Celebrated.

I found a patch of bare, sandy ground, unlikely cover for rattlesnakes, and smoothed out a spot for my bedroll. I wanted a campfire, but I was already trespassing and feared a grass fire like those used to drive the buffalo hither and yon. I was cold and damp all night and got up several times to exercise my way back into warmth. There was a lovely half-moon that was strong enough to make the landscape glow. That and the sound of the running Platte were enough to allay my discomfort. The moon buried itself in the river as it does in Chinese poems.

I was fine as long as I didn’t think about the future and my unrealistic ambition to become a poet and novelist. When the moon set in the predawn hours, it became truly dark and I was at first frightened by the sound of heavy breathing. But then, as an ex-farm boy, I recognized the odor of cattle. It was O.K. as long as it wasn’t an unruly bull, who would have been snorting immediately. In the first dim light from the east I could see a circle of curious calves surrounding me. I muttered good morning and several ran for it.

That was the night I fell in love with the Sand Hills. I celebrated by carving the mold off a piece of Cheddar and opened a can of 19-cent Boothbay sardines, a standby in my youthful hikes. There were severe thundershowers early but that helped get me a long day’s ride all the way to Brainerd, Minn., where I spent the night trying to sleep on a picnic table in a park while a number of stray dogs growled at me. Finally, a spaniel with a good heart jumped up on the table and cuddled with me, helping to raise the frigid temperature. I had been accepted and the growling dogs departed.

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