So far, only Todd, my good friend from Canada, has commented on the fact that in my last correspondence, I stated that "I headed west, in search of the Atlantic Ocean". A good trick, if you can do it in the United States.
Leaving Montgomery, Alabama in the early morning I traveled the back roads of Alabama. Many of the towns I passed through bore evidence of a very poor economy and a somewhat grim lifestyle. But the folks I met at a few stops were still gracious and most friendly to this wayward traveler.
A big part of the economy in central Alabama seems to be huge catfish farms. There were a large number of ponds alongside the road that looked almost like rice paddies. Nearby these ponds were strange-looking mechanical devices the purpose of which remains shrouded in mystery.
I arrived before long in Selma. I stopped for a while, since this city played such a key role in the voting rights movement of the mid-sixties.
There is a walking tour, which offers explanations on each block of events that occurred there during those seminal times. I took a walk on the Edmund Pettis bridge, over which the demonstrators marched, only to be attacked by the police with their dogs and water hoses. It was brought back so terrifically vividly for me as I wandered the streets.
I continued on past Jackson, Mississippi, and ran smack into the Big River again. Figuratively, of course. I turned northward and made my way north along the river, reminded again that you cannot see much of it from the road due to the tall levees. I decided to stay at James Kyle State Park, just south of Memphis. This is a really nice park that owes its existence to the dam that overlooks it. The Army Corps of Engineers often built dams and in debt to the local communities affected, built truly wonderful parks. This one is no exception.
It also has provided an opportunity for me to expound on campground etiquette. In the years I've been camping, I've found there are many unwritten, yet almost universally observed rules. Perhaps foremost among these are the "stop and chat" rules. The way they work is deceptively simple.
Rule #1: If one is sitting outside in a lawn chair, or perhaps the picnic table, it is absolutely acceptable for perfect strangers to walk right up and strike up a conversation. In fact this is one of the appeals of camping. You meet some truly wonderful folks this way.
Rule #2: If one is within one's camper, it is accepted as a matter of course that this is a signal that it is simply not the right time for unknown visitors to come calling.
Here in the Deep South, there is an overriding influence that seems to take priority over the second of the two immutable laws of camping postulated above. It is called Religion.
Since I have been in the Southern climes, each Sunday I have had visitors to my camper early in the morning, knocking on the door. This is such an unusual event (based upon Rule #2) that I was somewhat taken aback at first. Upon answering the knock, I found some very well meaning citizens inviting me to a prayer service taking place on the campground. This happened a couple times each Sunday morning. Perhaps they saw me as in dire need of the services they were participating in.
Though I declined each time, I asked out of curiosity what faiths they represented. Baptist was dominant. So was Christian Fundamentalist. One couple's explanation was obscured totally by their thick accent.
Understand me clearly here. I support everyone's right to believe and practice the faith of his or her choice. It is a great thing. And I know these kind citizens are simply practicing their faith by reaching out to others to join them.
But there is no way to avoid the fact that they are in direct conflict with Rule #2 of camping etiquette. And for this, it was difficult to be patient and cordial with them, though I was.
I went for a wonderful bike ride on the back roads of Mississippi and Tennessee and on into Memphis to pick up some parts for the bike I had ordered. It was a great ride, and I ran into a group of bikers out for the day, who told me of a few alternatives to the route I had planned. It was great advice, and a great ride.
On the way back, I got caught in the vice of the shifting afternoon thunderstorms. Boy, did I get soaked! What was interesting to me was that I went through probably a half-dozen thunder cells and the rain from some was very cool, and others were warm. Fortunately I encountered no hail. Lots of thunder and lightning, as well. Some of it frighteningly close!
The next morning, I become a changed man. I went to Graceland! I have been to the home of the King!
It was a very interesting visit. I had expected a gaudy, sequined environment. It was not that at all. Pretty down home, though it certainly reveled in the 60's and especially the somewhat tacky 70's style of interior decoration. More than one room was furnished in shag carpeting, including the ceiling!
A few things stuck out in my mind. The tour was tightly orchestrated. Groups of about 20 wide-eyed tourists were stuffed into tour busses and driven across the street to the mansion. They gave everyone little tape recorders with earphones that described many details of what we were seeing. This obviated the need for a live, narrated description of the scenario.
It produced an unusual situation within the mansion. As we walked through Graceland, listening to the pre-recorded spiel, I had chosen to have one ear covered and the other uncovered. I discovered was that the tour was, other than the disembodied voice in the headphones, almost utterly silent!
It was almost bizarre! Large groups of people walking slowly and silently through a famous man's house, enrapt with the story being told them electronically through the headphones. The staff members guiding us through the maze of rooms occasionally spoke in hushed tones as they whispered instructions so as not to interrupt the almost church-like atmosphere.
I liked the poodle wallpaper in the parent's bathroom.
Picture-taking was tightly controlled within the mansion. No video or sound recording was allowed and no flash photography. I couldn't figure out how to turn off the flash in my simple, point & shoot camera (a common occurrence among my fellow visitors). And I saw that the "escorts" came down like an avenging God on one poor soul who dared used a camera with a flash.
Not unexpectedly, there were a number of folks taking this all in who were in almost religious awe at being in the presence of the King's palace. I overheard hushed and reverent conversations that simply reinforced my belief that the King is more influential after his demise than before, which is saying a lot.
After having spent a couple days in the Memphis area, I decided to make it a travel day and head for northwestern Arkansas to an area I had missed out on my last time through. The Ozarks!
