Rides, ramblings and rants on a motorcycle.
From: Central Plains, Texas
About me: I'm a scientist, a nerd and a geek, in that order.
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- Riders and Writing
11.09.2009,12:45 PM
Riding Tails of Trails: Part Five. Trail of Tears
In town we learned that Labor Day weekend is also the Cherokee National Holiday. It was soon evident that thousands of people visit Tahlequah and the surrounding area to participate in festivities.
We left the town of Talaquah and headed a few miles south for Park Hill, home of the Cherokee Heritage Center and National Museum. The forty-four acres upon which the center sits was part of the former Female Seminary and bought from private holdings in the mid-1960's by the Cherokee National Historical Society. It is a place that exudes memories and voices.
Turning east off of Hwy 82, we followed a parade of vehicles turning left into a grove of gracefully twisted black trees. It was as if we were entering a strange land of shadows, disturbed and pinpricked by trucks and cars parked everywhere under sweeping branches. A woman at the entrance laughed as she told us to find any place, anywhere,and park; "Just watch out for the other drivers. They often don't see you on bikes." We smiled with an implied shared sense of riding motorcycles and slowly searched for narrow places to safely park the bikes.
I'll be eyes behind you!
Thanks, Wylie.
Coyote!!
We found two narrow spots next to an overgrown cruiser and gingerly parked out of each other's ways. Including the cars around us. Behind us was the outer line of venders' tents. We got a few looks as we shed gear, exchanged boots for sandals, hats for helmet, and generally blended in with the rest of the visitors.
I remained an unenthusiastic photographer on this adventure, but leaving the camera was not an option. Although it was slung around my neck the entire time this visit, buttons were rarely pushed and it seemed oddly obtrusive. But then, so did my entire presence. My visit there felt more uncomfortable with each step I took, as if parts of me awoke and claimed amnesia; I began to feel a loss of identity, a struggle for long-dead identities that I never met. A general state of internal and subconscious confusion.
Many times I felt as though I were a long-lost kin, not knowing those that came before me, those that existed and those that might be. Yet, a kin that was forgotten and forsaken hovered somewhere inside me, somewhere around me. It was not me; but it was one of my own. It was as though I were slipping between theater sets: one performance here, one there, one behind me, one in front. Stepping off solid ground into a rocking boat knowing my legs were no longer my own. Slipping through shadows and voices. seeing ghosts, hearing whispers and long-distance singing. I felt like I was never really seen; as if no one could see me, nor could I see them. I felt lost.
I wondered if this was a lost connection between my great-grandmother. I don't remember feeling this way in Tennessee where I felt more close to her than I did here. And when I stood on the banks of the Arkansas River in Arkansas. Here, it was entirely different.
Many people were strolling around the grounds, visiting vendors, buying food items, and wandering to various points of interest on the grounds. I wanted to remain a shadow. Asked what I wanted to do, I immediately found myself responding to Ed, "Visit the museum."
As we walked inside the low lumbering building, I passed several displays of material objects. Most were the winning participants of an art show sporting shiny red and blue ribbons. Except for two examples of extraordinary contemporary pottery, which captured my interest, I passed them by and found myself in the permanent exhibit of the Cherokee History and Trail of Tears.
A sign at the entry announced a ban on photography, which I respected. Besides, it seemed disrespectful to flash and grab portrayals of a family's historical plight to near extermination. I don't think I could have taken photographs even if they were permitted. Photographs are captured images, some are invented images; they are 'dead voices' of the past, of the vanished. They capture only a point in time and space, unrevealing of the surrounding connections. They can deceive one to a belief of an arrested past, or they can tickle the imagination to seek that which lays beyond the image. For me, this time I wanted to be surrounded by the living past; with living voices mingling with whispers of the past.
I was directed through a collage of history of the Cherokee people. Their voices and places were everywhere. As I strolled amongst exhibits depicting the Cherokee people, I longed to hear the real voices; the stories, the voices flowing from faces. Reading and viewing the exhibits I was a bystander, a disconnected 'Other'. I wanted to see lips move, see their eyes, hear the feelings in the voices.
I slid off the bike and sat on a ledge outcropping. The gravel trail snaked alongside the mountain and through the trees as though it were a still stream with no water. The trees and shrubs, lichen and granite ledge muffled any sounds, yet I could almost hear moccasins walking along the trail, buckskin clothes and black hair blending easily. I could feel their presence, even though they had been gone over 150 years ago. They knew these forests and mountains like the creases in their babies’ skin. Here they derived physical and spiritual sustenance, and near here they hid from the soldiers and encroaching settlers. Their ghosts faded in and out as I sat watching and listening. I, on the outside, yet partly on the inside. Perhaps I would see a ghost of my self walking softly in those moccasins. Maybe my great-grandmother.
As one moves along the exhibits and stories of the Cherokees on the Trail of Tears, you round a corner and find yourself behind white life-sized 'people' in various poses on the floor in front of you. In the low-lit galley, they all face ahead, stumbling, kneeling, steadying the kin and stranger next to them, heads covered in shawls and blankets, bowed and forelorn. Silent. Yet the silence exudes feelings that draw you into them, into their plight, their aching souls.
I stood on a hill, on the outskirts of Jeruselum in Israel, rooted to the ground staring at tens of starved people –women, men, and children- most naked, torn cloth hanging on others, their skin conforming to the bones barred by wasted muscle. All memorialized in bronze patina. Faces revealed hopelessness, pain and fear. Silent screams forever escaping open mouths, eyes that can’t shed tears, fingers that will never clutch anything other than death and empty air. You can’t look away, your throat is tight and your heart is ripped open for thousands of needless deaths. I cannot speak; I have no voice. Yet I ask the eternal question as it resounds in the very air I breathe: Why?
Slowly I walked from the galley and into the entrance and light. People mingled by, but I could not feel them. I cannot swallow. Mouths spoke, but I could not hear them. I opened my mouth, but I could not speak. The question tumbled out unspoken and unheard: Why?
Ghosts are choking you. You ask too many questions.
We left the town of Talaquah and headed a few miles south for Park Hill, home of the Cherokee Heritage Center and National Museum. The forty-four acres upon which the center sits was part of the former Female Seminary and bought from private holdings in the mid-1960's by the Cherokee National Historical Society. It is a place that exudes memories and voices.
Turning east off of Hwy 82, we followed a parade of vehicles turning left into a grove of gracefully twisted black trees. It was as if we were entering a strange land of shadows, disturbed and pinpricked by trucks and cars parked everywhere under sweeping branches. A woman at the entrance laughed as she told us to find any place, anywhere,and park; "Just watch out for the other drivers. They often don't see you on bikes." We smiled with an implied shared sense of riding motorcycles and slowly searched for narrow places to safely park the bikes.
I'll be eyes behind you!
Thanks, Wylie.
Coyote!!
We found two narrow spots next to an overgrown cruiser and gingerly parked out of each other's ways. Including the cars around us. Behind us was the outer line of venders' tents. We got a few looks as we shed gear, exchanged boots for sandals, hats for helmet, and generally blended in with the rest of the visitors.
I remained an unenthusiastic photographer on this adventure, but leaving the camera was not an option. Although it was slung around my neck the entire time this visit, buttons were rarely pushed and it seemed oddly obtrusive. But then, so did my entire presence. My visit there felt more uncomfortable with each step I took, as if parts of me awoke and claimed amnesia; I began to feel a loss of identity, a struggle for long-dead identities that I never met. A general state of internal and subconscious confusion.
Many times I felt as though I were a long-lost kin, not knowing those that came before me, those that existed and those that might be. Yet, a kin that was forgotten and forsaken hovered somewhere inside me, somewhere around me. It was not me; but it was one of my own. It was as though I were slipping between theater sets: one performance here, one there, one behind me, one in front. Stepping off solid ground into a rocking boat knowing my legs were no longer my own. Slipping through shadows and voices. seeing ghosts, hearing whispers and long-distance singing. I felt like I was never really seen; as if no one could see me, nor could I see them. I felt lost.
I wondered if this was a lost connection between my great-grandmother. I don't remember feeling this way in Tennessee where I felt more close to her than I did here. And when I stood on the banks of the Arkansas River in Arkansas. Here, it was entirely different.
Many people were strolling around the grounds, visiting vendors, buying food items, and wandering to various points of interest on the grounds. I wanted to remain a shadow. Asked what I wanted to do, I immediately found myself responding to Ed, "Visit the museum."
As we walked inside the low lumbering building, I passed several displays of material objects. Most were the winning participants of an art show sporting shiny red and blue ribbons. Except for two examples of extraordinary contemporary pottery, which captured my interest, I passed them by and found myself in the permanent exhibit of the Cherokee History and Trail of Tears.
A sign at the entry announced a ban on photography, which I respected. Besides, it seemed disrespectful to flash and grab portrayals of a family's historical plight to near extermination. I don't think I could have taken photographs even if they were permitted. Photographs are captured images, some are invented images; they are 'dead voices' of the past, of the vanished. They capture only a point in time and space, unrevealing of the surrounding connections. They can deceive one to a belief of an arrested past, or they can tickle the imagination to seek that which lays beyond the image. For me, this time I wanted to be surrounded by the living past; with living voices mingling with whispers of the past.
I was directed through a collage of history of the Cherokee people. Their voices and places were everywhere. As I strolled amongst exhibits depicting the Cherokee people, I longed to hear the real voices; the stories, the voices flowing from faces. Reading and viewing the exhibits I was a bystander, a disconnected 'Other'. I wanted to see lips move, see their eyes, hear the feelings in the voices.
I slid off the bike and sat on a ledge outcropping. The gravel trail snaked alongside the mountain and through the trees as though it were a still stream with no water. The trees and shrubs, lichen and granite ledge muffled any sounds, yet I could almost hear moccasins walking along the trail, buckskin clothes and black hair blending easily. I could feel their presence, even though they had been gone over 150 years ago. They knew these forests and mountains like the creases in their babies’ skin. Here they derived physical and spiritual sustenance, and near here they hid from the soldiers and encroaching settlers. Their ghosts faded in and out as I sat watching and listening. I, on the outside, yet partly on the inside. Perhaps I would see a ghost of my self walking softly in those moccasins. Maybe my great-grandmother.
As one moves along the exhibits and stories of the Cherokees on the Trail of Tears, you round a corner and find yourself behind white life-sized 'people' in various poses on the floor in front of you. In the low-lit galley, they all face ahead, stumbling, kneeling, steadying the kin and stranger next to them, heads covered in shawls and blankets, bowed and forelorn. Silent. Yet the silence exudes feelings that draw you into them, into their plight, their aching souls.
I stood on a hill, on the outskirts of Jeruselum in Israel, rooted to the ground staring at tens of starved people –women, men, and children- most naked, torn cloth hanging on others, their skin conforming to the bones barred by wasted muscle. All memorialized in bronze patina. Faces revealed hopelessness, pain and fear. Silent screams forever escaping open mouths, eyes that can’t shed tears, fingers that will never clutch anything other than death and empty air. You can’t look away, your throat is tight and your heart is ripped open for thousands of needless deaths. I cannot speak; I have no voice. Yet I ask the eternal question as it resounds in the very air I breathe: Why?
