Black, Last High

10/16/13       

        Up at o-dark-thirty, Janet, my wife, Primate and I, climbed into a cab for a ride to catch an early shuttle bus to LAX. Bad news late last night of the cancellation of our flight from Santa Barbara and that the next available flight would be tomorrow about noon, forced a hasty revision of plans.

         Symptoms of my cold of several days seemed less severe, my disposition improved as a result, but an unnatural early morning beginning to our travel reminded me of the last minute change in our itinerary, and lodged in my mind like a splinter under a finger nail.
       
          "A bad mark for American Airlines," I'd said to the airlines rep on the phone.

          "I'll avoid them whenever possible in the future," I said to Janet after the call.

           All the while Primate swore under his breath.

           For me the airlines and TSA sucked all the fun out of air travel. Nowadays, I focus more on how to navigate the gauntlet.

           "Black Mountain, last one, here we come," I said to Primate.

           "Yea, Black Mountain, Black Mountain," he said.

           Since the moment I considered finishing my highpoints in Kentucky, some eight months ago, I maintained a low profile, somewhat out of fear and superstition, I guess, that someone would beat me to that distinction.

           Now, just several days away, I believe I may yet end up with that recognition, but I keep my fingers crossed. Nothing like the disappointment of someone cutting in line in front of me at the last possible second.

          "Rain forecast for Saturday," Janet said, reminded me again that crappy weather might not make my finish so comfortable or pleasant.

          "We'll see," I said. How bad could it get, I wondered?


10/19/13      

        An inauspicious start in the rain from Louisville, after my brother and his wife, Verlon and Theresa, cancelled on the trip, and then nephew and wife, Chris and Jodi bowed out, too. Janet, Primate and I headed east towards Lexington, on our way towards the eastern most part of Kentucky's southern border, where Virginia, Tennessee and Kentucky touch.
         
        We escaped the rain, then the overcast thinned. Scattered trees showed the beginning signs of fall, where reds and yellows dotted the forested hills.

        Closer to the highpoint, roads narrowed to two lanes. HARLAN COUNTY, the sign read.

        "Do you feel Justified?" I said to Janet.

        She chuckled, knew I referred to the TV program by that name and set in Harlan County.

        Curled, brown leaves pushed by wind, scooted across the road, like rodents on their hurried way.

        Two hundred fifty miles of steady driving got us to the curvy mountain grades leading to Black Mountain. Sunlight broke through the thinned cloud cover in random patches along the road.

        My disposition improved. "Looking good," I said to Primate.

        The last turnoff to Black Mountain looked better than I expected and rain seemed unlikely at that moment. The rental car handled the road with ease, remnants of pavement visible along the way. Fall colors, more intense in the higher elevation, and enhanced by beams of direct sunlight, encouraged us onward.

        About a mile in, at a wide, level spot, a narrower graveled road off to the left, led up and towards a cluster of towers.

        "That must be it," I said. "Let's park here."

        "Yea," Primate said.

        The three of us walked the last hundred yards to the level top shared by several buildings and towers. A plaque off to one edge commemorated the development of this spot with communications equipment.

        Under a steel tower about centered on the clearing which appeared to be the natural highpoint, I located a brass marker, somewhat hidden in tall grass.

Primate Celebrates, But At The Wrong Marker

        We took pictures, returned to the plaque some seventy feet away.

        A grouping of flat stones, creating a mound near the plaque, caught my attention.

        "Better check that outcrop of rock," I said to Primate.

        Another brass marker, centered amongst the stones, showed an elevation. I leaned in for a better look.

Black Mountain Elevation Marker

        "This is it," I said to Primate. "This is the elevation marker," I said louder to Janet. "Four thousand, one hundred thirty nine, point two four seven feet."

        We took several additional pictures.

Janet And Connard With Highpoint
Marker In Background

        The cold wind gusted.

        "Ready?" Janet said. She started towards the car.

        "Let's go," I said to Primate. We hurried along to catch up with Janet.

        "That's what most of the highpoints are like," I said to Janet. "Drive hours to a highpoint, take a few photos, then drive a bunch of hours to the next one."

        But this time, my quest completed with all fifty state highpoints achieved, and Washington D.C. thrown in for good measure, no others awaited me.

        "Now we can start our vacation," Janet said. She meant she could participate in our travel plans at this point forward. I knew she felt glad to get this Kentucky highpoint thing done.

         

        At Antietam Civil War Battlefield we watched a demonstration of cannon fire. Primate considered it a one-gun salute to our highpoint achievement.

Corey’s Calendar

7/14/13        

        Primate and I pulled away from home at 10:15AM. Scattered clouds didn’t prevent the sun from heating the interior of the car immediately.
        We conserved fuel, drove without air conditioning.
        We knew we had a long way to go, didn’t look forward to the drive, but spurred by the goal of reaching the summit of Mt. Elbert in Colorado, which we missed this last May due to avalanche conditions, we steeled ourselves.
        Traffic moved at the speed limit though moderate to heavy along I-15 to Las Vegas. Windows-down provided air circulation, but didn’t help relieve the heat.
        “How hot?” Primate wondered.
        A glance at the car’s thermometer reading, “One hundred seven degrees,” I said, somewhere near Las Vegas. “We’ll turn on the air conditioner a while.”
        Utah’s high green valleys provided a relief from the monotony of bare rock and parched scrub of southern Nevada and Arizona’s northwest corner.
        We arrived in Joseph, UT approximately 7PM, local time, to camp at Flying U Country Store.
        “Drive, drive, drive,” Primate complained.
        “Yes, today we came 600 miles. Tomorrow will be shorter, about 435 miles.”
        Our sleeping bag and bug cover laid out for the night, we hoped for good weather. Hunger sated by a can of chili, washed down with cold beer, we sat in a slight breeze and marveled over the absence of bugs.
        “Drink whiskey in Leadville?” Primate asked.
        “Yes, if Two Guns Distillery is open,” I said. “I’m looking forward to that, anyway.”
        A quick rinse in the shower washed off our sweat and cooled us.
        Except when interrupted by dog barks and the whine of truck tires on the paved highway, I imagined the green-leafed trees whispering to us, their leaves still and edged with golden light from a nearby street lamp.
        “No bugs, that’s nice,” I said.



7/15/13        

        More clouds shaded us from the sun as we entered Colorado, passed Rifle, Silt, then No Name and the highway threaded through Glenwood Canyon.
        “Pretty,” Primate said.
       “Yeah, hard to put into words.”
        We turned off I-70 towards Leadville, the two-lane road climbed through canyons and high lush valleys to Tennessee Pass at 10,424 feet, then descended into Leadville, where we arrived at noon.

