Couldn't get out of Nashville quick enough, rose at dawn and blazed north over the Lyle A. Fulton Bridge. Had my money, had my technology, keys, bike, stuff, it was a nice little spot, on the southern bank of the Cumberland River, right on the Greenway trail, away from the neon. The town was best in the day, took in a round at the Ted Rhodes Golf Course. Ted was the first African-American professional golfer on the PGA in 1948. The Nashville native was Joe Louis' personal golf instructor, valet, and playing buddy, the Jackie Robinson and Sachel Paige of golf rolled into one.
Then the rivers one after another: Barren, Green, Nolin, Salt, Ohio, Muscatatuck, White, Driftwood, Salamonie, Wabash, Little, Kalamazoo, Grand, Looking Glass, Maple, Chippewa, Au Sable, Sturgeon, and finally, the Indian River. Not to mention the creeks, brooks, forks, runs, ditches, and gutters. Water moves in this country, searching for the sea, ready for anything, overcoming cold, overcoming heat. For now, all we can do is build bridges, but we'll die someday. Water never dies.
I'd rented a motel room in Indian River, northern Michigan was a desired location for many reasons, especially in September, before the weather turns harsh. Earnest Hemingway spent his childhood and teen summers in the area (from 1900 to 1920), inspiring much of his future writing content, especially the Nick Adams Stories. Before being sent off to WWI, before being wounded, before A Farewell To Arms, The Sun Also Rises, For Whom The Bell Tolls, and The Old Man And The Sea. Before he offed himself. Mackinac Island was cool, too.
