Walk to Beautiful: The Power of Love and a Homeless Kid Who Found the Way

by Wayne, Jimmy

  As I tossed and turned that night, thinking about my lost recording deal, I knew what Bea would do. She had a lot more experience at forgiving than I did, so following her example in that area wouldn’t come easily for me, but I determined that, with God’s help, I would try.

  Amazingly, at daybreak, I was not nearly as despondent as I expected to be. There was work to be done and kids to be helped, and I was still a long way from Phoenix. Some people have asked me why I didn’t give up and go home when I received the news that my music career was taking a downturn. That’s easy. The walk was never about my music career; it was about raising awareness about foster kids who were at risk. And I could do that whether I had any support from a record label or not. If you really want to do something, you can find the way.

  IN THE MIDST OF ENCOUNTERING DANGERS FROM RATTLESNAKES, being dropped by my record label, and a growing fatigue, an opportunity arose for a whirlwind trip to Washington, DC, to speak on behalf of FosterClub, a national network for four hundred thousand kids in foster care. I met with several US senators and congressmen and sat as part of a congressional information panel. I quickly realized that if I was going to influence legislators, I had to learn their language. For instance, when the senator said, “Jimmy, I’m going to take you down to the floor,” he was not picking a fight!

  The next day my nephew, Brian, joined me on the walk as my support driver, replacing Rob. I was glad to have Patricia’s son share this experience with me, especially since his mom and I had benefited so much from the help of foster parents during our childhoods. Brian added a comedic element, too, with his deadpan sense of humor, and I enjoyed teasing him as well. I hired him and fired him at least a dozen times each day.

  Part of Brian’s responsibilities was to keep the support vehicle far enough away that it provided an incentive but not so far that he couldn’t be of help if I needed anything. Unfortunately, when a spooky sort of guy pulled up beside me in a compact car as I was walking near Mountainair, New Mexico, Brian was nowhere in sight. I was walking up a long stretch of desert, the heat rising in waves from the road. When the man got out of his car, he looked to be six foot four and around two hundred forty pounds. He curtly said, “I want to walk with you.”

  “Okay,” I said, “What’s your name?”

  “You don’t need to know my name. I just want to walk with you.”

  “Oh, all right. Well, let me take your picture,” I said. I always took a picture or a video of everyone who walked with me because I wanted to remember each person.

  “No, no pictures,” he said.

  “Can I take a picture with you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if you won’t give me your name and you won’t let me take a picture of you, then you can’t walk with me,” I said.

  I continued walking, and the man walked along beside me in total silence. I pretended that I was looking at my phone as I sent out a tweet on Twitter, asking the question, “What would you think if someone showed up in the middle of the desert, and he won’t tell you his name or let you take a picture?”

  The initial Twitter responses were mostly whimsical. Many people thought I was joking. So I sent out another tweet, noting the most recent mile marker I had passed. By my third tweet, I said, “I need help.” The man still had said nothing to me, walking close beside me for more than a mile. He simply would not go away.

  Approximately two thousand people who were following me on Twitter called 911 and reported that I was asking for help. A park ranger showed up and drove on past me. He stopped at the support car where Brian was immersed in playing games on a cell phone.

  “Hey, is everything okay?” the ranger asked.

  Brian hadn’t been paying attention to my tweets, so he said, “Yeah, everything’s fine.” The park ranger drove off. Shortly after that I sent out another tweet asking for help. This time a state trooper showed up and stopped in front of me. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah, we’re fine,” I replied, winking at the officer several times while the silent man stood near me.

  The trooper got out of the car and called out to the walker, “Hey, you. Stand in front of the car and put your hands on the hood.” The officer patted him down, handcuffed him, took him back to his car, searched his vehicle, and escorted him out of the desert.

  I later received a tweet from the man who had silently walked with me: “Sorry, the suspect did not mean to harm you.” Meanwhile, Brian played on.

  IF YOU’VE EVER WONDERED WHERE ALL THE OLD HIPPIES have gone, I can tell you: Pie Town, New Mexico. A real town with about sixty inhabitants, Pie Town is located atop the Western Continental Divide at an elevation of 7,796 feet. The Divide intersects the US from north to south, and it is the point where rivers and streams break either east toward the Mississippi River and the Atlantic Ocean or west toward the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific.

