Having made it to Natchez State Park, I felt I was beginning an entirely new chapter. The Natchez Trace itself was something I had wanted to explore long ago. A desire of mine that existed independent of my bike to Alaska plans, now was a part of the same trip. The trail is one created many thousands of years ago. Created by the footsteps of animals and ancient hunters, countless years of walking has eroded the land into what, in many areas, is a large ditch several feet deep. The Natchez, Chickasaw, and Choctaw Indians used it for many years – as did the Spanish, French, and then America settlers.
Here I was standing on not just American History, but of a history that preceded it by many thousands of years. The Natchez Trace Parkway was a road built as close as possible to following the original footpath. The park consists of the road itself, and the land on either side of it amounting to a 438-mile long National park that is only about 1 feet wide. The road is only two lanes and not that wide but as a park trail the traffic consists mainly of tourists and is not at all heavy. There were frequent places to stop and camp for free. All told, it was one of the most enjoyable stretches of my trip, as I expected it to be.
When I woke up at the Natchez State Park campground, it was not only a milestone for me geographically, but callender-wise as well. When I woke up, it was May 1st. One whole month had elapsed since I left my house in Largo, Florida. For an entire month I had spent the majority of my waking hours riding a bicycle. But riding in only one direction. Everyday I woke up, I woke up somewhere different – somewhere I had never waken up before – and from where I would never again. It was a one-way trip everyday. For fifty – sixty miles, or more, nearly everyday, I would ride – and, here I was, almost 1000 miles from my home.
When I woke up today I took a long walk. In fact I spent much of the day walking. It may seem that after spending all day everyday riding a bicycle, that on a day off, the last thing I would want to do was spend it walking; but this is exactly what I tended to do. I must have been restless. I walked to Natchez Lake, which boasts the largest Large Mouth Bass ever caught in the state of Mississippi, weighing in at 18.15 pounds. After returning to the campground I hung out with Roy and his wife from Abilene, Texas. Both were widows whose first marriages each lasted 43 years. They fed me and I then I moved to a primitive campground.
The following day I rode about 48 miles to Rocky Springs campground at the 55-mile marker. Rocky Springs was the name of a town that had thrived there on the Trace in the 19th century. All that remained of the town was its old church and a cemetery. Rocky Springs would turn out to be one of my favorite stops the entire trip. Not for beautiful scenery or great tales of adventure, but for the awesome sense of history I felt. It was a place I never wanted to leave – and a place that seemed as if I had been all my life. (Write a lot more here)
It helped that there were many stop-offs along the way, and that I had two books to read about the Natchez, the area, and its history. But I could write volumes about this one 400-mile stretch of my trip. Sure, I guess the trip was still relatively a novelty at this point, only one month on the road; but I really immersed myself into the reality of this segment.
On May 3rd, I walked up to see the town sight of Rocky Springs. The old church and cemetery are all that really remain of the town beside a couple of old safes and cisterns lying around. I almost get the feeling of being in a time warp. It is an eerie feeling and about as close as I will ever get to time travel. The entry in my journal captures a little of what I was feeling: “Many of the ancestors of the original church members still hold church services there, and have recently placed fresh flowers on some of the graves, some of which are dated as early as the 1830’s. Many small children are buried there too and the inscriptions often state how they still live on in the memories of their loved ones who are, by now, also dead. What happens to the memories then? All they have is a marble slab to tell of their existence. There is a recording overlooking the church that tells the tale of the now dead town. At first it asks the church: ‘Where did your people go?’. It then goes on to describe the death of the town; how the rich loess soil for farming had all blown away from over farming leaving nothing left to sustain a town. It concludes by answering the question by acknowledging the cemetery. ‘Your people never left at all, they drew closer to you’. This is certainly true with the relatives still keeping the old church alive. This is what history is all about. Holding the past and its people alive in the present. It’s like the Trace itself with all its old history. ‘Hundreds of years of travelers have worn the path down to its present size’, the quote on the sign says”.
