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Kentucky: Lessons Learned
June 4
Once you’ve walked from one to the other, you never look at a “Welcome to Our State” sign the same way again. I have never felt addressed so personally by a highway sign. I wonder if the person who punched out the “Welcome to Kentucky” sign took pride in his work. I hope so; I certainly do appreciate it.
Tonight I am nine miles across the West Virginia/Kentucky border. While taking a pit stop at a gas station, I met a minister’s wife who put me up here at the Knight’s Inn. She came back later with dinner: A tupperware full of hot homemade chili, saltines, and two chocolate snack cakes wrapped in aluminum foil for dessert. She also brought a big stack of religious pamphlets for me to read.
I asked her a question that’s crossed my mind recently: “What would I do if God suddenly appeared to me? My first thought: ‘No one would believe me! They’d probably think that I was just another fanatic.’ My second thought: ‘What if some of those people we consider fanatics have seen God. How could we know for sure?’”
I am definitely of the believe-it-when-I-see-it school of thought.
The minister’s wife replied immediately.
“Niki, I feel that same fear even as I stand here now and say that no matter how good a person you are, if you do not believe that ‘God so loved the world that he gave his only son’ – John 3:16 – then you will burn in hell when you die.”
I noted that she did NOT say that she’d seen God. I should have asked her how she could be so sure about hell.
This is a journey of discovery, so I am trying to keep an open mind. However, I find it impossible now to believe in a god that would punish its followers with everlasting pain if they have trouble believing in its existence.
Fifteen miles today. First impression of Kentucky: There are an unusual number of red cars and trucks here.
June 5
The good thing about hotel rooms: I get to sleep indoors, they’re sometimes (at least last night’s was) spotlessly clean, I can space out in front of the TV without worrying that I’m not entertaining my hosts enough, and I get to run around naked. The bad: They are so lonely. I can’t talk back to the Audrey Hepburn movie, and the front desk blocked all outgoing calls – even calling card calls – because some of the church's other charity cases ran up huge long distance bills.
I woke up at 6:45, but it’s raining outside so I’m sitting here transfixed by the moving pictures and sound of MTV. I’ll go as soon as the rain lets up, or at noon checkout time. I’m not feeling very motivated and I’ve got about fifteen miles to do today.

OK, what is the absolute last thing that you’d expect me to carry on this trip?
Rocks.
I’m no rock hound, but when I was a kid I did a lot of collecting. I collected mostly stamps, coins, and rocks – small tokens of foreign beauty. Now it seems I’ve started collecting again. I feel like an astronaut taking samples from other worlds: I found some shiny dark green rocks by the side of the road near Cedar Grove, West Virginia. On the railroad tracks recently I found some very lightweight pieces of silvery ore. In Charleston, a blue-streaked pebble caught my eye. In Kentucky so far, I’ve collected a few of these dark blue stones wrapped in gray.
It’s not just rocks I’m collecting, it’s memories. Those West Virginia rocks reminded me of Mom when I picked them up – they are her favorite shade of her favorite color. The day I picked them up on the way to Malden, I needed a little Mom to keep me going. The silvery ore reminds me of the tracks. I love railroad tracks, they’re nostalgic technology – one of the oldest forms of transportation and not much changed from their original form. Charleston’s blue pebble reminds me of that creep talking his blue streak, and reminds me to keep my distance should I encounter similar creeps. So far, Kentucky’s blue and gray stones are just pretty stones (blue is my favorite color) but I bet they’ll find their meaning.
Night: The Kentucky Christian College looked like a promising place to spend the night, so I followed the “Summer in the Son” banners to the auditorium. “Summer in the Son” is a three-week, 1,500-student event. It starts in three days.
The people in charge of the event were testing the sound system with Irish folk music. I couldn’t resist practicing the moves that I learned from a friend last St. Patrick’s day. When my host came around the corner and introduced himself, I was still dancing.
“So you need a place to stay, do you?” he said. “Well, you should know that this is a very conservative campus.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I don’t drink, smoke, or cuss.”
“Dancing isn’t allowed either,” he said. I laughed and kept jigging.
“No, really, there’s no dancing allowed here.”
I stopped, completely shocked. “You’re going to have fifteen hundred high school students here and there’s NO dancing allowed? What’s the music for then?”
“The music is for the kick-off presentation – it’s a slide show. This is a very conservative campus.” He gave me a copy of the event’s CD – a collection of bubbly Christian pop rock. I wondered if bobbing your head to the music was a lesser sin.
