“That sounds good,” I said. “It will be good to see you.”
“I can’t wait to see you,” she said. “Can you believe you’re almost there?”
“No. I can’t. It feels surreal.”
“It’s going to be fantastic,” she said. “Should I alert the Key West newspaper?”
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“All right. Just your two favorite girls.”
“Travel safe,” I said.
“You do the same,” she replied. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We hung up. If it wasn’t for Nicole, there would be no one. What if I had walked all that way and no one noticed? I suppose it would be like writing a book, then burning it before anyone read it.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Three
If God came to save the world, why are so many of His professed followers intent on damning it?
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The hotel offered breakfast in the lobby, and I poured myself a cup of coffee, then prepared two packages of instant oatmeal that I topped with brown sugar and sliced bananas. As I was finishing my breakfast a man, thirtyish with a narrow face and a light beard, approached me. “Have you found God?” he asked.
I looked at him for a moment, then replied, “I didn’t know He was lost.”
The man stared at me stoically. “I’m from the Miami Church of Christ Risen, the only true church on the earth.”
“The only true church?” I repeated.
He read my skepticism and replied, “Obviously there can be only one truth. I’ve heard fools say that churches are like spokes on a wheel, all leading to the same place, but anyone with half a brain knows that can’t be right. Truth isn’t duplicitous. You don’t tell a mathematician that there’s more than one answer to a math problem—either you get it right or you don’t, and the level of a person’s sincerity or commitment doesn’t change the truth an iota.” He leaned toward me. “Has the truth saved you?”
“That depends on what you mean by truth,” I said.
“If you are not living the doctrine of truth, you cannot be saved.”
“You mean the ‘truth’ your church teaches.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And only those in your church are saved?”
“That is correct.”
“Then I guess not. How many are in the Miami Church of Christ Risen?”
“We are growing rapidly,” he said, his voice becoming animated. “We have nearly five hundred.”
“That many,” I said, couching my sarcasm. “So the other seven billion plus inhabitants on this earth . . .”
“Lost.”
“Lost,” I repeated. “What exactly does that mean?”
“To be lost is to exist eternally in a state of spiritual limbo, lost to God, damned in eternal progression.”
“So everyone in the world is lost but you and your five hundred souls.”
He nodded.
“Doesn’t that seem a little . . . wrong?”
“God is never wrong. God’s ways are not man’s ways. We don’t make the rules. God does. And He does as He, in His infinite wisdom, deems righteous.”
I looked at him for a moment, then said, “Actually, I think that you, or whoever runs your church, made up the rules to exalt yourself and damn others. If there is a God, I don’t think that would please Him.”
He shook his head sadly. “You are lost.”
“Well, at least we have that settled,” I said. He was looking at me with such an expression of self-righteousness that I wanted to punch him. “Tell me, who is this God you worship?”
“Our God has many names. Elohim, Chemosh—the God of Moab, Yahweh, the only True God.”
“And your God is just?”
“Of course.”
“And you think it’s just that billions of people who were raised differently than you or in other places of the world are not saved?”
“They are the sons and daughters of perdition,” he replied. “Unless they repent and come unto Christ, through our church, they cannot be saved.”
It was hard for me to believe that he could so easily throw all of humanity under the bus in the name of God. “Your little five hundred represent a grain of sand in the vast beach of human existence. If that is all your god is able to save, he is not very powerful. And if it’s all he’s willing to save, then he is certainly not very loving. Frankly, I think you worship a pathetic god.”
The man looked at me in horror. “That’s blasphemous. I fear for your soul.”
“Don’t bother,” I replied. “Your god doesn’t scare me. I’ll stick with a god who is great enough to love all his creation.”
I finished my coffee, picked up my pack, and started out of the hotel, leaving the man and his god behind.
US 1 again became the South Dixie Highway as I reached the town of Coconut Grove. The most unique thing about the town was that the traffic lights were horizontal instead of vertical, something I hadn’t seen anywhere else on my walk.
That night, as I ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant, I looked over my map. At my current pace I would reach Key West in just seven days. Walking through the Florida Keys would be unlike any walking I had done elsewhere in the country.
The Florida Keys consist of more than seventeen hundred islands, though only forty-three of them are connected by bridges. I would cross forty-two bridges on my way to Key West, including the longest bridge of my walk, the Seven Mile Bridge.
The keys’ history is as colorful as their landscape. Because of their location, the keys have always been a hot spot for drug smuggling and illegal immigration. In response to these problems, in the early 1980s the US Border Patrol created a series of roadblocks to search cars returning to the Florida mainland.
When the measures began to affect Key West’s tourism industry, Mayor Dennis Wardlow declared Key West an independent and sovereign nation, renaming it the Conch Republic and appointing himself its prime minister. Wardlow’s first act as prime minister was to declare war on the United States, then, in the same hour, surrender and apply for a billion dollars in foreign aid.