And the sign:
The Old Natchez Trace
This is the Natchez Trace. For many years it served man well, but as with many things when its usefulness passed, it was abandoned. Over the years, this timeworn path has been a silent witness to honor and dishonor. It bears the prints of countless men. Walk down the shaded trail – leave your prints in the dust, not for others to see, but for the road to remember.
Today would prove to be memorable. Actually, it would be later that evening that I would not soon forget. See, while I was taking a day off at Rocky Springs I did some calculating and realized I would have to ride an average of 75 miles a day six days a week to make the Dalton Highway on time. At the time, I was going by a map, which stated the Dalton Highway closed to traffic on September 1st. (This proved not to be the case, fortunately, for various reasons including El Nino, which few people knew about at the time.) At any rate I became hell-bent on making some progress. This new drive of mine to put some miles behind me created an interesting situation starting around Jackson, Mississippi. I was attempting to make it that night to a campground at Ratliff Ferry, which may or may not even exist from what I can tell from looking at the maps. Starving, I had stopped at a truck stop in Clinton and ate a huge meal of pancakes and grits. I then spent some time doing laundry and grocery shopping. This took up a good deal of time and it started getting dark before I even got out of Jackson. I was determined to at least make it out of the city and to a lower trafficked area to find a possible place to start. The Natchez Trace had not been constructed in the Jackson area and I was relying on Adventure Cycling maps to find my way around. I stopped to replace the battery in my headlight, as it was now completely dark. Ratliff Ferry was still 20 –25 miles away and I really had no idea what lay between. I finally found my way back to the Trace then remembering that a 10 mile stretch from mile marker 104 to 114 was supposed to be under construction beginning June of the previous year and scheduled for completion early this year. I soon found out the hard way it had not yet been completed. How much exactly was complete, I would soon find out. I was not about to take a detour at this point. In a pitch-black sky I slowly rode, able to see only the few feet in front of me that my little light could cast. I was really out in the middle of nowhere with woods on both sides and zero lights anywhere near. The road was in various stages of completion. I traveled the unfinished road sometimes paved, sometimes not. I had no idea what I would find, or whether a bridge would be out, or the road would just end. I approached several bridges with uneasy anticipation as to whether they were complete, and, one by one – I lucked out. All along the Ross Barnett Reservoir I meandered until, finally, the construction ended, and I was back in business. My pace slowed down, however, as I was incredibly hungry, and so weak I had practically zero energy. I hadn’t eaten since Clinton early that day and it was now very late at night, and I still had about 10 miles to go to what I hoped would be a campground.
At 11:15 that night I finally pulled into an eerie sight. A ghostly silent, dimly lit campground greeted me. Although there were several trailers lined up here and there, there were no signs of life, except for a dog, which followed me everywhere – barking all the while. A large old German Shepard slowly came to greet me, looking sad and tired. But no sign of humans. Rows of travel trailers – not a light anywhere. I pitched my tent between two of them and crawled into my sleeping bag completely exhausted. I was so tired and hungry my body could not warm the bag. I lay there cold the whole night not moving or shifting the entire time.
I awoke exactly as I started. I talked to the lady the next day and got a key to take a hot shower. I then was on my way. I still had to make it to Jeff Busby campground 70 miles away. Well make it, I did. And a whole lot quicker than the previous day. My trip to Ratliff Ferry carried me about 76 miles, which was my longest ride to date. Today’s ride would take me about 71 miles and I would pull into the campground at 7:15. I met a lot of people today. I met two New Yorkers who drove down just to bike the Natchez Trace and continue on to New Orleans. I met another guy who was making a round-about bicycle trip to Oregon by first heading south on the Natchez Trace, then heading West on Adventure Cycling’s St. Augustine – San Diego route, then doing the Pacific to Oregon. He gave me his old bike pedals, which had harnesses – something I didn’t have. (I didn’t have a strong enough wrench and had to wait until a tire change at a Minnesotabike shop to have them installed – they work great). I stopped in a town called Kosciusko, named after a Polish freedom fighter who helped the Americans in the Revolutionary War and designed West Point. When I finally got to the Jeff Busby campground after traveling 70 miles that day, I met more people. I talked to a group of middle-aged bicycle tourists called the ‘Over the Hill Gang’. They fed me hamburgers and chips and we talked about bike touring. I also talked to a couple of college graduates of Vanderbilt in Eastern Tennessee who were riding the trail. I’ve really been putting some miles behind me and I still need a haircut.