Slowly I walked from the galley and into the entrance and light. People mingled by, but I could not feel them. I cannot swallow. Mouths spoke, but I could not hear them. I opened my mouth, but I could not speak. The question tumbled out unspoken and unheard: Why?
Ghosts are choking you. You ask too many questions.
Labels: Oklahoma, Trails of Tears
,12:20 PM
Riding Tails of Trails: Part Four
Tahlequah, the Cherokee Nation Capital
Tahlequah has a complex history beginning in the southeastern states of Georgia, North Carolina and Tennessee. In some ways its history still extends all the way from its present location in Oklahoma, east to those areas and in between; in Arkansas, Missouri, Illinois, and Mississippi. Here, the town was the site of a new beginning for an old nation: the Cherokee.
The four (or more) routes of the Trail of Tears culminated in Indian Territory, now known as Oklahoma. Those Cherokee that survived the forced displacement from their homes in GA, NC and TN ended their weary travels in this area along the Middle and Lower Illinois River, a tributary of the Arkansas River. In 1839, the Cherokees founded a new town and capital: Tahlequah.
Years before the great removal of the tribes in the southeastern colonies, small bands of Cherokee had left their ancestral lands and ventured west. They remembered traditional stories of lands in the west where all the game they wanted flourished and away from intrusion of white men. Some settled in Arkansas, some in Texas, and some on the rivers in modern Oklahoma. The latter band of Cherokee had established a settlement and capital named Tahlonteeskee around 1829.
When the rest of their people joined the existing band in Indian Territory, things weren't exactly a homecoming. The established band were steadfast traditionalists and opposed adoption of the 'white ways': the religions, clothing, education, commerce, private property, and owning slaves. It was not 'their way'.
Many of the refugees arriving on the Trail of Tears were progressives. They realized and believed that the only way to survive was to adapt, adopt and change. They tried, but their efforts didn't alter the encroaching settlers, colonists, and the burgeoning upper class. After years of political and philosophical clashes, all the tribes in the southeastern states were driven from their homelands. Upon arrival in Indian Territory, it was time for the Cherokee people to unify if they were to survive.
The new Cherokee nation's capital was established in the new town of Tahlequah, north of the former capital. The name is a derivation of one of the older great towns, also a former capital of the Overhill Cherokee, in Tennessee: Great Tellico, the site of modern Tellico Plains on the Tellico River. For me, this was an irony. Having ridden and slept on their former lands in Tellico Plains, hiked and ridden on their former war paths and hunting grounds. And now here I am, standing in front of the former courthouse and on their new townsite: Tahlequah.
When the Dawes Act divided their public lands into individually-owned parcels, the town changed. It was no longer a Cherokees' home site. It became more like many of the places in this country: multiracial, multiethnic, and multicultural. The tribe and nation still exist as a solid community; they've adapted, adopted and changed. And they are the largest Native American nation in the country.
Walking around the courthouse is a walk through history, connections and many stories. On the lawn were stakes with photographs that told a story: a remembrance ride of the relocation on bicycles.
A group of Cherokee students and nation officials rode bicycles from Calhoun, GA, and retraced parts of one route of Trail of Tears. They arrived at the Courthouse in July of this year to a homecoming ceremony. The photographs shared some of their ride.
Walking around the perimeter of the building and square, one can learn quite a bit of history by reading the monuments and stones.
I was surprised, well, almost shocked, to see this. To embark on a long history of the Cherokee factions is beyond this travelogue. Suffice to say that Ross and Watie were polar opposites. Most of the Nation followed the leadership of Ross. Watie.... well, he paid a hefty price for a betrayal to the Cherokee people that cost them their homelands and ultimately thousands of lives*. On the other hand, it is a part of their history, no matter how painful it is. It is a part of their collective public memory. Better to acknowledge it, be reminded of it, than sweep it under the rug and ignore it.
Now, here was a surprise. Does 'Bell' ring a bell?
Anyone interested can read the long version of the story here.
Interestingly, interspersed in the brick and stone walkway around the perimeter of the courthouse are blocks commemorating all the principle chiefs of the Cherokee Nation since their arrival to Oklahoma. Including the present day chief, Wilma Mankiller (the first Cherokee woman chief).
The sky clouded and rain drizzled, which was refreshing, and stopped. The sun shone again and we were ready to move on.
* Synopsis: "A group of Cherokees known as the Treaty Party began negotiating a treaty with the federal government. The group led by Major Ridge and including his son John, Elias Boudinot, and his brother Stand Watie, signed a treaty at New Echota in 1835. Despite the majority opposition to this treaty - opposition led by Principal Chief John Ross - the eastern lands were sold for $5 million, and the [minority group of] Cherokees agreed to move beyond the Mississippi River to Indian Territory. The [U.S.] Senate ratified the treaty despite knowledge that only a minority of Cherokees had accepted it. Within two years the Principal People were to move from their ancestral homelands."
Labels: Adventures, history, Oklahoma, Trails of Tears
,11:55 AM
Riding Tails of Trails: Part Three
Leaving the small town of Vian was the beginning of tailing many trails on this trip. Vian, a trading post in the mid-1800's, was one of many small communities that popped up along trails navigated by stage coaches, mules and wagons, horses and riders, cattle and deer. Finding narratives about these communities is like putting together multitudes of tiny pieces of a giant puzzle that make up our country.
The commonality between most of these towns is they sprouted along a trail. A street, railroad, highway, carriageway, and, yes, even waterway. Many of these byways began as muddy, rutted, rocky or sandy, single or two-track trails. Then they grew. As long as our feet under us move, we will move. As long as our technology grows, so will the distances we move.
Cars, trucks and motorcycles have replaced the mules, horses and bicycles. Many towns and settlements have surged and expanded at their seams. Some have fallen by the wayside only to spring up again along some other nearby trail; others have died and nothing remains except ghosts and voices that are never heard.
Now in our highly mobile environment, we tend to overlook the spaces between the big places alongside the trails and highways. In doing so, we overlook important components of our public memory. Life doesn't only exist next to fast-lane freeways and highways. In between Point A and Point B is an entire world that is a part of us. All of it. And their memories can still be found.
I think this is what I enjoy most about being a traveler on a motorcycle. It brings me closer to what America really was, and is. It feeds my collective identity and forms my collective memory. It makes 'me' a 'we'. It also makes me ponder about our future.
Byways, Trails and Roads
Highway 82 north of thundering east-to-west I-40 is referred to as the 'Cherokee Hills Scenic Byway'. The latter's northern trail begins in the foothills of the Ozarks (Hwys 59 & 412) of northeastern Oklahoma. The Byway then meanders south as Hwy 10 and follows alongside the winding upper Illinois River. It was once a trail that connected trading posts and forts. Before that it may have been a hunting trail.
The Byway heads west away from the Illinois River and intersects former Cherokee tribal lands and the large town of Tahlequah (Hwy 62 & 82). Just 12 miles south of Tahlequah the Byway crosses the Illinois River which becomes a lake with 130 miles of shoreline. Lake Tenkiller was purportedly named after a Cherokee family that operated a ferry service across the river near where the modern dam is. How the name Tenkiller originated is lost to mythology and legend, but one source claims it as the name of a Cherokee warrior that arrived at Fort Gibson after traveling on the Trail of Tears, bearing a bow with ten notches.
Touted as the clearest lake in Oklahoma and Texas combined, it is a haven for scuba divers. And, as every place tends to boast a "Capital of" something, the lake claims title to the "Trout Capital of Oklahoma". Just nine miles north of Vian, Hwy 82 alternately hugs and strays from the eastern shoreline of the lake. It wasn't until we crossed the northern head of the lake near the dam that we realized how big it was. And how clear. It sure looked inviting.
Heading north, by the time we arrived in Tahlequah we were starved and hot. Some time ago, someone had recommended stopping at the Iguana Cafe for lunch or coffee. We found it, but it was closed on that Sunday. Instead, we found sustenance at the pizza place across the street. At least there were a few tables outside to sit at.
Two couples sat at a table next to us and they chatted about school, classes, recent trips, etc. Tahlequah is home to Northeastern State University, which occupies the grounds of the original Cherokee Female and Male Seminaries (I find it amusing that they were named as such: 'Female' and 'Male'. As if the genders were scientific specimens.) Although fallen into mostly ruins, sections of the original building for the Female Seminary still remain on the campus grounds.
Ed and one of the males (sorry, couldn't resist) at the table embarked on a long discussion of motorcycles. Funny how that commonality tends to break barriers and ignite conversations. I was too hungry to say much of anything; smiling was enough for me.
After we ate, we wandered across the street to see something right out of my childhood: a more-than-life-size carved wooden statue of Billy with his two hounds in a burlap bag slung across his back.
Tahlequah-area native Wilson Rawls wrote a book in 1961 (originally published as a three-part series in Saturday Evening Post): Where the Red Fern Grows. Because he and his siblings were unable to attend school, his Cherokee mother taught them to read and write at home. His inspiration to be a writer was a book that his mother read to him, and was one of my inspirations as well (for many things): Call of the Wild, by Jack London.
As a teenager, Rawl's book was on my bedroom shelf alongside other great books: Mobey Dick, Call of the Wild, Old Yeller, Black Stallion.... you know. The 'classics.' I recall when my Dad and I watched movies Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows back to back. Both of us were sobbing at the end.
Isn't it funny how seeing things like this can transport you back decades and you're suddenly struck with memories. I was smiling and fighting back tears at the same time as I stood there next to the wooden Billy.
It was time to move on. I wanted to check out a large brick building we had passed while looking for the Iguana Cafe. And we found it.
Labels: Adventures, Oklahoma
,11:49 AM
Riding Tails of Trails: Part Two
I woke in the middle of the night to the pitter-patter of rain on the tent. Rather, on my face. Because of the warm muggy night, we didn't put the fly over the tent, opting for whatever breeze we could catch through the tent mesh. Sure enough, it rained. It rained some part of every day we were on the road, but it wasn't bad enough to interfere.
We both tumbled out in the dark in varying degrees of birthday suits and threw the fly on the tent. As soon as I was back in the bag, I was back asleep and dreaming of coyotes.
The morning dew was heavy and hung over the river like a thick cotton ball blanket. The bikes were dripping as if they had just left a sauna. My tongue was caught in my head and I had no voice that morning. Nods and grunts would have to do. Ed and I went exploring in different directions and the camera led me to a few nice spots of contemplation.
Everything was wet. Dewy wet. We procrastinated leaving, letting things dry out a bit, then resorted to the hidden rags in the 'other' exhaust on the Whee. After wiping things down and loading the bikes, we headed south again to Wilburton to locate food and feed.
There's not much to chose from in Wilburton, especially on a Sunday morning. We resorted to eating breakfast burritos at a gas station/convenience store. After two large cups of coffee, I was ready to head out.
