The Great River Road

When you are outside, being still, simply appreciating where you are, slowing down long enough to listen to the birds and frogs, feeling the breeze, and watching the seasons change, do you often find yourself wondering what it was like to be here long ago? Who lived in this place? What would you have seen here 100 or 1000 years ago? What forces have shaped the land and how was life sustained? Will someone sit here in 10,000 years and contemplate what was happening today? I think about this often.

Maybe that’s what fuels my fascination with Native American and Pre-Colombian artifacts. I paint watercolors of statues, ceramics, and architecture from the collections of museums. So anytime I have a chance to visit a site or tour a museum, I can’t pass it up.

Negative Painted Bottle, from Spiro Mounds Exhibit at Western Heritage Museum

Such was the motivation of my stops on my recent motorcycle road trip, astride my near antique 1998 Honda Valkyrie. There just aren’t enough opportunities (or sufficient funding) for bike trips. Truth is, at my age they have morphed into motel and restaurant tours which definitely increases the expenses.

Day 1 (May 24): Konawa, OK to Vilonia, AR

325 miles

Our family gathered in Vilonia for a memorial service and I chose to use this trip as the catalyst for a road trip adventure. I left my home in Konawa with 40,320 on the odometer (all such data in this writing are approximate or a best guess) and took Hwy 9 through Eufaula and 271 through Spiro, Oklahoma. In Arkansas, I took Hwy 64 which parallels I-40. Interstate highways are something I avoid, but once I a while I’m forced onto. Since I left home late and wanted to arrive before dark, I didn’t stop for anything but gas. Poor vision and the exploding deer populations have put an end to night rides for me.

Lack of time forced me to omit a stop at Spiro Mounds which was sad, but not a complete disaster since I’d been there before and had also recently seen the Spiro exhibit at National Western Heritage Museum in Oklahoma City.

Several small towns along Hwy 64 were tempting me to explore: Altus and Coal Hill were very quaint. Somewhere in the the I spotted a “Regular Baptist Church”, which I had not heard of before – interesting to read about. The approach of nightfall forced me onto the interstate at Clarksville. Yuk.

Once in Conway, very near my destination, I stopped to call for directions and saw a number of homeless people in front of Starbucks and Subway near the interstate. Didn’t expect that, but I guess I should have.

Day 2 (May 25): Vilonia, Arkansas

0 miles

This day was spent with family.

Day 3 (May 26): Vilonia, At to McGehee, AR

328 miles

The mound at Parkin Archeological Site.

On the road again. First stop: Parken Archeological Site, my second visit there. A good place to get off the saddle and walk a little, looking at the mounds and old school. At the confluence of the St. Francis and Tyronza rivers, site is significant because of the Mississippian culture mounds and a sawmill community established here in 1902. The staff is friendly and there’s a nice exhibit. It’s suspected that this was the location Hernando de Soto visited in 1541 and described as the province of Casqui. If you ever passing through eastern Arkansas and want a place to rest and soak up some native history, visit their little museum and then follow the path out back to a bench under a shade tree and close your eyes. Image being here a 500 years ago when the Mississippian community was thriving – or 100 years ago when the sawmill community drastically changed the landscape. After exploiting all the hardwoods east of the Mississippi, lumber barons moved west to devastate forests in the rest of the continent and Parkin was a convenient place to establish a sawmill, using the two rivers to float the logs.

The old Valkyrie at Parkin.

A few miles on to Marion, Arkansas, and I reach the Great River Road. Which way do I go? Short trip or long trip? North or south? For no particular reason I head south and plan on crossing at Vicksburg.

Stepping off on the Great River Road and deciding to head south.

I have never had anyone tell me they have driven the Great River Road and I’m already starting to see why: it’s all kind of a blur of plowed fields, millions of acres of corn and rice fields, center pivot irrigation systems, and crop dusters. I was going to stop at New Madrid (epicenter of the largest recorded earthquake in North America), but I guess I was in a corn haze and just didn’t. There were a few miles of interesting places along horseshoe lakes (oxbow), but the corporate agriculture was overwhelming. I eventually realized that Vicksburg was a too distant goal for the day and gave in to weariness at McGehee, Arkansas. Got a decent motel room and ate blacken catfish at Hoots. Some kind person anonymously paid my check. Hmmm. Time to leave a good tip and get some rest. I’m already saddle sore.

Day 4 (May 27): McGehee, AR to Vicksburg, MS and up to Millington, TN

380 miles

I left McGehee while it was still dark, grabbed a donut and hit the road. While passing an RV Park along the river I spotted a sunrise view that I just had to photograph.

An interesting discovery as I passed from Arkansas into Louisiana was the town of Transylvania. I bought gas at the Farmhouse Restaurant from the oldest working gas pump I’ve seen in decades. The post office, water tower, and abandoned school there have undoubtedly been photographed by every tourist whose passed through town.

It’s about time for an oil and filter change and Google told me that Cannon Honda in Vicksburg was a motorcycle dealership. It’s not. The next opportunity is in Memphis and I wondered if they’d be open when I got there. Or if I’d get there. I know there are lots of things to see and do in Vicksburg, but I’ve been here a couple of times before. This trip’s about paying respect to the ancient ones along the Great River Road (GRR)and I continue along it.

Here’s where I started missing opportunities. The Mississippi Mounds Trail is a self guided tour of more than thirty mound sites. I did not know this and I just drove right past. I saw some signs, but didn’t understand. Someday I’ll go back.

So it gets pretty interesting when the GRR route in Mississippi takes to the top of the levees. A few miles north of Vicksburg, the designated route leaves Hwy 61 and turns back south on 445 taking you closer to the river. There are a few nice lake communities to see, lots of crop land, and not many gas stops. But then there’s some “Road Closed 14 Miles Ahead” signs, cattle guards, and construction work going on. Big earth moving equipment. But I look at the map a bit and realize I’m pretty committed at the point, so… what’s the worst that can happen? Let’s go see.

As promised, in 14 miles the pavement ends and there are some work trucks parked in the road. So like any dumb tourist would do, I pull up to the guy in the truck and say, “So does the road just dead-end ahead or is there a way through?” He tells me there going to be miles of rough gravel, but I can make it. He’s right on both counts, but let me tell you – there’s places where the Great River Road isn’t that great.

Not the greatest portion of the Great River Road in Mississippi.

Later on, still on the not so well designated but at least paved GRR route, I realize I haven’t seen another car or truck (certainly no motorcycles) in a long time and I need a break. There’s no shoulder so I stop on the road, get off, take off my gloves and helmet to stretch and walk a while. Really saddle sore. Then my cell phone rings, which is surprising since there has been any signal for a while. It’s my son, Tsegaye, and we have a nice chat catching up on events at home. This is the last time I saw my riding gloves. I hope someone found them and gets some use out of them. They were really good gloves.

So I make the motorcycle shop in Memphis in plenty of time. Even though the sign in the service department says they are scheduled six to eight weeks in advance, they drop everything and work in an oil change for a traveler and I get a little rest. This is one of the nice things about motorcycle shops: they almost always go out of their way to support the traveler.

Ribs at Rendezvous in Memphis is a required stop on any crossing of the Mississippi.

Next stop: ribs and beer at Rendezvous on 2nd Street in downtown Memphis. But now I’m tired, really tired, and it’s looking rainy, so I only make it to Millington. Have I mentioned being saddle sore? Another motel and shower and I’m done for the day.

Day 5 (May 28): Millington, TN to Collinsville, IL

350 miles

It’s a rainy morning. I’m eating breakfast at I-Hop and I get my second phone call. This is weird, because I can go months without any calls (except for Karen with automotive services center, whose records show the my vehicles extended warrant is about to expire). This time the call is from an old high school friend from that I haven’t seen in decades. His son is motorcycle racing in Oklahoma and he thought it would be a good time to get together. And it would be if I was in Oklahoma. But I’m at IHop drinking coffee and not even sure what state I’m in.

