Authors: Richard Paul Evans
I didn’t sleep well. Mexican food isn’t the best choice for a good night’s rest, and I was nervous about the upcoming stretch. It had been a while since I’d walked more than thirty miles in one day and that was before my craniotomy.
Don’t worry, you’ll make it
, I told myself.
You always do
.
CHAPTER
Thirty-five
Some so fear the future that they suffocate the present. It’s like committing suicide to avoid being murdered.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
My alarm rang at five-fifteen. Getting up before the sun wasn’t as easy as it had been in times past. I didn’t feel my best but convinced myself that it was just the early morning and I’d soon walk my way out of it. I packed and went down to the hotel lobby for breakfast. I had a couple of waffles, coffee and some scrambled eggs with chili sauce.
I asked the hotel clerk about the availability of rooms in Folkston. He named several hotels and assured me that they would have rooms available at this time of year. I finished my breakfast, then set out on Highway 23.
As any long-distance runner can attest, there are days when you feel light-footed as a gazelle—as if the law of gravity has been temporarily repealed and the ground itself seems to propel you. Then there are those days your feet feel like anvils. Unfortunately, this, of all days, was the latter.
After just three miles of walking, my pack felt heavier than it had in weeks, the road harder, my footwear less comfortable and my balance less keen.
I doubted my physical state was a coincidence and wondered if my body was rebelling because I was forcing it to do what it didn’t want to do and probably shouldn’t—walking a marathon
plus
a 10k, while still recovering from
brain surgery and carrying fifty-plus pounds on my back. I felt like I was dragging myself every inch of the way.
Around noon I stopped along the side of the road to eat lunch, a somewhat smashed ham, turkey and cheese hoagie I had bought at Walmart the day before, an apple, string cheese and a Clif Bar, hoping the carbs might help my lagging energy. If they did, it wasn’t noticeable.
I didn’t stop long but doggedly trudged along the highway corridor—the swamp and railroad tracks to my right, thick brambles and forest to my left, a seemingly endless road in front of me. Around three in the afternoon I began doubting I was going to make it to Folkston. Around four I was almost certain of it and began telling myself that camping in the swamp might not be that bad after all. Truthfully, I didn’t sound all that convincing, so I kept walking.
Around six o’clock I was practically staggering when a turquoise and beige Chevy pickup truck with two rifles visible through its back window pulled up to the side of the road about thirty yards ahead of me and turned on its hazard lights. The truck was far enough ahead that I wasn’t sure if the driver had stopped on my account or for something else.
As I approached the vehicle, I casually looked over. “Evening.”
The driver, a sixty-something balding man wearing a hunting jacket and Seminoles ball cap, said in a gruff voice, “You need a ride?”
The man looked like the sheriff from
Deliverance
.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “How far are we from Folkston?”
“About twelve miles.”
I thought I was closer. I didn’t have twelve miles left in me. “Are you headed to Folkston?”
“No. I’m headed home. It’s about a mile up ahead.” He squinted. “Were you thinking of hoofing it to Folkston tonight?”
“I was planning to. But it’s farther than I thought. I might just have to camp. I have a tent.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re in the swamp, son. A little nylon ain’t worth nothing for protection. If the skeeters don’t get you, there’s the gators, rattlers, cottonmouths, panthers and bears. And if one of them don’t, the moonshiners will. Somethin’s always huntin’ somethin’ in the swamp.
“I’ve got a camping trailer at my place. Not air-conditioned or nothin’, but it’s comfortable and safe.”
I thought about it for a moment, then said, “All right. Thank you.”
“Just put your pack in the back.”
I slid off my pack and heaved it over the side of the truck’s bed, then opened the door and climbed in the front seat. The seat was dusty and there were crushed beer cans on the floor.
“Just kick’ em out of the way,” he said. He turned off his hazards, then put his truck in gear and we lurched forward. When we were up to speed, he said, “I’m Dustin.”
“Alan,” I said. “You’ve lived here your whole life?”
“Most of it. I was born in Tallahassee.” He looked over. “Where are you from?”
“I was born in Colorado, but raised in Pasadena.”
