I started walking across the U.S. on April 30, heading west from the Atlantic Ocean at Cape Henlopen State Park in Lewes, Del., and stopped July 29 when I was hauled off to the hospital in McLeansboro, Ill., about 100 miles east of St. Louis. Severe dehydration combined with rhabdomy-something-or-other knocked me out off the trail, at least until it cools down a bit.
The heat index exceeds 100 degrees today, so it’s a perfect time to sit in my air-conditioned office in Granville, Ohio, think about what I learned as I walked 1,100 miles across the country, and write an interim report.
My purpose –- besides proving that I was tough and determined enough to make the trek — was to see the country and talk with publishers of small newspapers along the way. I wanted to test my theory that the market forces that were bleeding readers and advertising dollars from the big dailies were not affecting small-market papers in the same way.
“America the Beautiful” isn’t just a song title. The countryside everywhere filled my days with joy — from the Delaware beach, to the magnificent view of the U.S. Naval Academy from the Severn River bridge in Annapolis, Md., to the mountains and sheltered valleys of West Virginia, to the high bluffs above the Ohio River in southern Indiana. No blisters or backaches or fatigue could ever diminish the daily pleasures of the scenery.
Some of the vistas — like the Potomac River boiling and crashing over Great Falls — were spectacular, but often the woods and meadows were just quietly, deeply moving. One scene outside of Williamsburg, Ohio, sticks in my mind. I had camped next to a farmer’s field, off the road and behind a patch of woods. As they did every day, the singing of birds woke me in the morning, and I clambered out of my tent to see two whitetail deer, glowing with early morning sunshine, slowly striding across the field. The air was so pure and clear that every leaf was etched in high relief. There was nothing remarkable or special about the moment — it was simply perfect.
The days of walking, however, were hardly idyllic. The difficulty of walking all day with a 50-pound backpack never got easier. Hills made it harder -– West Virginia and southern Ohio damn near killed me. The good news is I got skinny from burning far more calories than I could consume, and I never had a problem falling asleep.
The trip was lonely. I walked on trails and back roads much of the time, and on an average day I saw few people except for the occasional guy driving a pickup truck. Though friends had warned me about encountering violent and predatory people, and some urged me to carry a gun, the dozens of people I met were all friendly and kind. They gave me directions, food and shelter; refilled my water bottles; let me camp in their backyards; and offered me encouragement and welcome. I never felt threatened or heard a hostile word.
After awhile I began to modify my route, walking on busier roads and passing through little towns where I could find food and people. I didn’t much like big trucks and speeding cars whizzing past, but access to food, cold Gatorade and the occasional motel room was worth it.
With a few exceptions, the little villages I passed through were pretty depressing. Most were a collection of ramshackle houses and trailers, an auto repair garage, a Baptist church and a combination gas station/grocery/hardware store/video rental/pizzeria. At first I couldn’t understand why anybody would live in a town with a population of 750, where there are no jobs and whose best days were 100 years ago. Most people I know live where their careers take them. My dad moved us around, I uprooted my family as I got bigger and better jobs, and now two of my kids work in New York City and the other lives in Seattle. And yet people stay in desolate burgs like Murray City, Ohio, Vienna, W. Va., and Sulphur, Ind.
Then one day, while I was eating a microwaved sausage biscuit and drinking bad coffee outside the only gas station in Shawnee, Ohio, a young fellow sat down across from me. He was an out-of-work cement finisher looking for a job, any job. I asked why he didn’t just move to Columbus, 60 miles north, where there was plenty of work. He looked at me like I was crazy and responded he would never consider moving away from his mom, dad, brother and cousins. He was willing to endure near-poverty and frequent unemployment to live close to his mother. That seems to be the reason grungy little towns with dead economies persist.
I talked with newspaper publishers along the way, and I found that many small weeklies and dailies continue to thrive despite the circulation and advertising losses at larger market dailies. For the most part, the publishers I spoke with claimed steady circulation and growing ad revenues.
In isolated markets such as Keyser, W.Va., and Maysville, Ky., daily and weekly newspapers increase ad revenues and maintain circulation by focusing on hometown news and lavishing attention on local advertisers. The markets are isolated (the nearest malls are an hour’s drive away), and too small to support the national retailers that have devastated mom-and-pop stores in bigger towns. For local news and advertising, these publications remain the only game in town, not exposed to Internet competition that is stealing market share from their big city cousins.
Dailies in or near markets big enough to support shopping malls are not faring as well. Those near Louisville, Ky., and Columbus, Ohio, are feeling the same advertising and circulation downdraft as the big dailies. It appears that both big-city and suburban daily newspapers are diminished by the competition, including online, that comes with a larger market.
But in suburban markets as diverse as suburban Washington, D.C., and Boonville, Ind. (outside Evansville), weeklies are avoiding the troubles of nearby dailies. A dramatic example is the Gazette weekly newspaper group around Washington. It grows readership and ad revenues in the same market in which The Washington Post, its corporate parent, is hemorrhaging circulation and ad dollars. Like publications in isolated markets, the suburban weeklies survive by focusing on news and advertisers too small or localized to attract and sustain competitors.
Yet none of the publishers I spoke with are carefree. They worry that young people are not reading as their parents do. They worry about what appear to be permanent losses of automotive and real estate advertising. They worry that the troubles of big-city papers may eventually trickle down to their markets. But even with that uncertainty, they don’t want to trade places with the big guys.
I’ll get back on the trail after the weather cools off a bit. The walk across Missouri, on a rail trail that follows the Missouri River across the state, looks too good to pass up.
Jim Hopson is planning to resume his walk in St. Louis on Tuesday. He plans to walk to Kansas City, Mo., over about three weeks.
