"Pee," Primate insisted.
I put Primate off as long as possible before I escorted him to the toilet. Birdcalls punctuated our trek there and back. I figured the time about 5:30 A.M. Not ready to remain upright for the day, I lay on my sleeping bag, listened to the chorus of birdcalls, cursed the humidity.
Dr. Bobo roused. "What time is it?"
"Oh, about 6:45," I guessed, turned out about 15 minutes off.
Up, packed, with a store-bought cup of coffee and half a raisin bagel topped with peanut butter, we're ready to head east.
Texas, with more Texas to go before Louisiana. Exits passed. We tracked their numbers.
"That's how far it is across Texas," Dr. Bobo said. He referred to the exit markers on the highway, "They second as mile markers."
"Yeah, and we didn't cross Texas in a straight line," I said.
We left Texas after Exit 880.
Evidence of swamp country appeared. Long-legged birds waded in patches of water scattered across flat terrain. Thick stands of trees, full with leaves, some covered with creeping vines, others draped with moss, created walls of green along the roadway. Thick haze and an overcast sky obliterated dimension above, hid the sun.
We made good time to our next stop, Avery Island, where Tabasco sauce is born. Gasoline prices dropped to $3.14 per gallon.
Onward to New Orleans we passed under cells of heavy rain. Cauliflower clouds darkened. We watched for signs of a tornado, saw none.
Hurricane or Bloody Mary in hand, we dodged heavy rain in the French Quarter for two hours before we headed to Lake Pontchartrain. Stood in two different spots to alleviate any challenge to our cause, one spot at an underpass and one on a golf course, both minus eight feet, for LA's low point.
Stopped to camp outside Biloxi, MS and ate dinner at the Half Shell Oyster House. The seafood gumbo tasted delicious.
Another 443 miles logged.
Low points - five; high points - one.
I put Primate off as long as possible before I escorted him to the toilet. Birdcalls punctuated our trek there and back. I figured the time about 5:30 A.M. Not ready to remain upright for the day, I lay on my sleeping bag, listened to the chorus of birdcalls, cursed the humidity.
Dr. Bobo roused. "What time is it?"
"Oh, about 6:45," I guessed, turned out about 15 minutes off.
Up, packed, with a store-bought cup of coffee and half a raisin bagel topped with peanut butter, we're ready to head east.
Texas, with more Texas to go before Louisiana. Exits passed. We tracked their numbers.
"That's how far it is across Texas," Dr. Bobo said. He referred to the exit markers on the highway, "They second as mile markers."
"Yeah, and we didn't cross Texas in a straight line," I said.
We left Texas after Exit 880.
Evidence of swamp country appeared. Long-legged birds waded in patches of water scattered across flat terrain. Thick stands of trees, full with leaves, some covered with creeping vines, others draped with moss, created walls of green along the roadway. Thick haze and an overcast sky obliterated dimension above, hid the sun.
We made good time to our next stop, Avery Island, where Tabasco sauce is born. Gasoline prices dropped to $3.14 per gallon.
Onward to New Orleans we passed under cells of heavy rain. Cauliflower clouds darkened. We watched for signs of a tornado, saw none.
Hurricane or Bloody Mary in hand, we dodged heavy rain in the French Quarter for two hours before we headed to Lake Pontchartrain. Stood in two different spots to alleviate any challenge to our cause, one spot at an underpass and one on a golf course, both minus eight feet, for LA's low point.
Stopped to camp outside Biloxi, MS and ate dinner at the Half Shell Oyster House. The seafood gumbo tasted delicious.
Another 443 miles logged.
Low points - five; high points - one.
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