So, on down the twisty road and I’m in Kentucky looking for Wickliffe Mounds State Park, where I meet the staff, pay my $6, walk around and look at their exhibit. Really, it’s sort of a sad history of your all too typical grave-robbing business man. Even his collection of artifacts was robbed (or would that be re-robbed?) in 1988 and never recovered. So I got to see replica replacements. This is where I notice the missing gloves.

Wyckliffe Mounds State Park in Kentucky.

Back on the GRR, I cross the mighty Ohio River and land in Cairo. From this point on I’m determined to make it to my daughter, Sarah’s house. So, in her infinite wisdom, Siri decides to throw me a few misguided directions to see if she can add some miles and minutes to my trip. Of course she can. Not to mention some unnecessary Interstate experiences – like having a couple of teenage girls, driving a red car in the rain with their windows down, change into my lane before they’ve passed me… at 70 miles per hour. Nevertheless, I get to Sarah’s house tired, sore, but unscathed and we have pizza.

Day 6 (May 29): Collinsville, IL

0 miles

Soulard Farmers Market.

Sarah was kind enough to spend the day with her dad. She drove me to St. Louis where we visited the Soulard Farmers Market, witnessed the conclusion of a dedication service for new priests at the St Louis Basilica before viewing the inside, ate tacos in the hipster district, and then walked through the Missouri Botanical Garden. Wow. Full day. I had to sit down and rest a lot at the garden. Thank you for spending the day with me, Sarah. Thanks, Michael, for making that possible.

Day 7 (May 30): Collinsville, Illinois to Burlington, Iowa

Approximately 325 miles

Cahokia Mounds in Illinois. The pinnacle of the Mississippian culture.

Even though I’ve been to Cahokia Mounds a couple of times before, I wanted to go again. Since it was Sunday and Memorial Day weekend, I figured it wasn’t going to happen. But I was wrong – they were open and I got there just in time for a walking tour of the mounds. The young park service tour guide was very friendly and knowledgeable. He shared a lot of information about the site, the Mississippian Culture, and the native flora that I had not heard in my previous visits. So I took the walk, toured the museum, but didn’t climb Monks Mound this time because my knees hurt. Then I hooked up again with the Great River Road.

A house in the narrow village of Elsa, Illinois, on the Mississippi.

Between Alton and Grafton you pass The Village of Elsah. It’s one of the spots that I’m glad I stopped at. There was a community music hall and a gallery, every little house was so well maintained, it just looked like a cool place to hangout.

So far this trip has been without other motorcycles. Heck, a lot of it has been without traffic of any kind. But then you finally get to a stretches of road with good pavement, a splendid view of the river, and some curves, like between Alton and Grafton, Illinois — suddenly motorcycles are everywhere. Everybody’s lookin’ all badass and burly, but if you notice their plates and talk ‘em up, they’re really just on short day trips and buzzing bars and restaurants. Very, very few are toting any gear. What impresses me far more was seeing bicyclists on the MRT (Mississippi River Trail). More about that later on.

The Load Docks in Grafton was loaded on Memorial Day weekend.

There was a place in Grafton (The Loading Docks) where I had eaten with Sarah on a previous trip. We had been there around lunchtime on a weekday, the food was good and the river view was great. But now it’s Memorial Day weekend and it’s ridiculously crowded, there zero masks or social distancing (COVID-19) and I take a pass. I don’t care much for being in a crowd anyway. So a little further up the road I find O-Jan’s Fish Stand. Far more local color, great catfish and a couple Busch beers in the bottle. If you eat at a picnic table on the deck you’ll see the Grafton Ferry Landing. While waiting for my order I got to met an elderly (about my age) man who had been a roofer in Mississippi. He said “You know what I did when I retired? Kept on roofin!” He said roofing seemed like a great job when your daddy had been a sharecropper.

Look close and you’ll see the ferry crossing from Grafton, Illinois, to St Charles, Missouri, as seen from O-Jan’s Fish Stand.

As I was eating my lunch I got another phone call. This time for another old high school friend who was sharing the sad news that one of my best friends from those days just passed away. So I ate my fish, drank my beer, watched the river rolling south, and thought about how short life is. This is an area they call The Bluffs– very scenic with vertical rock outcroppings near the river banks.

Back in the saddle heading north. I remember the road was nice near Nauvoo, Illinois, and the day trippers started to thin out. What is it about loud pipes? I know I’m old, but I value what’s left of my hearing and don’t care a whit about trying to impress anyone with biker bravado.

A scene on the Great River Road just south of Nauvoo.

Sometimes any excuse for a break is a good excuse, so I stopped for a drink at Chick’s On The River at Quinton and talked a bit with local bikers and had the day’s special – a Bloody Mary, probably my fist on in thirty years. It included a lemon wedge, a lime wedge, a wood skewer holding four giant green olives, a dill pickle wedge. I wish I’d have taken a picture, but that didn’t seem appropriate while bonding with macho bikers. There were some nice pull offs just south of Nauvoo.

Nauvoo State Park.

Anyway, I decided I’d had enough for the day and crossed over to Burlington for the night. I notice my stops are getting more frequent and it’s getting a little harder to dismount each time. I’m getting between 30 and 40 miles per gallon which isn’t great for a motorcycle, but that’s the price of six cylinder power and I don’t mind frequent stops anyway. Have I mentioned being saddle soar?

Day 8 (May 31): Burlington to La Crosse

375 miles

I left Burlington later than my usual departure time because I slept late. I’m not used to curtains. After crossing the river back to the Illinois side, I found a covered bridge on Henderson Creek between Gladstone and Oquakaw. The Henderson County Covered Bridge was built in 1866, but I guess it wanted to see the world and in 1982 it headed downstream. Not getting very far, it was apprehended by the locals, disassembled and built back on the original site but three feet higher to prohibit future escapes.

Inside the Henderson County covered bridge.

A little further north I glimpsed a collection of gas station antiques that justified a U-turn. The people who lived here had assembled a significant collection of last century artifacts. They were, in their own way, paying respects to the ancestors. Then at Keithsburg a couple of derelict buildings seemed to be crying out for attention. A lot of us like to see old stuff, but it takes a lot of resources to make them last. I saw lots of places that were beyond restoration.

A great collection just north of Oquawka, Illinois.

After crossing the Rock River on my way into Rock Island, I followed 18th street to Sunset Park and Potter Lake for a butt break and stretch (saddle sore, remember) where I enjoyed talking to a local fisherman and watching people enjoy their lives. This trip was just barely post-pandemic and the scene here was both refreshing and encouraging.

Galena, Illinois.

Galena is a pretty town, but crowded and touristy, where I finally found a place to park and walked a bit. Okay, I walked a lot and climbed too many steps. But I enjoyed a conversation with a man about my age who was taking a break while his wife shopped. I was sitting on a bench eating some kind of fancy ice cream. It was amusing to see waiters hustling to serve customers at an outside “wine bar” and quietly keep the riffraff from settling at their tables. Break is over, back to the road.

LaCrosse, Wisconsin.

So many of the towns had names I’d heard all my life, sometimes duplicates of more well known cities, and many names from railroad lines, like Rock Island, or farm equipment, like Moline. When I was still twenty or so miles south of LaCrosse, it began to look a little stormy in the north and I found a nice pull off to find my rain gear. There was already another biker there with the same idea so we chatted as we donned pants and jackets, sharing experiences and information. He lived in La Crosse and was just out for a day ride. Friendly and experienced traveler he was. Somehow I made it to LaCrosse. It was raining a little as I unpacked and found lodging downtown. As dusk arrived the rain departed and I walked a few blocks to a restaurant/bar and had a good meal and beer. It was interesting to watch the downtown activity as I walked. I was feeling very far from home.