We decided to go north. North to Cherokee country. What was once a large thriving community of Cherokee refugees and survivors was now a mixed bag of cultures. Thanks to Mr. Dawes. After visiting some of their homeland in Tennessee, now was my opportunity to visit their new 'home'.
We headed north on Oklahoma's Hwy 2, cutting through forests and farm land, heading up to I-40. A short jaunt east was just enough to circumvent the toll highway and exit onto Hwy 82 that leads north to Talequah.
Just north of the exit onto Hwy 82 is a sleepy but alive little town of Vian. There, you can stand in front of portals and go back into time. And, if so inclined, stay back there, too.
Several murals adorn the building walls. If you stand in front of them, you can almost imagine yourself stepping through and into them. As if they were portals back through time. Or into stories.
I really enjoy these snapshots of stories: life as it was then, mythical and legendary stories, portrayals of how we live now, and how they may have lived then. Each presents its own connection in some way. It brings to life that which might lurk in the shadows, stories that may have gone untold, comments on life and people, then and now. We look at the past with eyes from the future, and mix it all into that which is the present. They all represent things that we might have never heard, read or known. Until we see them and listen with our eyes.
Even Wylie delighted in them.
Hey, I know that one!!!
After watering our selves, including pouring some water over myself, we saddled up and headed north again.
Labels: Adventures, Oklahoma
,11:18 AM
Riding Tails of Trails: Part One
Come onnnn! Let's get this show on the road!
"Hush, Wylie. I'm trying to pack the bike. We're already late."
Ah! You have ears afterall!
"Oh shut up."
Escape from Workhatten
Work late, commute long, come home tired, and that's the day. They pile up like a mountain of stinking offal until the insides turn sour and we become sourpusses. We can't even stand ourselves. Neither can the others. All work and no play is unhealthy and destroys the intellect. Our brains become soft and we move like zombies.
What is this, a horror story?
"Okay, okay. You're right. Let's forget the zombies and move on."
We -the bike, the gear, myself and Wylie- got a late start Saturday morning. Eventually we made it to Ed's house and took care of the the most important thing: drank coffee. Ed put the aluminum tank panniers from his KLR on the Whee and, I suspect, was giggling inside: 'She'll never be the same after touring with these boxes.' He was right, of course. Tease.........
The boxes and luggage rack were repacked and I stepped back to admire the work: there was left over space....... Oh. My. God. I'm in love. I knew, though, that the empty space would be occupied at some point during the trip. We would have to wait and see. At least there was space to stow away the layers of clothes as they were shed. Forecasters boasted that the temps would rise, but I never believe anything they say. Or write. We'll see.
We decided, against my nature, to slab it north. The steed was capable, but the will to do nothing but auto-pilot prevailed. Navigating the escalator of tarmac to I-35, we headed north. On auto-pilot. No voices in the head, no songs in the helmet, nothing but an occasional blink-blink of the eyelids. I barely remember anything but a growing urge for drink and food a few hours later.
Just north of Gainesville we found the usual road fare: Cracker Barrel. I don't even have to look at the menu; I know the three things I usually eat on the road and they have bottomless iced tea. And I can shed a layer or two.
Feeling now a bit more revived, we debated where to go. We had nothing on our trip menu, no itinerary, no destinations. Just get on the road and go.
"North?"
"Yup," I says.
"Oklahoma?"
"Yup," I says.
"Arkansas?"
"Sure," I says.
Let's go.
Where we going?
"I don't know."
Whatta ya mean you don't know?
"I don't know."
Why don't you know?
"You ask too many questions, Wylie."
..
..
.
I'm not 'Wylie'. I'm Coyote!!
"Yup, you sure are, Wylie."
Hey!
I didn't want to ride on Hwy 82. I've ridden it too many times. I wanted something different and new. We decided to skip the border north into Oklahoma and ride east north of the Red River.
OK Hwy 70 is a nicer road; less traffic, more rural, smaller towns. I became interested in riding and shut off auto-pilot. Just east of Kingston is part of the Lake Texoma dragon. Really, look at Lake Texoma on a map and it looks like a blue decrepit dragon with arthritis: one leg here, the other there, tail twisted, it's head leaned back and with frizzy scales, blowing bubbles up towards Tishomingo. A twisted dragon with a bad hair day. We rode over its face and it didn't even care. But it gave us the opportunity to see the lake from the northern shore.
The day was now hot and muggy. The kind of day where the sweat doesn't evaporate from your skin, and your clothes and gear stick to you like flypaper. We left rural Oklahoma and entered the big semi-rural town of Durant stuck in between the seventies and ninety's with vehicles from the 21st century crowding the main street. Rural Oklahoma is very different from rural Texas, but I can't say I like one more than the other. I like them both. Just for what they are. And what they were.
Hey, look at that horse on fire!!
As we turned at the intersection in downtown Durant, I pulled off the road onto a gravel area and stopped. I needed to shed some hot gear and replenish the fluids that escaped my skin and soaked my clothing. We also wanted to check out the two horses standing on the sides of the roads oblivious to the bustle of traffic.
The corner of the main and side street there is dominated by a rearing stallion in a blaze of fire. Standing more than ten feet tall, his hooves and head paw the skies with flames of red, orange and yellow spiraling up from cool dark hind legs and tail. It is a magnificent statue and commands presence. You can't help but stand there underneath, looking up and wondering if those hooves are going to come down on you and smash you into the ground.
Across from the bikes was a more pleasant and docile horse. Another painted pony (I refrain out of respect from calling the fire horse a 'pony'). This one was also red, but its colors and pose more domesticated. After the fiery stallion, this one was almost boring. A contrast between power and strength and domestication: "Hold it right there! I'll take that pose".... snap! Frozen in time wearing abstractions.
After tearing off the knee-hi MX socks, the long-sleeved shirt, and peeling off the leggings over the UnderArmors, the mesh jacket and MX pants felt darn good. Along with a bottle of water guzzled down. Checking the time we decided to head towards our camping spot for the night: Robber's Cave State Park near Wilburton.
Back on the bikes we headed east again along Hwy 70 towards Hugo, turning north to Antlers and pick up Hwy 2. We were back in pastoral rural Oklahoma again: rich red soil, green grass, cattle, horses, and peace. My face inside the Fishbowl wore the semblance of a smile and the lead tiredness slowly began drifting away in the wake of the humming engine.
Hey! Everyone is waving at us! We're a parade!
"I guess it's like a parade. But it's called 'reciprocity,' Wylie. We smile and wave at people and they wave and smile back."
Everyday should be a parade.
Boswell is a small town, if that. But everyone outside and in their vehicles waved and smiled at us. For a moment in time, we rode through their lives and we felt we knew each other. I liked that.
Time shed its meaning as we turned north on Hwy 2. Towns were further apart, smaller, less people and more trees. The ground rose and rolled under us, and we leaned the bikes side to side, matching our wheels with the winding motion of the tarmac. We were finally getting into mountains. Old mountains. But mountains nonetheless. Mountains make me smile.
Back on auto-pilot, but this time the pilot was alert and absorbing the views, air and wind. Thick blue-gray clouds were piling up to the north and threatened rain. Maybe we would make it and set up camp in time. Maybe not. It didn't matter.
We slowed while riding through Clayton. I could see the allure of that small town. Not to live, but to stay nearby for several days while riding, fishing or hiking. The local LO pulled out behind us and followed us through town, but we were barely riding the speed limit and didn't look threatening. We passed through with no incidents.
I nodded at Hwy 1 East, knowing that it leads to Talihina and the Talimena Skyway. But I suspected we would visit that road at some point on our meanderings.
Now we were on the lookout for the entrance to the park. We were both getting tired. My back was sore from riding on less than good suspension. And something was snoring behind me.
Two signs for Robber's Cave State Park pop up on both sides of Hwy 2. Ed pulled into the one on the right and he hesitated, unsure if that was the right turn. I nodded him forward and we wound up and around to a camping area and the headquarters/store. I barely peeled myself off the bike and resisted falling down.
You've turned into a weenie.
"I'm sore, yes; but also very tired and hot. But I'm not a weenie!"
*giggle*
I wanted a cold bubbly soda and an ice cream; the cure for everything. I found them both inside. The park staff were pleasant as pie, telling us that the campground next to them was full. BUT...... there are spots available next to the river down below.
"They're primitive; no electricity. The water spigots are scattered and there's just one restroom building."
I looked outside at the RV's stacked together like leggos and replied, "That's fine. We'll take one of those."
After paying our fee for the night, we donned the gear and back out we went; down the windy road, across the highway and onto a track with potholes and ruts. Carefully -potholes and a blown rear shock don't mix- we navigated the obstacle courses down onto a gravel and dirt track along the river and found a spot.
I stake thee as my spot!
"Yes, Wylie, we're camping here."
I'm not Wylie. My name is Coyote!
"Yes, it is."
Why does Coyote Master call me 'Wilbur'?
"Because you are."
What? Hmm....I'm going to pee on the corners of our spot.
We started setting up camp, and I keep thinking, 'I sure am liking these panniers......' Even down to the base layers, there was still some room in the boxes.
The tent was set up and I was heading for a Time Out: laying on the mattress and bag pad eating Advil chased down with a cold wet bubbly Diet Coke. Ed went exploring. And our watch shadow kept an eye on the place from his throne.
You sure took a long time to tell this story.
"It's your fault. You can't decide on who you are."
Huh? I'm Coyote! Like Coyote before me, and Coyotl before them.
"Don't get all Aztec-y on me now, Wylie."
I am I-Am-Many!
"Yeah, many of...."
Hey!!!
And then it rained........
Labels: Adventures, Oklahoma
9.18.2009,9:18 PM
Cup and DR Did Travel
And so the end is here. The DR and I bonded; he's like a new lover. We are going to do just fine together. A bit more tinkering (carb work is first) and I can't wait to go on more adventures with it. Like back up to Red River area and more exploring those back roads. Then Big Bend in a few months.
Meanwhile, the little red cup found new friends: pistachios. It's happy, too.
,9:12 PM
Have Cup Will Travel: Finale
Circles
You might recall the references to Greenwood throughout this thread. We seemed to return there, intentionally and unintentionally. I still don't know why, but the small sleepy shady town seems to have a magnet hidden there. We were drawn back again.
It was the tail end of our weekend jaunt away from busy life. We knew we had to head back soon. I think that tended to instill a quiet lassitude in the three amigos (one amiga). It was hot; we wanted some shade, lunch and relaxation. So we rode more gravel roads, bridges and dust.....
.....and realized we were full circle.
We parked the bikes under the shade provided by one of the giant trees in the town park.
Seeing a picnic table by the creek, we decided to have lunch; in style!
While Ed and Bryan chatted and relaxed, I got up to investigate a subtle noise that went 'thump, thump, thump'. It was rhythmic and sounded like a machine, but no one could recognize what it was. I went to find out.
Waaaaaaaay back in a field, behind trees, was an old old Texas grasshopper: an oil rig running on an old old gas engine and belt driven.
Meanwhile, Ed had conjured up his new camping grill outfit. After getting the coals hot in the fold-up fire bowl, and setting up the fold-up grill, yummy brauts were grilling on top.