May 7th, I make it to an exclusive bicycle only campground at the Tupelo Visitor Center. The traffic from Tombigbee National Forest through Tupelo really sucked. All kinds of traffic and a bunch of assholes. There are small wooden shelters here and I set my tent up inside of one. I can’t wait to leave Tupelo behind, although I know the hills of Tennessee and Kentucky are gonna kill me.
Yes, I was glad to leave Elvis’s birthplace behind. I made it to a campground called Colbert Ferry. It is actually in Alabama. The Natchez trace clips the Northwestern corner of Alabama before ending in Tennessee near Nashville. It is a nice campground but is soaked from all the rain that day. I even used toilet paper to start a fire in my stove to cook Spagetios. Lighting a fire was tough that night but I eventually got it going. Today was pretty wet and miserable but the next day would be worse.
I wake up here at Colbert Ferry as it has been raining most of the night. As I was packing to leave the rain got worse. Everything was soaked. The rain had mostly ended by the time I got going but not before ruining my cyclo-computer. (It never did work properly again, and I had to mail it back to the company, have them mail it back home – supposedly fixed, and then have it mailed back to me – by this time I was in Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, Canada). Also, I noticed my Gore-Tex rain jacket had a large patch on the back where the protective coating had been eaten off by some bike oil that had spilled on it. It was now ruined too.
I stopped in the little town of Collinwood, TN, where I did some shopping. The people there were so friendly. I was so glad just to get to the Merriwether Lewis campground in Tennessee, though. Named after the Lewis in Lewis and Clark – the men hired by Thomas Jefferson to survey the newly acquired Louisiana Purchase in the first crossing of the continent by white people and, with the help of Sacajawea – young Shoshone Indian girl, the first whites to cross to the Pacific Ocean. I took a day off there to walk trails, do laundry and rest. I met some cool people there: This one guy named Don, an old surfer-hippy from Key West living in an old Volkswagen van off social security. He just went around staying at free campgrounds until he’d get kicked out. He’d fish and just hang out. He caught a bunch of Bluegills, which I cleaned. He cooked them and we ate. Ron Smith, a man who lived in Arizona part of the year and traveled around in his motor home, was very helpful, with information about campgrounds and stuff. I also met someone who said they saw me at Rocky Springs. I took some time to see the grave of Merriwether Lewis, and the spot in which he died, at The Grinder Inn. Officially the cause of death was murder but no one knows for sure who did it, or whether it was Lewis himself who pulled the trigger. Either way he died of a gunshot wound there in 1809 at the age of 35, and a stone marks the spot.
What a day! It is Sunday, May 11th. Sundays seem set aside for adventure lately. I pulled into Loretta Lynn’s Ranch campground around 10:00 PM after traveling a bumpy dirt road in the pitch dark – Déjà vu from last Sunday, when I arrived at my campground after 11 PM following the passage through the incomplete section of the Natchez Trace. I did finally leave the Trace today. As soon as I did I encountered a hill going straight up. This would be par for the course for the next three weeks or so. The bike maps weren’t kidding when they said Tennessee was full of “exhausting, roller-coaster hills”. Its seems like I would take an hour or more to escalate up one hill – then it would take about two or three minutes to come back down. I frequently hit speeds of more than 35 m.p.h. I could have gone faster but they were so winding and the turns so sharp, I often had to brake to make it around corners. I also did some laundry and grocery shopping in a town called Centerville. The girls at the grocery store were so sweet and friendly. I make sure to send them a post card when I get to Deadhorse. That’s the way the people seem to be here in Western Tennessee, extremely friendly and outgoing. While I was doing laundry I talked to a guy there for a while who told me all about his county with great pride. He wanted to welcome me to Hickman County.
