TAT Tale Part Two: Flying Low on the Trans America Trail Across Middle America During the COVID-19 Pan(ic)demic

  Following our unfortunate encounter with the grizzled blue-eyed stranger we rejoined the dirt and gravel westward. Though a clear beautiful day, heavy rains over the previous week had swollen creeks into boot topping lagoons along the trail. The first of these offered a test for Dan. Though a fine dog, he is apprehensive of water.  It proved another successful trial in Dandy's growth as an adventure dog and companion. He's developing into a true badass.

 A couple more water-crossings brought us to the Robert Heidelberger and Co. stop in Trenton, Arkansas. The unofficial midway point along the TAT (it's unofficial because it misses the middle by around a thousand miles). The father and son farmers that own the place keep it open to cater to trail riders passing through. They maintain a rider log, and offer travelers refreshments free of charge. I suspect it is the most cultured place in Arkansas, and likely the most photographed. When Dan and I pulled up the establishment's elder statesman, who's name eludes me at the moment, was waiting. I introduced Dan, and pulled my waterlogged boots off, drained them, placed them in the sunlight, and took a seat on the porch. Over the next couple of hours at least a dozen locals stopped by for curious chats. We were apparently the only riders on the 5000+ mile long TAT. To be fair the folks here weren't all that concerned with COVID-19, and when they asked if I was worried about it, I told them that I believed it to be real, but uttered a line from one of my favorite movies, "Get busy living, or get busy dying".

 After fitting a fresh pair of socks and pulling my sun-baked, and mostly dry, boots back on, pictures were snapped, we said our goodbyes, and headed northwest. The gravel roads woven throughout the Ozarks were of top order, and, coupled with good weather, we made short work of them. Just as we
reached the Oklahoma border, however, the clouds darkened and rain began to fall. We took cover in a state park, sheltering under the entrance of a bathroom closed due to COVID. The following morning park rangers visited us and asked us to move along. We ventured out into cold precipitation and made our way to a hotel 50 miles north in Fayetteville. I was struck by the number of homeless folks roaming the streets of this middle America college town. We're in for a difficult future I mused to myself as Dan and I reached our room for the night.



  A night on a mattress can do quite a lot for morale, and I awoke the following morning ready to hit Oklahoma at full speed. A slight drizzle did little to dampen my mood, and I went about the arduous process of reloading the bike. As I fumbled with a knot of nylon straps a lady emerged from her room and upon reaching her car, curiously looked in our direction and asked if she could help. I replied no, that it wasn’t as bad as it looked. She asked where we were going, and I told her the West Coast. She removed a leather bracelet from her wrist and handed it to me proclaiming that she made them. I quickly examined it, and it appeared to be made from a leather belt and flat hammered spoon head which had been engraved with a quote from a Johnny Cash song, "Life is rough so you've gotta be tough". I couldn't have imagined a more appropriate gift. I immediately slathered it in hand sanitizer, put it on, and finished loading. Looking at Dan, now in his pannier, I quipped let's roll, and we crossed into Oklahoma.

                                     
High Plains Drifters

  The first couple of hundred miles through Oklahoma were wet, muddy and undulating. Fortunately the mud wasn't too pervasive, and once we reached the plains, with their long straights, the paths were dusty dry. Though we hardly encountered any pavement in Oklahoma, it saw the fastest speeds of the trip. We sat around 75 miles per hour, and 90 was a common occurrence. The hard packed gravel, and dry dirt offered confidence and a corresponding squiggle that brought a smile to my face. We may as well have been doing 150.

    My rear tire was showing some wear, and with the Rockies fast approaching, I felt the need to procure new shoes for Big Bird (our Suzuki cycle for those missing the previous installment). So, with some help from the online community I found a place catering to motorcyclists in the Oklahoma panhandle called the Great Plains Bunkhouse that provided a motorcycle jack and tools for repairs. I copied and pasted the address into Google and resumed leading a fast moving plume of dust westward. With the sun setting I approached the destination Google Maps provided. It was in the middle of a dirt road without a structure for two miles. In the distance there were several trees accompanying a couple of buildings; and with light dwindling I decided it was worth investigating. The abandoned clapboard house was equal parts dust bowl, Great Depression, and cantankerous American storyteller. Its glassless windows whispered a grief stricken plight equally at home within the covers of a Steinbeck or McCarthy tale. Dingy twilight embraced the sad abode and half a dozen gleaming sets of eyes peered in our direction from its dark interior. I pulled to a stop, set the kickstand, dismounted, and told Dan we're home.

 After setting a moonlit camp, lighting the grill, and cracking a not so cold one, a bright piercing light appeared on the Eastern horizon. At first I couldn't distinguish whether it was terrestrial, or gleaming from the heavens. I contemplated its placement for a stretch of time, as Dan admired feral felines, and a large polecat that called the abandoned clapboard shack home. Upon two minute's examination, I concluded it to be land based, and after covering another five miles or so the turbo diesel work truck, with lighting straight out of a Stephen Spielberg alien flick, blew by somewhere in the vicinity of 70 miles per hour, applying the brakes as it passed. The turbo's whistle dwindled and the big Ford made an about-face, again shining its penetrating lights in our direction.

  A 6'4", 270 pound, figure emerged from the fleet dually, and lumbered towards us. As the full moon backlighting ceded deference to my grill/campfire I could make out the baby faced young man. I said hello, and he responded;"Sorry to bother you. We work the field's here, and we don't see many campers. Once I saw the bike, I realized you weren't a rustler" He smiled, glancing down at Dan, and thrust an open hand in my direction, "My name's Canyon". I'd had almost a thousand miles worth of of gravel to think bout my encounter with Willie Nelson's twin brother near the banks of the Mississippi, and I didn't hesitate. I grabbed Canyon's hand, and smiled. My name's Israel, and that's Dan, I responded. Though a seemingly small gesture, my humanity benefitted greatly. Never again will I defer from a greeting. It's a sign of acceptance, an indication of understanding, and a general commitment of respect. If these things are risks, they are chances worth taking. Nothing wrenches joy from life quite like fear.

  Canyon chatted with me about bikes, travel, and the news while standing over the little fire for an hour or so, as Dan surveyed the herd of cats. I'd not talked to anyone closely since central Mississippi, and it felt good. My new friend said his goodbye, and I quickly fell into a deep sleep. The next morning brought with it a fresh perspective, and we found the abandoned Great Plains Bunkhouse without too much trouble. Though closed for COVID, Dan and I were allowed to stay till my tire arrived, which gave us time to decompress in an agreeable setting. We were halfway to trail's end and the Rockies were only a day away.