Why Do Hawaiians Love Spam?

June 2: My last full day in West Virginia was a bit of a grind. The I-pod is malfunctioning and I'm almost done with my book, so entertainment options were limited. I sung the theme to "Gilligan's Island" with my echo as a backup singer while passing under Eaton Tunnel, but that was a one-off thing.
Finding water was the biggest challenge of the day. I expected to refill early in the morning at Petroleum, but the campsite had none and the microscopic town was deserted. This half of the North Bend Rail Trail is sparsely populated, so my next chance didn't come until Walker eight miles away. By then my bottles were almost depleted and I went into the Post Office hoping to meet a kind soul.
I was in luck. Inside I met Dave, who gladly filled me up and started a conversation. We chatted for over an hour about life philosophy and baseball. He had played high school ball with former Cub Steve Swisher and his son had started along side Steve's boy Nick, who is now with the New York Yankees.
I left Dave around one and dined on some hiker haute cuisine: Slim Jims, M&Ms, and raisins. I cleaned my face with a moist towelette and tipped the valet, then proceeded west.
Around mile six the Kanawaha River appeared on my left. The region where West Virginia now lies has gone under some other aliases throughout history. A border dispute between the colonies of Pennsylvania and Virginia almost ended with the creation of a 14th colony: Westsylvania. Had Westsylvania come into being "Blacula 2" would have been a much more believable movie.
Eighty years later the mountaineers were up in arms about their state's (Virginia) secession from the Union. They broke away and rejoined the Union. There was one question: what to call themselves. Kanawha was strongly considered. The origin of the word is up for debate - most think "white stone," although in the Catawba language it means "big brother." A small minority believe "spam is composed of what now exactly?" to be the correct answer.
As we know, Kanawha lost the Homecoming King crown of history and the state became known as West Virginia, the last to join the United States east of the Mississippi River.
I settled down for the evening next to the Kanawha at a private campground thanks to Bill, who let me stay on his property there. Bill also let me use his shower, so I am dolled up and ready to insert myself back into urban life tomorrow.
With eighteen miles down the drain I reached 530 in total. There are only three miles left on the NBRT and an equal distance in and around Parkersburg between me and Ohio.

18 miles/530 total miles

I Know I'm Not Exactly Danica Patrick...

Still tired from the heat of the day before, I got a late start, not departing Pennsboro til nine. At the old Pennsboro depot I learned the railroad had run here from 1881 to 1983. The P and H, where I had eaten the night before stood for Pennsboro and Harrisville, the local line. The rails were gone from this part of West Virginia, but not forgotten. The diner I visited later in Cairo was dominated by pictures of trains - their railroad roots went back all the way to 1856, when the area was still part of Virginia.
The train may no longer be running, but at least the trail in this section had not been abandoned. The Ritchie County portion of the NBRT is much better manicured. The grass is well-shaven, rather than the scraggly beard growing on parts of the eastern end. Picnic benches stand in the shade every couple of miles, providing ample opportunity to rest.
Four tunnels on the day helped to keep me cool. Dick Bias was my favorite of the four for obvious reasons, but Silver Run has the most interesting story. The tunnel is supposed to be haunted by a woman who was struck by the train there while on the way to her betrothal. She is said by those who have seen her to still be wearing her wedding dress. I was glad not to run into her - you know how women get about weddings - she's probably still in a bad mood.
The North Fork of the Hughes River was also a feature of my day. I crossed the body of water several times as it plotted an ess-shaped course thru the hills. I seem to write about tunnels and water a lot lately. If I can squeeze in obelisks somewhere we will have ourselves a Henry James novel.
I stopped for the day just short of Petroleum, past the 21 mile marker. I have now achieved 512 total miles. When I met the Appalachian Trail hikers back at Harper's Ferry they asked me if I had a trail name. I said I don't and I wouldn't take one until I had done five hundred miles and proved myself to be serious.
That benchmark has been surpassed so I now dub myself "Mac Truck." I'm slow, I carry a heavy load, but I always get to my destination. Also, being of Scottish descent I am already a Mac. In addition, my uncle and cousin were long distance truck drivers.
Thanks to those of you who have helped me get there with your recent sponsorships and donations:

Paul and Sharon Weekley
Daniel and Maria Walls
Robert Smith
the Staff at the Medallion, especially Maria
Tim and Fritz
Lee Martin
Judy Glover

