bicycling across Louisiana

The Natchez-Vidalia Bridge across the Mississippi River.

What was it with all of the dead Armadillos? This was the weighty question I found myself pondering as I bicycled down Louisiana Highway 71 south toward Alexandria.

Bicyclists develop a thick-skinned attitude toward road kill. The shoulder we ride on contains the flotsam and jetsam of two worlds, the highway and the land next to it. Broken car parts, discarded (often smoldering) cigarette butts, empty beer cans, fast-food trash, and dead animals come with the territory. Maintaining a sense of humor is important.

To keep myself amused, I would sometimes make up tombstone epitaphs for the animals. Here lies Spot, who was finally cured of chasing cars. Or how about this: Old Tom had been warned time and again about not chasing girl kitties on the other side of the road.

Those of you who have been hanging around my blog for a while know I like to develop weird cards. This is my vision of Old Tom’s tombstone.

A couple of friends of mine who operated the Lung Association Trek Program in Sacramento after I went off to Alaska, developed a different approach to roadside debris: a scavenger hunt. I’ve blogged about this before. On the last day of the Trek, participants would be given a list of different items they were supposed to collect— things like an empty pack of Camels, a Budweiser beer can, a McDs’ cup, plastic from a broken brake light, a sail cat, etc.

“A sail cat? What’s that?” you ask.

A sail cat, simply put, is a cat who has met its demise at the wrong end of a logging truck. Think of it as a pancake with legs. After a week or two of curing in the hot summer sun, you can pick it up and sail it like a Frisbee. Even your dog can join in the fun. It gives a whole new meaning to chasing cats. Of course, Fido may prefer to roll on it. Lucky you.

A particular scavenger hunt was described to me. One couple had actually found a sail cat and brought it into camp. Naturally they won, as they should have. But the story goes on. After dropping the unfortunate cat into a dumpster, the couple packed up and headed home. When they arrived and opened their trunk, there was kitty. Scary, huh. Turns out another couple had slipped the cat into the trunk. With friends like that, eh, who needs enemies. That should end the story, except it doesn’t. Both husbands worked for the State of California. A couple of days later the perpetrator of the prank received a large interoffice mail packet at work. He opened it. Out slid kitty. The end.

One person’s road kill is another person’s feast, right? Somewhere I have a newspaper picture of my brother Marshall chowing down on an armadillo when he was in Florida. I checked the Internet and there are a number of recipes, so I assume it is edible. Marsh said it was. And I saw a lot of happy buzzards along Highway 71.

I had never encountered as much roadkill as I did following this attractive highway into Alexandria on my bicycle in 1989.

None of this explains the sheer number of dead armadillos, however. After six or seven I began to lose my sense of humor. Were they migrating across the road in large numbers at night? Had the people whose job it was to remove roadkill gone on strike. I never did figure it out, but I am happy to report when Peggy and I drove the same road to Alexandria a couple of months ago, we didn’t see one dead armadillo.

I really hadn’t planned on going to Alexandria, in fact the jaunt added a hundred miles to my journey. Motels and bike repairs had reduced my cash to around $50, however, and this was still a time when ATMs didn’t grow on every corner. Alexandria was the nearest city that accepted my particular brand of plastic. The town, I quickly learned, was not bike friendly, at least at the time. Few cities were. And I had the misfortune of arriving at the height of rush hour and then immediately getting lost. My already low sense of humor dropped another notch.

Several map checks persuaded me that a narrow bridge making a steep climb up and over a small bayou provided a way out. A long line of commuters was struggling to get through the bottleneck, and, judging from the honking, not happy about the delay. Adding to my woes, there wasn’t enough room for two cars and me to co-exist side by side on the bridge. Steeling myself, I forced my way into the insanity and became leader of the pack, adding several more minutes to an already long day for the homeward bound. I swear there must have been 10,000 cars behind me. At least it felt that way. It was one hell of a parade. All I needed was a baton.