        A pull on Two Guns Distillery’s door told us the place wasn’t open and the posted sign indicated the door would remain locked until 5PM.
        “Let’s wait in town for Two Guns to open. We don’t need to be at the trailhead early,” I told Primate.
        The ranger at the forest station answered several questions. “Weather forecast iffy, thunderstorms possible off and on. Rain always possible, likely today in Leadville, likely on Elbert tomorrow afternoon.”
        Would a weather window develop to allow us to summit?
        We knew we shouldn’t be on the mountain during any storms, the risk of lightening strike would be too great. But twenty percent chance tomorrow morning sounded like good odds to us.
        “How are the mosquitoes?” I asked.
        “Heavy in some places,” the ranger said, “moderate in others.” He mentioned several place names I didn’t recognize, but I didn’t care to press him for clarification.
        “We’ll go for it tomorrow if the weather looks good when we wake up, Primate.” I said.
        A search through the car trunk yielded no repellent. “Let’s see if we can buy some,” I suggested.
         We drove around town, took a walk, looked for mosquito repellent. Found a few items barely passable, but we didn’t want to risk a confrontation with a hungry mob of bloodsuckers.
         Rain started at 2:15PM, along with thunder and lightening.
         “No problem in the car here in town,” I reassured Primate. “Let it pour and hope it passes soon.”
         The rain poured off and on. I made a lunch sandwich for us.
         Near 5PM the rain slacked again. Perhaps over? The clouds threatened to dump more water. We ducked inside Two Guns.
         “A shot of Wild West Whiskey, please,” I said to the young female bartender.
         Primate whispered, "Shot of whiskey, Barkeep."
         “We don’t have any to serve today,” she said.
         Although a printed list offered numerous mixed drinks with whiskey or moonshine, I opted for a straight drink of the only other hard stuff available.
         “Then, let me have a shot of shine,” I said.
         “Good,” Primate said.
         “Yeah,” I said. Acquired taste I mused.
         We spied a cabinet display of Wild West Whiskey, so I asked, “Are you selling those bottles?”
         “No,” the bartender said. She conferred with a male colleague.
         Moments later, he said, “I can make up a bottle for you.”
         “We’ll take it home,” I told Primate.
         Threat of rain, maybe heavy, maybe thunder and lightening, I decided to try sleeping in the car.
         We took a short walk before nightfall. Along the stream nearby we met Craig, near his camp, talked about hiking Elbert.
         “I may get up early to hike it,” he said.
         “Why not start early?” I said. “I may do that, too.” The more I thought about that, the better that idea sounded.



7/16/13        

        Sleeping in the car?
        Pathetic. My first attempt, I discovered it wasn’t comfortable. Tossed, turned, felt the hard back of the rear seat I’d put down. Legs into the trunk worked well as long I lay flat on my back, but I couldn’t turn. Cramped and contorted, I remained anxious about rain.
        Awake at 2:30AM. No sign of rain.
        “May as well get dressed and go for it,” I said.
        By 4AM we pulled into the parking lot at the North Trail for Mount Elbert, joined three other vehicles. All quiet.
        With a slight overcast we started up the dark trail. Stopped at the sign of the first trail junction.
        “Which way?” I said.
        “No guess,” Primate responded.
        From the sound we knew another vehicle parked in the lot. The beam of a flashlight poked through the dark, quiet, and hazy air, moved up, down, side to side, someone searched their way up the trail.
        “Someone’s coming. Let’s wait for them. Make sure we go the right way,” I said.
        “Good morning,” I said as the stranger drew near. “Which way?” I asked.
        He seemed pretty sure of the correct direction, so I said, “Mind if we tag along?” Primate and I followed him, used his light to conserve our batteries.
        Fog grew thick as we gained elevation. A trail junction with a sign to Mount Elbert pointed us the right way.
        The forest engulfed in thick fog, our flashlight beam as a searchlight to keep us on the trail.
        “I’ve gotten lost in fog before,” our hiker friend said.
        The quiet stillness reminded me, “You know, I haven’t heard any birds since I got here yesterday evening.”
        “They’re around,” my hiking companion said.
        With several stops to rest, remove a layer of clothing or drink water, we moved upward and through the forest.
        Within minutes of turning off his light, “I’m going to rest here. Don’t let me slow you down,” my companion said.
        “That’s okay, it doesn’t hurt for me to slow down a little.” Primate and I proceeded.
        “We shouldn’t squander any time in good weather,” I told Primate.
        The trees thinned near a ridge. The fog dissipated. The sun appeared.
       Within three hundred yards we passed tree line. Vistas opened to us of green grass-covered slopes towards the summit somewhere ahead and fog-filled valleys below.

        “No clouds above,” I said. “That’s good news.”
        The trail turned and worked its way up to the highest point within sight.
        “The summit?” Primate said.
        “Probably not. Don’t get your hopes up,” I answered. “I’ve been fooled too many times before by ‘false summits.’”
        One step, two steps, followed by a short break.
        “Keep going, steady but as fast as you can do this,” I said. “Each step gets us closer. As long as the weather holds several more hours, we’ll make the summit.
        Plod, plod. The trail grew steeper, through larger rock, then leveled slightly up grassier slope, to another bump on the ridge line.
        “Get to the next one. Each one closer.”
        Two hikers passed us, separated by several minutes.
        The second hiker, older than the first, said when he passed me, “Damn, that kid is good.”
        “Yeah, he’s like the Everyready battery bunny, he just keeps on going,” I said.
        Sweat soaked my hat, dripped from the hair on the back of my head, required me to wipe my forehead to keep my eyes clear. My t-shirt remained soaked where my day pack prevented air circulation to my back.
        The two hikers ahead drew away, disappeared over the hill.
        “You can do this, Primate.”
        Although tired, legs weak, ankles and knees saying stop, we plodded on.
        A curved ridge came into view. The slope dropped steeply on the west.

       “Can’t be much farther, now.”
       Clouds formed, moved over distant peaks, dissipated. Fog sat in the valleys.
       I felt relieved to see a hiker holding a flag. Several wind breaks, large enough to pitch tents, lay grouped around.
       “Must be the summit, 14,433 feet,” I told Primate.
       “Good morning,” I said to the lone occupant of the summit as Primate and I walked up.
       We chatted a while, I discovered he’d hiked the south trail and that the two hikers ahead of Primate and I had continued down the south trail. I checked my cell phone for the time, 8:45AM, left messages for my wife.
       No official sign, just a piece of paper in plastic sheath.

Primate Examines Summit Sign.

       “I’m surprised there’s no summit marker,” I said.
       “Somebody probably stole it,” the other hiker said.
       “I don’t see a summit register either.”
       “I haven’t seen one.”
       Primate and I took several photos to record my forty-ninth state highpoint.
       Three young male hikers arrived, joked.
       Primate and I ate part of our lunch sandwich. The chilly wind required extra clothing to stay comfortable.
       The fresh crowd took pictures. One posed modestly with a Frisbee, “My calendar photo,” he said.
       “July?” I joked. Got a shot of him, too.