Even with all the crazy hills, I made 67 miles. Of course, the 10 PM arrival time is the price I pay. I really don’t like riding at night. I do have a headlight and rear light – and plenty of reflectors. But one thing that is especially negatory about night riding is eventually finding a place to camp. Sure the maps may list campgrounds, but they are not always accessible – and, sometimes, they’re not even there. I was trying to find Loretta Lynn’s place, and, in the dark, it is really easy to miss roads and places. Another encounter with a group of loose dogs surrounding me on a dark dirt road accented the night’s adventure. I made it to the campground.
The next day, May 12th’s journal entry: “What a rough day! One word – Hills. Only 53 miles and lots of stops to rest my legs.” That was really the story of the day – the hilliest to date for me. I spent the majority of the day traveling between 3 and 4 mph. I wish I could have stayed to check Loretta Lynn’s Ranch out. There is just not enough time. I have been following a rough schedule of riding three to four days, then taking a day off. I wanted to start riding six days a week to make Fairbanks in time, but just have not been making it. I stopped at a campground in Dover and set up. No one was around to collect money or open the showers. I went across the street to use the bathroom at Cindy’s Catfish Restaurant and wound up staying for a burger. I went back the next morning for the breakfast buffet. Still nobody around at the campground so I guess it’s free.
I made it into Kentucky today. Land Between the Lakes State Recreation Area is a region in Tennessee and Kentucky where two large lakes were created when they dammed the rivers. Kentucky has more miles of running water than any state except Alaska. I am here at Twin Lakes Lake access on Kentucky Lake of LBL. I paid $10 for a backcountry permit and am staying another night before heading to Illinois. This region has as many hills as Tennessee. I know – I talk about hills a lot. For someone who has lived his whole life in coastal Florida, and not done much bike riding to boot – much less with 150 lbs of stuff, these things are killing me! Anyway, I enjoy the rest here. I hiked and visited a planetarium at the visitor’s center. I got to see the Mars show and, later that night, I was able to identify Mars in the night sky. I also learned how to find Leo the Lion. There was an interesting presentation and display at the visitor’s center about moon shiners running liquor during the depression. Apparently, Land Between the Lakes was a thriving liquor production area during the Great Depression. Almost all the booze served in Northern bars at the time came from here.
I write in my journal: “I think I should start enjoying myself more and quit driving so hard to meet deadlines. Its getting to be like a regular job and that is not what I had intended. Maybe Fairbanks is a good riding destination. I’ll still try for Deadhorse though for now.”
I left my stuff out in the rain, and now had it all spread out on two picnic tables. I can’t believe how much stuff I have with me and that it all fits on my bicycle. I decide, however, that it would be a good idea to send some unnecessary stuff back home. I also need some things. Sending stuff home is fairly simple. Receiving stuff in the mail is a bit more complicated. First it is necessary to look ahead on a map to determine a post office and zip code so my parents in Florida know where to send the things I need. It has to be far enough away so I am not stuck waiting, but if it gets there much earlier that I do, I risk having the Post office send it back. I will pick up a package at the town of Karnak in the southernmost tip of Illinois.
For now, though, I leave Land Between the Lakes – but not before doing some shopping in the visitor’s center. I bought a book called “The Pictorial History of the Natchez Trace”, and a little guidebook of trees. The man at the center, “Roger”, wanted me to be sure to mention his name when I wrote about my trip so here it is, dude. It started out rainy and my bike computer doesn’t work at all anymore. Kentucky was pretty hilly too, but not like Tennessee. I figured I could find an ATM somewhere, and spent all my money on those books at LBL. Well, there was no ATM in Smithland, KY, so I spent my last dollars at a food stand on a burger and some fries. I got my first glimpse of the Ohio River near Birdsville. I was starving and trying to find somewhere for food and water, which I finally got in a place called Joy. It had been pretty cold the past couple days (60’s), and the people in Joy said it wasn’t always like that. I wondered if it was always as windy, though, cuz it was like gale force winds I had to plow through – which is still better than hills.
On Route 1608 I took a picture of nothing but grass and sky – don’t ask me why. Perhaps a prelude to the expanse of nothingness that would greet me in Northern Alaska. It’s the raw simplicity of it that draws me to ponder it. As if I can look in at the purity of it all come to some sort of epiphany. Nothing remarkable has come to me yet.
