Chapter 23 Heat and Dogs

Hot enough to grow bananas.

Thus far the biggest surprise for me on this journey has been the heat and humidity that has persisted throughout September, at time in Minnesota that usually brings cooler temperatures. It has sapped my energy and cut my mileage. Some locals just brag this is mild compared to earlier and others tell me this is indeed unusually hot.  On Saturday, September 25 the forecast finally was for storms and a cold front headed my way. I decided to just stay in the State Park through the next day and wait out the heat in a hammock letting it to catch up with me.  Monday morning for the first time it was cool and cloudy. It made all the difference.
I was not surprised by the problem with dogs. Last spring I attended one of those adventure lectures at Midwest Mountaineering whose speakers had biked diagonally across the country from Key West to Washington State some 5,000 miles.  I asked them if they they had any problem with dogs and they said about 1,000 times.  That is one every 5 miles.  I haven't had anything near that thus far, that is until I hit Kentucky.  The people here are the most friendly but they have the meanest dogs by far.  There is something about a passing cyclist that seems to bring out the Cujo in every Benji. The difference here is the dogs are pretty much loose and just sit on the porch and lay in wait for some hapless guy on a bike to come along.  We get attacked 2 or 3 times a day.  The car chasers are pretty much weeded out through the process of natural selection leaving the smarter and more saavy ones to chase me. I did plan for this however.  One defense is to simply try to outrun them which I can tell you is impossible.  They are just too fast.  I carry a full size steel bike pump ready at hand that so far has been more useful as a club than a pump.  Prior to Kentucky, the dogs that gave chase were usually loose but with their owners in the front yards with them.   The typical scenario: Dog spots me and breaks away to give chase.  Owner vainly tries to call them back. Not once has the dog stopped or even slowed down. Dog finally stops when it sees the glint off my chrome pump ready to clobber him.  Owner sheepishly grabs dogs and drags him away.
Now in Kentucky the owner is nowhere to be seen and instead of one or two dogs they come after me in packs up to eight at a time.

Ole Betsy.

 I have escalated my arsenal to include my trusty slingshot from my boyhood days and pocket of rocks ready at hand.  A couple days ago was my first big encounter.  On a hill, a pack of six pitbull mixes emerge from the woods ahead of me.  None have collars and there is no house around so they may have been feral. They spread out across the road and break into a run towards me barking furiously. I am pretty sure they are thinking this is going to be fun.  It feels like a western movie showdown. This time I unlimber my slingshot and draw a bead on the biggest alpha dog figuring the rest will follow his lead. I aim low for his feet and the first rock ricochets off the pavement between his legs.  That startles him and confuses him not sure what just happened.  Two more rocks hit and fly through his legs stopping him in his tracks. Now he's thinking maybe this isn't such a  good idea.   His comrades see him and in turn stop and decide to circle around through the woods with some coming out behind me.  I am now surrounded. I have plenty of rocks and begin to pick each dog one at a time and let fly.  Some are playing peek a boo behind the leaves but leaves offer no protection. Eventually they all melt away into the woods and we are able to proceed on our way. Later the next day I had a similar encounter this time in a small town with several dogs coming off their porches at once.  This time I don't aim at their feet.   I have a feeling this is going to happen daily but the dogs of Kentucky will be educated in my wake.

Chapter 22 Cairo, The Confluence, Entering Kentucky, Farmer Philosopher

I entered Illinois at the northernmost edge and I will leave at the southernmost tip.  I have left hilly but pretty Missouri for boring but flat Illinois. The last 30 miles pass through Cairo (pronounced kay-row) a once important transportation, milling and lumber center that is located near the confluence of the two greatest rivers in the United States, the Mississippi and the Ohio. Something seriously happened to Cairo. Today it is a ghost town.  It is eerie and empty with once proud and substantial buildings standing vacant and boarded up amidst vacant lots with traces of foundations suggesting what once was. In fact, I had folks upriver who warned me not to go there. I would not say it was dangerous by any measure just really down on it's luck.  It once had a population of  at least 25,000 and now a tenth that.

Magnolia Mansion

Nonetheless, I toured "Magnolia Mansion" in the historic district (or what is left of it). Somehow it had survived to become a museum that stood as a reminder of  it's former heyday. I nearly had to wake up the lonely tour guide on duty who was eager to finally have someone stop by.  It is quite a impressive home once to a successful merchant of flour. It is filled with original furnishings and has separate servants quarters.  It is interesting to see these great homes built to impress as a result of some unglamorous but important and profitable enterprise.

