A Step Of Faith Part 44

Some so fear the future that they suffocate the present. It's like committing suicide to avoid being murdered.

Alan Christoffersen's diary

My alarm rang at five-fifteen. Getting up before the sun wasn't as easy as it had been in times past. I didn't feel my best but convinced myself that it was just the early morning and I'd soon walk my way out of it. I packed and went down to the hotel lobby for breakfast. I had a couple of waffles, coffee and some scrambled eggs with chili sauce.

I asked the hotel clerk about the availability of rooms in Folkston. He named several hotels and a.s.sured me that they would have rooms available at this time of year. I finished my breakfast, then set out on Highway 23.

As any long-distance runner can attest, there are days when you feel light-footed as a gazelle-as if the law of gravity has been temporarily repealed and the ground itself seems to propel you. Then there are those days your feet feel like anvils. Unfortunately, this, of all days, was the latter.

After just three miles of walking, my pack felt heavier than it had in weeks, the road harder, my footwear less comfortable and my balance less keen.

I doubted my physical state was a coincidence and wondered if my body was rebelling because I was forcing it to do what it didn't want to do and probably shouldn't-walking a marathon plus a 10k, while still recovering from brain surgery and carrying fifty-plus pounds on my back. I felt like I was dragging myself every inch of the way.

Around noon I stopped along the side of the road to eat lunch, a somewhat smashed ham, turkey and cheese hoagie I had bought at Walmart the day before, an apple, string cheese and a Clif Bar, hoping the carbs might help my lagging energy. If they did, it wasn't noticeable.

I didn't stop long but doggedly trudged along the highway corridor-the swamp and railroad tracks to my right, thick brambles and forest to my left, a seemingly endless road in front of me. Around three in the afternoon I began doubting I was going to make it to Folkston. Around four I was almost certain of it and began telling myself that camping in the swamp might not be that bad after all. Truthfully, I didn't sound all that convincing, so I kept walking.

Around six o'clock I was practically staggering when a turquoise and beige Chevy pickup truck with two rifles visible through its back window pulled up to the side of the road about thirty yards ahead of me and turned on its hazard lights. The truck was far enough ahead that I wasn't sure if the driver had stopped on my account or for something else.

As I approached the vehicle, I casually looked over. "Evening."

The driver, a sixty-something balding man wearing a hunting jacket and Seminoles ball cap, said in a gruff voice, "You need a ride?"

The man looked like the sheriff from Deliverance.

"I'm not sure," I said. "How far are we from Folkston?"

"About twelve miles."

I thought I was closer. I didn't have twelve miles left in me. "Are you headed to Folkston?"

"No. I'm headed home. It's about a mile up ahead." He squinted. "Were you thinking of hoofing it to Folkston tonight?"

"I was planning to. But it's farther than I thought. I might just have to camp. I have a tent."

His brow furrowed. "You're in the swamp, son. A little nylon ain't worth nothing for protection. If the skeeters don't get you, there's the gators, rattlers, cottonmouths, panthers and bears. And if one of them don't, the moonshiners will. Somethin's always huntin' somethin' in the swamp.

"I've got a camping trailer at my place. Not air-conditioned or nothin', but it's comfortable and safe."

I thought about it for a moment, then said, "All right. Thank you."

"Just put your pack in the back."

I slid off my pack and heaved it over the side of the truck's bed, then opened the door and climbed in the front seat. The seat was dusty and there were crushed beer cans on the floor.

"Just kick' em out of the way," he said. He turned off his hazards, then put his truck in gear and we lurched forward. When we were up to speed, he said, "I'm Dustin."

"Alan," I said. "You've lived here your whole life?"

"Most of it. I was born in Tallaha.s.see." He looked over. "Where are you from?"

"I was born in Colorado, but raised in Pasadena."

"California boy," he said somewhat disparagingly. "What part of Colorado?"

"Near Denver."

"I've got a cousin in Pueblo," he said. "Where are you walkin' from?"

"Seattle."

"Jiminy Christmas," he said. "You've walked that far?"

"Yes."

"You were plannin' on walkin' from Waycross to Folkston in one day?"

"I've walked that far before," I said. "But I had a brain tumor removed a few months back and I guess I'm not all the way back up to speed."

"You stopped your walk to have a brain tumor removed, then came back out?"

"Yes."

He smiled. "You're a manly man." We drove a minute in silence, then he said, "See any gators on the highway?"

"No. Do they ever come out that far?"

He smiled. "Oh, they're there. People usually just mistake them for old tires."

I had actually wondered why so many people had thrown out their tires along this stretch of road. I realized I had probably walked by more than a dozen of them without even knowing it.

"Do you know where alligators got their name?"

I shook my head. "Never thought about it."

"The first explorers in Florida, the Spaniards, called them El Lagarto. Sounds like al-li-gator. Lagarto means 'lizard' in Spanish."

"Big lizards," I said.

"I've seen plenty of big ones," he said. "You have to just a.s.sume that any body of water around here has a gator in it. Had a real tragedy a couple years back, a mother left her four-year-old son on a picnic blanket while she ran just ten yards to get something out of the car. She wasn't gone thirty seconds, but when she turned around, all she saw was her son missin' and the tail of the gator goin' into the water."

"That's horrific," I said.

"Extremely horrific," he said.

We drove for what seemed several miles, farther than he said his place was, but then, at the first available turnaround, he pulled a U-turn and headed back a mile or so before turning east off the highway. We drove up a forest-lined dirt road for about a quarter mile before we reached his property, crossing two creeks over wooden bridges made with railroad ties.

An eight-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with barbwire surrounded his place and the opening gate was locked and chained. It reminded me a little of the AhnEl cult's compound, though much humbler and not nearly as orderly or clean.