Cory's Calendar Photo

       “Well, guys, we’re starting the long hike out,” I announced. I knew the distance to be 4.5 miles to the car with about 4,383 feet elevation loss. Figured my legs and knees would raise hell for this hike, even though I wore knee braces. My legs and knees usually bitched and screamed on previous hikes like this. And besides, I faced a long drive home.
       Fog in valleys dissipated as I descended to tree line.
       As I expected legs and knees complained about the downhill grade. My flat-footed steps plopped onto the trail. We arrived at the car near 10:30AM.
       A quick removal of knee braces and change of shoes and we started our long drive home. We would encounter every town, turn in the road, geologic formation in reverse.
       I welcomed the sedentary activity of driving, as the sharper ache in my knees and legs settled to a dull throb and then general soreness.
     The weather looked problematic for a sleep out at the Flying U Country Store in Joseph, UT.
     “What’s the weather forecast here for tonight?” I said to the male attendant in the store.
     “You’re in Utah. The weather is unpredictable. It could snow in the next minute. The weather forecast on TV calls for thunderstorms,” he said. “I just saw it.” He changed the TV channel. “There it is.”
      The picture didn’t look pretty.
      “Thanks,” I said.
      Sleeping without a tent, not a good option. Putting up the tent, a pain in the ass. Decided to drive farther and get a motel for a good night’s sleep. Primate and I needed one.
      Beaver, the next biggest town, the best bet to find something inexpensive, seemed ideal, so we drove on and got a room there.



7/17/13        

        We felt refreshed and unhurried, although started our drive at an early hour, showered and our success celebrated with a beer the night before.
        We passed Browse, UT. The temperature rose as we descended through Arizona and into Nevada. We passed the turn-off for Ute, NV. The temperature continued to rise. Near North Las Vegas the car’s thermometer read 101 degrees. We welcomed the developing cloud cover, which reduced heat from the sun.
        We sweltered during the long, boring drive towards Victorville, CA on I-15. Traffic moved along and we contented ourselves with the notion that every mile shortened our remaining journey.
         Home at 4PM, not tired, but our body unsteady, shaking like an earthquake, we made our way from the car to the shower and then to a seat for a good rest.
         Satisfied, we’d driven 2044 miles, hiked our forty-nine state highpoint and done so in four days with minimal expense.
         One highpoint to go.

Mojave Desert

5/17/13         

        Following our lengthy visit last night with Ron, a permanent resident of the RV Park, we managed to rise early. The mobile homes around us remained quiet.

        "Damn," Dr. Bobo said, after I returned from a toilet sojourn with Primate. "The left front tire's almost flat."

        We heard the fat lady sing, but the left front tire was flat, searched for a tire store where Dr. Bobo purchased two front tires, considered ourselves lucky the tire lasted until we got to Vegas and not given up on the gravel road to or from the dry wash of AR-UT yesterday.

        A six-hour drive ahead, we left Vegas behind at 11:30AM, began our crossing of the Mojave Desert, bound for the promise land and home.

        By late afternoon we arrived at my house, a 372-mile drive, covered 8,377 miles over twenty-two days, visited twenty-two states.

        Low points - twenty; high points - fifteen.

        Dr. Bobo, done with fifty high points and fifty low points, said, "I might do the tri-points (where three states meet)."

        What's next for Primate and me? With forty-nine low points and forty-eight high points achieved, I will focus on completion of both high points and low points. Janet, my wife, already informed of my plan to return to climb Mt. Elbert, suggested she join me on that trip.

        We'll keep you “posted.”

Wet Point, Dry Point

5/16/13         

        Lethargic, I arose a little after Dr. Bobo, accompanied Primate to the toilet, washed hands and face, noticed puffy bags under my eyes. "Damn, getting old, Primate," I said, added, "Need to trim my eyebrows." Always thought Andy Rooney should've trimmed his.

        Camp struck, a cup of coffee for me and muffin secured for Primate, we headed towards the Nevada low point on the Colorado river south of Laughlin, about forty miles away.

        A brief search for a path down the steep bank and through small trees and brush, led us to the cobble stones in the wide channel of the Colorado River, a long oasis through the desert. I pictured the Colorado River bed a dry, dusty gully at the Arizona low point and Mexican border.

        Photos, of course, recorded our presence, for posterity, Nevada's low point at 479 feet.

Connard Touches NV Low Point.

        A turn northward headed us towards Utah's low point, our last objective on this trip.

        "It's all over, except for the photo finish," I told Primate.

         The wide valleys of Nevada, with distant views of rugged mountains all around, felt expansive. The temperature climbed, everything began its daily bake in the sun. Mirages of water on the road ahead accentuated the thirsty climate.
       
         Las Vegas stood bright in the sun, casino capital of the world, a man-made aberration in the middle of hell on earth, testament to man's will over nature.

         Northeast of Vegas a sparse forest of billboards, each with its own solar panel, lined the road. Haze in the air gave distant mountains a ghostly look. I enjoyed the views in air-conditioned, reclining passenger seat style.

         Closer to Mesquite the road ascended to a higher plateau. Scrub brush and fruit-laden cacti carpeted the valley floor in green. The road descended again, where the vegetation clung to the browns, oranges and reds of rock and loose soil.

         The gravel road west towards the dry wash of our destination low point remained passable, allowed us access to flowing water, a trickle of a stream.

         We walked up the dry wash towards Utah, a warm breeze gusted at our backs. Loose dry sand slowed our advance along the tracks of All-Terrain-Vehicles we followed along the west side of the wash.

         "This is like walking through snow," Dr. Bobo said.

         "From the arctic yesterday to blowing sand (of the desert)," I said.

         The wash widened. A row of green cottonwood trees grew along the east edge of the wash.

         "Looks lower over there," I said.

         We angled a little to our right.

         "I see the fence," Dr. Bobo said, referred to the Utah-Arizona border.
 
         We went east along the fence looking for the lowest spot, touched under the barbed wire several places to cover all the bases, took photos at the one we judged lowest, considered that the official low point of 2,180 feet for Utah.

Connard Reaches Into UT For Low Point.

         "One and two-thirds miles to the car," Dr. Bobo said.

         Head-on into the gusting wind, we trekked down the wash through loose sand, mixed with stones. "About half the strength of yesterday," I said to Primate. My head down to avoid sand in my face, I looked at smooth-edged stones in my path, noted characteristics of some, that red one small, a scattered group purple ones of different shades, a flat tan one next to a volcanic black round one.

         We drove south, debated, searched and decided to overnight camp in Vegas. A shower and good meal at the Sahara Saloon capped a dusty finish to our high and lows on this trip.

         We added a hot, dry 379 miles to the odometer today.
       