Day 9 (June 1): La Crosse, Wisconsin to Davenport, Iowa

245 miles

You could take a much shorter and faster route between any of the towns on my trip, but efficient routing isn’t what scenic byways or motorcycle trips are about. They are the road less traveled – the road worth traveling. The destination or the trip, which is it that pulls you from your door?

The next morning it was evident there had been a good deal of rain during the night, so I dried off my ride and took an unusually long time getting packed back up. After a brief ride looking around the urban area (all American cities are beginning to look alike to me) I crossed the bridge in Minnesota. It was a surprising distance across Barron Island into La Crescent as the river still holds a solid claim to surrounding real estate. After fueling up I found Kady’s Kafe, getting there just in time ahead of the morning crowd, and thoroughly enjoyed a breakfast and coffee. This seems like a friendly little town.

Immaculate Conception Church between Lansing and Harper’s Ferry, Minnesota.

The drive south was scenic indeed – twisty, hilly, sprinkled with river views, and pull offs with informative plaques. Honestly, I love this part of the Great River Road. After I got away from town there was no traffic at all and had lots of great stops occupied only by myself and redwing blackbirds intent on keeping it that way.

A few miles south of Harper’s Ferry the Great River Road abandons the river entirely for a while and just as you feel all the good views are over it turns back East and rejoice the mighty Mississippi at Effigy Mounds National Monument. Although the visitors center building was closed due to COVID-19, the hiking trail here is open. There are many miles of hiking trails here going north and south, but I thought I’d just try enough on the north end to see the little bears mound, the great bear mound, and Fire Point Scenic Vista.

A view of the Mississippi River from Effigy Mounds National Monument in Minnesota.

I started this trip with a bum knee, otherwise I might have made the seven mile loop to Hanging Rock. So off I go and I promise you the trail is wide and well maintained, but steep – especially at the start. There are switchbacks, wood and cable railing, but the sides are very steep and treacherous in places. So I was likely looking very winded. There weren’t many other hikers this day. First I met a fine family that I took to be Mennonites or Amish by their clothing, but that just a guess. They were, at the least very hardy hikers in my view – especially the children. Next I saw a couple about my own age or a little older. The husband encouraged me with the news of a bench in the shade just around the next bend and I wished them well. Apparently that was of no use because just a few seconds after resuming my climb I heard the terrible sound of the old gentlemen hitting the ground – hard. I returned as quickly as I could to offer what aide I was capable off. He had a good start on disaster since he had fallen off the trail under the cable. Luckily, one arm has fallen over the cable and he was snagged at the armpit. I joined him on the slope below the cable and encouraged him to stay where he was until we could make sure nothing was obviously broken. A few minutes later he caught his breath and told his wife and I that he was okay (which I doubted) and I stepped over the cable with him to help him back to the trail and then to stand. After waiting a few minutes, they made their way back to the parking lot. He had tripped on the edge of a rock protruding the mulch that covered the trail.

Great Bear Mound.

So what do you see at a Mississippian mound site? Basically a grass covered hill if it’s being well tended. If not, you likely wouldn’t notice a thing.

You meet some great people on a road trip. While I was at the Effigy Mounds National Monument I met some folks from Iowa City who were on a vacation with their granddaughter. Turns out this young lady is an artist and we had a nice conversation about art, careers, and the pursuit of dreams.

I had to stop off at Le Claire and at least take a picture at the Antique Archeology store (of the “American Pickers“ television show). I knew it would be closed, but such is life.

Too late again! I guess I’ll never meet Danielle.

Day 10 (June 2): Davenport, Iowa, to Washington, Missouri

360 miles

I remember leaving Davenport as early as possible, because I didn’t really care for the motel. It looked like it might rain again as I found my way back to the river road. After a short drive close to the river, I came to Buffalo, Iowa, and found Clark’s Landing a genuinely good place for breakfast. As I drank my coffee and waited for my breakfast I listened in on the conversation of three local fellows discussing the cost of tractor parts and how the school calendar impacts the availability of labor. Breakfast helps. It’s pretty nice driving along the river and railway.

Worth a thousand words.

I stopped again at Muscatine, Iowa, to take some photos. And started noticing that flat spot on my rear tire again. Several years ago I was riding through the Mark Twain National Forest in Missouri and had to drive quite a ways on a newly resurfaced highway (chip and dip) where the gravel ate away my tire like a cheese grader. At my next fill-up I checked the tires and saw threads showing through. This is unnerving and to be avoided. On that trip I was lucky to be near (20 miles) a motorcycle shop and was able to have a new tire installed the next morning. The shop owner even gave me a ride to a motel and picked me up the next morning. But this trip i am not going to push my luck. It’s time for a tire.

“The Pathfinder” is a vessel of the US Army Corp of Engineers, seen here docked at Clarksville.

This river road is very scenic on this stretch of southern Iowa. When I got back to Burlington I checked around for a Honda shop or any shop to get the right size installed, but after a few calls it looked like I’d have to get down to the Honda dealership in Keokuk at the Southeast tip of Iowa. All of the shop are booked weeks ahead for repairs, but they are generally very accommodating to the travelers and this one was too. I spent a couple of hours or so there and was back on my way with a new rear tire. Don’t take up motorcycling unless your willing to shell out some big bucks on maintenance.

Next stop, Hannibal, Missouri – of Mark Twain fame. The river road is a few blocks away from the river in Hannibal, so after exploring a bit downtown, I find Main Street and get off for a while to have a beer and walk around. I love this town. When I think of the Mississippi, this is it. I’d love to stay a week in Hannibal. I found Lydia’s Cabinet of Curiosities and was blown away by the selection of paintings on the walls. The proprietor, Gordon, was so informative and knowledgeable that I could have stayed all day. I remember he said “I like art more than money”. Me, too. I can’t say enough good things about this place. Go there, or at the very least follow their Facebook page.

Lydia’s Cabinet of Curiosities in Hannibal, Missouri.

My last piece of the Great River Road wound around hills and woods and farmland until I turned off towards Troy on Missouri State Hiway 47 just past the town of Winfield. As is my way, I took a convoluted path, missing a few turns, until I finally wound up in Washington, Missouri, for the night.

As I crossed the Missouri River I caught a glimpse of the old town waterfront a few blocks to the west, but I was tired and looking for a lodging. So I’m checking in at the Super 8 Motel a bit before dark and the clerk asked me (like they always do) to provide the make and model of my vehicle. For some reason, I asked him what he does if the guest arrives on a bicycle. He said he wasn’t sure if they’d ever had any bicyclists check in, but they could probably skip that part of the registration form. So I park my bike, find my room, and pass through the lobby again on my way outside and, what do you know… here’s two guys on bicycles checking in.

Wesley and Schlomo on their way to California.

I meet two amazing travelers, Wesley from Milwaukee and Schlomo from Greenbay (if I remember correctly), who are taking a couple of months to trek out to California and back. Their destination is San Francisco. It’s so amazing to me that people are in such great physical shape and are so motivated to do such things. Ride on. We talk about our trips for a while, take photos of each other, and Wesley says, “if we don’t see you in the morning, let me wish you safe travels.”

Day 11 (June 3): Washington, Missouri to Konawa

500+ miles

Before I left Washington, I wanted to go back to the downtown riverfront and take a photo or two – basically get a feel for one of the many interesting places that I will probably never see again.

True Wahitonians.

This morning the riverfront was just as beautiful as it appeared to be from the highway bridge last night. I parked in the nearly empty parking lot, read the history sign, walked around a bit and struck up a conversation with an elderly (my age) man who was sitting at on of the many picnic tables under the pavilion. After answering his questions about my sojourns, he told me that he was born and raised in Washington and would never live anywhere else. He told me a little about his children and grandchildren. I remember the one of his sons was a very successful banker in Boston. I was about to take my leave when a second gentleman walked up carrying a coffee cake. Introductions were made and a slice of cake was offered and accepted. Good cake. It turns out this fellow was another “true Washitonian”.