Despite his unfortunate stand on dancing, the guy was fairly amiable. He bought me a Blizzard at the Dairy Queen across the street and we discussed the dangers of telling a Christian that you’re Agnostic – they almost immediately try to convert you. I also learned that this and several surrounding counties are dry. Alcohol- and dance-free, this is no party town.
June 6
My second impression of Kentucky: There are a lot of hills here. Instead of flat, densely wooded spaces with the occasional mountain range of West Virginia, Kentucky is more open with consistently rolling hills. I’m not sure which I prefer.
In Walking, Thoreau says that he rejoices at the sight of domesticated animals “reassert[ing] their native rights.” I feel just the opposite. In the last two days, I’ve had to walk past many unrestrained dogs in yards without fences. Sometimes it’s just one dog barking for the neighborhood. A couple times, though, I’ve walked slowly by one big dog and looked back over my shoulder to discover that two or three other big dogs are standing shoulder to shoulder with the first dog. Just after the realization that the first dog might just have been waiting for the rest of his posse to attack and just before panic, I yell, “Stay!” Thank goodness for domestication because that command has worked so far.
While we’re at it, thank goodness for Goodness. I walked 16 miles today, to Olive Hills. A woman at the grocery store told me about a nearby shelter, but it was closed. Then, as I walked down the street in search of other possibilities, another woman ran up and asked if I she could help me in any way. She took me into her sister’s beauty salon to call some preachers – all of which she’d visited this week, it seemed – until she found one that would take care of me. Then her sister and her husband drove me to the local diner and bought me supper (I think it was supper – supper, dinner, lunch ... around here the names for mealtimes get confusing).
The Baptist pastor met the three of us at the church and gave me two ministerial passes – good for a free night at the local motel and breakfast at the diner. Apparently, all the churches in town contribute some of their donations to the ministerial pass fund. The fund is for people who have lost their homes in a fire or other tragedy or for travelers who get lost or stuck and don’t have enough cash to get them going again.
I can no longer call it luck. One of the things I am learning out here is how right I was to put my trust in the American people. Honestly, I never dreamed that I would encounter this much good will. As much as I protested when my well-meaning friends warned me about the people “out there” – well, it’s one thing to trust that the net exists, it’s quite another thing to jump for it.
June 7
Sunday morning: I woke up at 5:30 after zonking out early with a belly full of fried chicken and biscuits. Since I walked that part of the road yesterday, I hitched a ride into town with a couple and their granddaughter who were in the room next to mine. I used my pass to pile breakfast high on my plate at the buffet: Sausage, bacon, biscuits, jelly, spiced apples, cantaloupe, fried potatoes, and a big glass of whole milk and of orange juice to wash all that lovely grease down. Then I made the mistake of getting up to walk.
At 10:00, I began to think that I should’ve stayed at the diner to watch the CBS Sunday Morning story about me. That, or attended services at one of the churches that put me up for the night to thank them. Breakfast was not sitting well.
At 10:15, I was staring at the “Closed” sign on a gas station window. I dropped my pack and leaned against the locked bathroom door holding my stomach until I lost that huge breakfast in the weeds around back. Then I slumped down onto the concrete, propped me feet up against one of the pumps, and wondered if the toothless old man who’d stalked me all morning would show up.
A mile outside town, a rusty truck with a camper on the back pulled up ahead of me. A little old man with no teeth in his head jumped out and nodded hello.
“You look like you need to take a break,” he said.
I can’t explain how I knew that this wasn’t just a friendly offer, especially with all the other friendly offers I’ve been given recently. He didn’t say anything that even hinted at sexual prowling, but the way he looked at me was not platonic. He has stopped four times since then, each time offering me some snack or beverage if I’ll just step into the camper with him. If he stops again, I’ll tell him that he’s beginning to concern me.
Later: He did stop again, and he finally did proposition me.
“If I got you alone I might love you a little bit,” he said.
“You might try, but you would fail,” I said.
I stopped chatting with him then. He was tailing me by a block when I got into town. I headed straight for the police station. I told the officer who gave me a motel pass for the night what my toothless stalker looked like and his license plate number, which I’d memorized just in case. She ran his plates and came up with a few minor driving offenses. She said to call if he caused any more trouble.
He was waiting for me on a bench outside the station house door.
“How about I take you out for dinner at Long John Silver’s to make up for following you all day?”
Though he worded it as a conciliatory offer, he made it sound as if I owed him. I asked him if he had any daughters.
“Yes,” he said. “One. She’s a nurse at the hospital two towns away.” I was a little surprised to hear the same pride in his voice as any other not-so-creepy dad’s voice.