We ate our brauts (they were delicious!!) and then cleaned up. Here's the portable grill cleaned up and ready for packing.
,9:10 PM
Have Cup Will Travel: Part Nine
Still strolling around Ball Knob Cemetery and I catch a glimpse of myself. Well, sort of. I mean, I know I'm still breathing and standing, but then maybe I'm a ghost after all. I've been called worse. But what catches me is that there was an "Elzie" here back in the early 1900's. Even though she was hardly a year old.
And then I realize I'm projecting: how do I know this person was a girl? 'Elzi' is a male's name in the Ukraine, female's name in Germany. Regardless, it is rare to see the name. But then, what's in a name?
I see the attendant cemetery outhouse here as well. This one is colorful! And then the discourse starts.
A solid concrete block house with graffiti on its whitewash. A response from one of our group was critical and negative: "It's vandalism."
"I don't think so. It's graffiti, yes. But 'graffiti' does not equate with 'vandalism'. Graffiti is public art. Vandalism is destruction and/or desecration of personal property. I don't consider that either of those."
The paint was not new, nor was this cemetery neglected. In fact, a woman was lovingly taking care of her husbands burial place while we were there. If the graffiti was deemed objectionable, it would have been painted over in a hurry.
We agreed to disagree. But I pushed the other rider out of his box a little bit to see graffiti from another perspective than just quick judgment and condemnation. I played Devil's Advocate.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Art is in the eye of both the creator and the beholder. Graffiti is Writing on the Walls. It is a form of expression. Even if we object with that which is expressed, do we still have that freedom to express ourselves? Or do we allow ourselves to be repressed by convention to the point that we are all homogeneous, creating only that which is socially acceptable by all, such as a culturally constructed mural with angels and halo? After all, Jesus does love you.
After gearing up, we rode on to find The Pines. The grasslands is home to two groves of pine trees. These are special to me; I love pine trees. They are more than just trees; they contain associations and memories of decades spent in Maine. Their smell fills my nostrils with an aroma of years and a chapter of my younger life, a simpler life. They make me smile. This time, I was saddened.
We pulled off the gravel road and breached that red sand that before had been red mud. My first time here was riding the Sherpa. All the others rode through the mud. I took the high trail; the dry trail (my pragmatic mind asked 'Why ride through the mud and get splattered and caked when it can be avoided by riding to the higher side?'). Their bikes were caked with red mud and dried covered with red mud. The Sherpa was clean and smiling.
This time, I rode on the sand with the DR. And was tickled at how easy it was. Considering my last ride in sand (in Big Bend), Lizard Brain began its "No, No, No!!!" dance inside my head, but I told it to shut up. Granted, the trail was only about maybe 100 feet long, but the DR didn't even notice the dry liquid (for you fysicks nerds, yes, sand exhibits properties of water, so think of it as 'dry water'). I even executed a beautiful U-turn at the end. I smiled big.
A wire fence blocked our path into the pine barren, but that didn't stop us. It was erected to block vehicular traffic from the equestrian trails that meander through the area. Rounding the bend, we noticed several things different from our visit earlier this year.
Water level in the small pond was very low.
And fire had ravaged the area.
Bryan walked deep into the barren and reported back that the damage went far back into the barren. Whereas the immediate area around the pond was green and untouched by fire. We speculated if this was an accidentally ignited fire (cigarette? campfire?) or if it was a prescribed burn. I still don't know.
If you ever look at pine trees closely, you might see that they are like reptiles: they have scales. Well, the bark is thick scales that protect the heartwood. They have some insulating properties and most adult pine tree species can withstand a degree of intense heat, including fires. The real damage is to the leaves; the pine needles. This reduces their photosynthetic capacity (which are part of the plants' machinery to convert sunlight, water and soil nutrients to food). This can be a bad thing, or a not so bad thing. It depends on how stressed they are during recovery. Right now, with all the rain and cooler temps, they probably have a good chance at recovery.
I think I'll go back to visit periodically to check on my friends' recovery.
,9:08 PM
Have Cup Will Travel: Part Eight
Packing up camp gear and loading the bikes, it was time to continue on. This time just the three of us. One place I had wanted to visit was Ball Knob Cemetery. Here was a connection with the Butterfield Stage Trail of the mid-1800's. Interred there were members of the two families that had built and managed a stage stop in the immediate area: the Connely Station. This station was in between the Davidson stop (in Montague Co.) and the Earhart station (Jack County; now on private property and which we visited).
Here are buried the Connely father and son, along with other family members. Interestingly, several spelling variations of their surname exist: in county and census records, Butterfield stage trail historical records, and even on the headstones. But then, what's in a name?.......
The stage stop was managed by Connely Jr. (under the prone headstone) and one of the Ball brothers. From piecing together records and personal documents, I learned that one of the Ball boys and Connely Jr were boyhood buddies. One source briefly claims that the Ball and Connely families adventured and settled into the Wise County area together. And, as legends go, one of the offsprings from each family married, permanently joining the two families in their descendants. After the Butterfield stages were long gone, Connely and Ball built and managed a large cotton gin for the area. Ball Sr. dedicated a tract of his land for a cemetery, in which his wife was laid to rest. But he himself was laid to rest in another tract of land which he dedicated and deeded to the town of Decatur: the cemetery outside of town.
Ormsby, one of the first stage customers that navigated the entire route from St. Louis to California (the only one to really complete the entire trip on the first run), relates his meal at the Connely station one morning in 1858:
"The station was a log house, haphazardly thrown together. Inside the twenty square-foot structure, the travelers were met by two men living a grubby bachelor's existence. The coach arrival was unexpected, and the men scrambled to get breakfast ready.
When the food came, it was served on the bottom of a candle box. The little breakfast club seated themselves on upside-down pails. There were no plates, only tin cups for coffee, and not even a suggestion of milk or sugar. The only "edible" was a short cake, baked on coals. Each man broke off a piece and smothered it with butter using their pocket knives. . . To add to the ambience, the host reminded them to 'hurry up before the chickens eat it.'"
Somewhere, within the LBJ Grasslands preserve and near the town of Sunset, was the Connely Butterfield Stage Station. Near the ghostly remains of the town of Hood, on top of that beautiful prairie, a stage coach ran with a team of mules on its way to the Connely's. If you stand quietly, you can almost hear and see them. Their ruts have been replaced by gravel, but the trails remain the same. A trip through time.
Next: I'm buried here?
Here are buried the Connely father and son, along with other family members. Interestingly, several spelling variations of their surname exist: in county and census records, Butterfield stage trail historical records, and even on the headstones. But then, what's in a name?.......
The stage stop was managed by Connely Jr. (under the prone headstone) and one of the Ball brothers. From piecing together records and personal documents, I learned that one of the Ball boys and Connely Jr were boyhood buddies. One source briefly claims that the Ball and Connely families adventured and settled into the Wise County area together. And, as legends go, one of the offsprings from each family married, permanently joining the two families in their descendants. After the Butterfield stages were long gone, Connely and Ball built and managed a large cotton gin for the area. Ball Sr. dedicated a tract of his land for a cemetery, in which his wife was laid to rest. But he himself was laid to rest in another tract of land which he dedicated and deeded to the town of Decatur: the cemetery outside of town.
Ormsby, one of the first stage customers that navigated the entire route from St. Louis to California (the only one to really complete the entire trip on the first run), relates his meal at the Connely station one morning in 1858:
"The station was a log house, haphazardly thrown together. Inside the twenty square-foot structure, the travelers were met by two men living a grubby bachelor's existence. The coach arrival was unexpected, and the men scrambled to get breakfast ready.
When the food came, it was served on the bottom of a candle box. The little breakfast club seated themselves on upside-down pails. There were no plates, only tin cups for coffee, and not even a suggestion of milk or sugar. The only "edible" was a short cake, baked on coals. Each man broke off a piece and smothered it with butter using their pocket knives. . . To add to the ambience, the host reminded them to 'hurry up before the chickens eat it.'"
Somewhere, within the LBJ Grasslands preserve and near the town of Sunset, was the Connely Butterfield Stage Station. Near the ghostly remains of the town of Hood, on top of that beautiful prairie, a stage coach ran with a team of mules on its way to the Connely's. If you stand quietly, you can almost hear and see them. Their ruts have been replaced by gravel, but the trails remain the same. A trip through time.
Next: I'm buried here?
,9:06 PM
Have Cup Will Travel: Part Seven
We all woke up with the sun. Peeking over the hill, it sprinkled us with early morning rays. But it took some time for the shadows to relent and disappear.
The night had a wonderful coolness that left a blanket of dew on everything. But as the sun drove the shadows away, we could tell it was going to be a hot day. Before the shadows had all run off and hid, horse trailers began pulling in behind trucks. Smart riders trying to grab a ride in the cool morning before the sun's force cranked up the heat. This fella was anxiously watching his rider traipse a few hundred feet to use the restroom.
We had a good breakfast with all the 'fixings': coffee with cream, reconstituted dehydrated scrambled eggs with bacon (Mountain House), oatmeal with cranberries, and more coffee. This was the first time I had used both my origami plate and the bowl. I love these things! They pack flat and compact, clean with ease and quick to assemble/disassemble. I was impressed at how delicious the dehydrated eggs and bacon were. A visit to Mountain House (subsidiary of Oregon Freezedry) in Albany, OR, is planned while I'm there next year.
The night had a wonderful coolness that left a blanket of dew on everything. But as the sun drove the shadows away, we could tell it was going to be a hot day. Before the shadows had all run off and hid, horse trailers began pulling in behind trucks. Smart riders trying to grab a ride in the cool morning before the sun's force cranked up the heat. This fella was anxiously watching his rider traipse a few hundred feet to use the restroom.
We had a good breakfast with all the 'fixings': coffee with cream, reconstituted dehydrated scrambled eggs with bacon (Mountain House), oatmeal with cranberries, and more coffee. This was the first time I had used both my origami plate and the bowl. I love these things! They pack flat and compact, clean with ease and quick to assemble/disassemble. I was impressed at how delicious the dehydrated eggs and bacon were. A visit to Mountain House (subsidiary of Oregon Freezedry) in Albany, OR, is planned while I'm there next year.
It was a beautiful morning on the grasslands. The area is a patchwork quilt of gravel roads intersecting large tracts of grass, patches of thick trees representing the cross-timbers, creeks and small reservoirs, humble ranches and long-lost communities. Current grass species don't fully represent those that dominated before pioneer settlement carved the soil for crops and introduced other grass species. Now it is a mixture of eastern, western and plains grass species.
Thick and sometimes very dense patches of gnarled trees represent the Cross-timbers ecosystem: the frontier between the eastern deciduous forest and the grasslands of the southern Great Plains. Due to overgrazing and intense cotton cropping in the late 1800's-early 1900's, weed species have encroached; especially junipers and mesquite. Normally such invasive species are checked by natural burns (usually from lightening strikes in dry duff). Now, the consortium of participating overseers (federal, state, local and non-profit organizations) occasionally utilize a practice of the native Americans: prescribed burns. We found an area later that day.