Escape From Newark

May 30: I rose around seven to the tap of Paul's knuckles on my bedroom door. I shook loose the cobwebs, packed up, and headed down to the kitchen, where Sharon had prepared some french toast with a dash of cinnamon and some crispy bacon, which I devoured like a ravenous beast, but politely of course - slobbering and belching were kept to an absolute minimum.
Paul had some fences to put up on their three hundred acre property and they had relatives coming to visit in just a few short hours so Sharon drove me back to the metropolis of Bristol. We parted company all too soon, but not before Sharon told me there had been a bad chemical spill just a couple years ago in the very spot where I would start the day's jaunt. I rubbed some of the grass on my face in hopes I would be endowed with some Incredible Hulk-like powers. Not the power to rip shirts though, I don't have a lot of extras.
By 9:30 I hit the town of Salem. Not the one with the vampires or the one with the witch trials. No, this particular Salem was settled in the late 1700s by a group escaping from the horrors of New Jersey. The impending future of burnt out factories and "Jersey Shore" were apparent even then.
Today you can visit Salem's Fort, a model village where you can see what daily life was like for a nineteenth century Mountaineer. One of the cabins on display there was once Paul's father's home during the Great Depression. The structure looks old enough to be from the early century, but in reality was built in 1933.
Salem's other claim to fame is the Jennings Richardson house. Jennings was one of the seventeen thousand men to serve in the US Senate along side Robert Byrd during the eight million years the elder statesmen spent on Capitol Hill.
Once past Salem the path deteriorated at times and I was forced to wade through grass reaching belt high. I now wear a classy rope belt most of the time as my pants don't fit me anymore.
Buckeye Creek meandered to the left, then the right, then back again, constantly reminding me how close, yet how far the next state is. I better make fun of Jim Tressel while I can.
The heat was oppressive today, my first day over ninety degrees. Tomorrow looks to be even worse.
I finished up at the park in Smithburg around two, with the next good place to stop fifteen miles away and out of reach. I visited the plaque in front of the old Smithton (the town's old name)railroad depot commemorating the twenty two lives lost in the flood of 1950.
The late afternoon was spent twiddling my thumbs and trimming my nose hair, until sundown when I got a surprise visit from Sharon. She had brought me dinner - a porterhouse steak, peppers, onions, potatoes, green beans, salad, and red velvet cake. I was also honored to meet her three sisters and we talked for a while as the light faded. Her sisters also made a contribution to the Wounded Warrior Project - the perfect end to Memorial Day weekend.

Happy Memorial Day! Please don't forget why I am on the road sweating my butt off every day - remember those who been hurt for our country, regardless of our politics we should always look after those who have been severely injured. Contribute to the Wounded Warrior Project today!

12 miles/464 total miles

Michael Landon vs. Angus Young

May 29: The highway is the best way to get where you are going in a hurry, right? The same truth applies to hikers. I needed to chop a few miles off the top to get to Paul and Sharon's territory before they are swamped by an incoming pack of relatives.
In order to make that happen we collaborated on a plan which sent me onto Highway 50 for eleven miles, through the heart of Clarksburg and beyond.
The first couple of miles were simple, with a large shoulder to ease my mind a bit. As I hit downtown Clarksburg my safety net shrunk and I was much closer to cars going seventy five miles an hour than I would like to be. Luckily the nerves did result in an adrenaline rush and I came as close to running as someone hidden under a backpack looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame can manage.
The dangerous bit passed quickly and I was soon enjoying the company of my good friend the shoulder. Pancaked along much of the walking surface were various forms of roadkill. I'm not going to miss the putrid rotting stench of animal corpses once I get back into the country and away from busy roads. For some reason I enjoy the odor of honeysuckle just a touch more.
Shortly after the noon hour I was relieved to see the road sign that meant my freedom: Wolf Summit. Here I departed the highway and entered the much-anticipated North Bend Rail Trail. A former Baltimore and Ohio rail bed has been turned into a trail stretching from Wolf Summit to Parkersburg, seventy one miles away.
Only four miles down the path was my rendezvous point with Sharon and Paul. I reveled in the quiet space, away from the screaming engines of trucks and automobiles. In two miles I reached the first railroad tunnel. The cool breeze emanating from within was delightful amid the mid-day heat. Strangely, I seem to have misplaced my flashlight, so traveling through the one thousand foot plus tunnel was somewhat challenging in the middle section. I made it through without falling on my rear yet again and met up with Sharon and Paul in Bristol (good luck trying to find that speck on any map).
On the ride to their house the couple showed me a library just off trail as well as a route to one of the gas stations next to the NBRT. They also regaled me with tales about the 1950 flood, which devastated Smithburg, resulting in numerous fatalities. The covered bridge there was also destroyed and swept downstream where it acted as a dam until the remnants were removed.
We arrived in their beautiful home and I almost fell asleep the moment I entered the guest bedroom and lay on the comfortable mattress. I have to stay strong though, Sharon is cooking spareribs and I am pretty excited about eating them.
Paul raises cattle for beef and Sharon is a retired middle school math teacher who still helps out with some of the math programs from time-to-time. I'm going to have to leave now, I can smell those spareribs - clearly I have better things to do than to talk to you.

P.S.: Sharon prepared a veritable Noah's Ark of food: sweet potatoes, salad with greens from their garden, spareribs, pasta salad, watermelon, applesauce, German chocolate cake, potatoes...I think you get the idea. All of it was a treat for my tongue. After the feast they took me out to a couple places of historical interest I will be visiting - I will brief you upon what I learned as the trail takes me to those spots in the coming days.
Miles today: 17, for a total of 452.