rocks to hold the tent down.

In the morning, the wind had picked up. At times, I felt as if I could fall forward, and the wind would push me upright. The tumbleweeds did not tumble across the prairie; they hovered across until crashing into a barb wire fence where they all crowded together, desperately clinging to the wire. The prairie grass in such ferocious winds, I thought at first, looked like the rippling waves of an ocean storm. But, on second thought, it was more like fire, lifting and falling, lifting and falling, dancing and licking and lifting and falling.

I took a wide detour off my path to the Port of Monchy, where I'd cross the border legally and fill up my water bottles. In Montana the wind was just as bad, oftentimes knocking me off balance, almost to the point where I was close to falling. I knew I couldn't set up my tent in this wind, so I searched for a buffer of some sort, and found one in a rustic Waldenesque shack that I would have slept in, if it weren't for the floorboards that were either missing or too brittle to support my weight. Normally, I'd only camp in concealed hard-to-spot places, but in these moments when the elements were particularly challenging, I no longer harbored the slightest worry about getting caught trespassing; the only thing on my mind was my survival.

I continued on over cow pasture, and prairie, and hay field, and country road, slept next to a church in the town of Whitewater, was followed by two snarling curs near a farmer's home, and sought, usually once a day, some home where I might fill up my water bottles. Incredibly, all my foot problems vanished, likely because they've toughened, and because I've taken pains to keep them dry and my socks clean. The shin splints, though, have improved only moderately. Usually I will start the day with a hardly perceptible soreness. But then I will awkwardly step on a rock, or fall into a gopher hole, or get it tangled in the brush, and I will fall to the ground in agony. The steady hum of soreness, over the course of the day, grows louder and louder, and by dusk, I'm walking with a noticeable limp.

It's disheartening when every piece of me--mind and body--wishes to go on and walk till night, but can't, simply because one small part of me isn't working properly. As imperfect as the human body is, I find that I'm mesmerized with it, mesmerized in spite of my frustration. I think of my body, it seems, as if it is a shell or a vehicle that carries me; that's hardly a part of me; that's separate. When I curse my shin or foot, I might as well be cursing a blown tire or a dead battery in a car. Yet I'm mesmerized because of all that the body does without any sort of guidance or thought or consciousness. At night, while I read or sleep, my body is busy doing a million things, digesting my food, sealing up the cold sore on my lip, clearing the chafing on my heels, reducing the inflammation in my shin, coddling the dark bruises on my hips. Yet this body, for all its complexity, sophistication, and evolutionary magnificence--the arrangement of blood, bone, and muscle--is nothing but 175 pounds of machinery that exists just so I may carry, in my head, a few weightless dreams and ideas that magically make this hulking heap of matter, a person.

I'd expected to be in Glasgow, MT in four days, but it took me a disconcerting seven. Tomorrow I hobble on toward Nashua, where I have my next food drop, then to Baker, Montana, where Josh has mailed me another package of food, winter clothes, and a sturdy four-season tent.

12 comments:

Paul Gagnon said...

I just saw your interview on The National so I thought I'd check out your blog. I was thinking that might change quite a bit along this journey and having just read all of your posts, it seems you already have. Good luck on your trip. I'll keep reading!

BarefootMarathon Momma said...

I too just watched the interview (on CBC News Now) & thought I would check out the blog. Your passion to bring awareness of the XL pipe line is evident and I find your travels inspiring. Your writing is extremely captivating! Looking forward to following you on your journey. Take care!

Anonymous said...

Enjoyed the interview and the blog update. I hope those warm clothes arrive on time! There is a storm headed your direction, high winds, and snow. You might see it in Wyoming.

Take care, Candace

Tom said...

Hi Ken, I am glad you are coming along but I am also getting a but concerned about your safety. Between unexpected personal injury, getting caught in an early blizzard, possible wolf or bear attacks and snake bites further south, I seriously think you should consider purchasing or having a family member purchase and mail you a Personal Locator Beacon. It seems like the ACR though more expensive are the better choice. Here is a link:
http://www.rei.com/category/40006527

Take care of yourself and at least report your location and anticipated route to family daily if possible.

Regards,
Tom

Jennifer said...

Yet another who saw you on the CBC news.