“How would you feel if someone like you were following your daughter?”
“Well, I guess she can make her own decisions,” he replied. He then lectured me on the dangers of walking alone as support for his argument that I should go with him for the night. His key statement: “There are people out there who won’t ask. I asked. I could’ve just grabbed you.”
“You could have tried, but you would have failed,” I said.
The motel is three miles north of town. Semis blasting past me at 60 mph, I plodded along the four-lane highway thinking, “I am walking because I am a good girl.”
A good girl doesn’t let lecherous old men buy her dinner or drive her to the local motel. I walked 20 miles today, not including the three that got me to this out-of-the-way motel. One good thing to about this location is that it’s across the street from a strip mall (now there’s a phrase I never thought I would write). I bought three more pairs of 88-cent nylon panties at the Walmart and a yogurt-and-bagel dinner at the Food Lion.
June 8
My second day off in the three weeks that I’ve been out, though I did have to walk the three miles from the hotel into town again. I did not raise my thumb even though they were gratuitous miles and it was in the middle of the day. I thought, “If someone trustworthy-looking offers, I’ll take it,” but asking for a ride felt like, well, asking for it. It takes an hour to walk three miles.
I did not want to chance running into another dirty old man. Does that mean that I haven’t learned enough about human kindness to test it yet, or is it just common sense? I got so angry at those people who said that America is full of perverts and bullies.
“If that’s so, which one are you?” I’d say.
Now I feel like I’m perpetuating that fearful attitude. Then again, the expression “Trust God, and cover your ass” is always good advice. When in doubt, I’ve got to trust my intuition.
I spent the first part of Thursday doing errands. I picked up the latest general delivery package from Nicole at the post office and spent a long time checking and writing e-mail on Morehead State University’s computers. Just as I finished, this blond, blue-eyed guy walked up and said “Hi, I’m Shawn.”
Physically and mentally exhausted from yesterday, in my road-worn shorts and T-shirt, it didn’t occur to me that he might be hitting on me until he continued chatting with me for the next ten minutes. I spent the rest of the day walking around town with him. He was every bit the small-town handsome boy (I should say “man” – he’s 26 but has the shy smile and puppy dog energy of a boy).
The talk eventually, as I knew it would once I’d gotten my available single girl mindset back, turned toward relationships – specifically, how far this one would go and how fast.
He said, “I always have been attracted to dark-haired, hazel-eyed girls.”
I can’t say I didn’t consider it. “It” being what Erica Jong called a “the zipless fuck”– a one-hour stand, a sexual encounter in which both parties are aware that it’s a one-shot deal and are so unconcerned with introductory gestures and self-conscious analysis that no zippers or buttons slow things up. Clothes slide off and bodies slide together seamlessly. The modern equivalent would be Gina Davis and Brad Pitt’s fling in “Thelma and Louis.” This guy did look an awful lot like Pitt ...
A fling – people have them all the time. The main thing keeping me from going through with it was the thought that if Shawn had been toothless and 40 years older I would’ve thought him just as creepy as yesterday’s suitor. Sure, the fact that he wasn’t stalking me may also have had something to do with it, but my readiness to condemned one and considered the other for having the same desire bugged me.
And what did I expect to get out of it? My mother’s only advice to me about sex was, “Don’t do it unless it’s fun.” I’m no virgin, but it’s precisely because of my experience level that I’ve learned that there’s more to sex than bodies moving, or should be if you’re doing it right. Even with a stranger, sex is an intimate thing. Did I really want to walk out of Morehead with more emotional baggage than I’d arrived with?
A friend of mine once opined that society messes with attractive women. They’re told that no matter how attractive they are, they can never be attractive enough. They’re urged to “share” their beauty in a way no man is ever urged to share his cash. Maybe I’m just getting skeptical, but sometimes I think I see sexual aggression in the most benevolent man’s eyes.
I left Shawn with a hug instead of a kiss or more – still a good girl, less sure of what that means. I know one thing, more baggage is the last thing I need right now.
June 9
In West Virginia, Royal Crown (RC) Cola reigns over all other colas – I saw signs for it everywhere I went. Kentucky’s drink of choice is Ale81.
The woman at the gas station who spent half an hour phoning places for me to stay tonight also introduced me to “the official soft-drink of Kentucky” (her words). The name is supposed to mean “a late one,” but everyone here calls it “Ale 8.” My feeling is that the odd-ball name may have contributed greatly to the fact that it’s sold only in Kentucky.