         Low points - twenty; high points - fifteen.

Windy

5/15/13         

        Awake and up at daybreak, we broke camp, enjoyed breakfast as we drove to the trailhead parking lot. The sky looked promising, no clouds above.

        The clear trail beckoned us upward, when we left the car at 7 A.M.

        Into the first stand of trees, "This is a good place to find a stick," I said, searched and found a good specimen. Picked it up, hefted it. "Yep, this one will do, Primate."

        "I don't want one. It's too heavy to carry," Dr. Bobo said.

        "I don't mind carrying one," I replied.

        Our steady pace slowed when crusted, frozen snow covered the trail.

        Dr. Bobo swore when he slipped, "Damn it."

        The wind howled through the forest.

        We escaped the shadows of the trees into morning sun light near the pass. Our dispositions improved.

        Cold wind increased in strength at the pass. A short break in a wind shadow gave us opportunity to view the summit.

        "There it is," Dr. Bobo pointed.

        Humphreys Peak, one mile away, according to trail maps, looked rugged from our vantage. I hoped the trail didn't run along the ridge.

        Dr. Bobo encouraged me, "Go ahead," and followed.

        Another hiker, covered head-to-toe with gear, except his face, and holding two ski poles, leaned against rocks at the side of the trail. "I turned around. The wind is blowing a hundred miles an hour up there. I didn't think I could make it. I wouldn't do it, if I were you."

        "I'll give it a shot," I said, proceeded, glad the trail ran didn't run along the top of the ridge.

        I judged the wind speed to be sixty, maybe seventy mph. "That hiker must be exaggerating," I said to Primate.

        Near the summit, in a shallow pass filled with snow, the wind speed found an unimpeded route over the mountain. Unencumbered, the wind blasted me full-force. Everything loose flapped, windbreaker, hat. Mixed with the howl of the wind, I could hardly hear myself think. I wondered if my gear would blow away. I wondered if I would blow away. Bent, walking stick for balance, I avoided the snow, as much as possible, left the trail and proceeded on the rocks.

        "Can't turn around, so close. As long as I can move towards the summit, keep going," I told Primate.

        Although the wind didn't offer relief, my courage increased with each step nearer the top.

        I hunkered behind a rock wall windbreak at the summit, 12,633 feet elevation, gathered myself, readied my camera for quick photos, signed the register. I lost sight with Dr. Bobo some time ago and wasn't sure if he continued or stopped, decided not to linger on the summit.

AZ High Point.

        At the shallow pass I watched Dr. Bobo advance several seconds on the snow trail on hands and knees towards the summit and me.

        The steady, cold wind howled, brought images to mind of men in Antarctica.
       

Dr. Bobo Slides Along the
Trail From Humphreys Peak.

          Dr. Bobo met me again on the other side of the shallow pass and we descended together to a wind shadow, ate our lunch sandwiches, talked about our ordeal.

          "Somewhere between seventy and a hundred miles per hour. Hard to judge," Dr. Bobo said.

          I concurred, "Close to eighty, maybe a hundred." I imagined my arm out the window of a moving vehicle, my only gauge.

        Our hike down, a slog of 3.5 miles from the ridge pass, proved easy, the snow on the trail, softened by the sun, gave way under our steps.

        Back at the car after our six-hour, we remove unnecessary gear, boots, windbreakers, hats, drove to Flagstaff.

         "I'm ready for a beer," I said.

         "I'm ready for several," Dr. Bobo replied.

         Samples of local-brewed beer at the Beaver Street Brewery, followed by a plate lunch and a pint of Stout, celebrated our climb of Humphreys Peak, the last high point of our trip.

         We headed west towards Kingman, a good stop on the way to our next destination, one of the last two low points on our trip.

         Evening temperatures and a dry, warm breeze in Kingman, without mosquitoes or other unwanted pests, allowed us hastle-free, pleasant shots of cherry brandy at our KOA campsite table.

         Today's mileage - 176 miles.

         Low points - eighteen; high points - fifteen.

Tombaugh’s Telescope

5/14/13         

        Dueling roosters called to a new day, encouraged my exit from the tent at sunrise to a clear sky and a cool temperature. We drove south, after I acquired a cup of Starbuck coffee, through moderate commute traffic of Alburquerque, then west towards Flagstaff.

        Views across rolling hills covered with small conifers, dried grasses and scrub brush, of red-brown cliffs of mesas, reminded me of the Old West of movie and music. The spirits of Indians rode horses across the land, camped, drew petroglyphs on rock walls. The spirits of gunslingers and cowboys bedded for cold nights near a fire, rode across the dry landscape seeking fame and fortune.

        We crossed the Western Continental Divide at 7,275 feet.

        Flagstaff dead ahead, distant peaks came into view through the haze.

        "That's probably it." Dr. Bobo broke my concentration on writing. "The peak is on the left."

        I looked out at two tall peaks, mountain twins. "Yeah," I said, the sun overhead, the highway straight as the flight of an Indian's arrow or a gunslinger's bullet. "Looks like the south flank is clear of snow." A good sign.

        "Interested in stopping at Meteor Crater?" Dr. Bobo asked.

        "Naw, been there, done that."

        The high plains desert generated a surreal landscape, a stark contrast to those of Illinois, Louisiana and Virginia.

         Our early arrival in Flagstaff gave us time to search for mountaineer gear stores to inquire about conditions on Humphreys Peak. We asked at two different stores, got two different answers, the second more to our liking. We concluded we would attempt Humphreys without crampons or ice axes.

        "Interested in going to the Lowell Observatory?" Dr. Bobo said. "That's where Clyde Tombaugh discovered Pluto."

        Primate perked up. "Telescopes?"

        "Sure, we got time," I said, not able to pass up an astronomy related adventure.

Pluto Discovered With This Telescope.

        A late lunch consumed at a public park down the hill after our tour of Lowell Observatory, we headed north out of Flagstaff towards the trailhead, found a suitable designated campsite in the national forest and settled in for the night.

        Dry pine branches, cones and needles, gathered from the ground, burned in the fire started with litter from Primate's rat's nest, past campground literature, used plastic ice bags, odds and ends of scrap with no food.  I allowed Primate to collect the trash, believed his carpet of debris provided some buffer for Dr Bobo's floor mat.

        We built lunch sandwiches for our climb and spread chunky peanut butter on cinnamon-raisin bagel for our pre-climb breakfast, cooked our instant rice, heated a can of chili, added spicy peppers, ate as we watched the fire. A small, solitary bird, agile, quiet and stealthy, worked around our campsite for morsels of food, moved on. The air cooled, dusk turned to night, the partial moon cast shadows of trees through the woods.
         
        We anticipated mosquitoes that never appeared, consumed all our collected wood. Watched the glow of stirred embers grow fainter.

