This series of posts is dedicated to Father Ray. He is a saint among many sanctimonious, superficial sell-outs. But he will never admit it.
Just about everything changes when Springtime arrives in Bozeman, Montana. And that includes the motel rates.
I knew that I couldn't pay the new rent rate so I made a reservation for September 1 and handed back my key.
When I boarded a bus, the State of Montana officially cut me loose for the Summer.
I decided to ride on down to Wilmington, North Carolina. Y'all.
But when I got to Wilmington, the only thing I got was a brush-off from two shelters, one night in a no-tell motel room and a nasty spider bite.
The bite is healing now (it wasn't a Recluse, thank God!) and I am many miles (and States) away now. But my retreat from the land of the Southern-fried Psyche wasn't simply done. Oh no!!
The day after I finished the four-day bus trip, I put on my big, heavy backpack and trudged down the steam bath streets of Wilmington.
A lady from Michigan finally pulled over and picked me up. She drove me out of the city and dropped me off on a rural highway.
That's where my journey really began.