Hunter Thompson was right.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Four
I have entered the Florida Keys. If I listen carefully, I can hear the first musical strains of the movie credits beginning to roll.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next morning I began walking around eight, stopping an hour later at a McDonald’s to eat. Shortly after I left the United States mainland. The road changed to two lanes divided by a waist-high, blue concrete median. There was a wide, grassy shoulder on each side hemmed in by a tall chain-link fence.
The scenery remained the same all day: black-gray asphalt, a green shoulder, and miles of blue ocean infested with mangrove forests. At around twenty-four miles I entered Monroe County and left the highway at Pirate Hat Marina. After a long and monotonous day, I had hoped for some kind of service, but there were only darkened residences and rental homes. I pitched my tent in a lush, secluded part of the marina and ate dinner from my pack.
I woke early the next morning eager to leave the place. Less than a mile from the marina the highway’s name changed to Florida Keys Scenic Highway. I walked through a group of convicts wearing Day-Glo orange jumpsuits who were picking up litter on the side of the road. The men pretty much acted as if I were invisible, except for the two correctional officers who were managing the detail. They watched me closely.
I realized that I had spent the night in the first of the Florida Keys: Key Largo. To tell the truth, I knew of Key Largo only from the Beach Boys’ mention of it in the song “Kokomo,” which they supposedly wrote on the island.
Billboards advertising scuba diving and snorkeling tours flanked both sides of the highway, which is what you would expect in the self-proclaimed “diving capital of the world.”
I stopped at a Circle K for something to eat and to look for a more detail
ed map of the keys. I asked the female clerk if there were many hotels in Key West, but she didn’t know. In fact, she said that she had never been there. I was surprised, even more so when she told me that she had lived in the Florida Keys her entire life. I asked her if she ever planned to visit Key West, and she just shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. I wondered why someone would choose to live in such a small world.
She gave me a free map and a Key West coupon book. I bought some sunscreen, an orange, and an egg-and-cheese breakfast burrito, then sat down to eat as I looked over the map. From what I could see, many of the keys seemed nearly deserted, and I would be camping some nights.
By evening, I had logged twenty miles, ending at the district of Tavernier. I booked a room at the Historic Tavernier Inn, a tiny hotel on the east side of the thoroughfare, then ate dinner at the Café Cubano, a homespun diner run by a Cuban family. I ate clam chowder and pork chops, which came with a side dish of sweet plantains, then retired to my hotel for the night.
The next morning it took me only an hour to make it to the township of Islamorada, which is technically a village consisting of Plantation Key, Windley Key, Upper Matecumbe Key, Lower Matecumbe Key, and two offshore islands.
A little way into the village I came to a long building with a sign out front that read
HISTORY OF DIVING MUSEUM
I went inside to check it out. There was a sign above the museum entrance that read
Man has left footprints on the moon but still hasn’t walked on the ocean floor
I was the only one there. Even though the museum was small, it was crowded with exhibits and artifacts that the owner had spent his lifetime collecting. I thought it was pretty interesting, especially the deep-sea diving outfits that looked like robots from sixties sci-fi novels.
After the museum I stopped at the Islamorada Restaurant & Bakery—home of the famous Bob’s Bunz—for lunch. I ordered a Reuben o’ the Sea sandwich, which was basically a Reuben sandwich with fish instead of pastrami, a side of sweet potato fries, slaw, and one of their cinnamon buns.
While I was waiting for my food I read about the bakery’s history, which was printed on the back of their menu. The bakery’s owner was a Philadelphia native who, some twenty years ago, had come to the keys for a season and never left. It was something I could understand.
More than once I had fantasized about reaching Key West and never leaving. Of course that’s all it was—a fantasy. I had no idea what I’d do there. A city as small as Key West could never support an advertising agency or even a single ad guy. Maybe I’d buy a fishing boat and take tourists out. I’d name my boat the McKale. Of course I would. When people asked who McKale was, I’d tell them she was a beautiful girl in a dream I once had and leave the rest to their imaginations.
I finished my meal, then started off again. At fourteen miles I reached Indian Key. It was narrow enough that I could have easily thrown a stone from one side of the key to the other. There were cars parked alongside the road, and people had gotten out to swim in the ocean.
The next key was the Lower Matecumbe Key. It was linked to Long Key by a long bridge with dozens of people fishing from it.
The sun was setting as I reached my day’s destination, Fiesta Key and the Fiesta Key RV Resort, a twenty-eight-acre RV park. I was tempted to stay in one of their cottages overlooking the sea, but the price the guy in the rental office quoted me was too much—$250 per night with a two-night minimum. For five hundred dollars I would sleep in my tent again.
I rented a small campsite, about fifteen by fifteen feet, marked by oiled railroad ties. Even with sleeping in my tent, the park was more luxurious than most of my camping; there was a pool, bathrooms, a laundry, a mini-mart, and a small diner called the Lobster Crawl Bar & Grill.
I set up my tent while there was still light. Then I put a load of whites in the washing machine and went to dinner at the restaurant. I had calamari rings, coconut shrimp, and a mushroom Swiss burger.
