About an hour ago I got home from a little jaunt I had taken by bicycle. Here's what it inspired me to write:

Expedition


Today I had a pretty normal Sunday--first church, then lunch, then some relaxation and reading. Sometimes the relaxation turns into an afternoon nap. Today, though, I felt alert and energetic. So I decided to go for a bicycle ride. I took my trusty county map, told Honey (who is a bit under the weather today) what I was doing, and got out my little mountain bike.

When we moved here two and a half years ago, I got one of those detailed county maps, the kind with all the highways and secondary roads and logging trails, that shows all the main streams and bridges, and has a sprinkling of crosses marking churches and cemeteries and dots for rural houses. I had made up my mind that I would explore as many of the back roads and byways as possible by bicycle. You see more that way than when you drive. There have been long stretches where I did not do much riding for one reason or another. So even now there are spots on the map within a couple hours’ ride that I have yet to see. Today I planned to explore some new territory.

The day was hot and very humid—typical Arkansas summer weather. I grew up working and playing outdoors in this kind of climate, and so it is no great hardship for me. The blue skies were thickly patched with clouds. These are just the kind I like, pretty, peaceful, and offering occasional welcome cloud-shade.

The country is typical Arkansas countryside. The ground rolls gently up and down, covered with a patchwork of pine timber, clear-cuts, and occasional houses, yards, and pastures. I passed few people outside and few vehicles. Mostly I just heard the wind humming in my ears, the whirring and crunching of my tires on pavement or gravel, and occasional bird song.

About three-quarters of an hour out I passed the farthest point of known road in that direction and into unexplored territory. At first I had rough going uphill on a road covered with very loose gravel, the kind that absorbs all your wheels’ energy without getting you far and tries to make you skid. Then the gravel became harder packed and easier to navigate.

I began to pass houses. One was of modest size, like almost all the houses in the area, but clad in an attractive brick veneer. Another had been painted all in a bright shade of blue. Its yard held a child’s spring-loaded bucking horse.

Further on came another house on the left. Across the road from it lay a weedy concrete slab of an older house or shop, with the rusting remains of a deceased bulldozer beside it. A bit beyond this I saw a wide expanse of pasture with a derelict bus mired in tall grass in the distance. No doubt it had put in a decade or more of service hauling school children, followed by a long stretch of serving as a home-built RV.

I crossed a little creek and paused on the bridge to look at the quiet stream below. The map called it West Creek. Just beyond I saw an especially lovely stretch of pasture full of feeding cattle. The green fields and patchy sky reminded me of a Constable painting.

A little further still I approached three houses clustered closely together on the right. One was a trailer, siding covered another, the third had a redwood or imitation-redwood veneer. As I approached them I caught a powerful whiff of something cinnamonish. It has to be one of the most refreshing scents I’ve encountered in my travels. I sniffed deeply again and again.

A dog came running out from the center house. He (and he was definitely a he) was a good-sized animal, all mottled black and tan in color. The dog had enough size to make me nervous. Would he just bark at me a couple of times to send me on my way? Or would he run after me and try to snap?

He did neither. Instead he raced alongside me and tried to sniff of my legs as they pumped at the pedals. Then he ran out to the side and trotted along beside me, as if providing an escort. After a while he ran out ahead. Now and then he’d pause and look back over his shoulder at me. Sometimes he would run off the side of the road into the edge of the woods after some interesting scent. Once a pickup rolled by with two dogs in back. The dog on the road gave chase, exchanging barks with the two in the truck. When it had disappeared he emerged from the cloud of road dust it had left and resumed his self-appointed escort.

After what must have been a good mile or more I approached an intersection with a paved highway. This was my planned turn-around point. It had taken me nearly an hour and a half to reach it, about what I had predicted. I turned and headed back. The dog followed.

As I passed the cluster of houses again I caught another wonderful whiff of cinnamon-like fragrance. The dog did not go home as I had expected he would. He kept right on going, sometimes dashing in front of me so close I had to brake to avoid hitting him. More and more, though, he lagged behind, as if he might be tiring.

At the West Creek bridge I stopped for another brief break. The dog caught up with me. By now convinced he was friendly, I extended my hand for him to sniff. He gave me a big dog kiss. I petted his head. Then I regretted getting so friendly. After all that running and panting his greeting left my hand feeling thoroughly slimy.

On I went. The dog had had enough. When I turned to look back at the bridge, he had disappeared. It was as though he had been an apparition. My slimy hand told me he had been real enough.

Beyond the blue and brick houses I came to a cluster of three metal buildings I had noticed earlier off the road in a grove of pines. A sign on one said “West Creek Hunting Club.” I pulled up for a short rest and look at the place. As I parked my bike a pack of hounds kept in a large pen in back began baying at me. Otherwise the place was deserted, as hunting clubs normally are in the off-season.

I looked in through the window of the main building. Inside I saw a room furnished with discarded sofas and easy chairs, and three currently disused refrigerators of widely varying ages. It looked much like other backwoods hunting clubs I’ve seen. Off to one side sat an old sixteen-foot camping trailer. I had to give that a look too. When I was a child small trailers of that sort had been common, and they had fascinated me.

I kept going, under increasingly cloudy skies. Now and then I noticed details I had missed before—assorted parked vehicles, a spot where it looked like a shade-tree mechanic had recently been at work, a propane tank in the yard beside a house. A little way outside of town I passed two young men changing a tire. One of them lay shirtless on the hot pavement, looking up under the car. I would never have tried that! Just before reaching the city limits I rolled over the discarded skeleton of a large filleted fish (of all things) lying in the middle of the road.

Back in town I swung by a grocery store and treated myself to a rare indulgence—a cold, canned soda from a fifty-cent vending machine. I pressed the cold, sweaty can to my hot, sweaty face. It felt wonderful! The drink felt great going down as well. I finished it easily in the ten blocks back to the house.

Back home, I parked my bike, went in, told Honey hello, and poured a glass of ice water. And then I sat down and wrote this, while it all remained fresh on my mind.

This expedition is over. May there be many more!

Very well done. I envy (or am jealous of) the amount of detail you're able to convey.

Sounds like a wonderful stretch of country, and very well described. I felt as if I was on the road with you.

That dog would have ended my bike trip pronto, though!

It's "envy."

Glad you enjoyed it. The country around here really isn't that scenic. But it's home, and I love it. It's good to be back after living for so many years in the city.