Hailed as a masterpiece of American travel writing, Blue Highways is an unforgettable journey along our nation's backroads. William Least Heat-Moon set out with little more than the need to put home behind him and a sense of curiosity about "those little towns that get on the map -- if they get on at all -- only because some cartographer has a blank space to fill: Remote, Oregon; Simplicity, Virginia; New Freedom, Pennsylvania; New Hope, Tennessee; Why, Arizona; Whynot, Mississippi." His adventures, his discoveries, and his recollections of the extraordinary people he encountered along the way amount to a revelation of the true American experience. William Least Heat-Moon is the author of the bestselling classics Roads to Quoz , Blue Highways, River Horse, and PrairyEarth. He lives in Columbia, Missouri. Blue Highways A Journey into America By William Least Heat-Moon, Bill McKibben Little, Brown and Company Copyright © 1999 William Least Heat-Moon Bill McKibben All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-316-35329-8 CHAPTER 1 Eastward 1 Beware thoughts that come in the night. They aren't turned properly; they comein askew, free of sense and restriction, deriving from the most remote ofsources. Take the idea of February 17, a day of canceled expectations, the day Ilearned my job teaching English was finished because of declining enrollment atthe college, the day I called my wife from whom I'd been separated for ninemonths to give her the news, the day she let slip about her "friend"—Rickor Dick or Chick. Something like that. That morning, before all the news started hitting the fan, Eddie Short Leaf, whoworked a bottomland section of the Missouri River and plowed snow off campussidewalks, told me if the deep cold didn't break soon the trees would freezestraight through and explode. Indeed. That night, as I lay wondering whether I would get sleep or explosion, I got theidea instead. A man who couldn't make things go right could at least go. Hecould quit trying to get out of the way of life. Chuck routine. Live the realjeopardy of circumstance. It was a question of dignity. The result: on March 19, the last night of winter, I again lay awake in thetangled bed, this time doubting the madness of just walking out on things,doubting the whole plan that would begin at daybreak—to set out on a long(equivalent to half the circumference of the earth), circular trip over the backroads of the United States. Following a circle would give a purpose—tocome around again—where taking a straight line would not. And I was goingto do it by living out of the back end of a truck. But how to begin a beginning? A strange sound interrupted my tossing. I went to the window, the cold airagainst my eyes. At first I saw only starlight. Then they were there. Up in theMarch blackness, two entwined skeins of snow and blue geese honking north, anundulating W-shaped configuration across the deep sky, white bellies glowingeerily with the reflected light from town, necks stretched northward. Thenanother flock pulled by who knows what out of the south to breed and remakeitself. A new season. Answer: begin by following spring as theydid—darkly, with neck stuck out. 2 The vernal equinox came on gray and quiet, a curiously still morning not winterand not spring, as if the cycle paused. Because things go their own way, mydaybreak departure turned to a morning departure, then to an afternoondeparture. Finally, I climbed into the van, rolled down the window, looked alast time at the rented apartment. From a dead elm sparrow hawks used each yearcame a high whee as the nestlings squealed for more grub. I started theengine. When I returned a season from now—if I did return—thosesquabs would be gone from the nest. Accompanied only by a small, gray spider crawling the dashboard (kill a spiderand it will rain), I drove into the street, around the corner, through theintersection, over the bridge, onto the highway. I was heading toward thoselittle towns that get on the map—if they get on at all—only becausesome cartographer has a blank space to fill: Remote, Oregon; Simplicity,Virginia; New Freedom, Pennsylvania; New Hope, Tennessee; Why, Arizona; Whynot,Mississippi. Igo, California (just down the road from Ono), here I come. 3 A pledge: I give this chapter to myself. When done with it, I will shut up about that topic. Call me Least Heat-Moon. My father calls himself Heat-Moon, my elder brotherLittle Heat-Moon. I, coming last, am therefore Least. It has been a long lessonof a name to learn. To the Siouan peoples, the Moon of Heat is the seventh month, a time also knownas the Blood Moon—I think because of its dusky midsummer color. I have other names: Buck, once a slur—never mind the predominant Anglofeatures. Also Bill Trogdon. The Christian names come from a grandfather eightgenerations back, one William Trogdon, an immigrant Lancashireman living inNorth Carolina, who was killed by the Tories for providing food to rebelpatriots a