Ale81 tastes like something between cream soda and ginger ale. It comes in a uniquely designed green bottle that can be recycled for cash only in Kentucky. The catch is that Ale81 costs 55 cents a bottle while other sodas cost 50 cents.
I walked 21 miles today, eight of them in the pouring rain. Trudging stubbornly along from 8:15 - 11:15 AM, I realized how unsensible I was being, but still refused to take a break until I reached the second town down the line.
“Cotton kills” is a hiker’s rule that I came across several times while doing research for this trip. Cotton socks become soggy sandpaper when wet. People who hike up tall mountains with cotton T-shirts on, even under fleece overcoats, can put themselves at a serious risk of hypothermia when the cool air at the mountaintop hits their sweat-covered upper body. Wool is the only material that stays warm when wet. The eighteen dollars that I paid per pair of my Smartwool socks was worth every penny.
Still, unless it’s a wet bandanna wrapped around your neck on a hot day, it’s not good to wear any wet clothing for longer than necessary. The first shelter I came to was the Farmers’ Mercantile. I sat under the corrugated metal porch there to let my feet dry and had a conversation about “kids today” with a farmer just old enough to have such opinions. He introduced himself as the former owner of the place – he recently transferred ownership to his son-in-law – and invited me inside to warm up more thoroughly.
Of course, I ended up telling a few stories about how my walk is going so far. When it stopped raining for a moment, I pulled a dirty but dry pair of socks over my slightly less shriveled-looking toes and packed to go. I thanked the men for the shelter, and they insisted I take a beige Mercantile T-shirt with cowboy hats printed on it, “For when you get into cowboy country, and you will.”
Tonight I am staying in the transient’s apartment of the Catholic church in Owingsville, with dinner in my stomach and breakfast paid for, too. Between the Mercantile and Owingsville, I met two more postcard pals to add to my steadily growing list. The first was a man who looked too young to be the father of the two lively pre-teen girls running circles around him on his porch. When he heard what I was doing, he became almost as excitable as his girls. I worried momentarily that the ideas that my appearance had stirred in his head might mean that those girls would miss their father one day.
The second man I met on the road was a paralyzed Vietnam vet who pulled over to offer me a ride and stayed by the side to talk.
There are people who pull over who seem to feel that their good samaritanship should be rewarded somehow when I don’t take their offer. Very few of them are creepy, they usually just want the story that I would have given them if I had I taken their ride offer. The problem is that they don’t actually care what the story is, they’re just looking to break up a dreary drive. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but as a polite young woman and someone who truly appreciates the people whose intentions are well-meant, I often end up standing there in the heat and exhaust, pack straps digging into my shoulders more than usual, not wanting to take the pack off because it would encourage a longer chat. I may be taking my time on this journey, but I don’t have time for idle talk on a dusty, heat-soaked highway.
However, there are the people who really care – people with a child’s enthusiasm and an adult’s attention span. These are the people who might’ve joined me when I was asking every friend I had to do so months ago. Bernie was one of these people.
I took my pack off while talking to Bernie, we talked about everything from what it means to be a loner to the use of medicinal marijuana as I leaned against his old blue Buick.
“I swear,” he said, “if you’re willing to push me every so often, I’ll go home and pack right now. I could be ready to go in a couple of hours.”
That he could leave his life so easily, without needing to inform anyone, made me want to take him with me all the more, like Dorothy’s Tin Man. True, I pitied his physical handicap, but more than that, I admired his strength. Now when people tell me that they’d love to do something like my walk, “but ....” I’ll tell them that a paraplegic Vietnam vet came closest to actually joining me.
I saw the same wanderlust in those two men that I hope to slake in myself.
June 9
Though my high school hangout, the Tastee Diner in Fairfax, Virginia, will always be number one, DJ’s Buster Burger in Owingsville, Kentucky, definitely ranks among the finest diners I’ve ever set foot in. The high school girls who wait tables there are Norman Rockwell wholesome and the food is on the healthiest side of greasy that a greasy spoon can be – except for the milkshakes, which are deliciously decadent.
Today I proved that I have learned at least two lessons so far. This morning I had a big breakfast at DJ’s: oatmeal with brown sugar, OJ, milk, sausage, biscuit, toast with jelly, and hash browns. Then I sensibly went back to the church and napped for an hour before setting off at a moderate speed. Lesson #1: A full stomach needs rest.
Right now I am sitting in the Citgo gas station, four miles from my destination of Mt. Sterling, while a thunderstorm rages outside. I had just finished my half-hour of rest when it began to rumble and I did walk the 20 yards to the road in the warning sprinkles before I caught and turned myself around. It’s only 3:15; I have plenty of time. Lesson #2: Given a choice between walking though a storm and waiting it out someplace warm and dry, waiting is best.
