#1

Mark put one foot in front of the other. The journey started, for there was no other way to reach home. Vaguely, he knew it was 2700 miles to North Carolina, and that was where he was determined to go. As a reasonably fit man for his age, he figured on ten miles a day, working up to fifteen and then twenty.

The gooey mud coated his feet and even in December the stench of the mire lay heavy in the air. He had a thousand regrets, who wouldn't.

He spotted an intact can, lying in the mud. No label, that, had washed off and the can use by date was obliterated. It wasn't bulged, so he used his knife to open it up. Mark was pretty sure it was canned dogfood, and he told his mind to keep thinking corned beef hash.

He was hungry. He considered it food and happy to have it. He gagged swallowing the slab he pried out with his knife, and kept walking.

He had to find a way to cross the Columbia River. He was on the North side, and that's where most of the tributaries emptied into the large river. In the winter time it wasn't smart to go North, and he didn't have the clothes for a Montana adventure.

He walked, trying to follow the paved road toward Umatilla. There was a bridge there, if it was still useable.

There were no recognizable landmarks, only rock covered with the mud, everywhere.