It was at Branscomb, for me, that the defining moment of the tour
occurred. 

I arrived toward the end of the day. Minutes earlier, I'd arrived at
the first coastal redwoods of the route, and I had stopped to relish 
the moment. Those giant trees... so beautiful. 

Then at Branscomb I stopped at the timeless <a href="">general store</a>, 
with its tiny post office. I looked at the pictures on the wall and read 
the descriptions of the wanted criminals. Those things have more meaning
in really remote places, and Branscomb was the kind of place you could see
I guy going on the lam. Then I found a postcard in my bag and began writing 
to my friend Hedrich. The same friend who'd sent me the <a 
href="hat.txt">Calavera Hat</a>.

I sat on a locker, writing. A man walked into the tiny office. He 
was old, unshaven, dirty, with a bad limp and a misshapen back.
He had a wild toothless grin and a sixpack of Red Tail ale in his
hand.

"Writing a postcard to your sweetheart?" he asked.

"Just a friend..." I said humbly.

"Did you ride your bike a long way?" he asked. "How far have you 
come?"

"Well, at the end of tomorrow I will have covered a thousand miles
in one week."

"No kidding! Wow, you're going to live forever, so strong and 
healthy!"

"Ah, it don't make no difference... you get your time and that's
that. Just get to drink more beer this way."

"Yup! Ain't it the truth! You finally ride a thousand miles in one week,
and still, nobody loves you! Here, have a beer!" 

The old man set a beer down next to me on the locker, and left, 
laughing with good-natured bitter irony, with his Indian friend, in a 
car that barely ran. They talked about work, and I gathered that my beer 
benefactor had a job, for the first time in a while. Something to do 
with logging. 

I wanted to take his picture, hug him, give him something in 
return. Sometimes it seems that those who have the least are
the most generous. Maybe there is a connection here. 

All throughout the Indian reservation, people had waved  to 
me. The more people in the car, the more likely the wave. It
was the only place on the trip anyone had bothered to wave. 

Now this old man recognized a fellow vagabond and gave me a
gift. I was greatly moved, and determined to be more generous,
especially towards those asking for beer money. I stowed the
beer safely in my right pannier and started down the road.