An eventful day with a surprise ending started normal enough. Weeks before, when I made the reservation at the B&B in Rockport they asked when I wanted my breakfast. That struck me at the time as pretty LONG-range planning, but I picked a reasonable 8 am. After I arrived, no one ever asked again, but when I walked into the dining room precisely at 8, all was ready.
I was the only B&B customer, but there was a B customer. He had slept in the inn but was not entitled to breakfast; a nationwide trucking company with a facility in Rockport had some sort of arrangement for their transient employees. He asked how much breakfast was and, when told $5, he said no thanks, with an aside to me, "I just bought a truck and I have to watch my pennies." My offer to buy the breakfast, proposed as a "loan," so as not to risk injuring his pride, was similarly rejected. A bowl of fruit did materialize for him, thanks to the sympathetic waitress. I dallied over my meal just for the opportunity of conversation with this man with a life so unlike mine. I wanted to know more about trucking, but I ended up with a profound insight into the ramifications of September 11 that I never would have expected to gain in this cozy, picturesque town on the banks of the Ohio.
I've always been fascinated with drivers of big rigs, and here was my chance to learn a little about life on the road. I first asked about the technical aspects. He said it would take 10 minutes to teach me how to drive his truck. I then mentioned backing up and he allowed as how that might take another week or two although he said it is a lot easier to back up a big rig than it is to handle the small U-Haul trailer I had mentioned as my only comparable experience.
I asked about life on the road, and he described his previous company which practiced a system called "forced dispatch." That means the driver is told exactly where he is going and now long he will be gone. Four weeks away from home is not uncommon. He was looking forward to his new situation: now, as the owner of a truck, he could accept or decline particular jobs, "as long as I am able to keep up with the payments." He told me that his newly purchased (financed?) truck, a 1999 model, cost about $25,000 and it had "only" 700,000 miles. He said it was not uncommon for them to have two or three million miles and still run fine as long as they had always been carefully maintained.
He made it clear that he enjoyed trucking a lot, but it was not what he had always done. Once more I found myself talking with an individual who had run his own business, a rental business which had begun by offering small tools and the like. But after a while, he started offering larger items and then needed the trucks to move this equipment around; he learned to drive these big trucks because he had to.
He then said on September 11, 2001, "When those two buildings fell, my business fell from 100% to 10%." People were reluctant to start new construction and therefore didn't rent his equipment, which, of course, was "his" in name only, but really belonged to his lenders. He lost everything, he said, and his credit was completely ruined. Four years later, he is just beginning to climb out.
I had always empathized with the small businesses in the vicinity of New York's Ground Zero, the mom and pop operations that provided a coffee and bagel, or resoled a shoe, or parked a car for the people working in the Twin Towers. Their livelihood went away after the terrorist attack, and I never heard much about (though I'm sure there must have been) economic recovery assistance for them. I had never really focused beyond that close radius, however. Now, here I was, talking with a victim of September 11, hundreds of miles from NYC and definitely no beneficiary of any recovery funds. The implications go beyond the intent of this narrative, but the conversation provided me a learning I had never anticipated when I began this Lincoln Trek.
I strapped on the backpack and was on the road before 9:30 - a little later than expected, but the conversation with the trucker was worth the few extra minutes. I headed out of town, retracing last night's steps to the laundromat, and then came to the town's second traffic light where I saw the sign to US Route 231. Next stop, Lincoln's Boyhood Home, or so I thought. Unfortunately, and for the first time so far, I started out in the wrong direction. I knew I was walking parrallel with the Ohio River and therefore thought I was headed east and would turn north on 231. In fact, because of the curve in the river, I was headed north, and when I came to 231, not paying attention to directional info on the route marker, my left turn to head north actually had me heading west towards Evansville. Fortunately, before I had walked 3/4 of a mile, a sign indicating that Evansville was 30 miles or so ahead alerted me to my mistake. I quickly corrected, but my walk down and back the wrong way added an extra 1.5 miles to the day's effort.
US 231 is a major four lane highway with long access ramps where it comes into Rockport. There's a modern looking bridge, named in honor of Kentucky's now deceased, long-serving, never-vote-missing, U.S. Congressman William Natcher, whose membership on the appropriations committee may have had something to do with the construction of the bridge (I'm just guessing). The road quickly reverts to the by now customary two lane with very narrow shoulders.
The imposing landmark for miles is a coal-burning electrical generation facility with a tall smokestack and two immense cooling towers. The coal arrives on covered conveyor belts from barges in the nearby Ohio River. The scrubbers must have been working well because I could see nothing but heat waves emerging from the smokestack, and the light gray clouds of steam from the coolng towers were quickly incorporated into the overall steely grey skies. I welcomed the cloudy overcast and the accompanying lower temperature in the upper 60's. I took my first break directly across the road from the power plant and its immensity was overwhelming.
My mapping software had alerted me to road construction along the early part of today's walk. It turns out that a brand new highway, that will continue the four lane design already in place at the Rockport exit, was under construction adjacent. After a couple of miles of playing dodge'm with the oncoming trucks and autos, I decided it was time for me to put the unborn highway to use. Ignoring a "Road Closed" sign, I merged onto the new road and walked straight down the middle of the southbound lanes; the asphalt base was in place, but work on pouring the concrete had not yet begun. Piles of steel rebarb, painted green, dotted the median strip. I started up a long incline, while the original Route 231 maintained its flat trajectory. I envisioned arriving at the top of the incline only to find an unfinished overpass that would require me to backtrack, but I headed on. My luck held out when I came to the top and found that the new overpass for the railroad tracks below was pretty much complete and presented no obstacle to my crossing. I then proceeded down a matching incline on the other side. After about 2.5 miles of no worry about traffic, the new construction petered out and I was forced back to the two lane highway.