I soon took my leave and was approaching my bike when several cars and pickup pulled in together and a very similarly age troop of men emerged heading to the pavilion. As I walked past I offered greeting and was briefly engaged in conversation with a few of them. I quickly learned that each one of them (total of maybe a dozen) were lifetime Washington resident. I think I met the core of the community. It’s both amazing and wonderful to me that people can connect so thoroughly and successfully with a town. That’s a bit rare today. My family moved several times during my childhood seeking opportunity and a good fit. In my adulthood, I’ve moved my on family around for the same reasons. I’m glad I did, no regrets, but to have that hometown connection and lifelong friends is truly wondrous.

Washington, Missouri.

I parked again downtown for a walk around and met a nice fellow who was doing the morning prep at his bar in a beautiful old brick building. He asked where I was headed next. I wasn’t completely sure, but maybe Route 66.

Back on the road I made it about ten or fifteen miles when I passed my bicycle friends. We exchanged big waves and the morning was damp. It seemed to have just rained ahead of me most of the morning, by I never got a soaking. I wasn’t even wearing my jacket. I passed a gnarly auto accident after waiting for traffic to clear. I hope no one was hurt and I’m also glad I delayed my departure. Thank you again Lord.

Next stop: St. Claire, Missouri. Back in August of 2017, my family had chosen St. Claire as our spot to witness the total eclipse of the sun. That day was an amazing and somewhat crowded festival celebrating the Universe doing its thing. I thought I’d go back and eat breakfast there at Lewis Cafe. It was much more normal this time in St. Claire and the breakfast was good. I met a couple of bikers there from some club in Chicago who said they’d been rained on all morning. I told the waitress about my previous visit and they asked me to post some pictures on their Facebook page. I sent them a message with the link.

Lewis Cafe in St Claire, Missouri.

Now you have to understand that I’ve accumulated quite a weariness from the trip by now. But I did give Route 66 a shot. Probably 3 or 4 hours of really bumpy, poorly marked road and I finally gave up. I mean, I saw some interesting things from the old Route, but overall it was pretty depressing seeing the state of decay and burned out motels. I guess I was ready to get home. This last day I drove over 500 miles – way too much of it on the Interstate. But I made it home before dark.

Total trip: 3,163 miles

So, that’s my story of The Great River Road and the mounds of the Mississippian culture. After spending the better part of a year in isolation from the COVID-19 pandemic it was reviving to hit the road. Ive always loved to travel, but getting another chance to absorb the present moment and see the country side means more than ever now. This trip combined a mindfulness of the present with an experience with the past.

Reading about the people who lived here long ago and viewing artifacts in museums is helpful, but visiting these mound sites makes the experience meaningful. This trip, for me, was paying homage to the ancients. There was tragedy to come and the story continues today. I’m just glad to have had the opportunity to experience a small part of their story.

Time for a big rest.

If you read this story to the end… wow. I’m impressed. Please leave a comment.

The Open Road

The road trip is a right of passage into adulthood. It’s a trial by fire, first jump from the nest, and a measure of your courage. It’s also a test of patience. You should pick your travel companions wisely. I made a few trial runs right out of high school. Two or three guys in a truck: cross the state line, see the sights, yell a little bit. We managed to survive and avoid arrest (arrest never appealed to me). But something was missing. I knew I needed to take a motorcycle road trip–a sleeping bag, sun burn, folding map, noisy pipes, probably get lost and run out of money road trip. And I had a friend who was thinking the same way: Franky.

Franky Rhinehart

Franky Rhinehart was one of my best friends ever. He had a big heart, the ability to listen, was ready for anything, and had the patience of Job. I knew him in junior high, but we really became good friends in high school and were close until the end. I can remember that he brought a lunch to junior high every day, but didn’t eat it. Instead, he gave it to a boy he had seen digging in the dumpster behind the cafeteria for food. Seriously.

He loved music and played the guitar, had this Stratocaster in his lap nearly all the time. We made easy conversation and knew each other as well as anyone can. I’m well aware that I’m not an easy person to befriend, but Franky was. I miss him and I thought I’d try to share some road trip experiences in honor of his life and memory.

San Antonio

We’d invested many hours sitting in the driveway, planning and dreaming. Life was out there calling, we heard it. Franky had a BSA, I had a Harley. We both had jobs, saved our money. We prudently made a practice trip, loaded the bikes into my dad’s truck and drove from Dallas to Austin. The truck was our backup plan, our safety net. We parked it in a bank parking building that night and unload our bikes. Now we could start the real trip. The bikes looked good, metal muscle on two wheels.

They sounded awesome, especially inside the parking building. We put on our jackets and drove out into the night. We were looking good. No, not good–bad. We’re looking bad. Real bad. Look out world, here comes two bad bikers on a road trip, that just left their daddy’s pickup in a parking garage in Austin, just in case this whole thing goes in the crapper (more about that later).

It’s getting dark already. We go as far as we can anyway, cause, you know: we’re bad bikers on a road trip. We stop at a roadside rest area. Rest seems like a good idea. Park the bikes by a picnic table on a hill above the highway and pitch our sleeping bags on the ground overlooking the highway.

Hmm. Ever sleep in a sleeping bag on slope? Not good. Rolling down into the road isn’t good, so you have to put your head uphill and feet down. Then you’re constantly sliding in the bottom of the bag pressing your toes into the zipper. It didn’t seem that steep when picked the spot. So we got to sleep to the tune of night traffic on the interstate: insomniac truckers and people in a hurry. This sleeping bag is not so bad, it’s actually kind of cold out. Good night world.

I’m freezing! It’s dawn, but damn! I can’t stop shaking. This sleeping bag is made of tissue paper. Where’s my boots? Oh my gosh! It’s freezing out there–frost everywhere. Can’t stop my teeth from chattering. “Franky, dude. Anything’s better than this. I’m going to that restroom up the hill. At least we can get out of this wind. Freezing…”

Now, here’s the part about the crapper:

This was, fortunately, about the time that the Texas Highway Department started using electric hand dryers instead of paper towels. They didn’t really heat the air, just sort of took the chill off. We must have pushed that button a million times, huddled shivering under the tepid air stream. It was probably our own body heat from adrenaline and shivering that warmed us enough to get packed up and going again. Wasn’t any worse to be driving on top of an air-cooled engine in a leather jacket than it was to be freezing to death in a sleeping bag. The sun came up and the world returned to glorious, warm life again. We’re alive and on the road. Going to south to San Antonio, the Alamo, the river walk, missions, and former site of the HemisFair.

Later that day, I picked up a hitchhiking hippie girl and gave her a ride home, to Elmendorf, a little town southeast of San Antone. She told us we could come back later and camp in her dad’s pasture if we wanted to. We toured San Antonio on the cheap. Saw all you could of Texas history without spending any money. We didn’t have a camera and never thought about taking pictures. Seems strange now. There weren’t any mobile phones, if you can imagine, and a pay phone booth was a luxury. You could call collect in an emergency. We weren’t about to have an emergency. It was a good time. A sunny day–life was good. Later on, we spent the night in the offered pasture and we didn’t freeze.

My Sportster

The Hill Country

It’s been too long ago to remember what else Franky and I did on that first road trip, but it was a great four-day weekend. The trial run was a success. Later, we made a ride to Kerrville with Harold and Danny, for the folk music festival and arts fair. We dodged Ft. Worth on the way out, going through Cleburn, Kopperl, and Meridian instead. No big highways this time, boys. The city boys are on a back-road adventure. Somewhere past Lake Whitney, our late start caught up with us, but we camped off the road in the ruins of where something used to be. Parts of three walls and a foundation made a good spot for a campfire and story telling, shadows dancing on the bricks and a breeze in the willows.