Then I went back to the Laundromat and put my whites in the dryer. No one else was using the place, so I left my clothes and went back to my tent to sleep.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Five
Today I crossed one of the longest bridges in the world—a fitting, though trite, metaphor for the completion of my walk.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next day’s walk was more of the same—more keys, more ocean, more bridges. An hour and a half into my walk I reached the Long Key Channel Bridge, which was the longest I’d encountered in the keys so far, almost two and a half miles, spanning south to Conch Key. There was a narrow pedestrian lane, but I was the only one using it. The turquoise water below looked inviting, but I remembered once seeing a video of a massive hammerhead shark stealing a fisherman’s catch in the Long Key Channel, which was reason enough to stay on the bridge.
Next I passed through Duck Key, then Marathon Key, where I ate lunch at a place called The Wreck. Marathon is one of the larger keys, a full residential community with hotels, banks, and schools. I walked the rest of the day on Marathon and spent the night at the Ranch House Motel.
The next morning I ate breakfast at the Wooden Spoon restaurant, where I had coffee and a chili omelet with a side of grits. Less than an hour later I reached the famous Seven Mile Bridge.
Seven Mile Bridge was, at its creation, one of the longest bridges in the world, connecting Knight’s Key to Little Duck Key. Near its center, the bridge rises in an arc to sixty-five feet, high enough to provide clearance for boat traffic. Like the Long Key bridge, Seven Mile Bridge has a narrow pedestrian lane, its outer edge flanked by concrete safety barriers. It took me about an hour and a half to cross the bridge, and, in spite of the danger inherent in walking such a narrow space, the view was worth the hike.
To the east of the bridge was the remnant of the older bridge (with the unfortunate name of Knights Key–Pigeon Key–Moser Channel–Pacet Channel Bridge), which had been constructed in the early 1900s by Henry Flagler but had been damaged by the Labor Day Hurricane of 1935—the most intense hurricane ever to make landfall in the United States.
Late afternoon I entered Big Pine Key. The key is a preserve for a tiny endangered species called key deer. The road was enclosed on both sides with chain-link fence and posted with deer crossing and myriad endangered species signs. I saw one of the deer as I walked. It was just a few yards behind the fence eating leaves off a bush. The animal seemed to have no fear of humans and didn’t even stop to look at me. I don’t know if it was an adult or not, but it was barely two feet high at the shoulders.
Even though I had walked less than twenty miles, I stopped for the day. Key West was thirty miles away, with another four or five miles to reach the southernmost end. It was a distance I had walked before, but not easily, and I didn’t want to reach Key West exhausted and in the dark, so I broke up the final leg of my journey into two trips of twenty and ten miles.
I booked a room at the Big Pine Key Motel, and the man at the front desk suggested that I eat dinner a few blocks away at the unoriginally named Big Pine restaurant. I ordered a mixed green salad, fried clams, and the HE-MAN ribs.
As I was finishing my meal I checked my watch. If their flight wasn’t delayed, Nicole and Kailamai should have landed in Miami almost two hours earlier. They planned to stay in a hotel near the airport, then rent a car and drive to Key West in the morning, passing me somewhere along the way. The thought of mixing my two worlds seemed a little surreal. I turned on my phone just in case they called.
I was grateful that they were coming and that someone, besides me, would witness the end of my walk. Still, I couldn’t believe my walk was finally at its end.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Six
Nicole and Kailamai have arrived in Key West. I realize that I have compartmentalized my life, as it’s peculiar having them here. It’s like daddy-daughter day at the office.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I woke with the realiz
ation that it was my last full day of walking. I ate breakfast at a café called the Cracked Egg. I had coffee, orange juice, and their specialty, the Gut Buster—potatoes covered with shredded cheddar cheese, sausage gravy, and two scrambled eggs.
My phone rang while I was eating. It was Nicole.
“Good morning, handsome,” she said brightly.
“Good morning,” I replied. “Are you in Miami?”
“Yes, we’re just leaving the car rental. The man at the counter said it would probably take us about three and a half hours to reach Key West.”
“It took me a bit longer than that,” I said.
“I’m sure it did. Where are you?”
“I’m on Big Pine Key. So, in three and a half hours you’ll probably catch me around Sugarloaf Key. You won’t miss me—I’m the guy with the big pack walking along the side of the road.”
“I can’t wait,” she said. “I’ll try not to hit you.”
“Much appreciated,” I replied.
By lunchtime I had passed through a series of small keys with interesting names: Little Torch Key, Big Torch Key, Ramrod Key, Summerland Key, and, finally, Sugarloaf Key, where I was passed by a young woman wearing a blue polka-dot bikini and driving a mint-green scooter with a cooler on the back. She personified the uninhibited spirit I expected of the islands. She looked like a party waiting to happen.
Around two o’clock I was passing by Sugarloaf Shores when I heard a car horn honking behind me. I turned back to see a bright yellow Mustang convertible with its top down, flashing its lights. It took me a moment to realize it was Nicole and Kailamai. They slowed by my side and blew kisses, then pulled off the road, jumped out of the car, and ran to me.
“You made it,” I said.
Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set Page 86