I arrived in late evening at the Devil's Den State Park. This is a wonderful place in a beautiful setting. The Ozark Mountains are not comparable in stature to the Olympics or Cascades, but they have their own intrinsic beauty. And it was really nice seeing mountains after being in the utter flatness of the Southeast for several weeks.
If nothing else, they have just barely enough altitude to escape the suffocating heat of the "lowlands". It was well over 100 degrees with high humidity during the drive across Arkansas, through Little Rock, and out to Fort Smith, where my journey took me north almost to Fayetteville.
The park is situated at a little over 1,000 feet, a dizzying altitude around here. And just high enough that the temperature dropped about 10 degrees, to the mid-90's. Almost comfortable!
That evening I was sitting in the beach chair, waiting for the temperature to cool down as the Park Ranger had promised. It did, but not as I'd hoped. It dropped from 96 to 94 and then seemed to get stuck for quite a while. I had also asked the Park Ranger how the mosquitoes are here. His reply was "they're probably best barbecued". OK. Actually they weren't bad at all.
I had a visitation in my campsite. The visitor was an armadillo. I heard this odd scuttling noise, and looked down to see one not five feet from me, wriggling its cute (?) nose at me. It's funny, but I never saw one in Texas where it is the State Oddity or something. I saw many on the side of the road that'd had fatal encounters with a moving vehicle.
Apologies to any armadillo lovers out there, but the thing looked like a rodent. A Rat in a Raincoat.
I did find out something interesting about them. You probably know that their defensive tactic is to roll up into a ball. What I did not know was that they curl themselves so effectively that they are nearly perfectly spherical. Not that I tried it, but apparently they can be rolled like a ball. I would guess that this is so they easily roll away when prodded by a hungry interloper. This is all very interesting, but it does not change the fact that they're nothing but a strange-looking rat.
The next day I took what turned out to be a spectacular ride through the Ozark National Forest. I headed north beyond Fayetteville and hopped onto Highway 62, which winds its way through northernmost Arkansas amid lushly green rolling hills.
About 40 miles out, I came upon a mountain town called Eureka Springs. This little burb seems to be a Mecca for antiques, arts and crafts of all sort, resorts, good food, and most especially music. They seemed to have every kind of music you could imagine. Not surprisingly there are what they call "Country Opry" houses - several of them. But there were also two serious opera houses, and a couple places that offered religious-oriented Passion Plays. And I spotted one joint with a Blues Band advertised for that evening, confirming that this was a place of outstanding culture.
In this pretty town I had a great lunch at Bubba's BBQ. I remain convinced that you can increase the number of customers at any BBQ joint simply by changing the proprietor's name to Bubba.
I continued eastward through Berryville, where I stopped for a break and asked a local about the sign identifying this as the Cherokee Trail of Tears Highway. I found out that during the period when our government was "dealing with the Indian problem", one of the many tragic events that occurred was the relocation of the Cherokee Tribe from Alabama and Georgia to their "new home" in Oklahoma. The tribe was escorted by troops who made sure they maintained the mandated progress. During the grueling march, a large number of Cherokees died and the route they took has since been known as the Trail of Tears. We humans can sure do some incredible things to each other.
Since the area was so beautiful, I decided to stay another day. I took a different route east through some terrific terrain. I stopped at a breathtaking view called Inspiration Point, though this day it might be better known as Perspiration Point, since the heat index (a combination of temperature and humidity) was posted at 114!
As I stood looking at the view (picture to follow) a large group of bikers pulled into the parking area. These folks were wearing colors. Colors are emblems worn on the backs of their denim or leather vests identifying the club they belong to.
Usually when a group is sporting colors I maintain a low profile until I am able to assess their nature. Bear in mind that the number of "bad" motorcycle gangs is very small these days. In fact, I have not encountered any, other than a few Bandito's, who are a ghost of their previous stature. Most of the really bad (& stupid) club members are in jail serving long prison terms.
This group was named the Thundering Weasels. A great name! Like many clubs of this sort, they looked rather scruffy, but they turned out to be some of the nicest folks you could hope to meet. In fact they were on a charity run for a local hospital. They managed to "weasel" (their words) a donation from me before I left, showing that they have earned their name.
That afternoon I ended up surrounded by thunderstorms again, a common occurrence out here on hot afternoons. It became a game I was determined to win. I was heading for a westward cutoff when I rode around one bend and felt a few huge raindrops hit me.
I pulled to the side and saw a weather phenomenon. Where I stood on the side of the road hastily consulting the map for an alternate route, I was in the searing sun and just a few big raindrops were hitting me. Not 100 yards away, there was a deluge. I could see and hear the rain coming down in buckets just down the road. It was a veritable wall of water I was looking at, and I could see the water bouncing up off the pavement and washing into the culverts on the sides of the road. Pretty amazing sight! I knew the situation would not last, so I hopped on the bike and made a hasty retreat.
I tried some other roads, heading generally westward, though it was a very indirect path. I got lost a few times, but that was part of the fun. Though it was a close thing, I made my way through some rural roads I would not have otherwise seen and successfully avoided getting soaked. This time.
With the help of the Weather Channel and a bit of luck, my route on this trip has avoided the worst of the wet weather. Back in Florida in the same areas I was in last week they've been having torrential rains. Same for the spots in Georgia and Alabama where I just visited. It is going to get more difficult over the next week or so since the area between here and South Dakota has been experiencing regular, systematic thunderstorm activity nearly every afternoon, and the forecast is for more of the same. We'll see!
The next day I broke camp and headed up into Missouri to see another area of the Ozarks.