Nov. 28, 2012 – Inid, Miss. to Hammond, La.

The white transport truck slowed down as it passed. The driver met my eyes, sized me up, and lurched over to the shoulder.

I turned on my heel, pumping my fist in elation – truckers never stop on on-ramps.

But he stopped me as I opened the passenger door.

“I’m ain’t gonna have to shoot you now, am I?”

Laughing, I extended my hand and assured him I wouldn’t cause any trouble.

McKenzie, or ‘Shorty’ to friends, was an absolute character, a charismatic 58-year-old who had given up life in the fast lane – women, bourbon, violence and jail time. He had 11 kids, one obnoxious wife, and a new devotion to the lord.

Despite having more wild stories under his belt than I could ever imagine compiling, Shorty was still wildly impressed with my plans.

“You’ve got balls bigger than a bull’s, boy!” he repeatedly shouted throughout our three-hour ride. “Bigger than a damn bull’s!”

I spent most of the journey from Winona to Hammond listening and laughing to Shorty’s antics, only occasionally understanding what he was shouting in his southern twang. He was definitely the most entertaining I had met so far.

He thought the truck stop outside Hammond would suit me well. But I should have known otherwise – although it was busy, it was too far off I-55. I wouldn’t be finding a new ride south anytime soon…

I had woken up shivering this morning, thankful I was sleeping in Trey’s cabin instead of in a tent outside. But I suffered through the windy, early-morning ride in the back of the open jeep before he dropped me off back at the I-55 on his way to work.

Once there, I spent about 15 minutes at the on-ramp before Bryan picked me up. The paramedic was heading 15 miles down the work, fresh off a 30-hour shift at one job and preparing for another stretch later that morning. Crazy.

Charlie grabbed me from Grenada about 20 minutes after Bryan dropped me off, promising he’d take me to a truck stop in Winona. As we parted, he gave me three dollars, a hug, and a cheek rub. Nice.

I marched through the truck stop without luck for about 25 minutes. A kind, old driver named Sue apologized that she was heading north, but forced a prayer sheet and 10 bucks into my hand. What a sweetheart.

I gave up soon after, and headed to the on-ramp. I had a pretty good rhythm going already this morning, and felt the shoulder might be the strategy of the day.

At 2 p.m., I was cruising south down I-55, doubled over at Shorty’s antics and certain I’d be in New Orleans by dark. But I failed to find my bearings when he dropped me off.

After wasting two hours with bad decisions, and kicking myself every step of the way, I hopped on I-12 and walked the two miles back to I-55. But it was dark at this point. New Orleans would have to wait until morning – tonight would be spent in the tent.