        "I'm going to turn in," Dr. Bobo said.

        "Yep, me too. It's time," I said, escorted Primate to a nearby tree.

        We logged 388 miles today.

        Low points - eighteen; high points - fourteen.

Breezy

5/13/13         

        The crisp air at our roadside campsite encouraged decisive moves. Camp struck, we drove to the trailhead, dropped packs at a locked gate on the gravel road Dr. Bobo used several years ago and according to the directions we consulted. Dr. Bobo drove the car to the parking area some two miles down the road, while Primate and I proceeded up the gravel road with Dr. Bobo's daypack.

        I realized I forgot breakfast and lunch, which we'd stored in the cooler overnight, after Dr. Bobo drove away, tried to call him, but his cell phone was off.

        About one and a half miles up the road, near another locked gate, an SUV sped by on a connecting gravel road headed downhill. I waited for Dr. Bobo.

        I watched Dr, Bobo approach with sandwiches in hand. "I'm glad you remembered to bring those," I said, "I have some food along to snack on, but it would've been a hungry day. Can you believe that road?"

        "That road may have been here when I was here last, but I followed the same directions in the guidebook and don't remember it."

        On up the road another two miles we came to the ski area parking lot, our intended parking spot. One car occupied the lot.

        "We could have driven here," I said, knew it too late to safe us any hiking distance.

        Snow, the surface thawed and refrozen numerous times, crunched under our boots. We followed the blue-dot trail signs, spray-painted on the conifers towards Williams Lake.
         
        The peak trail turned at Williams Lake, steeper up the flank of the mountain. Discouraged at the amount of snow, the trail buried, we followed old tracks and blue dots through the evergreen forest. Where the trail came to a gully with views of the up slope, we studied the patches of snow on the thirty-degree slopes. Doubts of our success emerged. Staying on the trail impossible, due to snow cover, and the snow crust slippery in places and soft, slushy in others, we debated.
           
        Dr. Bobo said, "I'm having a hard time with this. I'm getting tired easily, but I'm okay when stop a few moments."

        "Stop?" Primate said.

        A more direct line up the slope over exposed rock and grass towards a ridge saddle appeared the easiest route, the steep slope would require more of a strenuous climb than hike, but minimize snow travel.

        "We have all day, no rush, except if bad weather develops. Let's just take a beeline over the rock and grass," I said, more motivated to achieve the summit than Dr. Bobo, who's done Wheeler Peak.

        "You go on ahead. You need to get to the summit, I don't," Dr. Bobo said. "I'll follow."

        My effort reminded me of Denali, of Katadin, Whitney, many of my other climbs. Several steps up, a rest for several breaths, check up slope for the next best steps, avoid thoughts of failure, check for cloud formation above to judge a change in weather conditions. My adopted mountain mantra, Tinseng Norgay's words to Edmond Hillary on Everest, came to mind, "Slow means success."

        I experienced a familiar climbing illusion - an objective appears far away, closer but still far away, then suddenly, as if by surprise, within easy reach. I crossed the exposed trail, continued my bee-line towards the ridge saddle. What was the point of following the trail?

        Relieved to reach the flatter ridge trail, I felt reassured I'd succeed. Probably succeed, if good weather held. The clouds looked okay, the breeze stiffened. I quickened my pace, approached a high point on the ridge within a half-mile, saw a square cairn of cement and stone.

        Could that be the summit?

        A bronze plaque on the cairn at 13,161 feet read, WHEELER PEAK.

Connard On Wheeler Summit.

        I took several photos to record my effort, started down without delay, no need to linger, always the possibility of an onset of bad weather.

        Back down the ridge trail, I met Dr. Bobo on his way up. "I'm going on up," he said.

        "I'll wait for you here," I said. "I'll find a soft place to sit my butt."

        "Sit," Primate said. "Tired."

        Dr. Bobo voice echoed off the mountainside, "Woo hoo."

        When Dr. Bobo rejoined me, we refueled on our sandwiches, hydrated, recuperated and mentally prepared for our down climb.

        Slow, we snaked down on clear trail, then followed our direct path towards the gully to gear I'd left behind.

        Out of danger of possible lightening strikes, into forest with partial cover from rain, our thoughts turned towards the car, each step that carried us there. We focused on the slushy snow of late morning, worked to avoid a slip or post-holing up to our knees, or higher. Sore knees and tired feet turned the hike into a chore.

        Dr. Bobo's called to me from behind.

        I answered, concluded he'd gotten off trail.

        "I'll be there in a minute," he said. Moments later, "Damn it. I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
       
        I waited.

        "I must've post-holed ten times," he said, when he caught up.
 
        Onto gravel road again, we hiked faster, until we reached the lower locked gate. Dr. Bobo proceeded to the car while I stayed with our gear.

        Down the road, by the clear-running stream, a celebratory bottle of Dead Guy's Ale, a Rogue River, Oregon brewed beer, helped dampen our aches before we headed south towards Alburquerque, past arts and crafts shops of Taos, along the Rio Grande, the afternoon traffic of Santa Fe, and stopped for the night in Bernalillo.

        A well-earned and excellent southwestern style dinner at the Ancient Spirits Bar and Grille prepared us for an early turn to bed.

        We drove 644 miles today.

        Low points - eighteen; high points - fourteen.

Avalanche Conditions

5/12/13.        

        The storm to the southwest at sunset passed us by. The cloud cover dissipated and conditions remained dry over night.

        We arose with the sun, packed up, drove north, fueled by a half cinnamon-raisin bagel each topped with peanut butter.

        Flat land changed to gentle hills and red-breasted pheasants foraged along the road. The clear sky and full sun promised good weather.

        According to guide directions we worked our way to Haigler, Nebraska, turned onto gravel roads, drove across a small corner of Kansas to the Yuma County, CO line, walked through low grasses and dehydrated tumble weeds to the Arikaree River.

        "River?" Primate said.

        A muddy water hole lay within thirty feet of Dr. Bobo's GPS location, the water level in the hole lower than the ground where Dr. Bobo stood with GPS. The aroma of cow dung filled the air. Hoof prints surrounded the hole.

        "That's lower," I said.

Connard at CO Low Point.

        Quick touches of the water with our shoes, we posed for photos, figured we bested the official Colorado low point elevation of 3,315 feet.

        A gobbler repeated his call within the sparse woods of the dry river bottom. Thoughts of Thanksgivings past came to mind. Unable to spot him, I concluded he wanted to remain hidden.

        As we drove away, "We'll be back at the paved road by 8 A.M.", Dr. Bobo said.

        Our next destination led us west and south, across Colorado.

        "I think we go by Buffalo Bill's grave. We could stop, if you want," Dr. Bobo said.

         "Let's stop there and have lunch," I replied later.

