 THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER: 30 June – 11 July, 2001
Overview:
The trip begins with a graveyard visit, in a small Louisiana town, to pay respects to the author's grandmother and aunt. Then we follow Mississippi's Blues Highway to the legendary “Crossroads” and on to Memphis and the gates of Graceland. The author stops at river towns like Cairo, Illinois, Keokuk, Iowa and Hannibal, Missouri and celebrates figures like Mark Twain, John Hartford and Robert Johnson. Travel from Lake Itasca (and watch children splash in the knee-deep stream that eventually becomes the mighty Mississippi) to the cold, southern shore of Lake Superior, into the shadows of Lambeau Field in Green Bay and, finally, through the deep-wood back roads at Mammoth Cave, Kentucky. The river, and the country itself, are never far from the surface.
Excerpt from The Mississippi River:
July 3, 2001: Fort Knox is an imposing building! It was a short, pleasant ride from Elizabethtown, but there's nothing pleasant about this place. Surrounded by tall fences and guard towers, it looks like a maximum-security prison that could survive a nuclear war. The guards are imposing and move in a way that means business. Everything about the building discourages you from looking at it for more than a few seconds. Come to think of it, it is a prison with one inmate: gold.
Down the road is the entrance to Fort Knox proper. There is no one in the guard booth. Here I was, expecting to be questioned, and no one is home.
I drive in and slowly circle the post. The Patton Museum is closed but there are some serious tanks sitting around. I get a few looks from some soldiers setting up a podium area for the 4th but no one seems to think me out of place. As I leave a sign warning drivers to be careful on Route 31W strikes me as odd. It's described as a very dangerous road where anything could happen at anytime. Anything? Alien abduction? I have no memory of ever seeing such a warning sign before. A man I met last night warned me about this very highway. He said the rednecks will be driving drunk by mid-afternoon. I'll be long gone by then.
After taking a wrong turn and circling Brandenburg twice, I find the bridge over the Ohio River into Indiana. I can see nothing except the road, the river and the bridge. Its super structure is no where near as high as those at Cairo, but the bridge is still impressive in its isolation. The river flows serenely beneath it.
As I exit on the Indiana side I'm confronted by a car in my lane. I do a double take to see if I'm on a one-way road, and I'm not. The driver swerves at the last minute. Could this be a refugee from Route 31W? I follow the highway into the hamlet of Mauckport, where I see a dirt road that leads to the riverside. From a grove of trees I can look across the river and see everything reflected there; the bridge, the sky, the trees on the other side. A boat passes by, its small motor barely within earshot, but its wake bold enough to distort the reflection. I stand for another minute or two and head back to the highway.
Route 135 north into Indiana is a pleasant surprise. South of Salem it is a narrow, tree-lined, two-lane road with gentle hills that are an absolute blast when taken at high speeds. There are few cars to block my progress. Another biker at a gas station in Salem informs me that the best part is yet to come.
He's right. The road twists and turns through Hoosier National Forest. I seldom reach 40 mph but the road has just been resurfaced and I can concentrate solely on the curves themselves. The journey is the destination.
I'm intrigued by a place called Story. Not much more than a crossroads, it sits in the forest's gloom as if transported here from a nursery rhyme. I make a lazy U-turn in front of a corrugated-tin structure that appears to be the main building. I hear a radio inside, but somehow it sounds farther away than it should. I think the forest does things with the sound. I have one foot on the ground and I'm about to dismount when I change my mind and slowly head on. I seldom regret not stopping in a place, but I do wish I'd stopped there for awhile.
Everything changes as I head east toward Columbus. This is what I imagined all of Indiana to be; flat, dusty, busy, and uninteresting. The courthouse complex at Columbus has a nice architectural touch; in fact I've seen few new public buildings that look as good. But still, when the most memorable feature of a highway is a public building, something is missing.
I'm hoping the northward turn on Route 9 will provide better scenery, but I see nothing except storm clouds. In less than 10 minutesthe rain hits. I pull under a tree in front of a farmhouse and begin to put on my rain gear. The rain increases in force. I hear someone call and see the farmer motioning me toward the shelter of his barn. I ride in, telling him I'm very obliged. It turns out he's a biker too. I think he notices the sad condition of my rain gear but is too nice to mention it.
His two young daughters are with him and they stand a little behind him, wondering just who has been invited onto their property. One notices the eagle embroidered on my boots and that breaks the ice. Both talk of how much they enjoy riding with their father and everything becomes warm and friendly. They have to leave but not before telling me to stay in the barn as long as I need. He also says to feel free to stop by again if I'm in the area — and I really think he means it. A single family reaching out their hand like this makes up for the multitude that do not — people can be really nice.
I watch the rain from the barn door and move on when I've thoroughly convinced myself that there has been a break in the intensity. The illusion is short-lived. At Shelbyville I'm forced to pull into a gas station to wait again. The rain is as heavy as a Houston downpour. One of the station attendants and I watch a raccoon start across the road, get splashed by passing cars, and retreat backup a tree. I should be so smart.
After 45 minutes or so I've concocted another illusion and hit the road again. Within 5 miles I'm in another blinding storm. There seems to be a pattern here. I'm getting cold and I feel water seeping into my rain suit. Considerably more than $24 worth of rain has fallen. Outside of Greenfield I pull into another gas station to wait again. A man traveling south tells me that the rain extends well past Fort Wayne.
That's the way I was headed so I decide to call it a day. I find a motel after another short, wet ride. I look like a wet rat when I check in. The crotch of my rain pants has torn wide open, I strained a muscle in my right side dismounting in Shelbyville, my lower lip is swollen from an allergic reaction to God knows what, and I have the makings of a pretty fair heat rash across my back. The Weather Channel predicts more rain, and I need a rest. Looking about the room at wet clothing hanging from everything available I'm reminded that there is a period of rain-invoked misery on every ride. I'm just getting the one for this ride out of the way.
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