I stopped at a store in a town called Tolu. The man there told me the ferry across the Ohio River to Cave-In-Rock, Illinois (actual name), ran until 10:00. Good. I thought I might have to camp out on the Kentucky side of the River as it was getting late. He gave me a souvenir pen of Tolu, and I bought some chili cheese dogs with my last change. As it was, I made it to the ferry at 7:00, crossed the Ohio River, and made it to Cave-In-Rock. The strange name of this town is derived from the cave overlooking the Ohio River, which was a haven for bandits as they ambushed boats coming down the river. (write more stuff here)I wrote a check for the $7 camp fee and, to my consternation, the place had no showers.
I got a maintenance guy to let me use a sink to wash my hair and stuff the next morning, and headed out once more, in my quest for an ATM machine. Elizabethtown, Illinois (population 427) was a large enough small-town, apparently, to have an ATM. They were also large enough to have a barbershop – ala Floyd’s of Mayberry – and I stopped in for a haircut. “Cut it all off”, I told the barber as I explained about my trip. My hair was pretty shaggy at the time and he remarked about the profound change in my appearance the close-cropped buzz had wrought. I didn’t care. After all those many days without showers, all those days dealing with the rain, the mud, and ticks in my head – I was more than ready to lose my hair. All of it, practically. I didn’t know what to expect, and after it was over and I got to look at it, I didn’t know what to think. I had never in my life had my hair anywhere close to this short. In fact, my hair was usually pretty long. I’ve had it down close to my waist before and now it couldn’t be more than a quarter of an inch long.
The barber told me bicyclists used to come through this town a lot more about five years ago. Just a passing fad, I guess. Apparently, I had missed bike touring’s heyday. My trip was taking place after the popularity had peaked, but what the hell – When I first made my plans to ride a bicycle across the continent, I didn’t realize that ANYONE did anything like this. The year I planned and researched, I came to the realization that it was actually a popular activity, and in fact, a whole line of equipment – from bike touring bags, to Adventure Cycling maps were created for just this business of going on long bicycle tours.
Well, I was still immersed in my bike trip. I still had many towns to pass through. More importantly, right now, I had to make it to Karnak to pick up my package. Today was Friday. While in the town of Golconda I called the town of Karnak to see if the post office would be opened on Saturday. It was – from 9:00–9:30 AM. But, he said, a girl would be there at 7AM. The hell with that! – I decided to camp out in the Shawnee National Forest. I took the ‘gravel alternative route’ from my Adventure Cycling map, which only showed 7 miles of gravel – which had since been paved so, no gravel. I tried at one point to pull off and camp but was not happy with the spot.
I really had no intention of trying to make it to Karnak that day but that is exactly what I ended up doing. I got there way after 10:00 PM. It said in the map there was a Lion’s Club campground east of town but I couldn’t find it. I almost got killed twice on the way here though. Once by an 18-wheeler turning into my path while I was stopped at a stop sign, and another time when I heard tire screeching and had to swerve into a ditch. This is the last time I’m riding at night, I decided.
When I finally got to the town of Karnak, I asked a man working on a truck about the campground. He told me there was a Lion’s Club a mile west of town but there was no campground – just a couple of picnic tables. That was good enough for me. I set up under a picnic table shelter. The next morning I heard people across the street making remarks to each other about my tent. I’m up, out of there, and at the post office at 7:00 AM. To find the girl, and my package, waiting.
I’m now in search of a Laundromat. Of course. It is always those same things I spend constantly trying to locate: A camp, food, water, Laundromat spot, and last but not least, a shower. In the town of Ullin, nothing. Then I hit Tamms and am able to do laundry. I still haven’t had a hot shower since Loretta Lynn’s in Tennessee. I get to a free campground in the Shawnee National Forest on the Grapevine Trail, near the town of McClure. It has water and toilets. Very nice. A nice place to spend a couple days relaxing.