Cranfills Gap, Hamilton, Event, Star (gotta love small towns), then Goldthwaite and we’re on Highway 16 to the hill country. There were still country stores with screen doors and Coke boxes. The memorabilia and antiques decorating Cracker Barrel and franchise steak houses were still living a useful life, uniformed men pumped your gas at service stations, folding maps and water fountains were free. No one ever dreamed of having to buy water in a bottle. If you stopped to eat in a small town cafe, you’d likely get to know the people there before you left. Who could imagine that a few short years later our eyes and minds would be stuck to small pocket screens?

Highway 16 is a glorious motorcycle road. Or, at least, it was in the early 70’s. So much history in the scenery. Cattle and horse ranches, small oaks and small deer. San Saba, Cherokee, Llano, and then a little side step before Fredericksburg on Texas 965 to see Enchanted Rock. It’s a state park now, but back then it was a privately run tourist attraction. Charles Moss ran the park and collected the small fee in exchange for a brief history and geology lesson, and tips on what you can see up the hill. The site had recently been declared a National Natural Landmark. Here, you could explore a site not found anywhere else: a pink granite batholith (a magma intrusion that cooled before reaching the surface and was eventually exposed by erosion). Viewed from the north, this huge pluton looks like an enormous ball of rock laying on the horizon.

As we stopped and made our way to the top, we saw signs pointing to a cave. We had no flashlights, so our spelunking curiosity was easily satisfied that day, but Franky and I knew we had to make another visit here. Enchanted Rock is basically one giant rock sticking up 450 feet above the surroundings, but this cave was formed by cracking and weathering. We went as far as a box of matches would take us. Never gave a second thought to snakes.

Back on the road, we had just passed Fredericksburg when Harold’s Triumph sputtered and died in the middle of an intersection. After failed attempts at reviving the beast, we took Harold to a pay phone somewhere nearby where he called his sister, Alice, in Austin. Then he insisted we go on ahead and while he waited for a truck, trailer and a repair. None of us wanted to leave him, but Harold wouldn’t have it any other way. He said he’d meet us at the campgrounds in Kerrville. So we go.

Just south of town is Kerrville State Park on the Guadeloupe river. Sans Harold, we found and empty spot in the shade and set up camp. In those days, the attendance at the Folk Music Festival was small enough to be held in the Municipal Auditorium in town. Names like Steve Fromholtz, Ray Wiley Hubbard, Buckwheat Stevenson, Willie Nelson, Tom Paxton, and Townes Van Zandt were on the program during the several times I’ve attended, but other than Steve Fromholtz, I don’t recall who was playing that year. As I recall it, the Arts and Crafts Festival was just about as good as the music. One Sunday morning I remember going to a church service at the arts festival grounds with Franky and hearing Steve sing about Jesus. That was so long ago, Steve Fromholtz and Franky Rhinehart are both gone now. So is Harold. But the next morning, we heard his Triumph cruising the campgrounds looking for us. It was good to see him back.

I made several more trips to Kerrville. Go, someday if you can.

East Texas With Harold

Harold and I had a little time off together and decided to head to deep east Texas. It was late spring when the weather was either really hot or storming, often both on the same day. I really just remember a few things about our trip. I had a black Sportster and Harold had a blue and white Triumph 650. We left Dallas, typically late, and were somewhere past Bonham and Honey Grove as then sun was calling it a day. I remember we were on a winding through the pines when our Highway 82 ended in Paris. Directly ahead was a drive in cafe with a sign naming it the Two Kiss Drive In. And there out front, just sitting there on stools looking at us were two of the prettiest east Texas girls you ever saw. Surreal. I look at Harold, he looked at me, we both simultaneously said, “No way” and took right turn. To this day, I don’t know what we were thinking. I guess somethings are too good to be true. Heading South, the Texas Forest Trail makes a scenic loop through East Texas.

We made it to Davy Crockett National Forest just as it was really getting dark…. and the campground was closed. But, there just enough room on the side of the barricade to squeeze a motorcycle through. So we have the park to ourselves, overgrown, no lights, and a little creepy since it’s super dark with a storm rolling in. We put our sleeping bags out in a camp site with a concrete picnic table and hope for the best.

The best didn’t arrive, but an intense lightning storm with torrential rain did. What are you going to do? What we did was to huddle under the picnic table, under wet sleeping bags, and shiver from wet and cold and maybe a tiny bit of fear. After the lightning passed, the coyote and owls complained the rest of the night that the campground wasn’t opened yet and we were not welcomed. This wasn’t a great night. I’ve never returned to Davy Crockett National Forest.

The next morning we looked and felt like drowned rats. We hadn’t slept a wink, but we squeezed all the water we could out of those bags, loaded up and headed out. Maybe two hours later, when the sun was warming up the world, we couldn’t do anymore. Stopping on the side of the road, we threw or bags over a fence and slept on the ground. When we woke up our sleeping bags were dry. I started thinking about a tent.

Completing the loop of the trail took us north again and wound up on old Highway 67 to Sulphur Springs. Night had caught us again and we had no idea where we were going to stay, but from the looks we were getting as we passed through town it was pretty clear we weren’t staying there. (This might be a good place to mention that motorcycles, long hair and leather jackets didn’t make a good impression with some folks back then). As we were leaving town there was a railroad crossing, at about a forty-five degree angle to the road. I should have sped up or turned perpendicular to it, because it threw me down like a professional wrestler. The fall broke my clutch lever, bend my foot peg, and mortally wounded my pride. As if that wasn’t enough, as I’m inspecting the damage, the Sherrif pulls up with reds flashing. He makes it very clear the he don’t much care what happened, but we’re sitting in front of a liquor store and best be headin’ on down the road. I drove all the way back to Dallas that night, dangling one leg and jammin’ gears. I’ve never intentionally been back to Sulphur Springs.

Epic Texas Tour

Franky and I spent a lot of time together. We were both working class boys, always had a job, and did what we could in school. It seemed like our folks spent a lot of time watching TV, which we tried to avoid. Instead, we’d ride or sit out in the driveway, usually on the tailgate of a pickup, and scheme and dream. Sometimes we’d talk about girls. Okay, most of the time. But that pickup tailgate is where we planned our next adventure – an epic Texas road trip to Big Bend.

By now, we’ve learned a little about road trips and the virtue of preparation, so we make a run to the army surplus store and get a one pole canvas tent, canteens, and flashlights. Should have bought some sun block, but nobody ever heard of sun block back then. Copper Tone made “suntan lotion” and advertised it with a picture of a dog exposing a little girl’s backside that would probably get a warrant issued today. Suntan lotion, like the sun needs any help – well, more on this later. You make road trips when you can, but August is sometimes not an optimal time for rides in the south.

When departure day arrived, we had packed like pros. Oil changed, tire pressure checked, new maps, and ready for the experience of a lifetime. We had two weeks for this trip. Leaving family and safety behind, we headed for the hill country.

Enchanted Rock, from Austin Explorer

On day two, we make it to Enchanted Rock fairly early. We pay our money to the man at the gate a trudge up the trail to try the cave again. Remember rancher Charles Moss? He owns the place. Welcomes us back, friendly guy. Tells us we’ll pretty much have it to ourselves today, hardly anyone else willing to brave the heat today. Might want to take some water. Lucky us, we’ve got brand new canteens. So we fill ’em up, say “Thanks”, and head off.

Boy, it is hot. No shade up here and no breeze either. Trudge on up the hill. Don’t remember it being this far, quite a view up here, where’s that cave sign? Trudge. Oh, there it is. An arrow painted on the ground and the word “cave”. Don’t need any matches this time, do we Franky? We’ve got flashlights. Trudge. Okay, there’s the cave. I thought it was bigger than this. Oh well, here we go. You feeling like a spelunker?