I have to hand it to the good folks of Alexandria, however. Not one of them honked at me. Several waved when I pulled off the road on the other side. A couple of young women even rolled down their window and whistled. Up went my sense of humor.

I found a motel that fit my budget that night and the ATM the next morning. Heading out of town I became lost again, of course, this time on an expressway where drivers were competing with each other to see how fast they could drive beyond the speed limit. My thoughts turned to the armadillos and their unfortunate end. The first exit found me departing the road at a speed that would have impressed Mario Andreotti.

A not very pretty picture of the expressway I ended up on and Highway 28 where I was supposed to be.

I pulled into the driveway of a mortuary to check my map again. Much to my surprise, the double doors opened and out popped the mortician, who made a beeline for me. My mind leapt back in time to an early Clint Eastwood Spaghetti Western where the mortician measured strangers who rode into town to see what size casket he should build. While laughing to myself, I still checked the mortician’s hands to see if he was carrying a tape measure. Turns out the mortician was a minister and the mortuary was a church. He invited me in for coffee, a morning snack and directions. As I left, he handed me his card. “If you have any problems between here and Mississippi,” he told me, “call and I’ll come out and give you a lift.”

Soon I was heading out of town on Highway 28 to rejoin Louisiana 84, my original route across the state. From there, I biked on to the mighty Mississippi River. The route from Alexandria proved to be quite varied. I biked past dark swamps, lakes, shacks, mansions and cotton fields that were once worked by slaves. Finally, I arrived at Vidalia and the imposing Vidalia-Natchez Bridge that would take me across the Mississippi and out of Louisiana. The historic town of Natchez and the Natchez Trace were waiting.

Intriguing swamps lined the highway. I spent a lot of time glancing down into them looking for snakes.

Intriguing swamps lined the highway. I spent a lot of time looking down for swamp life.

I should have spent more time looking up. These egrets reminded me of a Japanese print.

This was an interesting little store that Peggy and I found along the road. It sent me scurrying to the Internet to find out if there was anything on Root Hog or Die. I thought maybe the owner was an Arkansas Razorback fan. Turns out the phrase dates back to the early 1800s when hogs were turned loose in the woods to survive on their own. It came to mean self-reliance.

This lake was worth a photo. It made me wish that Peggy and I had brought our kayaks along.

The Frogmore Cotton Plantation near Vidalia provides an interesting overview what it would have been like to have been a slave working on a Southern Plantation. Peggy models the bag that picked cotton was put in out in the fields.

The Frogmore Cotton Plantation near Vidalia provides an interesting overview on what it would have been like to have been a slave working on a Southern Plantation. Peggy models a bag where the picked cotton would have been placed.

This mocking-bird wondered how bicycling compared to flying. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

A side view of the Visalia-Natchez Bridge across the Mississippi River with a barge passing under it.

A side view of the Vidalia-Natchez Bridge across the Mississippi River with a barge passing under it.

An interesting perspective of the bridge. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Natchez-Vidalia Bridge across the Mississippi River at night.

The bridge at night.

On our way into Natchez, Mississippi and the beginning of the Natchez Trace, which will be the subject of my next blog. The wide shoulder is appreciated; not so much the long drop into the Mississippi River.

Joe Roughneck, the symbol of the oil industry. My father worked as a roughneck in the Oklahoma oil boom of the late 20s until he decided he would prefer to paint scenery for plays.

Hooch: Slang for moonshine or bootleg alcohol. —The Urban Dictionary

I biked out of Greenville, ever so glad to be on my way. One week of dealing with a wheel and weather was enough. A mile and a half later my back tire went flat. This wasn’t a normal flat that I could fix with my eyes closed. My strong new spokes were digging into the tube. Something really didn’t want me to leave Texas. I walked my bike back into Greenville and checked in with a small bike shop, resigned to deal with whatever fate the bike gods had in store for me. Not much, it turned out. The shop quickly fixed the problem with a thicker rim tape and I was on my way.