  Brian and I arrived in Pie Town on June 10, 2010. There was no one around, just twelve rusty windmills in one yard, dust, and the hot desert sun beating down. As I looked around at the mixture of log cabin–style structures, old buildings, and an assortment of patched-together homes and stores, the quaint village reminded me of an episode of The Twilight Zone. Either that or we had found the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” where you can check in but you can never leave! But if you get to Pie Town, you may not want to leave.

  I wasn’t really planning to go to Pie Town, but Highway 60 runs right through it, so I didn’t have much choice. I had stopped to remove a rock out of my shoe when, out of nowhere, a white truck pulled up beside me. A man with a long white beard—somewhere between the guys in ZZ Top and Duck Dynasty—got out of the truck. “Hi, I’m Tony Shannon,” he said. “This is my wife, Joan.” He nodded toward a woman with straight gray hair in the passenger’s seat. She looked like a throwback from Haight-Ashbury, and she had a warm, sweet smile. “We heard about your walk on the radio and got word that you were coming through Pie Town. Come on over to the house, and Joan will rustle us up some spaghetti.”

  Who could refuse an offer like that?

  Brian and I followed them approximately three miles out into the desert to an odd-looking rectangular home with solar-powered windmills, old cars in the yard, colored glass jars decorating the shelves, and wind chimes—lots of wind chimes, everywhere!

  There were also two wolves in a fenced lot, a dog on a chain, an old bus, and a ram’s skull sitting on the hood of a tractor.

  Tony and Joan had an outdoor shower and a chicken coop covered with a trampoline, a greenhouse filled with tomatoes, and a pile of jasmine on the ground. The exterior of the house looked like a junkyard, but the interior of their home was clean. They had a woodstove in the center of the room and a bear’s head, with elk antlers attached to it, sitting on a shelf above the kitchen table. Not the standard kitchen décor, to say the least.

  Joan served spaghetti while Tony shared his life story. Tony was extremely bright, and Joan was perceptive, as well, with great insights on life. We had a special time, and meeting these two wild, wacky, wonderful people was a truly gratifying experience. Much too soon, I had to leave for Albuquerque and catch a plane to perform some concerts.

  When I returned to Pie Town to resume walking where I had left off, I was shocked. It was as if someone had yelled, “Action!” and a cast of characters had come to life. Unlike the day Brian and I had visited Tony and Joan, there were now people everywhere, smiling and laughing.

  I walked into the Pie-O-Neer café, sat at the counter, and ordered a piece of cherry pie and a cup of coffee. Megan, the waitress, asked me what brought me to Pie Town.

  I explained to her that I was walking halfway across America, and Pie Town was on the way to Phoenix.

  She looked surprised. “Did you hear that Jimmy Buffett is also walking through here today?”

  “Really?” I said, gulping hard and stirring my coffee. “He is?” Suddenly, it all made sense. That’s why the town was so alive and bustling with activ
ity; everyone was excited and waiting on Jimmy Buffett.

  I learned that Tony and Joan, the old hippie couple I’d met a few days earlier, had told everyone that “Jimmy” was going to pick up his walk in Pie Town after he returned from a few concerts. Jimmy Buffett was in the Gulf, performing a charity concert for the oil spill victims, and thus the confusion. Or maybe Tony and Joan only half heard what I had said.

  Regardless, I knew we were in trouble. Kathy, the owner of the Pie-O-Neer, was busy peeling peaches in the corner. She was so excited, anticipating Jimmy Buffett’s arrival. “I’m going to give him a piece of homemade pie, and maybe he’ll tell the world about my delicious Margaritaville pie!” Kathy said.

  I didn’t say a word.

  Not only did I not want to break Kathy’s heart, but there were no police in this town. I didn’t know what would happen when they learned it was only me, instead of Jimmy Buffett, passing through.

  I finished my coffee and pie, left an extra-generous tip, and then headed out the door.

  A woman named Nita stopped me on the porch and invited Brian and me to the Jimmy Buffett party that evening at the Toaster House, a popular hotspot with hikers and bikers passing through town.