          Eastern Colorado, similar to Kansas, where flat alternated with gentle rolling hills, gave way to mountains abruptly, as if begrudged. Several snow-capped peaks came into view through the haze, grew into a chain across the horizon.

           Past Denver we followed road signs to Lookout Mountain, viewed Cody's grave and took photos, before we made sandwiches at a nearby picnic area.

Dr. Bobo At Buffalo Bill's Final Resting Place.

           The Rocky Mountains began in earnest after several miles, the roadway snaked up and down over passes. The white of snow contrasted with the green of conifers and the brown, yellow, grey tones of exposed rock faces.

           Snow covered the ground on both sides of the road, four-to-five feet deep, on the road that climbed to Leadville.

          We cruised the main street in Leadville, looked for mountaineering equipment rental stores, found none, read the posted reports at the closed Ranger Station. Discovered some roads and campgrounds closed, in particular the ones associated with Mount Elbert, Colorado's high point. The young lady at the Information Center downtown Leadville gave us bad news.

           Dr. Bobo preceded me inside, informed the attendant of our intentions to climb Mount Elbert.

           "I wouldn't even try it. There's avalanche conditions and several people have been rescued," she said.

           "I'll just have to come back," I said.

           Primate said, "Crap."

           Back in the car we debated options.

           "Are you willing to give up on Elbert?" Dr. Bobo said.

           Reluctant and dissappointed, "Yeah," I said. "I'll have to make plans to come back later. Probably, fly to Denver, rent a car and spend a few days here."

           "How long to the next point?" Dr. Bobo asked.

           "Four and a half hours," I said.

           "We could make that today. Want to?" Dr. Bobo said.

           Why not? "Sure," I said.

           We stopped off at the Two Guns Distillery, talked with the distiller. We each sampled a shot of shine, cleared out of Leadville, at 10,152 feet elevation, well before sunset. The scenic ride south helped soothe my disappointment, but didn't alleviate it.

            Long stretches of road took us south straight away. Scattered showers fell across the wide, flat valley before us. The few drops of rain we encountered evaporated from the windshield within the minute.

           Dead trees stood solitary watch across the valley, bare limbs stark against the sky. Those trees still living exhibited only hints of green from a distance.

           "The trees here don't look very happy," I said.

           South of the border, in New Mexico, scrub brush replaced trees. Rolling hills replaced flat land.

            "We're making good time," Dr. Bobo said.

            The road turned eastward. The sun at our backs, we looked at the snow in the mountains ahead of us, expected Wheeler Peak to be there, somewhere.

            "There's snow up there, too," Dr. Bobo said.

            We looked at Taos, Taos Pueblo, Arroyo Seco and Valdez spread out before us in the distance, passed a collection of futuristic, eco-friendly homes with curved surfaces and odd artistic features, some partially buried.

            A campsite selected on the road near our destination trailhead, we set camp, cooked a dinner of canned-chili and instant rice, avoided alcohol drinks, made breakfast and lunch in preparation for an early start on our ascent.

            Our mileage today totaled 644 miles.

            Low points - eighteen; high points- thirteen.

Gobblers Knob

5/11/13         

        We breakfasted on peanut butter on roll and drove to the high point trailhead. The sun warmed us through a clear sky with hints of cloud cover. The stiff, chilled breeze cooled us during our steady, fast-paced hike on the dirt and gravel road towards the summit. The 4.3-mile trail ambled to the strenuous grade, starting at the base of the mesa, then ambled again across the top of Black Mesa for the last mile to the obelisk marker, at 4,972.97 feet.

Primate Touches OK High Point.

        A few photos marked our presence before we started to the car.

        Four miles never seemed longer.

        We built our usual lunch sandwiches at Cottonwood Campground, headed for parts north of Gobblers Knob in Colorado. From Lamar we zigzagged more north than east, across the flat Kansas-like part of Colorado, flat, dry, open space, with more cattle than people, towards the Kansas high point.

         

Lamar, CO.

          Flat land changed to gentle hills.

          We traveled gravel roads the last few miles to the Kansas high point, Mount Sunflower at 4,039 feet, walked around the fenced enclosure and looked at what appeared to be a grave marker, and the unique metal artwork.

Primate Checks for Mail on KS High Point.

          We posed for several photos and off we went.

        More gravel roads northward took us to pavement.

        Late afternoon upon us, we discussed and determined the campground in Goodland allowed us the most civilized rest for the night.

        "What are the mosquitoes like now?" I asked the friendly lady attendant when we checked in.

        "There are no mosquitoes this time of year," she said.
           
        The ample time before sunset to set up the tent, shower, enjoy a local meal, re-supply our groceries, felt luxurious. The sky cleared of clouds and a cool, light breeze blew as songbirds serenaded us.

        Our mileage today totaled 295.

        Low points - seventeen; high points - thirteen.

Flat

5/10/13         

        The weather channel on TV provided us encouragement before we packed gear into the car. The sky looked promising, a thin high overcast with a few cotton-clouds allowed the sun to warm my skin.

        We pulled away from the motel in search of a breakfast for me. Dr. Bobo skipped the opportunity while I enjoyed a fresh, home-style donut washed down by a cup of coffee.

        We looked to the horizon north and west.

        "The report this morning is a lot better than what I got from the Internet last night," Dr. Bobo said.

        "I don't see a bad cloud in the sky," I said, wondered what we'd encounter nearer the Rocky Mountains.

        Flat and gentle rolling hills spread to the horizon in every direction over grassy fields cordoned off by rows of trees or fences. Light traffic shared the smooth two-lane roads with us on our journey to Coffeeville, Kansas.

        Vinita, Nowata, Opossum Creek flew by. Primate listened to the whine of our car tires, paid attention to passing semi-trucks, WOOSH!

        WELCOME TO KANSAS indicated we were close to our next low point. We searched for the owner of the property on the east bank of the Verdigris River without success. The west side approach looked to be an easy amble across a flat, untended field with an open gate. We chose the field on the west side.

        Shallow standing water in low spots across the field, and spots of soft mud, necessitated we pay attention. A narrow band of trees with moderate undergrowth about twenty yards from the bank slowed us.

        "Poison," Primate said.

        "That looks like poison ivy," I told Dr. Bobo, worked my way around and through suspicious looking plants.

        The muddy bank required our care to descend and a well-positioned tree and fallen branch at water's edge helped us prevent an unwanted swim. We each touched the river with one foot for a photo at the Kansas low point on the Verdigris River at 679 feet.
     

Connard  Avoids Falling Into KS Low Point.

        To wash off possible poison ivy residue, I rinsed my arms with puddle water in the field, and again with soap at the car. Good enough? We'll see.

        We continued towards Wichita, through Wichita, left Wichita behind. Pavement stretched ahead, cobbler-crust flat, light green and dark green fields flanked both sides. Blue sky, white clouds, warm sun above, the road stretched ahead. Highway overpasses allowed us panoramic views. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay the Oklahoma panhandle and our next high point.