While enjoying the morning campside with coffee, four trailers had rolled in and unloaded horses catching an early morning cool ride. The gathering hole never fails to attract no matter the setting.
Thick and sometimes very dense patches of gnarled trees represent the Cross-timbers ecosystem: the frontier between the eastern deciduous forest and the grasslands of the southern Great Plains. Due to overgrazing and intense cotton cropping in the late 1800's-early 1900's, weed species have encroached; especially junipers and mesquite. Normally such invasive species are checked by natural burns (usually from lightening strikes in dry duff). Now, the consortium of participating overseers (federal, state, local and non-profit organizations) occasionally utilize a practice of the native Americans: prescribed burns. We found an area later that day.
While enjoying the morning campside with coffee, four trailers had rolled in and unloaded horses catching an early morning cool ride. The gathering hole never fails to attract no matter the setting.
,8:58 PM
Have Cup Will Travel: Part Six
After a bit of too-ing and fro-ing, we wound our way east on gravel roads, through pasture land, prairies, over creeks and lots of grasslands. Finally we found ourselves on a ridge overlooking the river and I still kick myself for not stopping to take a few photos. The views were awesome.
Our goal -although that was secondary to riding- was to see if we could find two places on the bend where the Chisholm Trail crossed. I had information that the trail had crossed NW of Gainesville near the mouth of Fish Creek. Apparently the river reared its dragon head and the trail was changed to the western side of the bend. From the topo maps, I think I can pick out the general area. It would be fun to try to find it.
What we found was, you can't get there from here. Our county road dead ended. Or so we thought. The old bridge across a wide and deep creek had deteriorated and was blocked. No going across on the bikes, but we did on foot.
Then we saw below how the county and locals dealt with a decaying bridge; build below it. By dumping tons of gravel. The road on the other side looked inviting. But how to get there.
Well, simple enough. You open the gate and ride through it. Which Ed did.
We decided to place further exploration of this road on hold until the next time. Because right now, we were running short on that commodity. We marked this and decided to revisit it next time. Now it was on to Sivell's Bend.
Which we found. Another ghost town, but more active than the previous ones. The school was good sized for a ghost town. And that is all we saw there. But then, we decided we needed to head back and find a camp site. So again, further explorations were placed on hold for next time.
And south we went. This time, in the name of hurry, we split the ride between 25% tarmac, and the rest gravel. In fact, we pretty much followed our route north, except this time the other direction.
Don split off to head home and we we veered west and south. Where should we end up? Why, Greenwood!!!
This time, the little quiet town was alive and buzzing. Like Pavlov's dog, I smelled frying fish and began to salivate. Ed and Bryan pulled over near the shed to check the maps and I shed my gear, heading for the food and buzz at the General Store.
It didn't take much to convince the guys we should eat here. Inside were couples and kids of all ages sitting at tables eating, chatting, laughing. It was homey. In the corner was a seated musical round. Four guitars, one bass, two mandolins, one violin and the all played like they do it every day. I think the lady on the mandolin was no younger than 75, the violin player in early 70's, and one of the guitarists in his late 30's. The others were in between somewhere.
It was great. Here was Dale's pickin' and a-grinnin'. I was thrown back decades to rural Maine, and I loved it. What a great community. The fish and coleslaw were great, the hush puppies the best I've ever eaten (I don't normally like them at all), and the beans were yummy good. I saw pieces of pie floating around, but I was too full for any. I opted for an ice cream.
Camping in the Grasslands
After some time enjoying the entire scene, the setting sun inspired us to move on and find a camp site before dark descended.
We rode up to a small camp ground on a hill in the grasslands; empty. We had it all to ourselves. I found a clear spot yet still nestled under tall trees. A good spot to view the moon and stars while catching a breeze.
We barely got our tents and bags set up before the thickness of dark. It felt like a nice cool blanket and we adjourned to a table to relax and shoot the breeze. It was quiet and lovely.
Then time to drop off into dream land.
Goodnight moon.
Goodnight little red cup.
Our goal -although that was secondary to riding- was to see if we could find two places on the bend where the Chisholm Trail crossed. I had information that the trail had crossed NW of Gainesville near the mouth of Fish Creek. Apparently the river reared its dragon head and the trail was changed to the western side of the bend. From the topo maps, I think I can pick out the general area. It would be fun to try to find it.
What we found was, you can't get there from here. Our county road dead ended. Or so we thought. The old bridge across a wide and deep creek had deteriorated and was blocked. No going across on the bikes, but we did on foot.
Then we saw below how the county and locals dealt with a decaying bridge; build below it. By dumping tons of gravel. The road on the other side looked inviting. But how to get there.
Well, simple enough. You open the gate and ride through it. Which Ed did.
We decided to place further exploration of this road on hold until the next time. Because right now, we were running short on that commodity. We marked this and decided to revisit it next time. Now it was on to Sivell's Bend.
Which we found. Another ghost town, but more active than the previous ones. The school was good sized for a ghost town. And that is all we saw there. But then, we decided we needed to head back and find a camp site. So again, further explorations were placed on hold for next time.
And south we went. This time, in the name of hurry, we split the ride between 25% tarmac, and the rest gravel. In fact, we pretty much followed our route north, except this time the other direction.
Don split off to head home and we we veered west and south. Where should we end up? Why, Greenwood!!!
This time, the little quiet town was alive and buzzing. Like Pavlov's dog, I smelled frying fish and began to salivate. Ed and Bryan pulled over near the shed to check the maps and I shed my gear, heading for the food and buzz at the General Store.
It didn't take much to convince the guys we should eat here. Inside were couples and kids of all ages sitting at tables eating, chatting, laughing. It was homey. In the corner was a seated musical round. Four guitars, one bass, two mandolins, one violin and the all played like they do it every day. I think the lady on the mandolin was no younger than 75, the violin player in early 70's, and one of the guitarists in his late 30's. The others were in between somewhere.
It was great. Here was Dale's pickin' and a-grinnin'. I was thrown back decades to rural Maine, and I loved it. What a great community. The fish and coleslaw were great, the hush puppies the best I've ever eaten (I don't normally like them at all), and the beans were yummy good. I saw pieces of pie floating around, but I was too full for any. I opted for an ice cream.
Camping in the Grasslands
After some time enjoying the entire scene, the setting sun inspired us to move on and find a camp site before dark descended.
We rode up to a small camp ground on a hill in the grasslands; empty. We had it all to ourselves. I found a clear spot yet still nestled under tall trees. A good spot to view the moon and stars while catching a breeze.
We barely got our tents and bags set up before the thickness of dark. It felt like a nice cool blanket and we adjourned to a table to relax and shoot the breeze. It was quiet and lovely.
Then time to drop off into dream land.
Goodnight moon.
Goodnight little red cup.
,8:55 PM
Have Cup Will Travel: Part Five
We left Hood and headed north on gravel. A short run on tarmac led us to Hwy 82 and east of Munster. By that time, we where hungry.
Riding off tarmac is not a passive activity: slide forward, squeeze the tank between the knees, push down on the inside peg, and roll the throttle open. Scoot back on the seat, point elbows out, lower your center of gravity and let the front end wiggle underneath you while your arms go along for the ride as a gentle guide. And roll the throttle open. Gettin' jiggy with it now.
At some point that morning I realized I was leaking. A tell-tale stain down the forks suggested leaky seals. A wet low back and butt did more than suggest a leaking CamelBack. Mental note: I'll be doing forks soon but the CamelBack can wait.
On the way to Decatur that morning, the DR was up to its tricks of coughing, sputtering, and skipping. Every stop -red light, stop sign- was a fight of not letting it die once I rolled on the throttle to take off. A bit of coaxing was required with short throttle chops and a few expletives.
In Decatur we tried a quick fix of increasing the idle, which resolved the stopping at the gate issue. But it still had emphysema. I think we need some quality carb time. Like changing diapers, cleaning the carb just has to be done sometimes.
Otherwise, the DR handled like a well-sprung young pony. It's a prancer, a racer, a crawler and a gravel-spitter. It stole my heart. Not as lithe and nimble as my favorite Sherpie girl, but the DR outperform on torque, handling off-road terrain (what gravel? I didn't feel any.), and suspension. We -the engine, suspension, growl and those high-heeled tires- we bonded that day.
"Baby, let's go for a ride." Vroooooommmmm................
After a welcomed lunch we gassed up and searched for more gravel, heading north again. We passed cows, horses, goats, sheep, Texas 'grasshoppers' and Texas 'flowers', and perfectly cylindrical bales of hay. We found a back road that wound through tall overhanging trees, rode over creeks and passed humble farm houses.
Don led the way since he has explored this territory before on his DR. We pulled off the gravel onto two-track where a large structure loomed. We dubbed it 'Alcoa' because it is nearly entirely made of aluminium: siding, roof, window casing, doors. Even the propane tank is painted with aluminum.
We surmised that it had once been a church, a school, a meeting 'house', and some type of a lodge. Our hunch was confirmed later by a local, who also added that it was, and is, the Masonic Lodge upstairs.
We geared up again and continued down the two track which became more narrow as we went along. We passed a small cemetery which has been neglected; grass was as high as the stones. We stopped at the Marysville cemetery and parked underneath a large tree for shade. (we seemed to zero in quickly on shade when it was available)
Marysville is another ghost town. It suffered the same fate as several communities in the area when most of the land -farmers land, town land, public land- was absconded by public domain to become a military training camp. All of that land -59,000 acres- shortly became a POW camp for Germans. "Sorry, you have to drop your lives and everything you have invested in it and leave." But that is all another story for another time (after we visit again).
We wandered around again, revisiting history and events during those days.
A familiar pattern finally captured me and I asked about why people put up fences around grave sites. I can't quite figure that one out. Some are quite ornate, others look like a concentration camp. Are they afraid the deceased are going to get up and leave? Is it a territorial thing? I still scratch my head on that one.
We found another Woodsmen of the World, one of the three most common styles. Even Bryan was interested in this now.
Matilda is the oldest born that we found in all the cemeteries that weekend: 1804. And she almost lived to 80 years old.
While the fellas were sitting underneath a large tree, I was drawn to an image, a type of ironic symbol in a cemetery.
A tree in its death throes.
On our way out, we found the namesake of Montague County: Daniel Montague. He was the primary surveyor in that area, and, back in those days, the surveyors had first pick of land tracts and were often paid in land.
And here are the two brothers: DR 350 and 650.
Geared up and ready to go, we were on a quest of sorts for a place (yes, another ghost town) called Sivell's Bend near the Red River.
,8:53 PM
Have Cup Will Travel: Part Four
We charted a course north, into the unknown. Well, partly. A place I wanted to share with the others was one where I had been before. Another ghost town: Hood. I don't know why I like ghost towns. Maybe because they seem to have more character than most other towns. Maybe because they are full of 'ghosts' and to really learn about the town requires immersing oneself. Which requires a basic degree of receptivity and interest.
