November 15, 1982
Well, I’m home, but I’ve much to write about the past three days and also a lot to start recounting.
The night of the 11th was windy and rainy. As soon as the temperatures began to cool a little in the evening, the rain began to fall. Indeed, I was lucky to be sleeping in the small pavilion for the winds would likely have whipped rain into my tent.
Next morning, the skies were clearing but the wind was still sweeping out of the northwest — the same direction I was headed.
All day, I battled a 30- to 40-mile per hour wind and only covered 45 miles to Waldron before stopping. That day was one of the roughest physically of the entire trip. Arkansas highways are not know for their general excellence, and I traveled many miles without shoulder.
On the 13th, I hit the road at 7:30 a.m. hoping to make up for the lost time and still arrive at Devil’s Den State Park on schedule to see friends. By midday, I was looking good. I hit Fort Smith about 11:30 a.m., stopped for lunch, changed a flat, and cruised on through to Van Buren where I bought some groceries for the evening.
I was ahead of schedule and figured I would make Devil’s Den quite well ahead of darkness. My plan was to ride up Arkansas 59 and across Arkansas 220 and then take my time covering a 6- to 8-mile stretch of dirt road going in the back way to the Den.
Everything went swimmingly until I hit dirt. Alas, I assumed that the more traveled path would get me there. To the point, I ended up with another flat before darkness. Changed that and spent another three hours wandering in the darkness.
That was quite frustrating. That was as lost as I had been on the whole trip, and it was in my own backyard! I questioned whether I had any control over this entire trip. I swore a lot. For the first time, I wanted to kick my bike. I didn’t. I knew I was being irrational.
I finally stopped at a farmhouse and asked directions. The owner gave me easy, simple directions back up the way I had come. I had missed an intersection, walked the bicycle right past it in the pitch darkness. Soon, I was on the pavement and headed down into the park.
[I found Tyler and Stephen’s vehicles parked in the campground but no tents. I figured they must have hiked up the valley to a walk-in campground. I vaguely knew my way and walked into the firelight of their campground like Indiana Jones coming out of a cave. They were surprised that I had found them, and I was surprised to have escaped the darkness.]
Joy at the entrance of Devil's Den Cave at the state park of the same name. |
I cannot express the joy and excitement at seeing those familiar faces — Tyler, Paul, Stephen and Joy! We sat around a roaring campfire and talked and talked. They filled me in on all the journalism and university goings-on, and I told them all my tales.
Temperatures were much cooler but I stayed warm. Joy and I ended up falling asleep together. I don’t think I’ve slept that well since Susan left. I enjoyed the evening muchly.
And yesterday, after a great breakfast and relaxation, I wheeled off toward Fayetteville. Many years have passed since the last time I passed along the beautiful fields and valleys along the back way.
I do remember the first time I rode Arkansas 265. Explorer Post 105 had a bicycle ride to Devil’s Den. Five of us started. We had a sharp strong wind against us all day, and a lot of the “highway” was still gravel between Hogeye and Strickler. We had to pedal hard to go downhill! Susan and Jimmy ended up catching the Post bus, which Buck was driving. I hurt that day.
Today, the wind was once again against me, but I would not tire, for the ride would be relatively short. I began to reflect on the past two and a half months. How far had I come? Where had I been?
Soon I rode through Strickler and Hogeye. I passed Jann’s old house and recalled some good memories. I miss her. Soon I saw Fayetteville. The downtown buildings rose up against the gray forest of Mount Sequoyah.
Here was home.
Home was a place that I knew better than myself. And perhaps it was fitting, but here too was the first bike route I had been on since leaving the West Coast.
And here too the first mechanical breakdown came. Apparently the ratchet on my freewheel had come loose. Regardless of the illness, the side effect was that I couldn’t pedal. So my triumphant re-entry into Fayetteville was made on foot, pushing my bicycle.
And so the journey which began in the humbleness of fear ended in another humbleness.
Wipe the window clean for I’m beginning a new adventure, a new journey, a new way of life.
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My touring continues with a long weekend ride in the spring of 1983.