Shortly thereafter I arrived in Chrisney. By now, about 14 miles into the day, the backpack had returned to its role of satan's spawn and I made another attempt to find wheels for it in a permanent flea market in town. No luck. But a few steps later, I was able to put it down for about half an hour when I came upon a place calling itself a cafe, but in reality a working class bar. It was early afternoon and there were maybe a dozen or so people drinking beer, playing pool and enjoying each other's company.
I hoped my zocor and exercise were doing their job on my cholesterol. This didn't look like a place to order roast turkey on multigrain. Without looking at the menu, I requested a cheeseburger, fries and a beer. The guy next to me looked like Willie Nelson - without the pigtails, but certainly with the weathered face. He was 59 years old and on disability. "My lungs," he said, as he held up the remainder of his cigarette. "But farm boys didn't know any better." He had lived in the area all his life, but confessed he hadn't been to the Lincoln sites in the area. I told him there were still some tourist sites in my neighborhood that I had never seen (Forty-three years since I first moved to DC, and I still have never seen them print the money!).
Somehow the conversation got around to military service, and he shared a long-standing dismay that he had not served. It was the Vietnam era, and I believe he said he failed the draft physical. My bet is that he was probably pretty happy then but the years have changed his perspective.
I stapped on the millstone, I mean, backpack, shook hands with my lunchtime companion, and headed out into the somewhat brighter, but still gray overcast, day. A half an hour later, however, with 16 miles under my belt, I was ready to declare defeat and see if I could find a ride to my objective which is still 9 miles away. I must not have looked forlorn enough however, and after about 10 minutes I gave up and start walking again. The road is so narrow that I am not willing to walk on the side of the road with traffic, but walking on the opposite side seems to convey to potential ride offerors that you are not interested in their help.
I proceeded another three miles. (Part of that time when the road was wide I did walk on the same side as traffic with my thumb up, but still no luck; and when the road narrowed again, I headed to the opposite side.) I was beginning to be concerned that I would not make my objective before dark, so I called my host, but he was no longer at his job. Worry set in.
Michael Crews is a manager at the Lincoln State Park across from the Lincoln Boyhood National Memorial; his family also runs a nearby restaurant featuring buffalo meat. On the property is an authentic cabin from the Lincoln period with a legend that says Lincoln had slept in it. Michael had heard of my Trek and had offered to let me stay in the cabin.
Just as I was wondering what to do next, a young couple in a small pickup truck stopped and asked if I wanted a ride. "I certainly do!" I replied and I crossed the road quickly as the driver pulled onto the grass. His wife was in the passenger seat and two young toddlers were in car seats in the extended cab. I was ready to jump in the back but they said no, and the wife gave up the passenger seat and, with as much grace as possible, got in the back next to the kids. They were camping nearby and were willing to drive me to my destination. As we headed up the road (now at 50 mph instead of 3) my cell phone rang and I got a call from one of Michael's employees with instructions on what to do regarding the cabin if I arrived after the restaurant closed. I said I was on wheels now and should be there soon. The road to the restaurant headed in the direction of my livesavers' campgrounds, and in a few minutes, we were at the restaurant. I bid my ride goodbye without ever learning the full names of these angels.
But the story for the day was not over yet. The employees at the restaurant let me know that I could wash up in the restaurant's restroom. I then went out to see the cabin. Other than a dedicatory plaque noting Lincoln's stay, few improvements had been made since Lincoln visited. There was no power and consequently no lighting or cooling as I had enjoyed the week before in Hodgenville. It was a little more rustic than I had anticipated, and the lack of a shower at the end of a long walk was not something that offered me any pleasure. Nonetheless, I figured I was here for the night and would make the best of it; the nearest motel was 5 or 6 miles away and my legs wouldn't carry me a fraction of that distance even if there were enough daylight.
My second saviour of the day then walked into the restaurant. He was tall, had a beard, wore a long black frock coat, black pants, and old-style black boots, and carried a big gold pocket watch attached to a heavy gold chain. He would have worn a stove-pipe hat, but he had left that outside in the back seat of his car. Dean Dorrell, a Lincoln presenter well known in this area, had stopped by after an appearance at a civil war reenactors event nearby to say hello to his friend Michael. Of course, I struck up a conversation; I was familiar with the Lincoln presenter community and it turns out that Dean is Vice President of the Association of Lincoln Presenters (whose members describe themselves as "Ready, Willing, and ABE L.) The President of the group had attended my talk at the Cincinnati public library a week or so before.
I explained my predicament and asked if he was headed north. He was, in fact, headed to Dale next for a dinner meeting; Dale was the site of the motel I planned to stay in the following night. With the confident expectation that there would be a vacancy, I asked if he would drive me there. He said yes and we piled into his 1997 Eagle Vision, but not before I asked the restarant staff to convey my gratitude to Michael but let him know that the prospect of a hot shower trumped my desire for any Lincoln authenticity. I said I would look for him the next day, and only then did I learn why he couldn't take my earlier call: he had headed to the hospital with stomach pains. (I was relieved to learn subsequently that he had to have his appendix removed, but everything went well and he is recuperating at home.)
We arrived at the motel, and Dean waited for my sign that I was able to get in. There was plenty of room and I bid my new friend farewell, shaking my head in wonder at the way things work.
The first day of the second week of my Lincoln Trek was certainly one to be remembered.
