Barefooted and weary, I staggered accross the peircing gravel on the shoulder of the road. I barely had time to stand upright, when a truck came toward me. I flagged the driver down, who seemed reluctant to stop. "Which way to the Garden Of The Gods?", I asked him. He told me that I was several miles north and west from there. My luck had started change.
It was a small pickup truck, much like my own. I asked the driver for a ride. I was ready to beg. He hesitated for a split second before telling me to get in. I apologized for being so filthy. The man and his truck were covered in a light layer of black dust.. Just the same, I felt self-conscious about smearing mud on is seats.
Cars were starting to back up behind us. The man stared into the rear-view mirror while telling me not to worry about a little dirt. Perhaps I was just tired, or maybe I couldn’t overcome my anal-retentive tendencies, but I insisted on covering the seat with my poncho.
The man in the truck introduced himself as, Sidney. He looked weary and dirty, presumably the result of a day of hard work. We were just down the road from the coal mine, where Sidney was employed. He offered me a can of soda from a small cooler on the floorboard. I happily accepted is offer and made quick work of the beverage.
I told him my name, of course. He asked me how I came to be standing there at the side of the road. I told him about my backpacking plans, and I explained that I was just out for an exploratory hike. I freely admitted that I had gotten lost, but that was undoubtedly obvious to him by now. After all, I looked like I had just crawled out of a pig wallow. And I did flag him down. But I felt obliged to confess my predicament anyway.
The drive back to Garden of the Gods was no more than 5 or 6 miles, but the sky had darkened by the time that we were half of the way there. We exchanged the usual introductory bits and pieces of information. He told me that he grew up in Shawnee Town, about 40 miles northeast of the mine. I told him that I was from Iowa. He asked me about my work. I told him about my training as a geologist, which I thought was relevant, as he worked at the mine. We acknowledged that a rain storm was eminent.
Sidney was clearly a blue-collar man. I made a point of mentioning my own working-class background. I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression of me. I don’t claim to be an expert explorer or accomplished wilderness adventurer, but I didn’t want him to think that I was just some candy-assed idiot either. However much I felt that the latter description might fit me at the time, it really isn’t true.
I think that Sidney might have sensed my uneasiness. He told me that several of his friends at the mine had picked up hikers in the very same spot where he found me. I was cognizant of my ineptitude, my failure to avoid getting lost. It didn’t matter that the maps that I carried were poor. It didn’t matter that I only had to retrace my steps to get out of this mess. My fatigue, thirst, and morale didn’t matter either. I was lost in every sense of the word, and I felt like a fool because of it. It was nice to know that I was not be only fool in need of a ride. Although nightfall was not due for least another hour, daylight had turned to dusk with the approaching storm. Sidney drove me right to my campsite. I thanked him profusely and offered him 20 dollars. He graciously declined, and despite my insistence, he told me that my gratitude was a sufficient reward. He bid me a good night and drove away.
My legs had become stiff. I hobbled over to the picnic table near my tent and eased myself onto one of its seats. I was spent. I sat there for awhile thinking about water. The well was only 15 yards away, but I just sat there trying to motivate myself to get up and fill my water bottles. My fatigue took precedence over my thirst.
My appetite is usually pretty strong, but I wasn’t very hungry that night. After dragging myself over to the well a couple of times, I ate a few granola bars and retired to my tent early.
The rain that I had expected since late afternoon did not arrive until well after dusk. When the rain finally came, it caught me by surprise. I had the rain fly rolled back on my tent. This was my first time out with this particular tent. After my trip to Yellowstone, I really began to look for a lighter tent. I love the Eureka tent that I took to Yellowstone, but it weighs about twice as much as most small backpacking tents. I thought that I found a good light-weight tent in the Walrus Arch-Rival. But the Arch-Rival is not a good tent for a rainy night in October.
I had to choose between adequate ventilation and my need to stay dry and warm. The Arch-Rival has a mesh roof, but a person could practically suffocate in it with the rainfly fully deployed. I slept fine when I could get enough air through the tent, but once the rain started pouring down I was forced to cover the roof. The tent was rather muggy with no cross-ventilation.
I was up and out of my tent early. I could have slept longer, if not for the stifling atmosphere of the tent. I sat in my truck for a while to enjoy the relative comfort of the upholstered seats and radio. The weather report called for rain over the next three days. I immediately considered making a retreat back to Iowa.
Of course, I tried to rein in my desire to flee. It was only Tuesday. I had only been there two days. I reminded myself that I had driven 700 miles to get there, and a rainy forecast did not necessarily make for a ruined vacation. I decided to drive into Harrisburg after breakfast. I figured that I’d see what the town had to offer and kill some time.Harrisburg isn’t exactly a tourist haven. It is a nice little town, home to perhaps no more than 10,000 people. I wasn’t looking for much, perhaps a nice bookstore or movie theater. I didn’t find either, but I didn’t leave the main drag. It was a gloomy day, and I was dressed like a bum. So even though the drive provided me with some distraction, my foray into town was wasted. I stopped to get some gas and bought a newspaper. The daily news confirmed my suspicions. Almost nothing ever happens in Harrisburg.
I read that entire paper anyway. I was desperate for something to do. I went through the drive-up window at Hardee’s for an early lunch. My appetite was back in full force and demanded to be satisfied. I pulled into a parking lot adjacent to the restaurant. Eating my lunch and reading the paper, I thoroughly enjoyed the relative comfort of my truck. It sure as heck beat lying in a cramped soggy tent.
I decided to leave for Iowa at just about the time I headed back to the campground. It was the only smart thing to do. I’d lose my mind if I stayed there. I would go crazy from boredom. Sure, I could get a hotel room and establish a new base of operations. From there, I could thoroughly patrol Harrisburg in search of bookstores and theaters. If not Harrisburg, then perhaps Marion or St. Louis. Heck, I could go to Kansas City or Chicago too. I had credit cards, after all. If I only had the right attitude to go with them, I would have recognized that the world was my oyster. But Iowa seemed like the sensible choice, and that’s where I went.
And thus concludes my fabulous Southern Illinois adventure!
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