I am enjoying this campground. No one around the whole time – nothing but peace and tranquility. I‘ve been exploring the trails and using my tree book to identify leaves and figuring out what type of tree is what. I am learning the constellations in my star book. I have never been this close to raw nature. It has always been there, but I never really took the time to notice. I am also reading my Natchez Trace books. I read about the Indians and settlers and their brutal methods of torture. The Natchez Indians would scalp their prisoners alive, then burn them slowly to death for three days and three nights. The colonists would, in turn, do equally brutal things to the Indians. Ah! Human Nature. I could say how great it is to live in the 20th Century, but all it takes is a look into Nazi Germany, or the recent events in Yugoslavia, Rwanda, and elsewhere in the world to realize that Human Nature doesn’t change much, only the social structures which harness the more destructive tendencies, and prevent most people from acting on them. It is such a paradox – the sublime, delicate beauty, set side by side with the stark, destructive brutality – all shaping the existence of this world.
I’m thinking also of all the things I need to do in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. I am planning on sending some unnecessary stuff back. One of the things I’m sending back is by tape player and tapes. I’m sitting and listening to them for the last time and thinking about how much I love music. I hear music all the time in my head, as I’m riding. I have only listened to my tapes 2-3 times, however, and decide I don’t need them. I will have to rely on my imagination for music as I have anyway. Its strange how much this trip can take out of me. I’m thinking about how much I love music, but at the same time, I’m sending it back because I can’t focus on listening. All my focus is on my trip.
I have been so close to the Mississippi River since I first saw it in Natchez, Mississippi. I have not even seen it again, though, since that day. Today, I finally cross it. Here I am in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. With nearly 35,000 people, it is one of the largest cities I’ve passed through my entire trip. After spending so much time going through tiny little towns and rarely seeming people, and many days camping with no people around at all, being in a city like Cape Girardeau is somewhat of a shock. It may as well be a booming metropolis to me. I found the post office, took care of business, and was on my way. Back to what I was used to by now. I made it to what I thought was the Mark Twain National Forrest. It was pitch dark and I was just trying to find a spot that didn’t have a fence and ‘No Trespassing’ signs. I hadn’t made the progress I thought I had that day. The spot I eventually settled on, I found out the next day, wasn’t quite in Mark Twain yet.
Today is May 21st. I only traveled about 30 miles today, deserting the trail early by ducking into the woods in no particular spot. I shove my bike well into the woods looking for some sort of clearing and, without setting up or unloading anything, go for a little walk to find the perfect spot. I’m not seeming to find the perfect spot but soon come to what looks like a riverbed. I start following this dry bed a little. Where there is a riverbed here must be water, and that would be a welcome treat at this point. I almost always have a little water for drinking, but a body of water is an extra bonus at any camp spot for washing and such. After walking for what I eventually considered too long, I turned back to retrace my steps back along the dry riverbed. I had one problem, though. I didn’t come across anything resembling anything I remembered seeing before.
In other words: I was lost. Strangely, I had just been thinking about how I had never gotten lost in the woods before. I turned in the direction I thought I‘d entered the river bed and started walking in the hopes of seeing something, anything, familiar. I didn’t. I kept thinking certain scenes looked vaguely familiar. But the truth is, one tree looks like another out in the woods. I kept walking, though, thinking I would certainly see my bicycle just around the next tree. I didn’t. The trees started getting closer together, and the brush was getting thicker and thicker. It became difficult to walk. My feet were tangled in the brush and soon I had to push and pull through brush and branches with my hands in order to move. I backtracked more than once in the hope of at least returning to where I once was where the brush was not so thick. Soon, I had lost all direction and wasn’t sure which way I should even go.
By now, I was getting worried. I had heard tales of people getting lost in the woods but that had always seemed to be WAY out in the woods. I had heard stories of finding the bodies of people lost in the woods for weeks when they were within several feet of their camp or a road, and it seemed ridiculous. Now, I was beginning to see how it could happen. With no direction or landmarks – if you don’t know which way you need to be headed its impossible to know which way to go. You are either walking toward, and getting closer to where you need to be, or you’re walking away, and getting further from it. I was beginning to start thinking of all these things.