I hightailed it down Texas Highway 69, making up for lost time. Small towns flew by. Lone Oak, Emory, and Mineola provided sustenance to keep my legs pumping. My journal reports I stopped for coffee and pie, a hamburger and an ice cream cone.

A couple of buildings as they look today in Lone Oak. I am a fan of communities that decide to renovate their historic buildings.

A car and RV wash in Mineola. They didn't do bikes.

A car and RV wash in Mineola. They did “bikes” but not bicycles.

Everything was green, an amazing contrast to the dry desert country I had been bicycling through since California. And, this is big news— there were pine trees! I hadn’t seen one since Lincoln County in New Mexico. It made me feel at home, almost.

Green, green grass and pine trees in the rolling hills as East Texas.

Green, green grass and pine trees in the rolling hills of East Texas.

Happy cows for me to moo at.

One of the things about Mineola that caught my attention was that the Texas Governor, Jim Hogg, had lived in the town. His daughter was born there and he named her Ima, as in Ima Hogg. To the degree karma works, I’ve always imagined the Governor being reborn as a pig with a pork chop factory in his future. Ima never married (I would have done it for the name change alone), reportedly was close to her father, and went on to be an important figure in Texas Society. Maybe she was like Sue in the Johnny Cash song, A Boy Named Sue; the name made her tough.

Willie Brown, the flamboyant California politician, was born here as well. He was serving as Speaker of the California Assembly while I was cycling across the country. Brown was incredibly effective at passing and suppressing legislation. Voting Willie’s way brought substantial rewards. Voting against him brought swift punishment. Like him or not, he made government work. Washington could learn a thing or two.

I had run into Brown’s ability to kill bills a couple of years earlier when I was working with a group to increase tobacco taxes in California and devote a significant portion of the revenues to prevention programs. Almost every state in the country had increased tobacco taxes since California had last raised its tax in the 70s. The tobacco industry paid big bucks to California legislators to keep it that way. The bill was assigned to a committee guaranteed to kill it. We couldn’t even get a second. Fortunately, we had been prepared for this likelihood and had quietly planned to run an initiative campaign if the legislative effort failed. I called a press conference immediately after the vote and we announced our initiative. The committee’s no-vote gave us a great kickoff. The press conference received major media attention throughout California. Thanks Willie.

I rode another 15 miles from Mineola to Interstate 20 where darkening clouds led me to call it a day. It had been a good day of bicycling, the first since my spoke had broken outside of Decatur.

The next morning, I was up early and heading into Tyler. The road had a wide shoulder, which is always appreciated by bicyclists. I could relax a bit and not worry so much about being flattened by a car or semi. Most drivers are cautious and courteous when around bicyclists, but there are exceptions. I always rode as far to the right as was safe and kept a wary eye out for developing situations. Several times on my trip, I was forced to bail out, riding my bike off the road into the dirt and weeds, or even a ditch. Somehow, I always avoided crashing.

In Tyler, I was almost taken out, however. The city was more urban than most I traveled through on my trip and hillier than I had become used to in Texas. I was riding along, minding my own business when a woman turned right across my route, missing my front tire by inches— and then only because I had slammed on my brakes! She must have been half blind since I was wearing bright clothes. Either that or she was high on something. She didn’t seem to hear very well either. When I suggested, loudly, that she be more careful, she ignored me and drove off. I sent a bird flying after her. Bad Curt.

There was nothing to do but stop at a DQ and quiet my nerves by downing a hamburger and a milkshake. The owner came out and sat down to chat. I told him about my encounter. He was quite empathetic. His brother owned a bike shop. Afterwards I was feeling a little punky. It may have had something to do with how fast I had sucked down the milkshake. Anyway, I made it a short day, stopping in Henderson.

A Tyler, Texas DQ.

