Rolling to the Mississippi

This is my first post about why I'm riding, and here's where to donate to Water Life Hope.  We're nearing the end of the ride -- grab your opportunity to donate.  It's a decision you won't regret.

I took this one for my Serbian pals.  Might look familiar.

May 5: Sullivan to Park Hills, 26 miles by bike and 25 miles by bus

From Sullivan we took off across the tail end of the Ozark Mountains.  It's a very different feel.  Route 66 parallels major roads on most of its length, and the traffic that wanted to go faster went there: 1-40, 1-44, whatever.  Impatient people were accommodated elsewhere.  There aren't freeways going across the Ozarks.  Everybody's on the same roads.

We left Sullivan on a Sunday morning.  The earliest service at the local Episcopal church was at 10AM, so we decided to skip.  Bad choice.  Turns out that off-road vehicles are a big thing in the area.  The roads were swarming with bearded men in trucks with flat-bed trailers carrying jeeps with enormous tires.  They seemed to have a sense of urgency, and they had clearly chosen this activity over church of any kind.  The sight-distances were short -- hilly, windy roads.  So it was a bit more nerve-wracking than we had in mind.

Carol and I stopped at a store to breathe, eat and generally chill.  We chatted with a few locals who told us they didn't ride the road we were on any longer.  Too dangerous.  Then Steve showed up with the bus.  It was pretty easy to decide to put the bikes up, with encouragement from our new friends in the parking lot.

We already had reservations at a nearby state park so we headed there.  Perfect.  It was quiet and green and peaceful.  We decided to try again the next day.

May 6:  Leadington to Marquand, 43 miles

Trying again was definitely the right idea.  We drove out of the state park to the nearest place on the route and set out.  We were closer to the Mississippi, and the hills were less steep and less often.  A limited-access state highway was close by, accommodating most of the traffic.  And, for about the first time since we got to Missouri, the sun was shining.  What a ride.

These guys are everywhere.

Bucolic was definitely the word of the day.  We're definitely out of cowboy country but cows and horses are everywhere.  Green hills roll to the horizon roughly divided by fringes of trees.  Canola, or rapeseed, spreads across fields and looks remarkably like Serbia in the spring.

Steve met us where we were going to leave the route for a campground and we set out to try to follow the directions we'd gotten from a campground owner.  There were supposed to be two campgrounds across the road from the other, one of them closed.   When we entered the campground we knew it was a bit depopulated.  And we tried to knock on a door that we thought was the office to no avail.  The bathrooms were open, though, and the showers were hot.  We honestly thought we were in the right spot.  By morning, though, when no one had come knocking we figured something was wrong.  We put the money we expected to pay in the honor box.  On the way out we found the sign for the campground we thought we'd been visiting straight ahead of us.  Oh well.

May 7: Marquand to Cape Girardeau, 48 miles.

The road out of Marquand was lovely.  Hilly, but nice.  Steve rode with us for the first few miles, and then returned to the bus.  We'd looked over the map and decided we'd all meet at a place called Burfordville.   Good pick.

Missouri State Road OO (say "Double O") made a tricky turn on the way to Burfordville, so I stayed on watch for Steve while Carol explored the possibilities.  She came back to report that there was an old mill and covered bridge, both restored, not far away.  It was a great recommendation.  The mill was an official Missouri historical site, and as such had a full-time guide.  She was a cheerful, energetic young woman who had made a career of taking care of small museums.  She'd started in Mississippi, then Arkansas and finally Missouri.  She'd arrived single, and met and married a man from Illinois.  I looked around at the fields and sparsely spaced houses and thought she was extraordinarily optimistic and self-sufficient to have come here alone.  Absolutely admirable.

We rolled on over more hills, and it slowly dawned on us that the idea of something like the Mississippi delta was far south of here.  These are the hills that Huck Finn roamed.  And at the moment there's a lot of water running around the edges.  The river is at a high crest, just below Cape Girardeau's flood gates.  We arrived to find our Warm Showers host Judy with a warm welcome.