        "Flat, flat ... flat, flat, flat." Primate interrupted his boredom with an adopted mantra.
           
        The road stretched ahead. The air grew thicker with haze. The clouds spread wider, shielded more of the land from the sun. Rays of faint milky sunlight touched the earth in the distance ahead and we crossed the Cimarron National Grassland.

        "This still looks like a dust bowl," Dr. Bobo said.

        No mountains to see, no waters to fish, small towns separated by miles of flat, dry, scrubland, connected by straight roads with little traffic. I couldn't imagine living here in the 1930s. I couldn't imagine living here now. We couldn't arrive at our campsite for tonight soon enough.

        We chose a tent site in Cottonwood Campground within Black Mesa State Park, an idyllic setting to daydream of the old west and American Plains Indians, retreated into the car to escape the cold wind and eat our meal of canned-chili with instant rice and spicy peppers in peace. An after dinner appertif of cherry brandy highlighted a near encounter with a group of eight deer that browsed past us.

        We covered 559 miles today.

        Low points - seventeen; high points - eleven.

Y City?

5/9/13          

        Fortified with waffles, cold cereal and coffee, we pulled out from the TraveLodge under an overcast sky, a light sprinkle on the windshield, and turned north towards southeastern Oklahoma.

         I calculated our progress, twenty-five out of thirty-six points, two-thirds the way home, making excellent headway. We'll see how excellent when we get to the toughest hikes on our trip in Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona.
         
          "After today, we'll be moving west," Dr. Bobo said.

           I checked our route guide. Yep, after today we travel greater distances between points, a hallmark of the expansive western US.

           We drove northward, left Louisiana, cut across the northeastern tip of Texas into Arkansas, through enough rain for the wipers to clean the windshield, northward to Cerrogordo, where we headed west to the Oklahoma border. A gravel road led us north again towards the Little River. The last 200 hundred feet required a bushwhack through brambles to a sand bar at the OK low point of 289 feet.

Dr. Bobo at OK Low Point.

            We headed farther east into the heart of Arkansas, towards another high point. Thick clouds blanketed the sky, held onto whatever moisture they contained. Y City, Needmore, Ione led us towards Magazine, near our next destination. The color green dominated our views. Abundant trees and grasses flourished in full growth, contrasted by patches of yellow, an occasional house with a manicured lawn, a barn or a failed business. Lifestyles appeared unhurried, rural, tuned to weather and seasons of planting and hunting, with commerce stretched along a curvy, hilly two-lane road for miles, little pearls of economy and social interaction on a paved string.

            The cloud layer thinned, puffy clouds hung in a baby-blue sky, shadows developed.

           Parked in the designated spot, we hiked the four-tenths mile to Signal Hill, the high point of Arkansas, on Magazine Mountain, 2753 feet, on the wide, gravel path. The light, cool breeze, under overcast sky, alleviated our need to steep in our own sweat.

           Down the trail towards the car, Primate said, "Hungry."

          Sandwiches, made from my leftovers of fish from Ralph and Kacoo's in Shreveport the night before, accentuated our view of Arkansas countryside from the picnic area near the summit. Persistent, small flies pestered us in a swarm, created the only negative aspect of our lunch break. Chilled beer helped keep the world in balance.

          Reminded of Horace Greeley's words, "Go west, young man," we descended from the mountain with Kansas on our minds, made our way to I-40 W.

          "Oklahoma," Dr. Bobo said when we crossed the border.

          "Bye, Arkansauce," Primate said.

           I realized I might never see Arkansas again. My first visit could be my last, no foreseeable reason to return.

          "We should look for places to stay mid-way to Kansas," Dr. Bobo said.

           A search on Dr. Bobo's laptop, map consultations and phone calls yielded no campgrounds. I got a suggestion to camp by a lake.

           "I found a campground in a state park just off Muskogee," I said.

           We veered off course, towards more state park camping opportunities. Clouds grew darker, haze thickened in the air, a drizzle became rain.

           "I hate setting up a tent in the rain," I said.

           "Let's get a motel room," Dr. Bobo suggested.

           We settled on an EconoLodge in Pryor for the night, covered 475 miles today.

           Low points - sixteen; high points- eleven.

Ready . . . Float

5/8/13          

        Clear sky and warmth from the sun encouraged us out of the tent. Chunky peanut butter spread over half a cinnamon-raisin bagel constituted our breakfast before we packed our gear into the car and went in search of Tennessee's low point from the Mississippi side of the border.

         We referred to Dr. Bobo's computer program of downloaded local topography and GPS device to find our way to the river levee south of the border. A gate blocked the access road onto the levee, so we walked the gravel road on the levee three-quarters mile north towards Tennessee.
         
          "The border's about here," Dr. Bobo said.

          Several small yellow posts stood next to the levee road about thirty feet beyond.

          "I bet that's the official border right there." I walked closer for a better look, saw no distinguishing information on them.

          "Let's head west to the water," Dr. Bobo said. He pushed through the tall, wet grass down the levee's slope, towards the woods sixty feet away.

          We threaded our way west through the woods until we came to water, then turned north.

          "We're too far south," Dr. Bobo proclaimed.

          TROMP, TROMP. I avoided suspicious looking plants, believed some to be poison ivy. Mosquitoes hovered. I slapped one on my arm.

          "Well, this is good enough," Dr. Bobo said. "Touch the water here."

Primate Looks for TN Low Point.

           We took photos, Dr. Bobo marked our position with his GPS device, we called that the TN low point, official elevation of 178 feet.

           An employee of the Mississippi-Yazoo River Levee District -- "Bobby," he later told us -- greeted me on the levee road, offered us a ride to our car and provided us history of the levee system. He said, "The recent water level came two-thirds the way to the top of the levee."

           South, we headed, past the casinos of Tunic, past Alligator, past Boyle, before we veered west towards Arkansas.
       
           Previous low points a problem due to flooding on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, we held low expectations of reaching the low point of Arkansas on the Ouachita River.

          "We'll see what it looks like," Dr. Bobo said.

          Our final approach on gravel road proved no problem. What about the last mile and a half on foot?

          We set out doubtful, but willing to go as far as the water would allow, bushwhacked through light underbrush in woods. The soil proved firm under the leaf litter, the mud neither sticky nor deep.
Not only did we reach the Arkansas border with Louisiana at the Ouachita River, the gentle, sloped bank allowed us to touch water without mishap and without use of Dr. Bobo's rope he carried. We got our photos, tromped our way back to the car, surprised and thankful of our good fortune with the water level.

 

Connard at AR Low Point.

Ready to Float.

         On to Louisiana's high point.
   