A lookout at the confluence of the
Mississippi and Ohio Rivers

That night I spent at Fort Defiance State Park a couple miles south of Cairo which occupies the very tip of the peninsula separating the two mighty rivers.   It was here that Lewis and Clark spent five days preparing to ascend the Mississippi for the first time. They practiced learning how to use their navigation instruments and used this point as a "fix" for all future navigation. Like Cairo, the State Park is deserted. I recall that this State has no money.  The so called 16 campsites available have nearly been erased by mother nature and any facilities once here are derelict and  broken.  No water, no toilets, no lights.  The good side of the coin is that it is free and I have the entire park to myself that night with no one around to bother me except 10,000 mosquitos who hold a vigil all night on the outside of the netting.

The next morning I have a more scary prospect facing me.  The bridge across the Ohio River to Kentucky is old, narrow and long with a steady stream of heavy traffic rumbling across.  The guidebook advises I obtain police escort to safely cross. Seriously?  When I see the bridge I know he is right.  Providentially, earlier in the day I had a fellow patron overhear my plans at a cafe and he asked me when I planned to cross.  He gave me his name and number and volunteered without my asking to drive me across.  Sure enough at 7:30 that morning he pulls up in his pick up and we load up everything including Murphy and safely make it to The Bluegrass State of Kentucky.  More and more often as I head further south this sort of thing happens.  Folks here are genuinely helpful.
Kentucky borders the Mississippi River for only about 70 miles.

Near Columbus, KY.

The terrain I am biking through is bucolic, rolling hills, small farms, pastures and tree filled bottomlands. When I arrive in the first small community of Columbus I meet "Jim" the philosopher farmer at the cafe where he is holding court. He looks like Ernest Hemmingway and instantly befriends me and Murphy.  He is eloquent, and refreshingly insightful as to the ways of the world.  He told me how he organized a fight to stop a mega trash dump/landfill from being located in Columbus some years ago. Apparently the clay soils, sparse population and proximity to the river and rail made it attractive.  The promoters thought the lure of jobs and the promise of liberal payments to local government would be placate the populace. Jim convinced the populace otherwise. It was stopped due to local opposition.  Now he is retired from farming and spends his time educating ignorant passersby such as myself.  I learned that Columbus was once proposed by Thomas Jefferson as a more geographically central location for the U.S. Capitol and that it failed to pass congress by one vote.  Somewhere else I read that this never happened and was just local lore. Columbus is also near Belmont State Park that was my first actual Civil War battleground site. For most people such places bring to mind hours wasted in boring high school history class but I was the nerd who liked history class and asked all the questions.  It was here that confederate forces attempted to block passage of the Mississippi to Union Forces.

The commanding view from the bluff.

They built fortifications on a bluff overlooking a bend in the river and stretched a mile long chain across the river.  The chain idea failed when it broke due to the current but eventually the Union Forces led by an obscure officer named U.S. Grant routed the  confederate garrision in an audacious attack earning him the attention of his superiors. The place changed hands a couple more times until finally the Union held it for the remainder of the war.
I stayed in the park campground for a couple nights.  It happened to be hosting a conclave of "R-Pods" a peculiar travel trailer that everyone had.  These R-Podders were super friendly and from all over the country. Murphy and I were adopted by them and joined in on the festivities that night including a pot-luck for which I ate plenty but could bring nothing. Reality was I was starving at the  time.

Our R-Pod buffet night.