  I politely declined her offer and told her I needed to go. I began walking down Highway 60, out of Pie Town, when a sudden hailstorm blew up, as they often do in the desert. I didn’t mind the hail that stung as it struck me then quickly melted as it hit the ground, but the vicious thunder and lightning strikes made walking unwise. I knew I had to find shelter—fast. Brian? He was already miles down the road.

  Shelter? I reluctantly headed back toward the Toaster House and the Margaritaville party.

  As I approached the Toaster House, it was easy to figure out where it got the name. Old toasters hung all around and above the creaky wrought-iron gate leading to the house, on the lintels, in the trees—there were toasters everywhere. I discovered that Nita, the woman I had met earlier, owned the house and had raised her five children in the home, but since she moved in the early 1980s, no one had lived there. Instead, Nita allowed bikers, hikers, and other passersby to stay in the cabin for free, as sort of a haven and hostel for hippies. A hand printed sign on the front door read: No one lives here anymore—please make yourselves at home.

  Inside, the cabin was furnished with an old wood range for heat and cooking, two bedrooms, a washing machine, and shower. There was even a wall of shoes, where guests are invited to trade footwear if they see something more to their liking. A donation jar and guest book were the only hints regarding payment, but most guests leave some money in the freezer so Nita can restock it with food for the next travelers who might stop by.

  When I arrived, there were already people gathered in the large living room. Some folks carried in pies, and others hauled in musical instruments. People brought along everything from a banjo, fiddle, and string bass, to a tuba and tambourine. They were all excited and waiting on Jimmy Buffett to show up. Looking around at all the excited faces, I mentally rehearsed the words to “Margaritaville.”

  By the time the sun went down, the Toaster House was packed with people, picking and grinning, sharing songs and laughter. The chicken soup flowed freely, as did some other things. Everyone was having such a good time; it was almost as if they had forgotten why they were there. For all they knew, Jimmy Buffett walked through Pie Town after they had passed out.

  I found a spot on the floor where I could catch some sleep, get up before everyone else did, and split. “May your moccasins leave many happy tracks,” a bleary-eyed musician said as I slipped out the door.

  Pie Town: come for the pie, and stay for the show.

  Forty-three

  NOT COMPLAININ’, JUST EXPLAININ’

  BETWEEN WALKING LONG STRETCHES OF HOT DESERT HIGHWAY, I performed several concerts in venues along the way and did numerous phone interviews, as well as segments for Great American Country and Country Music Television. Alanna Conaway, a writer for Country Weekly, came out on the road and wrote several outstanding articles, including one titled “Still Going Strong,” with a photo of me trudging up the highway, wearing Marmot clothes, with large steers eyeing me suspiciously in the background. People magazine sent out a reporter and a photographer and spent three days with me in Socorro, New Mexico. People later designated me as one of their hottest men in country music. How could I miss on that one? I was walking in the desert!

  It was always interesting to note the differences between the ways people treated me. At concerts or media events, when I was onstage, girls were screaming at me or clamoring for autographs or pictures. The next day, when I was back out on the road, many people passed right by, reluctant to even look at me, perhaps assuming I was a homeless vagabond or worse.

  For instance, earlier in the walk a church leader stopped along the road and told me in glowing terms about his church. “Jimmy Wayne, so great to meet you!” he exuded. “If you need a place to stay tonight, come on over to the church. We have lots of room. I’ll stop back and check on you this evening.”

  I thanked the man, and he went on his way. Later that day I accepted another invitation after having visited a city mission. When the church leader returned, I told him that I was covered for the evening. “But I met two homeless guys at the city mission, and they could really use a place to stay tonight,” I said.

  “Oh, we couldn’t do that,” he said. “No, thanks.”

  ON JUNE 30, 2010, AT 8:40 P.M., I FINALLY CROSSED OVER the Arizona state line. I still had a long way to go, but just seeing that Welcome to Arizona sign lifted my spirits. That’s where I resumed the walk on July 1, and on the first day in the state, a group of young supporters came out to walk along with me. Someone in the media asked me if I was trying to get homeless teens involved. I said, “No, they’re already involved. I’m trying to get everyone else involved.”