“California boy,” he said somewhat disparagingly. “What part of Colorado?”
“Near Denver.”
“I’ve got a cousin in Pueblo,” he said. “Where are you walkin’ from?”
“Seattle.”
“Jiminy Christmas,” he said. “You’ve walked that far?”
“Yes.”
“You were plannin’ on walkin’ from Waycross to Folkston in one day?”
“I’ve walked that far before,” I said. “But I had a brain tumor removed a few months back and I guess I’m not all the way back up to speed.”
“You stopped your walk to have a brain tumor removed, then came back out?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “You’re a manly man.” We drove a minute in silence, then he said, “See any gators on the highway?”
“No. Do they ever come out that far?”
He smiled. “Oh, they’re there. People usually just mistake them for old tires.”
I had actually wondered why so many people had thrown out their tires along this stretch of road. I realized I had probably walked by more than a dozen of them without even knowing it.
“Do you know where alligators got their name?”
I shook my head. “Never thought about it.”
“The first explorers in Florida, the Spaniards, called them El Lagarto. Sounds like al-li-gator.
Lagarto
means ‘lizard’ in Spanish.”
“Big lizards,” I said.
“I’ve seen plenty of big ones,” he said. “You have to just assume that any body of water around here has a gator in it. Had a real tragedy a couple years back, a mother left her four-year-old son on a picnic blanket while she ran just ten yards to get something out of the car. She wasn’t gone thirty seconds, but when she turned around, all she saw was her son missin’ and the tail of the gator goin’ into the water.”
“That’s horrific,” I said.
“Extremely horrific,” he said.
We drove for what seemed several miles, farther than he said his place was, but then, at the first available turnaround, he pulled a U-turn and headed back a mile or so before turning east off the highway. We drove up a forest-lined dirt road for about a quarter mile before we reached his property, crossing two creeks over wooden bridges made with railroad ties.
An eight-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with barbwire surrounded his place and the opening gate was locked and chained. It reminded me a little of the AhnEl cult’s compound, though much humbler and not nearly as orderly or clean.
At the entrance, Dustin pulled a large ring of keys from his ignition, then got out of the truck, unlocked the padlock, then unwound the chain that held the gates together. He dragged open the gate and we drove inside.
The home was maybe 1,500 square feet and had barred windows and concrete walls with a forest green corrugated tin roof that had been enhanced with flourishes of spray-painted camouflage. Connected to the home was a propane tank covered with a steel grate.
Partially visible near the back of the house was a wooden storage shed and to the side of the house was an eighteen-foot-high carport, which covered two ATVs and an older model twenty-six foot Winnebago RV. There was also a Fleetwood camping trailer.
The place looked a little like an automobile graveyard, with an assortment of vehicles scattered around the yard. In addition to the RVs, there were two and a half trucks in disrepair, an old station wagon up on blocks and an aged
yellow Caterpillar wheel-loader tractor that looked powerful enough to clear forests.
He parked the truck next to the house and we climbed out.
“You can stay in the Winnebago over here,” he said, nodding toward the RV. “It’s the most comfortable.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I grabbed my pack and we walked over to the trailer. He again took out the massive ring of keys and opened the door. We both went inside.
“The big bed’s just at the end of the hall. You can use the toilet if you want. I’ll turn the pump on.”
“This looks really comfortable,” I said.
“Better than sleeping with the gators,” he said.
I lay my pack down on a bench in the kitchen.
“Have you had dinner?” Dustin asked.
“No, not yet.”
“You carryin’ it in your pack?”
I nodded. “As usual.”
“I’m makin’ stew. It’s been in the Crock-Pot all day. You can join me if you like.”
“That sounds better than anything in my pack. I’m pretty hungry.”
“Let’s eat.”
I followed him back out of the RV. The sun was beginning to set and the yard was already obscured with shadow. “Come into the house.”
I followed him inside. His front door was thick metal with two deadbolts and set in a metal frame.
“How long have you lived back here?” I asked.
“Five years. It’s my ark.”
“Ark?”
“Like Noah,” he said. “When the rains come, I’ll be ready.”
I walked into the front room. Dustin was clearly a hoarder, and all the countertops, shelves and chairs were piled high with clutter.