Actually, I guess both lessons really point to slowing down. Sure, walking is about as slow as it gets, but I could be taking even more time to experience this journey more. No one is expecting me, nothing but the mileage between towns dictates how far I walk each day.
Actually, I think I’m striking a fine balance between speed and attention. Any slower and I’d risk losing steam. Any fast and I risk overexertion. As long as I pay attention to my body and desires, I’ll be fine. These are the things I am learning in my alternative education.
Later: It rained again as I neared Mt. Sterling. Wednesday is a big church-going night. I sat outside the Church of Christ (directly across from the Church of God) to wait for the people running the seven o’clock service to arrive so that I could inquire about sleeping arrangements.
The first person to arrive was an older woman in a shiny red Chevy truck. She introduced herself as Miss Satin Sheets, known throughout the U.S., “including the White House,” for her country-music singing and Minnie Pearl impersonations. Miss Sheets is also a deputy sheriff in Mt. Sterling. She told me some stories about handling loud-mouthed arrestees that made her sound more like a 200-pound bruiser than a 120-pound lady.
We exchanged addresses – hers for a postcard, mine for an autograph. She asked me to take down her address for her instead of her writing it out herself because, she explained, she had a “light stroke” last week and is still a bit shaky. She said, “If I’m alive tomorrow you’ll get that postcard, honey!” I have a good feeling that she will be. Unfortunately, a nervous parishioner herded me to the mission before I could see her perform.
After many nights alone, the oddball company of Mission guests is just what I needed. This Mission is in a decaying corner of town, but it is the brightest (yellow) building on the block. I was ushered to a kitchen table for chicken and dumplings with lemon pie for dessert and much wonderful, idle chatter among the Mission keeper’s family. Zachary, the 11 year-old son, followed me upstairs to the residents’ area to inventory my pack so that he can put his own together. He brought his neon orange school backpack up with him, and quickly decided that it would not be big enough.
Miss Satin Sheets isn’t the only presidential favoree I met today. I also met a Colonel Leonard West. As soon as he heard that I was writing a journal and hoped to turn it into a book, he said he had something to show me. He fetched several file folders’-worth of significant documents from a dilapidated suitcase: letters of commendation from Presidents Reagan, Bush, and Clinton; his four divorce agreements; a Mason’s certificate; and a slew of pictures of him in various service uniforms. The man knows some Very Important People. He told me that if I ever see Ollie North and Richard Seacort (North’s church is in my hometown of Fairfax, VA) to tell them that Captain Lenny “One-Step” says “Kiss my ass!” Then he growled. He growled a lot.
All of those papers very much impressed Mary, the slightly doting woman who is also a resident here. Every time Colonel West left the room, she commented on how “level-headed” he seems. She boasted that she will have the honor of being the Colonel’s escort to his son’s graduation from Ft. Wayne later this week. I was suitably impressed and more than suitably intimidated. I’ve never met such a man with so many commendations. Or at least, never one who showed them all to me.
June 11
Before I left this morning, the Colonel showed me yet another of his important person connections. Jimmy Flynt Junior, nephew of Larry Flynt, pornographer extraordinnaire, once bought a jacket off the Colonel that said Elect Larry for Sheriff. He was passing through Kentucky on his way to Larry’s trial in Chicago. Col. West solemnly wrote out the nephew’s address and cell phone number in West Beverly Hills for me, assuring me that the younger Flynt could be a powerful ally. He made sure that I got the zip code right – “90211, not 0.”
I’m at a motel in Winchester tonight, courtesy of Community Services and the Clark County Fire Department who let me use their phone to make the seven phone calls it took to find Community Services.
I hiked 17 miles today. There is a pool here at the motel, which was a pleasant but chilly surprise. Meeting sister and brother Shandra, 11, and Chekota, 3, was another pleasant surprise. Little Chekota spent most of the time trying to fall into the pool.
“He did fall in yesterday,” Shandra told me. She related in great detail the story of how she jumped in fully clothed and grabbed him just as he hit bottom.
“He came up laughing,” she said.
Once Shandra had ushered Chekota back to the room for Power Rangers (He protested, “I could miss it once.” “No, you can’t,” she commanded) we talked – Me waist deep, trying to get up the courage and body heat to swim a length, she with just her feet wet.