It was thick and dense as could be and I just kept plowing through all the brush. It was kind of like going up hills where you imaging the next hill to be the last. I just kept hoping something familiar would appear – as I thought of starving and not having water and it may be getting dark and I’d have to sleep where I stood. I listened for cars but heard either none or some – I couldn’t tell if it was just wind. I eventually came to where I saw a sign – a road. It was about 150 feet from where I had entered the woods in the first place.
I walked back up the road to my entry point, set up camp, ate, and went to bed relieved at my good fortune – and by my awesome tracking skills, of course.
On the road again the next day. Southeastern Missouri is part of the Ozark Plateau. Tennessee had roller coaster hills – but these were mountains. I mentioned at the beginning how I, a life-long Floridian was a complete stranger to hills, and that I was very fortunate to be starting in Florida. I really was. If I had to deal with mountains FIRST, there is no way I could have continued. Missouri was as rough to me now as Tennessee was earlier. My first two weeks I struggled and grieved about the hills in FLORIDA. I know I have to be getting in better shape as I go along, and that I must be getting stronger, but the terrain keeps managing to up the ante on my training regiment.
I ate lunch in the town of Cherokee Pass at some drive-up hamburger stop. I’ve felt like I was going to die a few times. This route is terrible for a bicycle. Narrow, winding, up-hill with low sight lines. A guy in a tow truck almost hit me and came back to tell me how dangerous it was to be riding a bike. A lot of redneck type racing around these little roads.
There is a very interesting sounding park on my route but it is several miles off the trail. Johnson’s Shut-Ins State Park – the name itself sounded intriguing. It jumped off the map and caught my eye a long time ago as I pondered the maps and what I was going to do. I talked to a lady at a store/house in a town called Jewett. She said it was one of the most beautiful places on Earth. That was the final straw. After debating whether to go, or not, I finally made the decision to do it. I really didn’t want to go this far off my route, and if I had realized how far, and the steep up and down hills that led to it, I don’t think I’d have attempted it. The lady from Jewett said it was one of the most beautiful places on Earth – and I think she may be right. I am very glad I came. I am staying for a couple of days to rest. I am having the best time that I’ve had on the trip so far here at this magical place. It is near the top of a mountain and the fresh, clear water cascades down and through volcanic lava formations that have been worn smooth from thousands of years of water erosion. They are very close together and are given the geological name of Shut-Ins – Hence the park’s name. They are like nowhere else. It is like a natural water amusement park, and everyone plays among the shut-ins. I bought some flip-flops and an inflatable raft – along with another book on trees and one on stars. Paradise.
If Johnson’s Shut-Ins was paradise, then the road that leads to and from it must be Purgatory. And the ride from there to where I am today was Hell itself. Mostly it just rained – and sometimes that is bad enough. It is when it does nothing BUT rain – and for days sometimes, that it can make me insane. Like Chinese water torture, it becomes, at times, unbearable. And then the hills. I don’t go too far today either – about 37 miles. I pulled into Wild Bear Ridge Campground at Council Bluff Lake – Still in Mark Twain National Forest (which is actually several forests bunched together in Southern Missouri). I hate to pay $7 for a campground with no showers. To me the money I pay for a campground is FOR the showers. A campground without showers is a free campground – it’s called the woods. Anyway, I pay, and I’m here.
The only thing that kept me going today is knowing someday I could look back and this and laugh. But not today. I’ve wasted an hour trying to light a fire in all this wetness. I also wasted a whole section of my journal notebook trying in vain to light it. Page after page, I tore from my book and was no closer to having a fire than when I first stared. I wish I hadn’t done that. Never again. The fact that I never get a fire going makes it even worse. For the first and only time on my trip I fail in an attempt to start a fire. I am sitting and thinking about how it has done nothing but rain for two days. I start thinking too much. I am paranoid about getting Lyme disease from tick bites and plan on getting a tick shot in Potosi, the next town on my route.
The morning of May 26th was my worst. I didn’t wanna get up. I didn’t wanna pack up. And I REALLY didn’t wanna ride. But I did.
I didn’t get far – I got to Potosi. But I did keep moving. Again, in lousy, cloudy, cold, wet weather. I ate like a pig at the KFC buffet, and I camped out at the city park, where a volleyball game/cookout was ending. I talked to the people a while and they gave me their last three Pepsis.
