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.

Talladega

5/5/13       

        Our dispositions better after a good night's sleep, dry and warm.

         Clouds above, sans rain, we got a quick breakfast at McDonald's, turned west on I-20 headed for Alabama. The sky improved. By the time we arrived at AL's high point, Cheaha Mountain at 2,405 feet the sun highlighted the stone observation tower and allowed a shirt sleeve visit.

Primate at the AL High Point Sign.

          "We need to get gas. What's the nearest town?" Dr. Bobo said, consulted our map sources, checked route directions. "We should have enough gas to get to Munford," Dr. Bobo concluded.

           We knew we might be running on fumes before we found the next gas pump. Primate crossed his fingers.

           At a T-junction, we wondered, "Which way to Munford?" A car marked SHERIFF approached, slowed. The uniformed driver prepared for a turn by us.

           "Ask him." I pointed at the sheriff.

           The sheriff stopped his car when Dr. Bobo signaled by hand. "Where's Munford?" Dr. Bobo said.

           "You're in the middle of it," the sheriff answered.

            He gave us directions to the two nearest gas stations

           "Who'd have thought this was Munford?" Dr. Bobo said to me.

           "Yeah, a stop sign, one house and one barn," I replied.

           We limped to a gas station, filled up, continued west towards Mississippi.

           "Look at all the campers," Dr. Bobo said.

            A gaggle of RVs and cars blanketed a field, grouped tight together, mingled with tents, created an improvised city. A garrison-sized white flag with the word TALLADEGA in red letters waved in the wind.

           "Oh, that's Talladega," I said. Farther off the highway I recognized a racetrack-viewing stand.

           "Race cars," said Primate.

           "Well, now we know where it is," Dr. Bobo said.

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

            Clouds hung overhead again, grew thicker, darker as we proceeded west, looked threatening as we cruised through Birmingham, then turned north for Huntsville.

            Thoughts of tornadoes came to mind.

            Farther north and west rain returned, intensified, lightened, intensified again.

            I built lunch sandwiches for us as we neared Woodall Mountain, Mississippi's high point at 806 feet.  A smooth gravel road led us up the last mile to the summit where the cool temperature, under partial cloudy sky, made a picnic meal on the bench near the marker a good idea.

Connard and MS High Point.

           "Want a beer with that sandwich?" Dr. Bobo asked.

           "Yeah," Primate answered.

           "Why not?" I said.

           Lunch consumed, another high point achieved, we headed towards the Mississippi River at the southwest corner of Kentucky. Clouds came and went. We passed through Green Frog and Friendship without slowing. Timing dictated a stay somewhere near Tiptonville. Campgrounds on Reelfoot Lake looked promising. We pulled into the campgrounds at the lake nearest Tiptonville and paid for primitive camping. The soggy primitive campsite area, which currently could second as a well-manicured swamp, offered several dry high spots, so we pitched the tent on the highest place closest to the gravel roadway.

Fishing at Reelfoot Lake.

            I couldn't resist taking a number of photos along the lake shore of trees and birds before we prepared dinner of canned-chili, instant rice and spicy peppers, washed down with a cold beer.

           Another 484 miles logged today.

           Low points - nine; high points - eight.

A Gale

5/4/13       

        Throughout the night wind howled in the trees.

         I half-dozed for short periods, repositioned myself often to get comfortable and warm my feet. But my feet stayed cold and I remained uncomfortable. I listened to sounds of large drops of water hit the rain-fly, concerned that a downpour would soak the tent any moment.

         Daylight, along with Primate's insistence, "Gotta pee," forced me out of the tent and to the restroom.

         "It's foggy," I told Dr. Bobo.

         "The water drops are condensation getting blown from the trees," Dr. Bobo said, getting dressed, when I returned from the restroom.

         I shivered. "I wonder how cold it is."

         "I'll check the temperature," he said.

         I sat in the car to escape the chilly wind, found for my small thermometer, looked to be 47 degrees.

         "My thermometer said 40 degrees in the car, but dropped to 37 degrees outside," Dr. Bobo said.

         Tired of the damp and cold, "Let's break camp and get out of here," I told Dr. Bobo.

         With the car's heater pumping full blast, we warmed our hands at the vents before we stuffed tent and sleeping pads into the back seat and trunk. Fog.

         Next stop - NC high point.

         We descended below the clouds. Trees in the valleys wore coats of young lime-green leaves. Pink and white blossoms punctuated the greenery, announced the promise of a new crop of fruit.

         Fog slowed our drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway towards the NC high point. Drizzle joined the fog for the last four miles.

         We parked in the summit lot, donned wet gear, prepared for cold wind, the gusts sounded ominous. A gift shop and restrooms nearby enticed a visit.

         "I'm going to the restroom," I said, "two birds with one stone." I meant relieve Primate and be out of the wind while doing it.

          "Hey, look, ice," Dr. Bobo said.

          Ice covered trees and safety rails. "This ain't like winter, this is winter," I said.

          "Too cold," Primate said.

          Heads down, against strong wind, we hurried up the concrete sidewalk to Mount Winchell's summit at 6,684 feet. We didn't linger at the natural highest spot or on the man-made observation platform. Ice covered trees and railings. I kept a close watch to avoid slipping. Conditions warned visitors away, loitering not advisable.

Dr. Bobo on Mt. Winchell.

Connard on Mt. Winchell.

"Let's get off of here," I said.
     
Back at the parking lot, we perused the gift shop.

"Do you know what the temperature is?" Dr. Bobo asked an attendant at the cash register.

"There's a thermometer outside." She pointed.

I wiped a wet coating of ice off a protective glass cover. "Looks like 29.75 degrees." But that partly sheltered thermometer couldn't factor the wind chill.

          Once more along fog-shrouded roads we drove, farther south towards SC.

          From the parking lot we hiked the final hundred yards up the gravel road to SC's uninspiring high point, Mt. Sassafras, at 3,560 feet. Quick photos and we left.

          We continued onward after our second high point of the day, in rain and cold wind, but didn't want to endure more of the same over night.

          "We can do Georgia's high point and drive to the vicinity of Atlanta, get a cheap motel room, and stay dry and warm tonight," I suggested. "It won't matter so much when we get there."

          "Yeah, sounds good to me," Dr. Bobo said.

          Rain hounded us off and on as we made our way towards GA's highpoint. High gusting wind with rain greeted us at the empty Brasstown Bald parking lot and made our hike up the 6/10 mile paved walkway to the summit, at 4,784 feet elevation, a minor challenge.

          We reserved a cheap room on the west side of Atlanta by phone, checked in late, mused at the men's clubs in the surrounding neighborhood, one with a neon sign that proclaimed NUDE in big letters.

          "We could consider this our moral low point," Dr. Bobo said.

         Rain continued. The weather forecast on TV indicated better weather to our west tomorrow, the newscasters told stories of downed trees and flooding around Atlanta.

         Even through rain and fog on Appalachian mountain roads behind slow traffic, we drove 489 miles, crossed the Eastern Continental Divide twice.

         Low points - nine; high points - six.