Shandra’s dad has been in construction since she was five. They drive all over the country, staying in places only a month or so before moving elsewhere. Because of this, Shandra has seen most of the United States. She stays with her mom in Mississippi during the school year and keeps a journal during her travels for extra credit. I asked which state is her favorite so far and she said, “Montana – there’s a lot to do there and it’s real green.”
We talked about our families and about the responsibilities of being the oldest. I hopped out of the still chilly water and we sat side by side for a moment, listening to the pool strainer slap open and closed. Then a woman called Shandra to dinner from one of the rooms.
Before she turned to go, Shandra looked at me carefully for a moment and said, “Sometimes I wish I had an older sister ... to talk to and stuff.”
I understood the compliment, and sympathized.
June 12
Walking through ankle-high grass is a lot like walking through ankle-high snow. I hiked 18 miles today, ninety percent of which was on shadeless, shoulderless road. Between having to stop and stand in the brush whenever a car passed and trudging through the grass, my top speed was about one-and-a-half miles an hour. I’m at the Salvation Army, just conscious enough to shower and put the sheets on the bed.
June 13
I decided to take a second day off this week even though I’ve only done 90 miles and my undeclared goal has been 100/week. Yesterday was so horrendous that I figure I deserve it.
I went to the Lexington Public Library to see if my friend back at the Kentucky Christian College had e-mailed me the name of his friend here but he hadn’t. Just as I was thinking that maybe that was a sign that I should move on, the librarian came over and asked if I’m the girl who is walking across the country.
She introduced herself as Mrs. Sally Miller and said, “Niki, I feel as though I met you last Sunday when I saw you on CBS Sunday Morning. If you don’t mind waiting until I get off of work, you’re welcome to stay at my house tonight.”
So I spent the day in the library browsing the Oversize Books section, scanning a couple of reference books on walking, and reading short stories from Bradbury’s Quicker Than the Eye. At noon, Sally took me across the street to the farmers’ market and then treated me to a wonderful lunch at the Mexican restaurant nearby.
I didn’t see much of Lexington, but I definitely got the most out of my afternoon at the library. At two, the Society for Creative Anachronism did a presentation in the children’s wing, where I learned a few medieval dances. Sally introduced me to some of her friends at the library, among them a university professor and regular library patron who biked across the U.S. in 1974.
Sally’s husband, Phillip, is the retired conductor of the University of Kentucky’s orchestra. We had pre-dinner cranberry spritzers and a dinner of summer salads on the front porch. Afterward, we drove to a nearby church to see him conduct the final show at the Advanced Orchestra kids summer camp that he's been teaching. Although I have to walk 22 miles tomorrow, I’ve got a place to stay in Frankfort (friends of people I met at the library) so we won’t set any alarm clocks. What a difference a day off makes.
June 14
It is 22 miles from Lexington to Frankfort; I walked 16 miles. The Millers live 6 miles outside Lexington, so I left from the scenic byway near their house. I can’t say that I feel particularly guilty about the cheat – after Morehead, let’s call it even.
Phil and Sally walked the first couple of miles with me. Phil marveled at the difference even between riding a bike down that road, as he sometimes does, and walking it. He pointed out the spring houses – waist-high shacks that cover fresh-water springs where people used to store their butter and milk before refrigeration. The twisty, thick-barked Wydott Oaks are what the Indians once used to make their bow-and-arrows. Sally pointed out a red-winged bluebird and a baby rabbit sitting five feet from us. Later, I startled a doe and her two spotted fawns and was able to snack on mulberries for lunch. Old Frankfurt Pike is a scenic byway if ever there was one.
I got to Frankfort around 5:30 and headed towards Kentucky State University to call the people Phil and Sally knew, the Griffeths. We’d tried to call this morning but the phone was on the fritz.
About two blocks from the University, a white Mercedes pulled over and the couple inside asked if I needed a ride. The woman’s friendly German accent made it hard to resist, but I explained that I was only going two blocks. When they said that’d be fine, I accepted their offer. They introduced themselves as Mr. & Mrs. Richards, and after hearing what I was doing, offered to help any way they could. I said I just needed to call a ... glanced at the slip of paper Sally gave me ... Patricia Griffeth.
“Pat!” said the woman. “We know her, she lives right down here.”
They turned down the first block. “You would have walked right by their house!” said the man. Mrs. Richards ran inside to announce my arrival while Mr. Richards and I discussed the wonder of Fate.
Well, the Millers apparently hadn’t gotten in touch with the Griffeths, but Ben and Patricia welcomed me in anyway, with assurances from the Richardses that I could stay with them if need be. That's how I arrived in Frankfort.