We don’t get far before it’s totally dark, but much cooler. We turn on our lights and carry on. Yep, this is about as far as we got last time. Those could even be our matches down there. Franky drops his flashlight. It’s gone. We find it, take it apart and try to fix it, but it’s done. Oh well, we’ve still got mine.

Then we have to squeeze through a tight place, then climb over a boulder, then drop off — whoa! That’s a little frightening. Hmm, wonder how far this thing goes? We’ve gone a long way, should we turn back now? No? I wonder if it comes out somewhere else. A lot of turns. Squeeze. Going up some, but mostly down. Franky, I have no idea where we are. Seems like we’ve gone awfully far now. Okay, dude. We’ll go till it ends. Is this even a good idea? Who’s idea was this? Mine? Yeah. You’re right. Sometimes I do some stupid stuff. Wait… Is that a breeze? I think I feel some warm air. Let’s keep going this way. Is that light?

Yeah, look! A way out! Oh, wow. What a view…

It was a little bit like rising from the grave. When we came out, we were on the other side of the rock, it was steeply sloped, you could see such a panorama, and there was a bit of a breeze to break the day’s heat. The sky was so blue and the trees were so very green, after rising from the dark bowels of the Earth. As we looked below, there was a ledge filled with gravel and supporting some vegetation. It looked like we could get down there if we carefully scooted, but if you fell you’d be toast. So, why not? Next thing you know, Franky and I are on there ledge throwing rocks. No matter how hard we tried, we could not throw far enough to see where it landed. The slope continued to curve steeper below us and even more than vertical, it rounded under us.

Thinking about this now, throwing rocks from extreme heights, when you have no idea where they are going, is really stupid. There could have been people camping or hiking down there. But it turns out there are other ways for stupid to grow teeth and bite you.

I was determined to throw a bigger rock further. Looking around I found a rock of the perfect size and shape. “Watch this Franky!” I put everything I have into it. Rare back for a monster throw and… Oww! I’ve just back-handed a cactus with my hand. I drop the rock, a bit in shock. Something’s wrong with my hand. It’s all tingly and I can’t move my little finger. The knuckle looks weird. The skin is tented up above the knuckle where my little finger joins my hand. There’s just a tiny speck of blood and when I turn my hand over, something is trying to push through the skin on the bottom of my knuckle as well. Yep, got a cactus needle in my knuckle. Super.

I guess nobody shapes who you are in life more than your father. My dad gave me a pocket knife when I was just a tadpole. He told me to always carry a knife and keep it sharp. So he showed me how to use a whetstone and keep the knife clean and oiled. You never know when you’ll need it.

And this wasn’t my first run in with a cactus. When I was a toddler, we had a cactus bed in the back corner of our yard surrounded by a cement curb. The curb was just high enough to make you think it would be a good balancing challenge. Apparently I wanted to train for my circus act wearing nothing but a diaper, because my folks told me they had to spend most of the day pulling out the needles and holding me down. No lesson learned here.

So I sit down in the gravel, take in the view, and take a moment to access my situation.

I’m feeling a little stupid, but that’s not helping. Franky looks a little sick, like he might puke. So I need a plan, but all I can think of is cutting it out with my knife. See, once you start down the path to stupid, you never know how far it will lead you or where the next space wide enough to make a u-turn will be. I try timid incision, that doesn’t work. Then I try aggressive exploration which hurts, causes swelling and bloodied up the works so you can’t see anything. Needle nosed pliers would have been handy, but dad never said anything about carrying those. I finally turn to Franky and ask him for help. I can’t do anything with my left hand. Franky was always pretty dark-skinned, but he’s looking a bit pale now. To his credit, he tried. I’m starting to realize that I may require profession assistance.

So we trudge back to the parking lot, pass by good ole Mr. Moss who takes a look, shakes his head and says, “Son…”. But he did tell us that the nearest doc was in Fredericksburg at a clinic. Better scoot on down there cause they close at 5. I never saw Charles again. Nice guy.

Now, here’s where the trouble starts. Have you ever tried to ride a bike with one hand? Well, don’t. A motorcycle is worse because the right hand controls both the throttle and front brake. Those are handy from time to time. But I get loaded up and on the way. It’s awkward, but make it to the clinic where the doc looks at my hand, shakes his head and says, “Son…”.

He asked me a couple more times how I got in this shape I can’t think of anything better than the humiliating truth. Then he tells me that he can’t help me – I need to go to the hospital in Kerrville. That’s another 25 miles, but seemed like a hundred. I’m doing okay on the road, but when I have to stop it’s clumsy, especially in gravel. I drop the bike once or twice, but eventually reach the hospital. Now I have to explain the situation again. The Kerrville doc, true story, looks me in the eye, then shakes his head. “Son…” I’m apparently related to everyone in Texas now. ‘Course I have very little money and have to call my dad so he can vouch for my credit worthiness (you’ll never guess what he said). An X-ray beautifully confirmed what I already knew, local anesthetic applied and the needle is surgically removed. Didn’t look nearly as big as it felt, only a skinny thing about three-fourths of an inch long, but it sure had that knuckle locked up.

So now my hand is bandaged up like a mummy, swollen, and virtually useless. I’m not going to make it far, and it’s dark now, so we camp in the state park again. I think I only fell twice. Franky helped me up. Must have been questioning the choice of travel companion. Wouldn’t be the last time.

Points South

My memory of the next couple of days is a little vague. We went on with the adventure. I lost count of how many times I fell over, always at stops or starts, but got much better at staying upright. That bandage didn’t stay on long at all – too dangerous. I know we followed 16 to Medina and Bandera, then on to San Antonio again where we stayed at a KOA campground where there was a shower and laundry. After San Antonio, we headed west on 90 to Castroville and Hondo, Bracketville, and Uvalde, on the way to Del Rio.

Somewhere on the way we saw the longest derailed train you could ever imagine. Seemed like miles. We thought maybe our eyes were deceiving us, but we finally came to the crew putting things back right. Weird. How does that even happen?

I don’t remember many details, like if we spent the night on the way, but somewhere near Del Rio we needed to stop and eat at a roadside truck stop. It was between meal times and the parking lot was far from full, but there were about five Darr Equipment trucks there. We didn’t want to cause angst with anyone who might not like our looks, but we needed to eat. So in we go, catching lots of looks, and ask the waitress what we could order that would be quick. Some of the Darr guys finished up and walked over. They asked about our bikes and the trip, pulled up chairs, and we must have talked for an hour. It was great.

Pesos River Bridge, Val Verde County Historical Commission

Just past Del Rio, the road crosses Pecos River on a long bridge in the canyon. Even with helmets on the sound of the bikes was awesome. We stopped on the far side and pulled of the road, then I rode his BSA across the bridge, so he could hear it, and he rode the Sportster across so I could hear it. Childish, right? It was so cool. My Harley sounded like an airplane echoing off the canyon walls. Awesome.

Somewhere in this vicinity we stop for gas at a station that has a board on the wall up over the register with a huge diamondback rattlesnake mounted on it. All stretched out like that I can’t believe how long and wide the skin is. Beautiful but scary. I ask the man at the register about it and find that he caught and tanned it himself. It’s a really big snake.

The next stop, as I recall it, was Langtry and Judge Roy Bean. We read about Lily Langtry and admired the cactus garden. From the parking lot of “The Law West of the Pecos” we could see a cemetery across the way. Always wished we had taken time to read the headstones. Good stop. We’re getting a lot of sun by this point in the trip.