I had passed through Hood last year on the Sherpa while trying to follow the Butterfield Trail through the northern half (quarter?) of Texas. 'Try' is putting it mildly. Hardly any traces of the Trail remain, but if one is diligent enough, small pieces can be found. Trying to string the pieces together is the real challenge.
A box of jumbled 'facts' allowed me to trace a hypothesized line of the trail. Let's make that plural: trails. It did change a few times, and in several places. From Gainsville to a station near Jackboro, the trail is uncertain. I did know of a station that was kept by two men -Ball and Connelly- and called the Connelly Station. It was purportedly somewhere between two creeks and in the northwest corner of the LBJ Grasslands. Another station was near the now small town of Sunset.
Regardless, two gravel county roads probably follow (for a distance) the old Butterfield Trail. One of those county roads gradually ascends a high plateau which is now covered with grasslands, mostly pasture and hay fields. Cotton was probably grown there, or attempted, at some time earlier. It seems that most of Texas was cottonized for a duration of its history. It was probably grown there, too.
Approaching the crest of the high plain, one is struck as if by lightening by the openness. Only a gently curved horizon and the big sky dominates the landscape. Some people don't feel comfortable in such open places, many think it is too flat -no punctuations of tall tress, giant structures, pointy church needles, the usual tall things that break up the horizon. But I like it. There, you feel like one of the ants that happen to be there. Maybe I don't mind being dominated by wide open country. I really don't know. But I sure do like it there.
The population is barely over 25, if that at all. One common building remains as the community meeting center. And, like any present and former place occupied by humans, it has a cemetery.
We tried to avoid riding on tarmac as much as we could on this venture. We pretty much did, except for a few miles here and there. Which was good for me, because the DR is geared low; it doesn't like going at highway speed and I don't either. Besides, sometimes you just don't want to see any tarmac and all its modern accouterments. So we entered the little ghost town of Hood by way of winding gravel.
I knew where the cemetery was, so we headed there and parked the bikes in a row like horses lined up at the hitching post. One curiosity that I wanted to show the others was the large headstone of Mr. Davidson, who was proudly buried with the insignia of the KKK.
We noticed that one or two other Davidson's were buried in the cemetery, but far away from Mr. KKK. I wondered if B.C. Davidson's public affiliation with the non-politically correct organization embarrassed other family members and wished to maintain their distance. Even in death.
A common tribute to another organization is predominate in Texas: Woodsman of the World. Thus far, I've noted three patterns, or molds, of headstones. Considering the time period of many of the deceased, it appears that the headstones may have either originated from the same carving outfit, or members are limited to only a few styles of headstones, if they wish to die with their public affiliation to the WoW. The commonalities are: they are tall, they are carved to resemble a tree or log.
Someday I will find the history of this organization. I'm curious what they are, or were, and what their common philosophy is (or was).
It was time to gear up and wander further north, this time near the Red River to explore two areas that captured my attention some time ago.
,8:44 PM
Have Cup Will Travel: Part Three
“No matter where you go, there you are.”
As a nomad at heart (and nomadic thinker), I am usually comfortable everywhere. Yet, like the Thingness of Things, everywhere exists in many dynamic layers that change in space and time. Despite that I was born in a city and grew up in the pre-burbs (pre-modern suburb; I’m dating myself….), I never felt that I belonged in or even near a city. In fact, I ‘ran away’ from our home in the city when I was five years old (another story involving a naked 5-year old running down the neighborhood street).
In the ever-changing world of Trade Offs, when I was nine our family moved to an in-between place: partly rural, partly urban, one side of the road one school district and town, the other side another district and town, one side of the road pastures and woods, the other side houses and houses. I was lucky to live next to the pastures and woods. Regardless, I felt I never really ‘belonged’ there, or even near there. For me, there was ‘nowhere’.
After graduating from high school at the ripe young age of 17, I fled to the woods of Maine. There I felt I was ‘home’. And it became my Home for 14 years. Since then, I’ve had several Homes, and a few ‘homes’ (where I lived but never belonged, or felt at Home).
So why all this introduction? What is Home? Greenwood felt like my kind of home, without even living there. Like it could be my Home. One of my many Homes. And here’s why.
Greenwood
I think readers may know, or be acquainted with, that ‘home-town’ feeling. The phrase is self-explanatory; it is a place where you feel comfortable, where you can relax and shed worries, sorrows, anything that burdens you. It’s like that yummy feeling in your stomach after drinking a mug of warm milk (or another liquid that soothes you). Or sitting in your favorite comfy chair or couch. You settle in, relax, shed burdens and feel good inside.
Everyone has their own perspectives and expectations of ‘home-towns’. But they don’t necessarily have to be where you were born or grew up. Greenwood seemed to impart that yummy feeling in the pit of my stomach. And it reminded me I was hungry.
As we rode our bikes into the midst of the crossing of gravel and one paved road, it was as if we were riding our trusty horses in to town, all of us, and the bikes, covered in dust, grime, horse poop, and chewing tobacco. I could almost hear the screen door slap in the wind. And town’s folk whispering behind their hands, while children huddled behind their legs for safety. While my horse made bellowing noises.
Back into reality, or the reality of the moment, I noted to myself that this exhaust is really too loud for my liking. Like a donkey that bellows all day, or a dog that howls all night, even with the clutch pulled in my wild pony grumbles loudly. I’m going to have to tame its loud laughter.
The town store –aka gas station, grill, general store, meeting place- greets the locals and passers-through. Something about the colors –the green that blends in with the nearby immense canopies of pecan and oak trees- and the wooden plank siding fits the bill of a comfy chair. Only one person remained sitting on the bench; wearing a straw hat and denim coveralls. It reminded me of the porch at the Starlight and Terlingua Trading Post, perhaps its northern cousin.
We pulled in under a metal canopy across from the store and in the shade. This seemed like the community meeting place for large numbers of attendees. Such structures seem lost and forlorn without the buzz of people underneath their roofs. But for now, it offered us shade and we were thankful for that.
Next to the canopy stands another interesting building. The sign on the front façade suggests that it contains a museum: Urquhart Museum. Strange name that. I can’t even pronounce it, and I’m curious on what it is, its origins and what it means.
Fittingly, in front of the museum building is a Texas historical marker relating the town’s early history. Next to the marker is what I presumed to be the remains of the well mentioned in the text. I suspect it has been renovated several times, and, like most primitive wells, it was capped tightly. That’s to prevent overly curious people, or the local dog (like mine did once), from accidentally falling in.
We all took a respite from the dust and heat by sitting on the bench, sipping a cold drink; a few of us, of course, found ice cream inside. When I entered to buy a cold drink, I found to my surprise, half a dozen or so homemade pies in the cooler. Wow; I wonder where those will end up.
Behind the counter were two women grilling hamburgers and sandwiches; the odor of grilled burgers competed with the ice cream, but I bet you can guess which won. When I mentioned my find to the woman that took my cash, she commented that a woman in town bakes them for the store.
As I sat back down on my bench space outside, I glanced over to see the gentlemen in the straw hat had also returned to his bench space. I decided to make the first move; “Hi there! Nice day, isn’t it?”
“It sure is.”
Pleasantries out of the way, we decided to share names. Thus the boundaries were dispelled and Dale walked over to chat with us. While chatting, I noticed a small wooden statue in his hand and realized he was carving it. Looking up, I also noticed a carving in his hat band. A wood carver’s signature:
Dale is happy to chat. We learned that the museum is open once in awhile. The woman that runs it lives in Fort Worth, but grew up in Greenwood. Every Saturday night is a Fish Fry at the store; good fish, lots of good people, and good pickin’ and grinnin’ And, one weekend every fall, Greenwood turns into a festival in the streets: the October Fest. Complete with parade.
“We like parades. Why don’t you come and be in our parade? We’d be happy to have you folks in our parade.”
“Well, how many of us can we bring?”
“Oh, not too many.”
“About six or eight of us and our bikes?”
“Heck, bring six, or sixteen! Just not 50.”
“Really?”
“Yup. We like everything in our parades. You make sure you come. And you’ll get fed, too. And there’ll be music!”
“Okay!!! We’ll be here!”
You know you are in a small town when you can drive, or ride, anything to the local general store for a burger or ice cream.
Suddenly, I heard a motorcycle. Anyone who rides a bike, knows the sound of other bikes. It’s like a bird hearing another of its species from miles away. I walked into the street, looking towards the sound, and I saw two pairs of headlights. The bike stopped, turned, stopped and returned. Soon it headed our way.
As I sat back down on the bench, we all waved at the rider as he went by. His helmet glanced to the right and saw four other bikes and I heard brakes squeak. The rider stopped the bike and pulled in alongside ours underneath the canopy.
We met another BMW-GS rider from Fort Worth out for a country ride. We chatted for a bit, while Bryan was excited to find a fellow GS rider. They exchanged species chat (that type of bird calling between birds of the same species) and contact info for future rides together. He went on his way, and we paid our good byes to Dale before wandering over to the bikes to gear up. It’s time to hit the trail again, horses.
Geared up and refreshed we hit the trails –er, roads- north to parts unknown. Well, known to some, unknown to others.
I had a funny feeling as I left Greenwood proper that I would be back. I just didn’t know then how many times that would be within the next 36 hours. I guess it was that ‘home magnet’ calling. Another home to add to my list.
,8:40 PM
Have Cup Will Travel: Part Two
Cemeteries -or graveyards, the term I grew up with- reside in that space between realism and relativism. Death is real -everything dies in one form or another: passes on, changes, what-ever-you-want-to-call-it. But several forms of reality surround death. It can be like a piece of furniture -it is there, it happens to everything, so it's real. Or it can be viewed relatively: taboo, sacred, morbid, violent, sadness, permanent, after-life, the undead, eternal sleep, etc, etc.
There's no denying -to the realist, or the relativist- that death is real. But it is also relative. It is physical as well as social. Because we bestow meaning upon it. And those meanings vary; all over the place.
When people hear that I like to visit cemeteries, I see, and hear, a wide variety of responses. "How morbid!", "Aren't you scared?", "Why on earth would you want to do that?", and "Boring." Well, I say "No" to three of those four. The fourth one, I try to explain that cemeteries are one of the best history books one can find. I get blank stares.
Those that are similarly afflicted with 'cemeteryitis' are familiar with what I mean. Allow me to describe the typical routine: look for the oldest looking headstones to start piecing the puzzle together. Note the grouping of families sharing the same last name, then the dates on the stones to discern the ages. One can almost piece together an abbreviated family history from this.
For example: Mr. and Mrs. Phipps lost three children, two which died at less than one year old and share a headstone. The next headstone I look for is the mother. Did she die in childbirth? (childbirth was probably the biggest killer of women before the mid-1900's) Notice that husband is 'G.K.' and mother/wife is 'Lula S.' That is the converse of another headstone (in another cemetery) denoting the interred as 'Mrs. S.' (in small letters), wife of C. W. Lumsden (in very large letters). What can we infer from the text on headstones?