Patricia explained that their schedule this evening was a little hectic – she hoped I didn’t mind tagging along to a hymn sing and a birthday party. Also, the two daughters, 14 year-old Treva and 11 year-old Carrie, were out wandering the neighborhood somewhere and needed to be found before anything could happen.
I’ve gotten pretty good at going with the flow, and the Griffeths are seasoned pros at it. Patricia threw a huge super-healthy dinner together (wheat-germ and herb-coated chicken, cantaloupe slices, wheat bread, and Swiss chard) and the girls arrived right on time for it. The girls and I got along really well; they paid me the ultimate compliment – “When I grow up I’m going to walk across the country, too!” When they found out that I was going to the hymn sing, they decided to go along too.
So I went to my first ever Baptist hymn sing (or any hymn sing, for that matter). Nervous as I was, the girls kept assuring me that my voice sounded great. The church ladies fawned over me and said several prayers for my safety.
At the birthday party, everyone gathered around the television with their birthday cake. We watched the remainder of what turned out to be the last game in the NBA Championship (Bulls won over Jazz – surprise, surprise). Patricia is a rabid basketball fan, though she seems somewhat regretful of that fact. I didn’t get set up on my bed – a foam mattress with quilt cover on the living room floor – until midnight.
Is this trip going to be one long friendly tale? I don’t think so. Honestly, though, I think part of me expected this to be harder and scarier than it has been. I was kind of looking forward to overcoming more obstacles.
I’m not saying that walking across the country is easy. I spend my days on the road exposed to any number of possible baddies; that number just isn’t as high as anyone guessed. Let me be grateful instead of questioning this goodness. I’d rather be grateful than worried any day.
June 15
I walked every inch of the twenty-two miles to Shelbyville, and then four miles more to the family that the Griffeths contacted for me. It rained five times and I broke my rule about not walking after dark, but I was averaging about 3.5 miles per hour and didn’t get wetter than damp. I think I’m getting the hang of this.
Bonnie, Whitey, and their eighteen year-old son Adriel Gray are some of the sweetest people I’ve met yet. I felt guilty for not being a more entertaining guest – I could barely stay awake to eat the fried chicken and mashed potatoes that Whitey reheated for me.
Bonnie told me to make myself at home and let me in on an old family belief: As a guest, you get to make a wish the first night you spend in someone’s home. My wish is to spend another night here. I have to wait for a package that Steve and Nicole are sending with my Indiana map anyway. I’m going to spend tomorrow sightseeing Louisville with Adriel and his visiting Uncle Paul and Aunt Jeannie.
June 16
This morning I was reintroduced to eggs. My mother claims that I loved them as an infant, but there some foods that I haven’t tried since then because at some point in my childhood I decided that I would never like them. Before this trip, two of those foods were squash and eggs. I tried squash for the first time at that fantastic dinner in Richwood, West Virginia, and loved it. This morning, Whitey made this perfect country breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and potatoes and I didn’t think twice about eating all of it. Of course, the company (and the massive appetite) had a lot to do with it both times. As trivial as this discovery seems, I appreciate all the discoveries I’m making on this trip – even the small ones.
Whitey is a self-proclaimed local legend for his eccentric ways. He entertained me with the story of his name while he fried the potatoes: “Mom had nine kids. Me and my twin brother were the last, and the only ones born in a hospital. Dad didn’t know what to name us (they weren’t expecting twins) but I had snow white hair and my brother’s was coal black, so he put ‘Whitey’ and ‘Blackie’ on the birth certificate, and they stuck.”
Whitey also introduced me to Corey, “the world’s smartest dog” – a little terrier who does tricks correctly ONLY when there’s a reward forthcoming.
I found Bonnie pacing in the living room. She said, “I’ve been up all night thinking about you, Niki. I’ve decided that I’m going to help you in any way I can.”
Bonnie has two major connections – she works for the local newspaper and she’s a member of the United Methodist church. She says that she’s going to get in touch with every newspaper and United Methodist church on my route so that I’ll never need to look for a place to stay again. I don’t know if she can pull it off, but if she can she’ll be my personal saint. Sleeping in a bed beats sleeping on the side of the road any day.
Bonnie asked me about the people I’ve met and we began talking about the ever-present “six degrees of separation.” I mentioned my new status – two degrees from Clinton and Flynt. She topped that by mentioning that her cousin is Dennis Hopper! She showed me pictures of the family reunion – picnic tables, potato salad, grandmothers dressed in pastel finery, and Hopper smiling grimly among them.