         Mt. Driskell required our sweat equity to reach the 535-foot summit, nine-tenths mile from our parked car in the cool air, but we walked the gravel and dirt-packed road at a rapid pace. More photos.
         
         We proceeded to Shreveport, where we could have long, hot showers in a motel room and enjoy LA seafood.

          Distance driven today totaled 440 miles. Distance hiked included 2.5 miles around, through brush, mosquitoes and mud.

          Low points - fifteen; high points - ten.

Popcorn Sutton’s Whiskey

5/7/13         

        I escorted Primate to a nature's toilet several times in the night, noticed during our last outing a clear sky and stars shining.

        A lazy, dry morning, we pulled out of the quiet campground at 8:30, soon after crossed the Mississippi River into Missouri.

        Gentle-rolling forested hills beckoned us onward, the greenery bright in full sun in a puffy-cottoned cloudy sky. A Bald Eagle took flight when we approached, abandoned road kill aside the road.

        "Birdie," Primate said.

         Surprised that the bird wasn't a buzzard,  "A Bald Eagle," I said. "I didn't know they ate road kill. Thought they preferred fresh kill."

         "They're known to scavenge," Dr. Bobo replied.

         The warm spring air welcomed us at the trailhead parking lot for Missouri's highest point, Taum Sauk Mountain. At the start of the level, paved two-tenths mile long walkway to the summit, I spooked a tortoise.

         "Turtle." Primate pointed.

          Dried leaves on the ground rustled as the tortoise rushed away from us.

         "He' coming down from his ascent yesterday," Dr. Bobo said.

         The summit, at 1775 feet, lay in open woods, marked with a plaque by the rock outcrop and a pleasant spring day in the woods.

          South-southeast we drove, zigzagged to the MO low point, wondered how close we'd get to the official low point, crossed Locust Creek Ditch, then Mud Slough Ditch. They weren't flooded, a good sign. At the MO-AR border we headed west towards the Saint Francis River, on a dirt road, crossed over the dirt levee, stopped when floodwater blocked our advance.

Primate Gets to the MO Low Point.

          "The border low point is about one-third mile away, "Dr. Bobo said.

          We took photos at the water's edge to mark our accomplishment.

          We stopped at an Information Center in Arkansas. Dr. Bobo talked with two friendly older women about camping brochures.

           "Help yourselves to coffee and cookies," one of them said.

           Primate wanted to sample the offerings, helped himself to three different type cookies and a cup of coffee, sat down in a rocking chair for a rest.

           "We have some bologna and crackers in the back, if you're hungry," the same friendly women said.

           "No thanks," I said.

            We headed to the car, our next stop Memphis, TN, and a supply of Popcorn Sutton's Whiskey in a Mason jar.

            A supply of likker secured, we discussed options regarding camping and access to the TN low point. We searched for a route from the TN side of the border, explored campground possibilities.

           "Let's camp in Memphis tonight and drive to the low point tomorrow," Dr. Bobo said.

            The route to our campground of choice took us along Elvis Presley Boulevard.

           "Oh, there's Graceland," I said.

           Dr. Bobo bowed in homage. "Thank you. Thank you very much."

           "Now that I know where it is, I don't have to come back," I said.

           We settled into a tent site down the street about a quarter-mile from Elvis' home.

           Today's mileage totaled 395.

           Low points - thirteen; high points - nine.

Muddy

5/6/13        

        Up and out of the soggy campground about 7:30, I smeared peanut butter on half a cinnamon-raisin bagel as breakfast for each of us.

         We headed through Tiptonville on our way north to the peninsula and the lowest point of Kentucky cut off when the Mississippi River meandered. We speculated the meander occurred in 1811-1812 as a result of the New Madrid earthquakes.

          Flooded crop fields foreshadowed the Mississippi out of its normal banks. On the last stretch of road, we passed a truck headed out.

          "There's water on the road up ahead," the guy said.

          "We'll go check it out," Dr. Bobo responded.

          Dr. Bobo stopped the car where the water flooded the road, consulted his GPS and computer software for our exact location and the KY border. "The border's about 60 hundred yards ahead," he said.

          "Let's wade there," I replied.

          Water footwear on and calves exposed to the world, we waded our way down the road. The cold water chilled my feet, but I wouldn't be deterred.

          "The border should be right here," Dr. Bobo said, the water about 18 inches deep.

          I pointed. "That looks like a dry patch ahead. Let's check that out."

Connard at KY Low Point.

          At the minor high spot, we considered we were on dry ground in Kentucky, the lowest dry point we could get to in those flooded conditions. We decided not to bushwhack or get off the roadway, our position about one-half mile east of the official low point. Dr. Bobo marked our location with a waypoint on his GPS. Photos and latitude/longitude coordinates testify to our best effort.

         Two deer bounced across the gravel road ahead of us, their long, white tails waved, bid us farewell.

          We turned north under cloudy sky, zigzagged our way through western KY towards Cairo, Illinois. Waters at the confluence of Mississippi and Ohio River covered much of the tiny peninsula where Fort Defiance once helped the Union maintain domination over those stretches of waterways. We stood at the water's edge on a paved ramp, looked out about one mile to where trees marked the true, dry, low point of Illinois. We considered our position the low point of Kentucky at North 36 degrees 29 minutes 54.8 seconds, West 89 degrees 31 minutes 4.9 seconds.

         Our sights turned towards Indiana, some two and a half hours drive away.

         Scenery began to blur. Road numbers fused, mixed in my mind. Where are we? What road is this? How far until we turn? The next stop a high point or low point?

         Clouds thickened again. We drove through Muddy, IL.

         "Good name," Primate said.

         We expected to pay a toll on the bridge across the Wabash, instead had our photo taken. Across the river in Indiana we turned right and south, followed directions to where the gravel road terminated at a large muddy field. A further tramp of 3/4 mile brought us to the conflunce of the Wabash and Ohio Rivers.

          Dr. Bobo checked his GPS device. "The low point is out there about two-tenths of a mile."

Dr. Bobo at the IN Low Point.

         We stood as close to the low point of 320 feet, on land, that we could get, touched the water for commemorative photos, slogged back through mud to the car.

         Primate posed for our picture at the Wabash River toll bridge on our way west, across Illinois towards Missouri.

          Clouds turned ugly again, darker, unfriendly.

          Where would we camp?

          "We could go until 6 PM," Dr. Bobo said.

           “Let's go to the Shawnee National Forest on this side of the Mississippi, then decide what we want go do," I suggested.

          We passed a Sonic in Anna.

          "Milkshake," Primate said.

          Dr. Bobo turned the car around. Our dinners hit the spot, but the car battery died in the process. A jump-start from an AAA response got the car going and we stopped for the night at the Pine Hill campground in Shawnee National Forest shy of the Mississippi River and Missouri border.

          An additional 362 miles traveled today.

          Low point - twelve; high points - eight.