Against the one windowless wall was an ancient console television. On top of it was a ham radio and a 12-gauge shotgun shell press filled with buckshot. On the carpeted floor below it were tubes of black powder and empty casings.
On the other side of the console were several framed pictures—one a family portrait with a younger Dustin standing next to a woman and a teenage boy and girl. The other two pictures were of the same woman, though in one of the pictures she looked twenty years younger than the other.
“Is this your family?” I asked.
I noticed his expression fall a little. “Yeah. Just a minute.” He walked out of the room, returning a few minutes later carrying a loaf of white bread. Then he took two bowls from a cupboard above the stove. He set them on the counter next to the Crock-Pot and dished out two heaping ladles of stew into each. He carried them over to an oblong wood dining table, which divided the front room from the kitchen.
“Supper’s ready,” he said.
I walked over and sat down while he grabbed some spoons, two blue enamel cups and the bread. He sat back down, tore off the end of the loaf and handed it to me with my bowl.
“The stew’s hot,” he said.
I lifted a spoonful, blowing on it before putting it in my mouth. It was surprisingly good.
“You’re a chef,” I said. “What kind of meat is this?”
“Venison. I know it don’t taste like it, that’s because I let it stew all day. Takes the gaminess out of it.”
He took a piece of bread and scooped up some of the stew. “With that brain tumor did you have to go on chemo or anythin’?”
“No. It was benign. And they were able to cut it all out.”
“You’re lucky,” he said.
“I am.”
When I finished the bowl, he asked if I wanted more.
“Please,” I said. “If there’s enough.”
“I made plenty,” he said. “I usually make enough for three or four days. It freezes well.”
As I finished my second bowl, Dustin said, “I suppose walkin’ like you do, you can eat a lot.”
“That’s true. I figure I burn five-to-six thousand calories a day.”
He nodded. “Want more?”
“No. Two bowls is plenty. It’s good, though. Thank you.”
“Glad you liked it.” He reached across the table and took my bowl, then grabbed his own and carried them to the sink. He came back a minute later and tossed a couple packages of Twinkies on the table. “Like Twinkies?” he asked.
“Who doesn’t?”
“They last forever,” he said.
The Twinkie actually looked good. As I tore back the cellophane wrapper, he stooped down into a cupboard and brought out a large jug filled with a clear liquid.
“You drink?” he asked.
“On occasion,” I said.
“I’ve got a still out back, makes some of the best rotgut in these parts. Pour you a swig?”
“Sure,” I said. I had always wondered what moonshine tasted like.
He poured the two cups halfway. He took a short drink, then looked at me, waiting for me to follow. Ignoring the smell, I took a drink. It was like swallowing rubbing alcohol and burned my throat. I gagged, then coughed loudly, which made Dustin laugh.
“Got a little kick to it,” he said.
“Shotguns have less kick,” I said. “Are you sure that’s not turpentine?”
My question pleased him. “Oh it’s moonshine all right,” he said. “Made from corn mash. Distilled it myself. Not for the faint of heart.”
“I guess I’m fainter of heart than I realized.” I tried a little more, but it wasn’t for me. With a condescending look he reached across the table and took my cup and downed it. He didn’t cough, but his face turned red.
“It’s an acquired taste,” I said.
“Not for the faint of heart,” he said again. A minute later he asked, “Why are you walkin’? You’re not runnin’ from the law, are you?”
“With all the guns you have around here, do you think I’d tell you if I was?”
He laughed. “Not if you’re smart.”
“No, I didn’t do anything criminal. I started walking because my wife died.”
His countenance immediately changed. “I’m sorry. How’d you lose her?”
“She was in a horse-riding accident. She broke her back.”
He shook his head empathetically, then breathed out slowly. “I lost my wife too,” he said.
“Is that her over there?” I said, pointing to the pictures on the console.
He nodded. “That’s Janean.” He looked down at his drink, then lifted it and took another swig. “You know what Janean means? It means ‘God is gracious.’ ” His eyes moistened and I could tell that the moonshine was taking effect. “He was gracious with her, at least. She was everythin’ a man could want.”