It's funny, I always assumed when a hotel desk person said they had Internet access, that meant the hotel guests too. Apparently, it only applies to the desk girl playing Internet Poker at the place I'm staying.
I left my hotel in Missouri at 6:30am on Tuesday morning and headed west into the Ozarks. I had been wondering if it was overkill to pack my heavy leather jacket. Yesterday morning the wisdom of my choice was confirmed. It was cold when I started out. The roads were empty, and except for 2 or 3 fuel stops, I raced away from the sunrise at over 80 miles an hour for nearly 3 hours. Even with the thick leather jacket over a sweater, I was shivering.
I had looked forward to riding through the Ozarks on route 60. I had imagined a scenic winding ride through high mountains with trees full of autumn colors. Instead, I found the route to be a long gradually ungilating trek through uninteresting landscape. The route was efficient, but not exceptionally pretty. I was spoiled in Tennessee by the dramatic mountain views. On route 60, I was constantly teased by signs for towns like Mountain View, Mountain Grove, and Mountain Home, but as I passed each of these exits I found myself wondering where the mountain was. I believe the portion of the Ozarks I traveled through is more of a plateau than a collection of hills to climb over and wind around.
As I neared Springfield, I felt an itching sensation building in my scalp. With helmet firmly in place, and the road rushing by, I found myself with the proverbial unscratchable itch. I have a relatively high threshold for discomfort. This is evident by my current 2000 mile journey on a motorcycle seat that many would find painful on trips to the local grocery store. The itching sensation quickly became unbearable, however, and I was forced to stop at the next gas station.
There I was, 30 miles out from Springfield Missouri, with a dehabilitating case of Helmet Itch. I did not even know there was such a thing as Helmet Itch. Well, there is, and I had it so bad I could not wear my helmet. At the first station I pulled into, I bought a baseball cap thinking I was having some kind of reaction to the foam liner in the helmet. Of course, I discovered after getting back out on the highway that the cap did nothing to stop the itching. At the next station, hoping for a different result, I bought a bandana. At the next station I took the liner out of the helmet and stuffed it into my bag. That effectively rendered the helmet useless because it no longer fit my head. It took me two hours to traverse the 30 miles into Springfield.
In Springfield, madly scratching my head, I rushed to the nearest pharmacy. I told the guy behind the counter my problem. He was very helpful, but not at all discrete. He called over a female coworker, who he explained rode motorcycles all the time and would be familiar with the problem. Before I knew what was happening, I was caught up in a parade of drug store employees who were all discussing remedies to my scalp affliction while we snaked up and down the aisles. The parade stopped in front of something called Scalpicin.
I would have tried anything. At that point, I was seriously considering shaving my head – seriously. Needless to say, I did not pay much attention to the dosage instructions. I covered my head with the stuff. I decided to give my scalp a rest from the helmet so I made my way to a civil war battlefield near by where I could wander around helmetless and wreaking of Scalpicin.
The civil war in Missouri was mostly a guerilla event with extremist on both sides preying on civilians. There was, however, at least one large battle fought there, and I had the fortune of stumbling on the battlefield park when I needed a break from the bike. The battle was fought at a place called Wilson’s Creek, and the battlefield park is appropriately named, Wilson’s Creek battlefield,
It was late in the afternoon when, after repeated dousing of Scalpicin, I got back on the road toward Oklahoma. For the first half of the day, the sun was at my back and I had mused that I was racing away from it. When I left Wilson’s Creek, the sun was high over head and beginning to make it’s decent into the west. I had made so much progress during the first few hours of the day, I was sure I would make it to Oklahoma by early afternoon, but after leaving Wilson’s Creek, I was not sure I would make it to Oklahoma on Tuesday at all.
I had the itching under control, and as I drew closer to the Arkansas border, I began to notice Trail of Tears route marker signs popping up. These were the first official markings of the trail I had seen since Hopkinsville. My spirits rose.
The sun that I raced from in Missouri was now ahead of me in Arkansas. I was heading due west, and my darkened sun visor barley kept the rays from blinding me. The bland landscape of the Ozark plateau was replaced by huge farms and ranches. Most of the fields appeared to be already harvested, but some were filled with countless dozens of acres of short yellow leafy plants that I believe were soy beans.
Following the Trail of Tears markers kept me true to the purpose of the ride, but added many miles. At one point, lured by a historical marker sign, as I am by all, like a moth to a porch light, I pulled off the road in Arkansas about 30 miles from the Oklahoma state line. After examining a curious combination marker that memorialized several migrations through the area, including the trail of tears, I asked a nearby store clerk how much further it was too Oklahoma. She was generally amused that I was on those roads heading for Oklahoma, and even though she lived in the area, she was not sure I could reach Oklahoma the way I was going. When I told her I was following the Trail of Tears markers, she made it clear the route I was on was the long way.
With the sun sinking fast, I finally reached the Oklahoma line. I had traveled over 1100 miles since I left my home on Sunday morning. I was still 40 miles from Talequah, and I was not sure I would make it before dark, but I had accomplished one of my goals in following the Cherokee Trail of Tears all the way from its most eastern point to its end.
Much of the last 40 miles to Talequah ran through very remote back roads that twisted and turned through a surprisingly hilly and wooded landscape. I had imagined Oklahoma to be flat and brown. Instead, this area is very similar to northwest Georgia. The Cherokee who made it hear in 1839 may have drawn some comfort in that familiarity,
I checked in to my hotel at 7:30pm. I had been on the road for over 13 hours.
Since I’m posting this late, tomorrow is really today, and I know how it ends. I don’t have the energy to write another entry tonight so I will remain a day behind in my posts.
I begin the long road back home tomorrow (Thursday).
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