May 27th was not much better. In fact, it was worse in that it stayed cold and cloudy all day – but at least it didn’t rain until late that night – long after I had settled in at Meramec
State Park. This place is kind of strange. It is flat and full of neat rows of very large Cottonwood Trees, which drop little cotton like buds everywhere. Some people came by to tell me they were leaving and that I could have the rest of their firewood at their campsite. I almost switched sites rather than have to carry back all the wood, but when I went up there, the campground host had snatched it all. When I told them it was left for me they drove it back to my site for me. There is really plenty of wood here. Scattered around too – and when I got back from the store someone had left several cardboard boxes with construction wood scraps at my fire ring.
I am right on the Meramec River, which is a pretty muddy river. This park is pretty laid back and quiet. The most remarkable thing, though, are the deer. They wander about, not too concerned with people around them. I got my best deer pictures here, as the deer seem to be less timid than other places. I’ve seen deer now in Florida, Tennessee, Kentucky, and now, Missouri.
I still feel unmotivated and lacking in enthusiasm for continuing to ride. This, I hope will end after a little less steep riding occurs – if that ever happens.
I stop the next day at a Burger King in the town of Sullivan. I have now reached the 2000-mile mark on my trip. ******stop to talk to me as I eat. They ask to take my picture, and afterwards, they pay for my lunch. Back in Florida they mail me copies of the pictures. I lose my trail about 6 miles south of Washington and take a detour through Union before making to Washington, on the Missouri River. There is an alternative spur that heads to St. Louis that I had, at one point debated taking.
That is out of the question now, with the way I’ve burned myself out. It is called over training in sports, I guess, but these past 3 weeks or so have seen me push myself to far for too long. Spending 8 or more hours a day riding an overloaded bicycle up steep hills has taken its toll on me physically, mentally, and spiritually. I am lethargic and irritable much of the time. I do not want to take any unnecessary detours. Riding has become a chore that I do not look forward to.
It is nice, however, to cross the Missouri River. A big milestone. I’m pretty familiar with the Lewis and Clark expedition, as I’ve been reading a lot about it. Their famous trek started in St. Louis at the symbolic entry point to the West. I am now about to embark on a similar route to the West, which will parallel theirs at many points.
Looking back, crossing the Missouri would turn out to be a turning point in my journey. Getting North of this great river launched me into a new phase of my trip. Within a week, I would have a whole new attitude, as I found myself in an entirely different terrain.
But, for now, I still had some hills to climb. Actually, today, I only had to set up camp in the town of Dutzow. I am just on the other side of the Missouri River. Dutzow is a town of German immigrants and it shows in a sandwich shop near the spot I am camped. I don’t think I am supposed to camp here but I am anyway. As it turns out, I stay the following day also, as it, of course, RAINS!.
It is 2:30 PM. I sit in my tent still listening to the rain, which has continued since early this morning. I ate a very good sandwich at the Dutzow Deli this morning and, otherwise, have not left my tent. Today is shot but perhaps for the better with my stiff legs needing the rest. As it is I am sitting off the Katy Trail – a crude gravel rail-to-trail that will someday stretch from St. Louis – West. Its not a campground – a picnic table with pit toilet nearby, but no one has complained…I am depressed as my spirits seem to rise as high as my mileage. I hope to make good mileage gains in June.
As it turned out, the police did come to my tent to let me know that camping was not allowed. I told them I was only staying because of the rain. They didn’t seem to mind too much but were obligated to let me know. They just wanted to make sure I wasn’t establishing a permanent residence there at the side of the trail.
After riding about 42 miles today, I reached Cuivre River State Park and almost immediately met up with Dave Westphal, riding his bicycle up and down the road leading through the park. An avid cyclist, he was a scoutmaster leading a Boy Scout troop in which his son was a member. The troop was camping out there that weekend and he invited me to hang out with them that night. I made shish-ke-bobs, and went hiking around the lake with them. We hung out around the fire, as the troop of sixth-graders was full of questions about my bike trip. The next morning I ate breakfast with them and was on my way.