Start with roadkill coyote, sprinkle in severe weather, end on the mushroom

That's my day, in a nutshell. Thanks for reading.
...

Oh yeah, the little details that make life worthwhile. But remember, you wanted it this way ....

After a hungry paw swatted me out of yet-another "alternate universe Bob's Bar" dream, I happily returned to the road five months later. Severe weather wouldn't be denied, emerging repeatedly as Kentucky, Illinois and then dreary St. Lou all blew past. My route across the map followed some of the Midwest's most desolate interstate, empty except for buzzards, a dead coyote and a pack of dogs leisurely crossing the lanes interrupting their farm.

Columbia is best described as Athens with fewer hills and a lot less weed. With a hip main drag and a dynamite brewpub (Flat Branch Pub and Brewery), it was a perfect place to land in springtime, when the buzzing of summer about to hit its fever pitch.

The first round of Rural Healthcare Journalism opened eyes - yes, I just wrote that. The experts were just that, and in typical fashion, this mini-convention tied into my last journalism convention - one of the speakers was at the 2001 SPJ in Seattle. All four knew their material.

But journalists are journalists - used to working alone or in small information-sharing packs, they stick to themselves after a little awkward conversation, or never break from their group. Most knew each other, and those who didn't fumbled through awkward reporter-speak. The reception after the session turned into that type of affair, with the Kansas and Missouri folks quickly bunching up and planning their meal at the brewpub (I snuck in a lunch there, but would have enjoyed more chatting).

As the cliques lumbered off to their dinner plans, I found a nice chat with a rural healthcare expert from Nebraska (this guy was brilliant, no matter the subject and never patronizing - he seemed to love the chance to espouse his common sense theories on bettering the country). Minutes later he was on his way back to Lincoln, and I was just as alone as I would have been 435 miles south by southeast.

A little rest and a Mudcrutch album later, I split the Holiday Inn and decided to find .... something on Mizzou's main drag.

I stomped up and down Broadway, Mizzou's main drag, wanting more atmosphere than the puke-stained Budweiser halls owned by the undergrads. After nearly getting run over in the crosswalk and nearly getting into a fight for pointing out the white bars painted on the road, I doubled back to Tellers Restaurant and Gallery, where I struck up with Michael H___ins, a local realtor who spent his free weekends roaring up to Iowa to pick mushrooms and hunt turkeys. A Missouri Republican - and myself a Jim Webb Democrat - we breezed through exactly the kind of conversation I needed with a stranger. The smoking hot bartender eager to chat didn't either.

Right now, with a Boulevard Wheat in hand and the air conditioner mimicking the Arctic, tomorrow is a long time. I'm fine with that feeling. A year ago tonight, I sputtered into Nashville on fumes, second-guessing the decision to leave Columbus and fuming at having to buy a fifth tire in four days. I'll take Central Missouri over that doleful excursion any day.