I read you blog from the start of your journey and was really impressed with your objectivity on what is a controversial subject.

You are so right in that we cannot live without oil yet it may also be our undoing. We live unsustainably and for the most part are unable to wean ourselves away even if we know that the whole planetary environment is likely being affected for the worse.

I really fear that as a species we will not be able to solve this problem with our own will - a new tomorrow will eventually be forced upon us by the natural laws of physics and chemistry.

The planet will change and the question will become can we as a species be able to change and adapt to the new conditions that will prevail over time.

Dave Whitehead said...

You seem open minded about what you may find, at least by your CBC interview, but your life threatening actions indicate you may be just a bit of a zealot. Nothing wrong with that in a democracy! Interested in your election in the excited states. Smart and likeable that Obama. Smart and having to cow tow to his radical right is Romney. Are you guys ever going to get anything done down there? What is it about states like Arizona that just turns perfectly normal Canadians into Red Necks over the winter? W have one coffee buddy who requires de-programming for 2 weeks when he gets back in April. Good luck, man. Hope my philosophy is useful to you. Go pipeline! Better than by train. There is a small community NE of Hardisty Alberta in Saskatchewan, that sends heavy crude to New Orleans now in 50 unit trains. Not a bit dangerous eh? Again, stay healthy and safe fella. Thanks for doing that interview with CBC.

Trish said...

Well said Ken - we need to quit destroying everything out of a sense of need. gonna quote you on Facebook.

Anonymous said...

Courageous of you to undertake this adventure and bring more attention to this controversial pipeline project... to make the walking more comfortable you may want, like distance runners, to use Body Glide or Vaseline on your feet and other areas subject to chafing... I did... it works
good luck
R

Doug Bleackley said...

The holes you are seeing are Badger holes (the bigger ones), they are digging machines!! and mean as hell, so if you see a squat little critter width an odd gait, keep your distance. It's too late in the season now, but the smaller holes are either Gophers (Richardson Ground Squirrels) or Prairie Dogs.

dissed said...

I've read with great pleasure since your grad school van sans student loan days. Agree with earlier posters -- you ARE a bit of a zealot, but we need zealots, those who seek out the marvelous experiences because they can. Hope you have the locator beacon. It's time to check in; we're concerned for your safety.

Ken said...

Thank y'all for the words of support.

Tom--Appreciate the concern. With all the money I've spent on this trip, another few bucks for a beacon is probably a good idea. I am sick of spending money, though.

Jennifer--Well stated. I think we can--and will--adapt. Might be later than sooner, though.

Dave--Glad you could re-program him! Train does sound dangerous, but the pipeline isn't the real debate; it's the incredible amount of energy it takes to extract and refine the Tar Sands.

Trish--Thanks.

R--The athletes foot medication worked all right. It appears my feet have toughened up, so no lubrication necessary,

Doug--I've seen two badgers, but only once group of prairie dogs, I think. The farmers tell me that the gophers/squirrels are at their low in the population cycle. The place seems virtually extinct of them.

dissed--With honor I'd accept the title of zealot, as it's the zealots who strove to free the slaves, give women the vote, and blacks, their rights. It's a testament of our times that someone is called a zealot for caring about the environment while it is raped and plundered, and made uninhabitable for countless species.

Roy Brander said...

Ken, I arrived here after a journey of just a few mouse clicks (a bit easier than yours). Here was the trip:

- Saw news article about an NJ mayor, Cory Booker, living for a whole week on food stamps that offer just $4.36 per day in food purchases.

- The number tweaked a memory, so I went looking and found your 3-year-old-next-week article in Salon on the van, and that, indeed, you managed on a few cents less than that (but about 7% in inflation ago...)

- And that google led to your blog.

So. Having survived Duke in a van, you are clearly now saying "What can I do that will really suck harder and make me even prouder to have survived?"

Here's the really bad news: all great adventures are trilogies. If you don't get eaten by killer gophers, you'll just find something even worse to do next.

Try to keep in mind that all great adventurers are risk-minimizers; you didn't skimp on the pack or the shoes (duh), don't think it's extravagance to buy that locator, take a break in a hotel if you get a cold, detour around an especially dicey slope. Climbing Everest is an adventure; climbing Everest in anything less than the best equipment available at the best time, is just stupid self-abuse.