“I’m a terrible driver,” Adriel admitted and proudly told horror stories about his driving as he drove me around town. I told him how, when I was sixteen, a friend told me that nine out of ten drivers get into an accident their first year of driving. I immediately decided that I’d be the one in ten. Instead, I got into four wrecks my first year of driving. Adriel’s got me beat by three.
All the ladies at the paper were impressed with my Farmer’s Mercantile T-shirt. Bonnie, immediately good to her word, started making the first calls as we were walking back out the door. As we stepped back into the street, Adriel offered me his arm, “I am pleased to be escorting a celebrity such as yourself for the day,” he said. Next stop: Grandmother Burks and her amazing collection of collections.
Grandma Burks’s garden is overflowing with herbs and flowers. Bird cages line her sun room from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. Every other room in her house bursts with antiques and uniques. Moving aside some photo albums to clear a chair for me, she said, “I don’t dust; I blow.”
She found us seats among the plush clutter and told me that she’d seen me on CBS Sunday Morning. She asked me to sign her guest book, which I did gladly, right below Margery Hopper - Dennis’ mom.
From Grandma Burk’s we went to pick up Adriel’s cousins, then drove out to Adriel’s older sister Leda’s farm. Leda and her husband, Pat, have several hundred acres where they raise cows and chickens. Easter chickens – they lay blue, pink and green eggs!
That’s not all the odd animals they have, though. They’ve also got a rabbit whose teeth grow so fast that Pat has to file them down and a deaf kitten whose equilibrium is so off that its head wobbles when it walks. I carried it around in my shirt as we toured the chicken coop. Then Leda joined our merry band and we headed to Louisville.
We had lunch at Lynn’s Paradise Cafe, with cast-concrete animals in the parking lot, corn mosaics on the walls, and an Easter Egg tree in the middle of the room – to name just a few of the oddities that make the place rank in the top ten best-decorated restaurants I’ve ever visited. Then we hit Adriel Land, a.k.a. Bardstown Rd, where every other store is a music store. We went to all of them. Finally, we stopped by the landmark three-and-a-half-story tall Louisville Slugger and admired the glass company next door for their equally giant three-dimensional sign: a baseball half-way through a plate glass window.
June 17
Byron Crawford, a reporter from the Louisville Courier-Journal, joined us for breakfast this morning to interview me. Again, Whitey set out quite a spread – biscuits, sausage with gravy, cantaloupe, and orange slices. He lined up every jelly in the house on the table and put a spoon on top of each closed lid, which made Byron and me giggle.
After interviewing me, Byron asked Bonnie to talk about her decision to help me. She looked at me and suddenly got all teary-eyed. Wiping her eyes, she explained, “I do this at aspirin commercials.”
I couldn’t help feeling a bit overwhelmed myself. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to all this good will.
Onward and forward. I left the Gray home with a list of places to stay in Indiana and the CD player that Adriel insisted I take. I protested that it was too kind of him and too heavy for me to add to my pack, but he'd been pained to hear that I had no “soundtrack.” He insisted, and threw in the R.L. Burnside disc that I’d liked so much. We spent a good hour listening to CDs yesterday.
It’s 26 miles to Louisville. I walked six miles of it before it occurred to me that Byron works in Louisville and that there I was carrying my 50 lb. pack all that way. The purpose of the walk is not to break my back. I stopped at the post office and asked to use their phone. The lady working there turned out to know Byron. When I asked him the favor he said, “Of course! I was going to make the offer this morning but I thought maybe you’d take it as an insult to your endurance abilities.”
I did not walk the rest of the way to Louisville – I flew! I could’ve run the whole way. Every so often, I did a little jump-jig just to test my weightlessness.
Three miles further down the road a man who’d stopped to chat me up just outside Charleston pulled over again. He’d suggested a different route for me then; now he jumped out of his truck, and shouted, “I told you – the ridges!” Then he shook my hand, jumped back in his truck, and was off before I could fully comprehend his gnomish appearance.
At the eastern edge of Louisville I came across an Outback Steakhouse. It’s one of me and my sister’s favorite restaurants, and her birthday present to me this year was a gift certificate there. I saved it for just such an occasion. I happily sat, swinging my feet from the high booth seat, and entertained the wait staff with stories they didn’t believe while I downed a deep-fried onion and a slab of ribs.
Cindy Stuckey, a photo journalist for the Louisville Courier-Journal, volunteered to take me home with her for the night. She’s got a big ranch house packed full of cats and interns. They call her “Ma Stuckey” – the interns, not the cats. She’s also got a hot tub, for which I called her “Saint Stuckey.”

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