As we continue west, we begin to notice caterpillars crossing the road. They’re all going south and orange. At first we tried to dodge them, but the further we go the thicker they are. Franky stopped for a closer look. Suckers are about three inches long and hard. They crunch under the tires. In fact, our bikes are getting splattered pretty good. There’s really only on kind of plant in sight. It’s just stems, no leaves. I don’t know if that’s natural or if these caterpillars ate all the leaves. Back on the road, they get even more crowded. This migration runs for several miles and further west they turn a deep red. Sounds like I’m lying, but there they were. Finally they thin out and disappear. This is a barren and seemingly inhospitable land.

Me at 13 and my Yamaha 60. The start of my motorcycle addiction.

A little background on motorcycles is required here. I bought a Harley, mostly because I knew my dad had ridden one. It was my heritage. As a little kid, riding a bicycle was a huge freedom. The motorcycle fascination began in earnest when I was ten or eleven and we were in Phoenix, Arizona, visiting my uncle who had a Harley. My cousin took me for a ride up the switchbacks of the local mountain and I was hooked. I worked odd jobs and a paper route until I could get a beginner bike at thirteen. At sixteen I was torn between trading up for a Harley or getting a car. The practicality of a car won out for a couple of years, then I sold it and bought the Sportster. It had a kick-start, a two and a quarter gallon gas tank, and was black and chrome – no frills. It was love at first sight. That tiny gas tank was good for about eighty or ninety miles. This wasn’t a touring bike. I wasn’t a mechanic.

Franky made a more practical purchase, a BSA 650, based upon preference and availability. While my Harley had a few quirks and unfortunate malfunctions, his BSA seemed to run forever. He had a range of over a hundred and thirty miles. But still, I had a Harley, right?

Somewhere around this part of the trip we see a sign that says, “Next Gas 90 Miles”. That’s a stretch for me and the Harley. At Marathon, we turn south towards Big Bend National Park. Franky has been a patient traveling companion, but I’m probably getting his last nerve by now. I won’t lie. I can be a pain in the butt. We’ve been riding together for a long time by now and I’m reading his behavior as, well… he probably needs a little space.

I’m noticing things like: the desert here is all igneous rocks, look at all the obsidian, hey those peaks on the horizon are volcanic cinder cones – and then I notice that Franky is way up ahead. At that very moment, the Harley starts to cough and sputter. In fact, I have to stop. I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong – the points are fouled. I try to start it so I can catch Franky and tell him, but it won’t start. What else can I do? I get out the tools, take off the cover and pull the points. Sure enough, they look burned and I try to clean ’em up a bit and check the gap.

Now, there’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s the middle of the afternoon, no breeze of any kind, and I’m squatted down, sweating, with parts and tools everywhere. Very little traffic on the road and if a car does come by, they slow down, get a good look at me and then speed away. Kind of sad. Put it back together, still won’t start, tear it down again and pull the plugs. It’s really hot and now my legs are going numb. I stand up to stretch and look around. There behind me, just a few feet away is the biggest western diamondback rattlesnake I’ve ever seen. Before you could say “Lickity split” I had gathered up all my stuff and was pushing that bike way on down the road. I probably pushed it two hundred yards before I felt good about my mechanical abilities again.

Luckily, some real bikers came by and stopped. Turns out that a set of points from a 283 Chevy interchange with the Harley points and he had a spare set with him. This sage biker told me my points were worn beyond redemption and even helped me put the new set in and get her running again. No sign of Franky during all this. Wise fellow…

Big Bend

We had agreed, while studying the map, that our first camp would be at Rio Grande Village on the river. Seems like I recall getting gas at Panther Junction just as the station closed and the driving down to the campground just as the sun set. There I found Franky and he’d already set up the tent. We met our new neighbors, a bunch of college boys who were planning to wade across the river. As the sun went down, lights appeared on the other side at a village, Boquillas Del Carmen. They tried to convince Franky and I to go with them. Nothing about this idea appealed to either of us. In fact, it seemed to be downright stupid. So just as the night cloaked us all in darkness (by the way, this was the darkest night I ever remember) our new neighbors waded off across the water walking towards the twinkling lights of adventure and bravado. Franky and I were tired and I had stories to tell him.

Next morning, we got up late. The sun was high in the sky and it was hot. No sign of the college boys. We drove around a bit and explored the river valley. Evening came, but not the brave (stupid) ones. We finally packed up and left to Chisos Basin, but stopped by the ranger station to report the missing boys. Ranger Rick didn’t seem to worried about our hombres, there’s lots more where they came from. I hope they lived.

The campground at Chisos Basin is surrounded by vertical cliffs formed by stream erosion of the volcanic rock, but you get the impression of being in a cone. Acoustics are great. There’s a lodge we couldn’t afford and a campground that we could. Our neighbors were an older couple in a Winnebago. We had a good visit and after discovering we had no food, very kindly shared some leftover bread and a cantaloupe. Thank kind act had unforeseen consequences. At the end of the day, we zipped up our tent and hit the sack – or, uh, sleeping bags.

That night when a thunder-storm woke us, we were very impressed. The rain fall was torrential, the lightning unforgettable, and the thunder immediate and deafening. It didn’t last long, but was very dramatic. Franky and I were happy to have survived and starting to snooze again when top of our tent pole suddenly came to life, scratching, flapping, swaying back and forth. Then we heard, right above us, what I first thought was a dinosaur. Just before we could freak out in earnest, it flew away. Once we were awake enough to think straight, we guessed a buzzard had landed on our tent, but didn’t care for the squealing crybabies inside. Enough already, let’s get some sleep.

I was sawing longs in earnest when Franky woke me up, shaking my arm. He was saying: “Tom. There’s a snake in the tent.” And sure enough, something heavy was indeed moving around on my feet.

Do you remember that I’d just had an encounter with a really big western diamondback the day before? Now there may be on in the tent with me? “Son.”

I was way too tired to properly panic. It took me a minute to figure out how to calm Franky down, then I decided “We need some light. Do you know where the box of matches is?” He said he did, so I told him to be very quiet and still, and to strike a match.

We had a big box of “Strike Anywhere” kitchen matches. They smell strongly of sulphur and are hard to find these days. Now you can only get “Strike on Box” wooden matches and “Safety Matches’. Like we can’t be trusted with a real match. Maybe if we took a match safety course we could get a permit to order real matches off the Internet or something. Back then, a box of matches was like my pocket knife – I wouldn’t go anywhere without them. I don’t understand the NRA devotees, but I might join a Real Match Association. We members of the RMA may need lobbyists or even a constitutional amendment. “Bring back the match!” Pyro political movement. But I diverge.

Eventually Franky fished a match out and struck it on the side of the matchbox. Unfortunately, his hands were shaking so severely that the flame immediately went out. I encouraged him to try again, and again. With the intermittent light from the match flares, l was able to determine the species of our uninvited guest. It wasn’t a snake – I almost wished it had been. It was a skunk – and a large, healthy specimen of a skunk. It was robotically pacing back and forth at the door of our tent trying to find a way out. The tent door zippers formed an inverted T with a small open space where they intersect in the middle. Peppy Le Pew here had obviously squeezed his nose through that opening, pushing the zippers back enough to get in, but now he can’t find the hole.

“Franky, you can stop lighting matches now. Just be real still and quiet, pull you sleeping bag over your head, and say a little prayer.” After a while, Peppy left us in stinky, but unsprayed peace. Best possible outcome. The next morning we cleaned up the half eaten cantaloupe and the ravaged remainder of the loaf of bread, not to mention a little skunk scat, scrubbed the tent floor and aired out our sleeping bags. Then we counted our blessings and headed down the road again. Whew. The wind is good.

Up to this point I had wondered why girls didn’t want to go with us on road trips. Makes perfect sense now.

We took a different way out of the park, stopping to debate for a while at the intersection of the road going north to Alpine and the road west to Terlingua, then along the river to Persidio. Franky was good with either way – he was so easy-going. I guess the deciding factor was that our time was more than half gone and we were still getting further from home. If I ever get down there again, I’m going to Persidio. But both looked to be epic roads on the map and it was hard to tell the distance between gas stops along the river road. North we go.