  Picking me up even more, the following week Eric “Barrel Boy” Gruneisen, from KNIX Radio in Phoenix, came out to walk with me. Wearing only a large barrel and bowling shoes, he looked hilarious! He quickly discovered that walking in the barrel was impossible, so he put his clothes back on and kept pace with me. We walked eighteen miles the first day he was with me.

  Barrel Boy’s sense of humor was as quirky as mine, or worse, so when we walked past a sign advertising Barry Wong, a local politician, we both cracked up laughing. Two nights later, when we arrived in Show Low, Arizona, at Barrel Boy’s insistence I entered a karaoke contest as “Barry Wong,” dressed in a pink tank top, tight black jeans, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat. I looked ridiculous!

  I sang a Brooks & Dunn song, “Neon Moon,” to a room filled with cowboys, truckers, and rednecks, and I intentionally tried to annoy them. I succeeded in getting booed right out of the bar.

  Some special friends from the state of Indiana, Samantha Marx and her entire family, had come out to join me on the walk, and they had come along to karaoke night with me. When they saw the reaction of the crowd to my Barry Wong character, they feared for my health and well-being. Samantha’s daughter, Kayla, overheard one cowboy talking about me to another cowboy, saying, “You hold him, and I’ll hit him!”

  Even when I went back and tried to sing a song as myself, the tough crowd was unforgiving. The media picked up the story, so our craziness indirectly raised a lot of awareness about Meet Me Halfway. Samantha and her family hung out with me for nearly a week, walking more than sixty miles through the hot desert.

  I WAS HEADING DOWN THE HOME STRETCH TOWARD Phoenix; that was the good news. The bad news? During daylight hours, I was walking distances of 22.2 miles in temperatures that reached 117 degrees! Despite some great new shoes from Merrell, I had eight blisters on my feet, including one under my toenail—ouch!

  Barrel Boy had returned to walk with me, as well as drive the gorgeous, new KNIX support vehicle donated by Beaudry RV. Brian had gone back home to college. I was sorry to see Brian go; I joked hard with him, but I love him dearly, and I appreciated his service. And
he made me laugh—a lot!

  As we drew closer to Phoenix, more people came out to support us. Some walked along with me; others simply cheered or offered kind words of encouragement. At one point John Erlandson from Famous Dave’s restaurant brought out food for us. Sonic drive-in restaurant provided bunches of gift cards. Kohl’s Ranch delivered steaks to us. “Doughnut Dan,” from a local Krispy Kreme doughnut shop, brought out eight hundred boxes of fresh doughnuts so we could give them away to passing motorists, drawing more attention to Meet Me Halfway. We were doing great until a policeman came along in Show Low and ordered us to stay off the main highway with the doughnuts because we were creating a traffic problem.

  About sixty miles out of Phoenix, I noticed a dull pain in my right foot. That wasn’t unusual since I had been dealing with blisters and muscle spasms for more than six months. But this was different; the farther I walked, the more my foot hurt.

  I had been trudging up the White Mountain range, crossing over at an elevation about eleven thousand feet above sea level. The scenery of the surrounding natural environment was absolutely breathtaking! Now I had to walk down the White Mountains, which was actually more difficult than walking up. If you’ve ever trudged down a big hill, you know the toll it takes on your knees, shins, and feet as you negotiate the downhill grade. I wore a knee brace to help compensate for the intense 6 percent slope as I walked nineteen miles downhill coming out of the White Mountains. That night my right foot was really hurting. When I awakened the next morning, my foot felt slightly better, so we took off again, walking 20.5 miles, from Star Valley through Payson, Arizona, and down the steepest mountain I’d seen yet.

  THE THIRTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF BEA’S DEATH, JULY 29, 2010, somehow motivated me. I knew I was running behind schedule and didn’t want to miss our target date of August 1. Even though I was hurting, and it was growing dark, with rattlesnakes shining on the road in the moonlight, I wanted to keep walking in Bea’s honor. My left hip was now hurting from favoring my right foot. It was raining and cold in the mountains, so I took a quick break at the RV. “Okay,” I said to Barrel Boy, “I’m going to do it.” I strapped on the Marmot reflective gear and headed back out to walk four more miles.