Much. The prevalence of headstones with death dates in 1919 led me to suspect an epidemic. Sure enough, the Spanish influenza swept Texas, and all of the southwest as well as much of the world, in 1919. That was on the heels of dengue fever viruse and cholera in many Texas towns. The most susceptible population to any epidemic are children, especially infants, and the elderly.
If one is observant enough, you might notice that two headstones often accompany that of a man who lived a relatively long life (keep in mind that longevity then was shorter for men than it is now, whereas women outlived men by sometimes decades if they didn't die in childbirth) and bear the names of women and status, 'wife'. If a husband lost his wife to childbirth, and had surviving children, they remarried. Sometimes more than once. I recall seeing a husband with two wives lost to childbirth and a surviving wife (even outlived her husband), with six gravestones of children distributed amongst his three wives.
So, you see, headstones can reveal much about the past, even our past. Although we don't know the people who lived and died there, they lived at a time when our predecessors did: your parents, grandparents, great to-the-umteenth parents, etc. Although these people lived in a small community, many of them came from other places, and some of their descendants went to other places. (what about all those headstones that state their origins were in Tennessee?) It's really uncanny when you find a headstone with your name on it. But that's for later.
What I'm trying to portray is a demonstration of network: we're all connected somehow: the past, present and future. That Seven Degrees of Separation. History then is history now. Visiting and reading the history engraved in these headstone is getting to know the people that lived, worked, fought, played, and died there. It forms a community. These are the Ghosts, the voices of the past, their present, our future.
So, on with the Cup's story.
Greenwood
One place I had not yet experienced was Greenwood. All the times I've ridden or driven by signs on the highways with that arrow pointing somewhere after the name 'Greenwood', I decided I wanted to visit. And it only had one paved road. Now, that can't be a bad thing at all, can it?
After leaving Decatur, we found Old Greenwood Rd. And I smiled. It was gravel. This was to be the test ride on the DR350, the new old boy in the stable, the pony with long legs and lots of spirit.
I spent the first several miles feeling like I was on a first date: that awkward getting-to-know each other time, feeling what will work and what won't, testing the gravel (no waters there), gradually getting aggressive, backing off at unexpected responses. It was love at first ride.
I don't even recall the scenery we passed as we rode to Greenwood. I was 'busy'. In a good way. We were bonding, the DR and I. Then rounding a corner, the tall grass alongside the road opened up to an intersection of a paved road and two gravel roads, giant pecan trees that soothed us with immense shade, and a wood-faced store with a porch and three locals sitting on a bench.
I was immediately intrigued. Some places just pull you in and you have to stop. But we had a mission that prevented us from doing that. We rounded a turn, onto another gravel road, and headed south to meet up with the fourth member of our day ride: Don, on his DR650. We were about to turn into another corner and there was Don going the opposite way. A quick nod behind him meant we'll meet up at the Greenwood Cemetery, and he fell in behind us.
After the usually rider greetings, we ungeared and browsed the stones. Here was the typical scenario that can be seen in many around that time.
Most of the cemeteries in Texas, at least in this part of the state, oblige visitors with facilities, that old relic of the past: the outhouse. They vary from plain, as you see here, to colorful, as you will see later.
Of course, I tested this one out.
One oddity that intrigues me is the occasional (some cemeteries it is more than occasional) fence around one or more headstones.
I've pondered the possible reasons people erect these, and I can list them, but my ponderings may bore most readers. I don't think that there is one explanation. And if there is, I can bet there's a deeper myriad of thinking underneath it. Regardless, I'll spare readers here that part of the story.
Now, this was precious. It spoke much about who the person was and those that knew him.
The sun was high and the cool air of the morning gave way to the familiar heat. I took the opportunity to pull off the motocross mesh pants, the thin pants underneath and down to bike shorts. My usual riding gear for summer, even commuting. They got more dirty this weekend ride than they did all week in Tennessee.
Don decided to rest in the shade for a bit.
On the way back to the bikes, I noticed we were being watched and guarded.
I tried to take a photo of the DR on its first date. I quickly discovered that my new mesh dayglo jacket (the previous one was stolen) blinds my internal meter. So I learned how to fool the meter. And anyone that knows me, or rides with me, also knows that my bikes are holders. I hang everything on them. Why not?
At the question "Where to next?", there was no question about the answer: "Let's go back to the store in Greenwood!"
That was the beginning, the middle, and the end of our weekend. With riding and camping stories in between. Greenwood has become a favorite place on my list. And we are even invited to be in their parade!
,8:38 PM
Have Cup Will Travel
The little red cup went for a ride on the back of a long legged pony. It wasn't an epic adventure, a wild ride, nor a vision quest. It was merely a break in a busy life, away from city lights and crowded streets, a refresher in what life really is, a glimpse into the past, side glance of the present, and hopeful stare into the future.
But what really is life? Really? It's a toss between anything you want it to be and what is given. I choose to be somewhere in between, more towards the 'want it to be', but happen to closer to the given end these days. But this ride was a token nod that the path is beginning to swing the other way. Slowly, but surely.
So, like the hobos of lore, and the nomad at heart, the little cup was tied to the back bag and along we went for a weekend ride.
Three of us -Ed on his KLR, Bryan on his GS1200, I on the DR- took the low roads, the back roads (if they can be called that), out of the Fort Worth area and headed north. The magnet that seems to be hidden somewhere in the Wise County courthouse and on the town square in Decatur drew us into its comfy quaint squareness for a cuppa Joe. It seems that the waitresses at the Courthouse Cafe know us by now, based on the congenial "Well, how are you doing? Coffee? Be right with you!".
As we sat outside at the rickety green plastic table, sipping cups of coffee (mine with several floating ice cubes ), I flashed on a similar scene more than a decade ago. Sitting on a bench outside a frame shop on Second Street in Corvallis, Oregon, my ex-husband and I nearly collapsed in our seat. The bench was about to disintegrate from wood rot. After arriving home that afternoon, Cleve disappeared into the barn with noisy table saw, drill and planers for the next several hours. I attended to the ranch chores of cleaning the sheep pens and fixing fences.
Just before dark, Cleve hauled out a long reddish-yellow wooden bench exuding that essence of cedar that hangs in the air and tickles the nostrils, pushed it into the bed of the pickup truck and drove away. He didn't say a word about it when he returned much later, nor did I ask. The next morning, we drove into town for that once-in-awhile pancake and sausage breakfast at the local restaurant. After wards we walked with coffee in hand to a familiar bench in front of the frame store, sat and drank our coffee.
Bill, the proprietor of the frame store, opened his shop while we were just about finished with our coffee. He looked at that bench, at us, shook his head and walked back in. He knew where the bench came from. In my living room is a large painting of a wolf that I found on our couch one day after I got home. In the bottom corner was a familiar signature 'B. Shumway'. Next to it was another painting. Nothing said. No need for words. That's how life is in small towns.
As I sat there at the rickety table, our coffee spilling on its surface, I laughed when the idea popped into my head of building them a small wooden table to replace this one. Just bring it in, drop it off and leave. A gesture on how much we appreciate their friendliness and them being there. It's what life is in small towns.
It was a good way to start a weekend.
Labels: Texas
,8:28 PM
Wet Bee
A busy bee flew on a long journey through Oklahoma and Arkansas. On the way back home, the sky began to cry. The bee got wet, which slowed it down. Nevertheless, the bee still enjoyed the flight.
When the bee returned, relaxed and refreshed, the sky cried more and more. For eight days, the sky has cried, soaking everything below it. The bee's antennas got wet and don't work, its wings are wet and soggy. So the bee doesn't go anywhere except to work and gather honey. Waiting for the sunshine to dry its wings and fix its antennas.
I'm the bee. I returned home to over a week of rain and I keep thinking I'm back in Oregon (where it rains all winter). The satellite Internet service is out at home and we can't trouble shoot it in precipitous conditions.
Meanwhile, I've been reading a lot and remembering what life was like BI (Before Internet). And I finally get my eight hours of sleep every day.
Excepgt for this reprieve of free wifi at a local Barnes & Nobles, I'm disconnected :)
When the bee returned, relaxed and refreshed, the sky cried more and more. For eight days, the sky has cried, soaking everything below it. The bee's antennas got wet and don't work, its wings are wet and soggy. So the bee doesn't go anywhere except to work and gather honey. Waiting for the sunshine to dry its wings and fix its antennas.
I'm the bee. I returned home to over a week of rain and I keep thinking I'm back in Oregon (where it rains all winter). The satellite Internet service is out at home and we can't trouble shoot it in precipitous conditions.
Meanwhile, I've been reading a lot and remembering what life was like BI (Before Internet). And I finally get my eight hours of sleep every day.
Excepgt for this reprieve of free wifi at a local Barnes & Nobles, I'm disconnected :)
Labels: musings
8.27.2009,12:32 PM
What is Home?
Home is where I hang my helmet. People often ask me "Where are you from?" or "Where is your Home?". My answer depends on who asks the question and where. Because I'm from many places, and many places are my Home. At work, most people ask "Why do you live 63 miles away from work?" Now that answer is very concrete.
So then, what is Home? It depends. And it is this question, as well as the answers, that intrigue me. I like to learn what makes a 'Home' to other people.
I knew a man that lived in Ohio. He grew up there, married there, lived there and I'm sure he will die there. Despite that he was well connected to the rest of the world via the Internet, radio and television, he simply did not like to venture from his home town. In essence, the world revolved around him and his Home.
I know several people who, like me, are vagabonds, nomads, adventurers, travelers, what ever name you want to call us. Many places can be 'Home'. While traveling I may often stop and immerse myself in a locality and feel 'at home'. Often, I may genuinely feel as though "I could live here!." And I may hang my helmet up for a few days, weeks, months, years to make the place my Home. Or, perhaps, the place makes me 'Home'.
I believe some places become part of us, we become a part of places. They take on a deep meaning; sometimes we may not even be aware of it. All we know is, we are Home. It may be a nesting place, a stopping place, resting place, crying place, losing place (where you can submit and lose yourself to a place), happy place, a moving place, sometimes a sad place. There may be times when our Home is not where we live. There are many layers to what we call 'Home'.
I invite you to ask yourself what Home is, what your Home is, and what you might like your Home to be. Ask yourself what you feel -your senses, those feelings that you might not even be aware of everyday, and contingencies- and what you think -awareness, intentionality, goals, hopes, etc.
What is Home?
So then, what is Home? It depends. And it is this question, as well as the answers, that intrigue me. I like to learn what makes a 'Home' to other people.
I knew a man that lived in Ohio. He grew up there, married there, lived there and I'm sure he will die there. Despite that he was well connected to the rest of the world via the Internet, radio and television, he simply did not like to venture from his home town. In essence, the world revolved around him and his Home.
I know several people who, like me, are vagabonds, nomads, adventurers, travelers, what ever name you want to call us. Many places can be 'Home'. While traveling I may often stop and immerse myself in a locality and feel 'at home'. Often, I may genuinely feel as though "I could live here!." And I may hang my helmet up for a few days, weeks, months, years to make the place my Home. Or, perhaps, the place makes me 'Home'.