The area around Henderson had been part of one of the largest oil booms in Texas history. In 1930, “Dad” Joiner, a 70-year-old oilman out of Tennessee and Oklahoma, had refused to give up on his belief that there was oil in the area, almost bankrupting himself in his search. Finally, at 8:00 pm on October 3, one of the wells he had drilled on Daisy Bradford’s farm eight miles west of Henderson gushed out oil and a ‘black gold’ rush was under way. I’m pretty sure that Daisy did a dance of joy. Henderson grew from a sleepy town of 2,000 to a booming 10,000, the roads became clogged with fortune seekers, and oil derricks sprang up in the surrounding region thicker than fleas on a hound, as the good ol’ boys down South like to say. To date, over five billion barrels of oil have been taken from the East Texas Oil Field.

A rest area near Henderson appropriately featured oil derrick decorations as covers of the picnic tables. This is also where Peggy and I found the Joe Roughneck statue.

The next day found me traveling through piney woods that contained almost as many Baptist Churches as there were people. Or at least it seemed like it. I’d definitely made it to the Bible Belt. Following a round about way, I hit one road that was so remote it had me thinking Deliverance. Finally, I picked up Route 84, crossed the Sabine River, and entered Logansport, Louisiana. It was May 7^th. I’d been in Texas for 18 days, or was that 1800?

Road construction, dust, and impatient drivers hurried me through Logansport. I stopped at a small bayou outside of town to catch my breath and spotted a water moccasin/cotton mouth slithering through the murky water. He was one big ugly dude, a pit viper with a serious attitude problem. I didn’t hang around. A few miles later, I started looking for a place to camp. It was approaching dark. I spotted an old, overgrown road that made its way into a pine forest where I could hide out. I set up my tent, climbed in, and zipped it up tight. That night I dreamed of gigantic snakes chasing me down the highway, mouths wide open, fangs dripping with poison. Two or three times I woke up to creatures stirring around in the forest outside my tent.

A Louisiana bayou: half river and half swamp. All jungle. Picture a large water moccasin slithering across its smooth surface. The photo reminds Peggy and me of our boat trip up the Amazon.

I found an overgrown road leading into a pine forest for my campsite. It provided cover from the road, but were there any snakes?

I was glad to be up and on my way the next morning, continuing to follow Highway 84. No monstrous serpents were hounding me but I still made good time. I stopped in Mansfield for breakfast and headed on. Large logging trucks carrying long, toothpick size logs kept me company, zipping by at speeds guaranteed to give me grey hair. Intense poverty was reflected in barely standing small houses. Dark, jungle-like growth edged the highway. I was sure it was crawling with snakes. A young man yelled at me to get off the road. His white-haired granny was too nervous to pass me on the narrow highway.

I crossed the Red River into Coushatta and worked my way south. Threatening clouds filled the sky and decided to let loose between the small towns of Campi and Clarence. And boy did they let loose. Soaked to the bone, I began thinking about a warm, dry, snake-free motel room. I found one outside of Clarence.

Coushatta, like its Texas cousins featured its his school and sports heroes.

Coushatta, like its Texas cousins, featured its high school and sports heroes dating all the way back to 1938. Since we took this photo in April it appears they haven’t had any champion teams for a long time. Either that or their sign is in desperate need of updating. Given that it still had a Seasons Greeting sign on it, I am thinking the latter.

Dark clouds over Clarence.

After unpacking and putting on a set of dry clothes, I went outside to sit under the porch overhang, read a book, and sip on a beer. A large, black woman came over and plopped down in the chair next to mine. She had watched me bicycle in.

“What you all doing, Honey?” she asked. I explained I was in the middle of a 10,000-mile bike trip. “No way! You are one crazy man!” she exclaimed. “Say,” she went on, “I have some hooch over in my room. Why don’t you come over and try some?” I’d been propositioned before, but never with hooch. “Tempting,” I’d replied laughing, but then claimed a non-existent wife who didn’t want me “drinking hooch” on the trip. Instead I offered her a beer which she readily accepted. She was a funny woman and we had a delightful conversation. As she left she told me again, “If you change your mind about the hooch, Honey, just come over and knock on my door. Anytime tonight.”

NEXT BLOG: I bike a hundred miles out of my way to find an ATM in Alexandria, Louisiana and then head on to the mighty Mississippi River.