Big Bend is in the mountains, Chisos Basin is nearly a mile high. Texas 118, the Texas Mountain Trail, was pretty straight and arid. There were miles between cows. It was super hot and dry, the poor cows looked bony. We saw a ranch hand, with a pickup and a propane torch, burning needles off the cactus so the cows could eat it. Doesn’t seem too practical, but I guess you do what you have to do. Any illusions I’d ever had about wanting to live in west Texas or the desert evaporated that day. My nose was getting blisters from the sun burn.

Finally, we get back in the curvy roads and peaks. When we first spot Alpine to the North, we stopped in wonder and turned off the engines. The road was downhill switchbacks the whole way. I couldn’t guess how many miles away it was. We decided to reset my trip meter and coast all the way down. Very economical. It started off very pleasantly – wind in your hair (oops, must have forgotten to put my helmet back on), tire sounds on the pavement. I couldn’t believe how much noise the drive chains made – we’d never heard them before. Then we gathered up speed.

When going down a hill you normally use your engine as a brake, just by backing off the throttle. In some circumstances, you can even downshift in conjunction with braking to slow more. We started down the hill in neutral and it would be very harsh to engage the transmission at speed into a low gear like first or second (neutral is between first and second), so we only had brakes available now. We got up to sixty and more just using gravity, then had to slow for turns. It amazed me how ungainly that much weight can be to flip around turns with engine power. It was fun, and an interesting experience, but not as enjoyable as a normal ride. I kind of missed all the scenery, but we did go over seventeen miles using no fuel.

Fort Davis

Unreachable Heights

After Alpine, the next stop I recall was Fort Davis, up in the Davis Mountains. I had dreamed in high school about becoming an astronomer. At the time of this trip I was attending community college in Dallas, but I planned to go to UT Austin. That school operated the McDonald Observatory and I thought I’d really like to see it. As we drove to Ft. Davis, it occurred to us that we were very road weary. We also needed showers. My sunburn needed some kind of relief. It was time for a motel. That decision was a pretty big deal for a couple of reasons. First, we didn’t have much money. We didn’t actually have any idea of how much a room would cost. Second, I’d only stayed in a motel room once before. When I traveled with my parents, we usually drove straight through with mom and dad taking turns at the wheel. If we stopped, we’d sleep in the car. Later on, dad bought a little travel trailer. The only time I remember staying in a motel was when we made a trip with my aunt and uncle. It was somewhere in Arizona or New Mexico and there was a swimming pool.

Well, we didn’t need a pool now but we sure needed a shower and a bed you didn’t have to unroll. So the first thing we did was stop at an old run down motel to ask about the price of a room. The old man who owned the place was out front when we drove up. Before we could inquire about the room rate, he ask us about our trip. We summarized. “Son…” he said, shaking his head. I’m pretty sure he cut us a deal on the room. We stayed two nights. Under normal circumstances, the room might have been a little scary. It was pretty nice.

He gave us directions to the observatory and the next day we headed that way. The observatory sits at the top of a mountain where the elevation is 6780 feet. I didn’t make it.  About half way up, my Harley started smoking and was not firing on both cylinders. On the side of the road I pulled the plugs and cleaned them. That helped but only for a minute. Smoke, stammer, stop. Franky was gone. After about the third time of cleaning those fouled plugs, I gave up and turned around. On the way down it ran better, and by the time I got to the motel it was near normal.

Come to think of it, the same thing happened to my astronomy career. I think I was trying go a little too high. College physics stopped me in my tracks. I wasn’t really running on all cylinders. So I turned around and took about a year and a half off and did things like hauling hay and making motorcycle road trips.

About an hour later, Franky came back and gave me a description of the observatory – something I still haven’t seen for myself. My parents had even been there. Someday…

Next morning, while doing a walk around of my bike, I notice that the primary drive chain inspection plug is gone. That’s weird, because it’s threaded and about two inches in diameter. It had to of vibrated loose which should have taken some time. Bad news is, it’s a unique object only to be found at a motorcycle shop. Good new, as long as I can cover the hole to keep oil from slashing out, I should be okay. As I’m scratching my head on this one, the old guy who ran the motel comes over and scratches his head along with me. Don’t you just love old men? Say “yes” – I am one now.

Then he says that he’s got a solution and opens up a motel room that has been converted to storage. He said I could probably find a chair leg or something similar here that could be used to plug the hole. Sure enough, there was an old upholstered chair in the pile that already had one missing leg (foot, really) and wouldn’t be any worse off with the loss of another. So I spent the next hour whittling it down to size. Sure am glad I had a sharp pocket knife. Thanks, dad.

We made a few short, low altitude rides to see the area before leaving. I was likely looking very dapper with my blistered nose and a wooden peg protruding from my engine case.

Here’s my favorite old man story from the trip:

Leaving Ft. Davis, we headed north on Texas 17 to Pecos in search of a Harley shop. By this time, my scooter is consistently running like crap. Sorry, but there is no other way to say it. The Sportster has a Bendix carburetor with a fixed main jet which means you don’t adjust the rich/lean mixture – you replace the main jet. I’m running too rich and it’s not fun. My memory is now a little fuzzy on whether this story occurred in Pecos or Odessa, but either way, I was about done with the trip and ready to get home. So much so, that we’re now on Interstate 20. I really don’t like driving a bike on the Interstate. Not at all.

We find a Harley shop, and it’s a classic old school Harley shop. Old building, small by modern standards, down town, oil stained floor, showroom and shop all the same space, and run by a gritty old guy who’s likely been riding ever since Harley and Davidson teamed up. He sales me a replacement inspection plug and listens to me whine about the way my Sportster is running. He pull out the spark plug on the front cylinder, inspects the plug and shines a flashlight in to look at the piston. Putting the plug back in, he asks me if it’s okay to take it for a ride. “Sure”, I say, but I ask Franky to follow him in case it breaks down and needs a ride back. Off they go, leaving me alone at the shop. Pretty soon I hear another Harley arrive and a Bandito walks in, no shirt, but a vest with colors, muscled up and tanned to leather, longer hair than me, and way, way badder than I ever thought about being. I give him a nod and answer his question about where the owner was. We hung out for a while, talk about what happened to my nose and bike trips in general. Nice guy, seems like a lot of time has passed. Then, here comes Franky back. He pulls off his helmet and I ask him what happened? Where’d the old man go? “I don’t know man. We got to the highway and he punched it, then disappeared in a cloud of smoke. When it cleared he was gone. I tried to follow him, but never saw him again.”

We hung out a while longer and here comes the old man on my bike, pulling up to me, Franky, and the Bandito. You guessed it. He said, “Son, there ain’t nothing wrong with your bike. You just needed to blow to soot out of it.” Okay, that’s embarrassing.

To make a long story short (too late now for that now, huh?), we jet down I-20 back to Dallas. It’s probably after midnight when we get back to our side of town and a car full of boys and beer catches up to me with their windows down, throw a bottle of beer at me and speed away. It breaks on my gas tank, glass and beer flying everywhere and ticking me off in just about the worst possible way. I catch them promptly at about 120 mph and I’m just about to bounce my spark plug wrench (which I’ve kept handy) off of the pitcher’s head when I suddenly crack a smile, slow down, and return to reason.

One, they look funny all huddled up under the steering column suddenly afraid of me. Two, I’m feeling very stupid on a 700 pound bike next to a two ton car going crazy fast when one flick of the steering wheel could hurl me into oblivion. Three, this is a good wrench – I’m not giving it to these fools. And mostly, four, we’ve just spent the last two weeks going over two thousand miles, all in Texas, meeting the nicest people ever, and have to come back home to get assaulted. “Son…”