The seventy-seventh day on the trail, barring unusual circumstances, it will be my last. The night before my odyssey, I recalled staring at the night sky, wondering what the journey would bring. Once revealed, reality rarely seems as daunting as imagination. Of course, unforeseen events always blindside plans, but I was told this is called life.
Physically, I’m exhausted. The reflection staring back at me in the bathroom mirror is haggard and pale. I looked forward to hibernating in my own bed. I think I will slip into Alberton unannounced, avoid any fanfare and become reacquainted with my bed.
But, I’m getting ahead of myself. There’s still campaigning to do. In the birthplace of the political rock star Sarah Palin, it was time to leave my mark.
Indian summer revealed its splendor in the Northern Rockies. Morning sunlight rippled over Lake Pend Oreille chasing nighttime’s chill. I paused a moment, standing on the lake’s sandy shoreline savoring the looming Cabinet mountains. I was the returning traveler pausing and enjoying the sight of their front door before stepping inside.
Suppressing the urge to catch a ride home, I turned my attention to stumping. Inside Buck and Edna’s, I taped one of my last Robert ‘100s’ on the men’s room wall. Returning to my blonde, I started a conversation with a vacationing couple from Michigan. When I mentioned my Chief of Staff is from Ishpeming, Dave quipped, “never trust a You-per.” In Michigan parlance, a ‘You-per’ is a resident of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.
“Interesting,” I countered. “I hear it’s unwise to trust a troll.” a troll is Michigan speak for anyone who lives under the Mackinaw Bridge. The state has its own language.
“They’re all a bunch of cheese heads, if you’re elected, give the UP to Wisconsin.”
In the midst of stumping, Dave’s wife Cindy, a retired schoolteacher, mentioned even though fascinated by the campaign, she was intrigued with the idea of riding the rails.
“You afraid of skinning your knees?” I asked. “You’re going to have to jump from a moving freight.” Adventure twinkled in her eyes.
My gut told me it was a bad idea. In my mind’s eye, I could see her dislocating her patella or worse. I deflected the conversation to politics and involved all the early afternoon patrons. I bought my newfound friends a round before slipping from the bar and walking the tracks out of town.
I just crossed the trestle across the northeastern finger of the lake as an eastbound freight neared. Standing aside, I waved to the engineer as engines rumbled past. I leapt upon a flatcar and rode it like a chariot into Montana and through the towns of Trout Creek and Thompson Falls. I jumped from the freight east of Paradise to catch the St. Regis cutoff.
You know you’re in Montana when the person who picks you up is has a longer beard than you and goes by the nickname Whiskers. An elbow flexing acquaintance of mine, Whiskers drove me the twenty odd miles to St. Regis where he insisted on buying me a beer at the Talking Bird. Whiskers kindly offered to drive me the remaining forty-odd miles to Alberton, but that would require the pomp of stopping by Campaign HQ, telling stories and forcing revelry. I begged my pardon and declined his offer. I told him next time in Alberton, I’d have the Campaign Manager buy him a beer. That will infuriate the self-proclaimed hooked nose Jew. He often says: “Robert, you make me see red.” He’s speaking of debt, not anger.
I stepped from my last bar of the campaign trail, found the tracks, and hiked eastward, smiling hearing a distant freight rumble behind me. Twenty minutes later, I rode the last flatcar.
The freight slowed as it passed through Cyr tunnel before coming to a stop on the siding in Lothrop, just across the Clark Fork River from Alberton. I jumped from the train and waved to the engineer as I passed the idling engine. Pausing atop the Petty Creek Road Bridge, I watched fly-fishermen ply their art from a raft. A passing pickup honked and its driver cried, “Welcome home, Robert.”
I returned the driver’s wave and hoofed it the two miles into Alberton. Railroad Ave was motionless as I entered town. Crossing Guido’s yard, I climbed the short, steep hill and stepped into my house. Locking the door behind me, I dropped my backpack on the floor and fell into my bed.
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