I believe some places become part of us, we become a part of places. They take on a deep meaning; sometimes we may not even be aware of it. All we know is, we are Home. It may be a nesting place, a stopping place, resting place, crying place, losing place (where you can submit and lose yourself to a place), happy place, a moving place, sometimes a sad place. There may be times when our Home is not where we live. There are many layers to what we call 'Home'.
I invite you to ask yourself what Home is, what your Home is, and what you might like your Home to be. Ask yourself what you feel -your senses, those feelings that you might not even be aware of everyday, and contingencies- and what you think -awareness, intentionality, goals, hopes, etc.
What is Home?
Labels: musings
8.25.2009,7:36 AM
Elemental Power
We as creatures on this planet occupy a place between the solid ground and the vast space above it. The surface of the plant has a somewhat 'grounded' nature (to use a vernacular in the literal sense): temporally, changes occur slowly, often so slow we are not aware of them. Relative to our biological and social timeline, the ground and earth seem to stay still, unmoving. We even perceive diurnal changes -night and day- as rotating around us. We are the centers of our world. Or so it often seems.
On the other hand, aerial space -weather, temperature, moisture, etc- changes constantly. One of the most obvious manifestations of change in that vast space in which we inhabit as upright creatures: storms. Perhaps because Texas is so big, so are our storms. (tongue in cheek with a spit of sarcasm)
After spending the weekend in town working on bikes at a friend's place, I rode home to find a reminder of power that emanates from natural elements above us. At the confluence of my gravel driveway and private road was a mess. The tall beloved cottonwood that towered over the pond and provided shade and screening from the road (on the right in the photo above) was split from top to bottom.
Part of the splintered half remained connected to the tree by strands of wood half-way up. Another large portion had crashed to the ground on the driveway and road. I stopped the bike and stared at it. It was like finding a fallen comrade and I felt remorse. Simultaneously, I also knew I would have to clean up the debris as soon as possible.
After changing clothes I walked from the house to the tree and found 6-24 inch splinters of wood scattered several hundred feet away from the tree. A small group of similar pieces were piled next to the barbed wire fence which separates the neighbor's cow pasture from my property and road; again, several hundred feet away.
The tree had exploded.
Retrieving a pruning saw, I began sawing limbs and clearing brush. My neighbor pulled up in his truck and related that a bolt of light and a deafening clap hit nearby shortly before 6am Friday morning. That would have been about 10 minutes or so after I rolled along the driveway on my motorcycle to head into town. He said if I had been riding past there when it hit, I "would have been toast."
He returned with his Bobcat, pulled down the hanging tree top and pushed the debris into my dry pond within 15 minutes. I'll burn the pile during a fall rain.I'll miss that tree. The pair of Great Horned owls and many a hawk have rested on its branches, silhouetted against a sunset or sunrise. Its twirling leaves were like music in a breeze and its image dominated reflections in the pond water.
Yup, I'll miss it. Like an old friend. That space has now changed; a friend missing from its place.
Labels: musings
8.14.2009,9:38 PM
Nomadology
Over the past several weeks, when I have the luxury of letting my mind wander, I've pondered a topic that has rotated around me for many years. More appropriately, it is a part of me. Place. I think all my life I've been a nomad, in the loose definition. Not lost, but a nomad.
Lost implies that a person eventually finds, or has somewhere, a place to always return to. There's an anchor somewhere that grounds that person. Like roots of a tree in the ground; a deep connection from which forms an envelope of culture, society, values and philosophy, like the canopy of the tree. It provides shade, shelter and a sense of belonging.
But what about a rhizome? An underground stem that travels and moves every which way, sprouting up here and there, with many of the same culture and values, but more in a general sense. A geophilosophical sense. There is still a sense of belonging, but belonging to a wide expansive place. It moves. It's a nomad.
Yet, all my years in moving about -physically and academically- my nomadic tendencies have been scrutinized by sedentary people and their value judgments. While I feel as though I belong almost everywhere, even for only a brief period of time, I am expected to be from some where, and be some thing. A sedentary outlook frowns upon pluralism. I can't be from two or three places, nor can I be an authority in more than one field of science. I am expected to be a tree that never goes anywhere.
Yet I am a rhizome that moves everywhere. It is the way I think. And am. Nor do I make any apologies for that.
While working on an article on sense of place, I've learned many things about how people see their environments, how they see other people, and how they see themselves. I always knew how I see things. But had difficulties understanding how people saw things differently. I think I do now. At least, some people. And now I don't feel like I don't 'belong'. I'm just passing through. And that is what I like to do.
I hope to explore this and related concepts in the future. Feel free to chime in and offer your outlooks, or in-looks. 'Till then, I continue to work on my bike and steal precious few moments to ride once in awhile.
Lost implies that a person eventually finds, or has somewhere, a place to always return to. There's an anchor somewhere that grounds that person. Like roots of a tree in the ground; a deep connection from which forms an envelope of culture, society, values and philosophy, like the canopy of the tree. It provides shade, shelter and a sense of belonging.
But what about a rhizome? An underground stem that travels and moves every which way, sprouting up here and there, with many of the same culture and values, but more in a general sense. A geophilosophical sense. There is still a sense of belonging, but belonging to a wide expansive place. It moves. It's a nomad.
Yet, all my years in moving about -physically and academically- my nomadic tendencies have been scrutinized by sedentary people and their value judgments. While I feel as though I belong almost everywhere, even for only a brief period of time, I am expected to be from some where, and be some thing. A sedentary outlook frowns upon pluralism. I can't be from two or three places, nor can I be an authority in more than one field of science. I am expected to be a tree that never goes anywhere.
Yet I am a rhizome that moves everywhere. It is the way I think. And am. Nor do I make any apologies for that.
While working on an article on sense of place, I've learned many things about how people see their environments, how they see other people, and how they see themselves. I always knew how I see things. But had difficulties understanding how people saw things differently. I think I do now. At least, some people. And now I don't feel like I don't 'belong'. I'm just passing through. And that is what I like to do.
I hope to explore this and related concepts in the future. Feel free to chime in and offer your outlooks, or in-looks. 'Till then, I continue to work on my bike and steal precious few moments to ride once in awhile.
Labels: musings
8.05.2009,12:00 PM
Education of a DR
The new baby is home. Well, more appropriately, 'secured' (it will remain in a friend's garage during modification progress). We drove deep into Texas Hill Country to pick up the next project: Suzuki DR 350SE. It is the street version of the full-on DR350 dirt bike. How does it compare to the Kawasaki KL250 Super Sherpa (aka 'Sherpie')? Other than an increase of 100cc engine displacement, the DR 350 has increased suspension travel. This was a major motivation in upgrading from the Sherpa. This particular bike has several aftermarket modifications of the stock model:
1) an aftermarket Clarke gas tank to increase fuel capacity,
2) pumper carburetor with adjustable jet screw (can change jetting on the 'fly'; great for high altitudes),
3) Supertrapp IDSE exhaust pipe, adjustable for noise level (I intend to tone it down a bit), and
4) RaceTech fork cartridge emulators with LR Progressive springs.
These are modifications I would have had to do (except for exhaust) on a stock bike; now all I have to do is fine tune them for me. I will, of course, have to add a few other modifications:
1) shorten the seat height so that at least the ball of one foot touches the ground. To accomplish this, the seat will be modified first by shaving it down, then lower the suspension (as little as possible) with longer dog bone links.
2) replace the front fender with a more sleek and aerodynamic one.
3) evaluate the front and rear turn signals. In place are very small LED lights. Not sure if these will suffice despite the advantage of small profile signals.
4) install fold-down mirrors.
5) reupholster the seat with another cover (one on the way).
6) replace the stock rear rack with one from TurboCity: wider and more carrying capacity.
7) explore sidebag options and fabricate a light but strong support to protect against the exhaust.
8) determine what kind of character it has.
That is about it for now. Stay tuned for progress!
Labels: bikes
7.25.2009,1:27 PM
Squeezed
I rode the bike home last night just before dusk. The heat of the day was giving way to cooler air. A blanket of cool humid air mixed with radiating heat and blanketed the landscape with suspended moisture. The layer of heavy air almost veiled the horizon between the rolling prairies, trees, buildings and sky. It was as if the air couldn't decide whether to be fog or clear and at times I felt like I was riding in a Van Gough or Monet painting.
Riding my favorite back-road home, I could feel all the subtle changes in temperature as I rode under tree canopies, over creeks and up on to the rolling prairies. The pungent odors tantalized all the olfactory connections in my brain and I found myself tilting my head and flaring nostrils to capture them all. Shadows, colors and textures teased my image centers and it all made me feel alive. A grin sneaked across my face and I swelled inside, big and tall.
The entire ride between the busy hot interstate highway and pulling up to my house was a pleasure I haven't experienced in a long time. I rode just for riding, to let my senses take me and feel the road under me while gliding over the rough surface of gravel and tarmac. The realization hit me like an anvil that it has been a long time since rejoicing in a ride like this. I felt alive inside and out.
I don't know where or when I lost this sense of pleasure in my rides. Only that it has been a long time, perhaps nearly a year. Why? I can't offer a concrete answer to that. Perhaps because of the many convoluted events and changes in my life over the past year or so, and preparing for more. Maybe because I rarely go for a ride for myself anymore. The voices have been quiet except those that scream at me to do this and this needs to be done and what next and...... I feel squeezed.
Perhaps this is also why I don't write much anymore. I have little time to write, to let my mind wander and succumb to the joys of riding. Of life. Time seems to be running forward in such haste and dragging me with it like getting a boot caught in a stirrup and out of the saddle on a crazy wild horse. There has been little peace.
I need to find that again. And enjoy life again.
Riding my favorite back-road home, I could feel all the subtle changes in temperature as I rode under tree canopies, over creeks and up on to the rolling prairies. The pungent odors tantalized all the olfactory connections in my brain and I found myself tilting my head and flaring nostrils to capture them all. Shadows, colors and textures teased my image centers and it all made me feel alive. A grin sneaked across my face and I swelled inside, big and tall.
The entire ride between the busy hot interstate highway and pulling up to my house was a pleasure I haven't experienced in a long time. I rode just for riding, to let my senses take me and feel the road under me while gliding over the rough surface of gravel and tarmac. The realization hit me like an anvil that it has been a long time since rejoicing in a ride like this. I felt alive inside and out.
I don't know where or when I lost this sense of pleasure in my rides. Only that it has been a long time, perhaps nearly a year. Why? I can't offer a concrete answer to that. Perhaps because of the many convoluted events and changes in my life over the past year or so, and preparing for more. Maybe because I rarely go for a ride for myself anymore. The voices have been quiet except those that scream at me to do this and this needs to be done and what next and...... I feel squeezed.
Perhaps this is also why I don't write much anymore. I have little time to write, to let my mind wander and succumb to the joys of riding. Of life. Time seems to be running forward in such haste and dragging me with it like getting a boot caught in a stirrup and out of the saddle on a crazy wild horse. There has been little peace.
I need to find that again. And enjoy life again.
Labels: musings