Days 34 & 35 – 8/2-8/3 – Atlantic, IA to Omaha, NE – 72 miles

There are two stories that I could tell about these past two days.

Here’s the first: the conditions were challenging. The distance alone offered plenty of difficulty. Consecutive 60-km days are tiring, especially for the amount of walking hours required. Other factors compounded the challenge. And yet, the biggest lesson of these two days is that beauty, decency, and happiness are always there for the taking.

I departed Atlantic early in the morning, after inhaling three packets of oatmeal that I’d been carrying since Davenport. Along the way, I saw a truck pass me as the driver did a double-take. He then pulled a double u-turn in order to come back alongside me and offer a ride. I didn’t want the ride, of course, but that was a remarkable level of initiative in support of a possible hitchhiker. The route led me a few hours later to Cold Springs Park, with grassy embankments circling a small lake, and it was all mine at that early hour. The small towns of Griswold and Carson didn’t have a lot going on when I was there–bad timing for me, since the former had a sweet corn feed coming up in a few hours, and the latter was hosting its annual rodeo that night–but both had mini-marts with seating and cold drinks, which was invaluable on such a hot day. Macedonia, meanwhile, had a fantastic bar & grill, where I grabbed a pizza, reveled in the A/C, and watched the Olympics for an hour before braving the outdoors once again. I had a fairly secure place to sleep–an actual campground, used mostly by RVers–and there was ample shade, to boot. Even better, the neighbors were friendly, coming over to chat and then again to share food.

The following morning got off to an even earlier start, but I was rewarded with the finest sunrise of the trip as I rode the roller coaster through the rippling hills. Much later, when the heat was at full blast, I came across an ice cream shop where I cooled down with a milkshake, emerging restored and ready for the next push. Crossing the Missouri into Nebraska was a satisfying, triumphal moment, and downtown Omaha was an ease to circle through en route to my final destination.

That story is true enough, or at least the component pieces are.

But here’s the second version: The heat wore me down over these past two days. My plan had been to stay at Macedonia’s campground coming in, followed by an Airbnb in Omaha. My tendency when facing this camping/bed sequence on consecutive days, well established at this point, is to blow past my planned distance on day one, stealing some extra miles in order to arrive earlier to take full advantage of air conditioning and box springs. So, in its own way, completing the plan was a minor defeat, as I just didn’t want to walk any further in that heat.

That heat had been compounded by a long stretch of road construction, as a fresh coat of asphalt was paved along miles of highway. While it didn’t slow my walking at all–unlike the backed up chains of cars, idling for quite a long time until the pilot car shuttled them forward–the shiny black surface created a furnace-like effect, with added heat radiating upward from the road. Only later would I discover the most lasting effect–a layer of asphalt had been pressed onto and into the bottom of my shoes, adding weight and costing flexibility. At the campground, I went to work with the only tool in my pack capable of extricating some of the offending material–my nail clippers.

I had an impossible time of getting comfortable that night, sweating away in my bivy as mosquitoes gradually emerged as darkness fell. I managed to pass out for ten minutes here, a quarter-hour there, but that was surrounded by longer stretches of tossing and turning. When I had finally managed to drop into something resembling a proper slumber, I was roused by a police officer at 2:51am, shining his flashlight square in my face through the mosquito netting. He noted that he had been surprised to see a tent without a car, noting that he couldn’t remember that ever happening, so he wanted to make sure I was ok. His tone was friendly; I have no good reason to suspect he was dissembling. But the consequence of this wellness check was the end of my meager night’s sleep. A little after 4am I gave up, packed up, and hit the road.

If anything, the second day was hotter, with the over blasting at 9am. Usually, even on the hottest days, the worst doesn’t come until somewhere between 11am and noon, but today defied that pattern. And aside from a short stretch on the Wabash Trail, the walk was completely exposed. The route after the Wabash Trail was circuitous, looping south, west, and finally north along the Missouri River, before jumping right back to the south after crossing into Omaha. Some of that, of course, was justifiable, in order to pass by some interesting stuff. And certainly, if I had been inclined I could have rejected it. But I stayed the course, and felt each and every one of those ninety-plus degrees.

As I marched through the last few miles, going block after block westward through Omaha’s residential neighborhoods, I had one shining light pulling me forward: a cool, relaxing place to stay, including a day off tomorrow. Instead, the oppressive heat followed me into my upstairs bedroom in my Airbnb. The fan on the table didn’t start, even after I tried a second outlet. The wifi router was MIA. I connected the dots–the power must be out. I asked the other tenants downstairs and they dropped the bomb–the power has been out for four days and there’s little cause for immediate optimism. I refrained from throwing a temper tantrum, instead showering and washing my clothes, before retreating to Starbucks and Chipotle.

I made this observation at some point on my first part of the ADT walk, and I’ll reiterate it here: so much of travel writing is looking back at difficulty from a comfortable distance, taking in the rosy sheen already settling in over the darker patches, and engaging in a sort of moralistic reframing of the events. Sure, it was hard in the moment, but now I can see what was magical and sublime and necessary about that day. I see this in Camino groups, too, where someone posts about a hard moment, clearly seeking sympathy and compassion, and instead they receive a fairly patronizing series of responses highlighting the hidden wonders. The message might be valid, but the timing is rough. We’re conditioned, after all, to look for the silver linings. That’s not a bad thing.

But maybe, at its core, it’s a dishonest thing? Because, as true as those positive details all are, the overarching headline of these last two days is how hard they were, and how, as I’m lying here in Omaha on top of my bed, sweating more than I did in the bivy last night, I’m bummed about how it turned out. That’s not a referendum on the trip as whole, or what preceded it, or what will come tomorrow. It’s just two hard, somewhat disappointing days.

And here’s the biggest thing: I’m absolutely proud of those days. Those are the days where these trips live or die. Where the fun dissipates, the rewards flop, and you have to decide whether to mope or move. Everyone loves the pearls; they’re shiny and opulent and easy to admire. Everyone ignores the string. It’s hidden, behind the scenes, but it’s doing the essential work. It holds those pearls together. It provides the shape, the structure. Take the string away, and you probably end up losing some of those pearls.

One of the most common things people say when I tell them about the walk is, “that must be so fun!” Yes, I reply, it’s often fun. And sometimes, too, it’s frustrating, bordering on miserable work. It’s life. What a glorious thing, though, to persevere through the proverbial river of shit, like Andy in Shawshank, to come out the other side.