South of the Mason-Dixon line, barbecue restaurants are as plentiful as deviled eggs at a church picnic. In the same vein that the state of Washington prides itself on the creative naming of coffee shops, the South holds the t.i.tling of barbecue joints in high regard. I dedicated a page in my journal to writing down some of their names.

Fat Matt's

Kiss My Ribs

Squat and Gobble

Swett's

Bubba's

Porkpies

Birds, b.u.t.ts and Bones

The Boneyard

The Bonelicker

Barbecutie

b.u.t.ts

Bubbalous Bodacious Barbeque

Dixie Pig

Bone Daddy

Prissy Polly's

Pig Pickins Parlor

The Boars' b.u.t.ts

The Prancing Pig

Holy Smokes (A bbq joint in a converted Lutheran church)

Sticky Lips

Adam's Rib

The Rib Cage

The b.u.t.t Rub

The Pig Out Inn

Hog Wild

Half Porked

Lord of the Swine

Big D's Piggy Strut

The Swinery

Some of the restaurants' slogans were noteworthy as well.

"We shall sell no swine before its time."

"A waist is a terrible thing to mind."

"No pig left behind."

After a lunch of chopped brisket, collard greens and cheesy mashed potatoes, I returned to the interstate. I disliked walking such a busy road. The draft created by semis traveling at seventy-plus miles per hour would hit my pack like wind against a schooner's sail and almost knock me over. Twice I lost my Akubra hat, chasing it across more than one lane of traffic. Still, I made decent time and after twenty-six miles I took exit 8 off 61 and walked to the Deerfield Inn. For dinner I ate a meatball sandwich and a tuna salad at the local Subway restaurant.

CHAPTER Twenty-four

Missouri calls itself the "Show Me" state. I'm not sure if they're claiming skepticism or voyeurism.

Alan Christoffersen's diary

The next morning I reached the town of Steele in less than an hour. Running parallel to the road was a slow-moving train, and I saw several men clambering onto the outside of one of the cars. The scene reminded me of Israel, the hitchhiker I had met outside Marceline, Missouri, which now seemed like a decade ago. It was hard to believe that after all these months I was still in the same state. But not for much longer. Just before noon I saw a small arch spanning the road in front of me. As I approached, I could see that it had the word ARKANSAS written across it.

A hundred yards from the border, I pa.s.sed a dilapidated white house with a plaque in front of it. I stopped to read it.

EDGAR HAROLD LLOYD

MEDAL OF HONOR RECIPIENT FROM WWII

It was a poor monument, but a monument just the same, and the fact that a hero came from such an una.s.suming locale made me glad.

Like my transcendent experience of crossing from Wyoming to South Dakota, shortly after crossing the Arkansas state line, the landscape and architecture improved and soon I was walking past country club estates with beautiful manicured lawns and minicolonial mansions. I stopped for lunch in the town of Blytheville, where I ate southern fried chicken.

Unfortunately, not far past the restaurant, the scenery changed from beautiful mini-mansions to p.a.w.nshops and boarded-up buildings, making me think the place was only Blytheville for some. I walked another five miles and spent the night at the Best Western Blytheville Inn. That evening I turned on my cell phone to check for messages. No one had called.

CHAPTER Twenty-five

To challenge the rules of conventionality is to open ourselves to an entirely new universe. One cannot pioneer new worlds from old trails.