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Authors: Richard Paul Evans
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and her hold on me. Why wouldn’t she be? I had tunnel vision. McKale was everything.
In spite of my melancholy, or maybe because of it, I decided to make my dinner a celebration of three things. First, passing the halfway mark of my walk. Second, returning to my walk. And third, surviving my tumor.
I ordered the same meal I had the night I dined at Ruth’s Chris with McKale: sweet potato casserole with pecans, asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, and the Cowboy Ribeye steak. In keeping with my celebration, I complemented my meal with a small glass of red wine, and, alone, made a symbolic toast to the journey. “To Key West,” I said. I sounded pathetic. There were better things to toast. I raised my glass again. “To McKale.”
I didn’t rush, giving myself time to digest both my food and the significance of the moment. When I’d finished eating, I ordered a decaf coffee to go, then went back up to my room. Again, I was surprisingly exhausted.
Outside my window, the arch was lit by spotlights.I ran my bath and lay back in it, closing my eyes and letting my body soak. I wondered when I’d have that luxury again. Not soon, I wagered. I told myself it was just as well. I was getting soft, and it was time to get back to the road.
CHAPTER
Fifteen
I have been taken in by a Pentecostal pastor who speaks openly of miracles and the “fruits of the spirit.” I don’t know if there are fewer miracles today or if, in times past, all unexplained phenomena was just ascribed to divine providence. It seems today that we see less spiritual fruit than religious nuts.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I forgot to request a wake-up call and woke after ten, which upset me, as I had planned on getting an early start. I quickly dressed, then, taking my pack, went downstairs for breakfast. For the sake of time I opted for the buffet, which was quite good, and checked out of the hotel. Then, without ceremony, I resumed my walk.
I don’t think the Gateway Arch can be fully appreciated until one stands at its base and looks up. In spite of my late start, I walked across the street to the monument. I was tempted to take the tour, but it really wasn’t an option. There was a security checkpoint at the monument’s entrance, and I had my backpack, which they wouldn’t allow inside—especially since I was still carrying the gun my father had given me after I was mugged outside of Spokane.
There was no easy way out of the city and, after an hour of trying to navigate a labyrinth of roads and highways, passing through industrial areas of questionable safety, I finally just hailed a cab, which I took twelve miles to the Lindbergh Boulevard freeway exit. I got out near a HoneyBaked Ham store and began walking toward Highway 61.
I was in a suburban part of St. Louis County and thelandscape was green and pretty. I crossed the Meramec River before reaching the town of Arnold, introduced by a sign that read:
ARNOLD
“A Small Town with a Big Heart”
It could just as well have read, Another small town with an unoriginal slogan , as I had seen the exact claim at least a dozen times before on my walk. The town was unremarkable in appearance as well, consisting of weather-worn aluminum-sided buildings housing used car dealerships, thrift stores, and hardware shops—the kind of commerce that springs up naturally in small towns, the way willows grow near slow-moving streams.
Around two o’clock, just shy of ten miles into the day’s walk, I reached Bob’s Drive-In, which boasted the “Best Burger in Town.” The claim was probably more than hyperbole, as I hadn’t seen another hamburger place since I entered Arnold. Of course, claiming the title by default would also make them the “Worst Burger in Town,” but it rarely pays to advertise our faults. Sometimes, but rarely.
Bob’s was a true takeout—there was no inside dining—and I stood in front of the boxy diner studying Bob’s sizable menu, which was hand-painted on a board hanging
In spite of my melancholy, or maybe because of it, I decided to make my dinner a celebration of three things. First, passing the halfway mark of my walk. Second, returning to my walk. And third, surviving my tumor.
I ordered the same meal I had the night I dined at Ruth’s Chris with McKale: sweet potato casserole with pecans, asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, and the Cowboy Ribeye steak. In keeping with my celebration, I complemented my meal with a small glass of red wine, and, alone, made a symbolic toast to the journey. “To Key West,” I said. I sounded pathetic. There were better things to toast. I raised my glass again. “To McKale.”
I didn’t rush, giving myself time to digest both my food and the significance of the moment. When I’d finished eating, I ordered a decaf coffee to go, then went back up to my room. Again, I was surprisingly exhausted.
Outside my window, the arch was lit by spotlights.I ran my bath and lay back in it, closing my eyes and letting my body soak. I wondered when I’d have that luxury again. Not soon, I wagered. I told myself it was just as well. I was getting soft, and it was time to get back to the road.
CHAPTER
Fifteen
I have been taken in by a Pentecostal pastor who speaks openly of miracles and the “fruits of the spirit.” I don’t know if there are fewer miracles today or if, in times past, all unexplained phenomena was just ascribed to divine providence. It seems today that we see less spiritual fruit than religious nuts.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I forgot to request a wake-up call and woke after ten, which upset me, as I had planned on getting an early start. I quickly dressed, then, taking my pack, went downstairs for breakfast. For the sake of time I opted for the buffet, which was quite good, and checked out of the hotel. Then, without ceremony, I resumed my walk.
I don’t think the Gateway Arch can be fully appreciated until one stands at its base and looks up. In spite of my late start, I walked across the street to the monument. I was tempted to take the tour, but it really wasn’t an option. There was a security checkpoint at the monument’s entrance, and I had my backpack, which they wouldn’t allow inside—especially since I was still carrying the gun my father had given me after I was mugged outside of Spokane.
There was no easy way out of the city and, after an hour of trying to navigate a labyrinth of roads and highways, passing through industrial areas of questionable safety, I finally just hailed a cab, which I took twelve miles to the Lindbergh Boulevard freeway exit. I got out near a HoneyBaked Ham store and began walking toward Highway 61.
I was in a suburban part of St. Louis County and thelandscape was green and pretty. I crossed the Meramec River before reaching the town of Arnold, introduced by a sign that read:
ARNOLD
“A Small Town with a Big Heart”
It could just as well have read, Another small town with an unoriginal slogan , as I had seen the exact claim at least a dozen times before on my walk. The town was unremarkable in appearance as well, consisting of weather-worn aluminum-sided buildings housing used car dealerships, thrift stores, and hardware shops—the kind of commerce that springs up naturally in small towns, the way willows grow near slow-moving streams.
Around two o’clock, just shy of ten miles into the day’s walk, I reached Bob’s Drive-In, which boasted the “Best Burger in Town.” The claim was probably more than hyperbole, as I hadn’t seen another hamburger place since I entered Arnold. Of course, claiming the title by default would also make them the “Worst Burger in Town,” but it rarely pays to advertise our faults. Sometimes, but rarely.
Bob’s was a true takeout—there was no inside dining—and I stood in front of the boxy diner studying Bob’s sizable menu, which was hand-painted on a board hanging
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