Chapter 21 We are going to Fruitland, Cape Girardeau, a Bikecentennial rider

TransAmerica Bike Trail

Twenty miles south of St. Genevieve I started seeing signs for US bicycle route 76 alongside the MRT signs.  I stopped at a convenience store for breakfast and the cashier who saw I was biking said I had to sign the guest book.  It turns out it is filled with hundreds of entries from all sorts of folks.  There were entries from cyclists from Japan, someone riding an old fashioned penny farthing, a unicycle you name it.  I learned that route 76 is also known as the TransAmerica the premier cross country bike trail. The MRT and the TransAmerica share the same road for about 10 miles before each heads their separate ways. Clearly all the entries are from TransAmerica riders, a far more popular trail. That night,  I end up in a town with the prosaic name of Fruitland, MO.  I was curious as to the name of the place and deliberately stayed there to learn about it's origin.  I had visions of a garden city with colorful fruit stands, orchards, women laden with baskets of fruit  but the reality was it was just an gritty intersection of two highways with a Casey's gas station.  I asked around and no one seemed to know why it was called Fruitland.  Finally I resorted to google.  It seems there was an orchard there long ago.
The next day I made it to Cape Girardeau, a  river town big enough to be home to Southeast Missouri University.  As I am still dealing with unusual heat and humidity and decided a leafy college campus would be a good place to wait out the heat of the day.  The local bike shop told me they even had hammocks set up under trees that sounded pretty good.  They also put me in touch with Judi, a warmshowers host who takes in weary cyclists like stray dogs. Even ones with dogs.  Judi Cureton is a 78 year old veteran cycle tourist who has traveled by bicycle in all 7 continents.

Judi's Bikecentennial Certificate

 It pretty much started on a whim when she picked up a brochure one day about the Bikecentennial and decided she would do this. She was one of the original 2,000 riders who traveled across the country in 1976 along a route which later became the TransAmerica trail which I had just crossed the day before.

Judi's Home has a widow's walk.

She lives alone in a grand Queen Anne style brick home built in 1904 by her grandfather.  It is quite close to the campus as her father had been a professor there.  Unfortunately for Murphy she also has a Jack Russell terrier who was not happy to share his territory with this intruder.  Terriers pretty much will use any excuse to bark non-stop and this was a real good excuse. Judi lived and breathed bicycles.  Bicycle mugs, coasters, posters and anything bike themed was quite evident throughout the place.  She still rides 20 - 30 miles a day and is in remarkable shape.  Her  most recent international bike trip was to the Kingdom of Bhutan.  Wow. That morning she made me  "Bicycle waffles" which are supercharged whole wheat, with a selection of berry topping, crunchy peanut butter, yogurt or maple syrup.  I put on all of the above.  Thus fortified I bid my good byes and headed out of Missouri for the last time crossing the new Mississippi River bridge that takes you to the tail end of Illinois.

The new cable stayed bridge from Cape Girardeau to Illinois.

Chapter 21 The Arch to St. Genevieve, Trail Angels, a missed connection

From the Arch I headed south as fast as I could to free myself from the grip of urban sprawl.  The city seems to go on forever.  The guide book tells me this is the grittiest stretch of the MRT and the author is right. It is mostly industrial shops, small businesses, service and supply companies that gradually start to thin our after about 20 miles of furious pedaling. As I noted earlier I have been passing a continuous stream of ubiquitos bright blue cans of Bud Light empties guiding my way for the last 800 miles like a trail of crumbs.

The source of all crumbs.

They lead me to their source, the brewery I now pass by along the way known as the Anheuser-Busch Corporation makers of Budweiser beer.  It is a massive complex. From a previous visit, I know if you take the tour you can down 2 beers in the Biergarten and did so last time I passed through.  This timeI press on determined to reach the outside world.  I spent the night in Arnold, a bedroom community south of St. Louis.  My first attempt to locate a safe tent spot behind the fire station is foiled by a cacophony of barking backyard dogs who detect my  presence.  We end up in a nature preserve that is quite dark, woodsy and much less tenuous. The next day I am travelling through rolling hills and pastures mixed with wooded valleys passing a procession of small towns.  The hills are manageable and rewarded by long downhill stretches.  At the top of one hill I stopped in a roadside park  near the town of Bloomsdale.  I detect that I have snapped two more spokes on my rear wheel (due to weight on it) and need to unload everything, pull the wheel to replace them.  As I am finishing up,  a minivan pulls up with two women and a little girl making sure I (or more importantly Murphy) is OK, have water, need anything. I am pretty sure that having Murphy allays their fears that I am an ax murderer.  They generally don't travel with golden retrievers.  They had seen me struggling up the last hill and wondered if I was in trouble.  My philosophy has wisely evolved to one of always accepting acts of kindness and dispense with the "oh no I couldn't" baloney.  I have learned that in the world of long distance cycling these folks are called "trail angels".  I ask if they could replenish one of my water bottles and they drive off returning a few minutes later with a full bottle, dog treats for Murphy and a complete box dinner of wraps for me that proved to make the difference between eating dry trail mix that night or this feast. Thanks again!  Darkness falls before I reach my goal of the town of St. Genevieve.  I spot a pair of tall water towers on top of a hill along the road that provides a grassy patch for camping.  It's still miserably hot (90's) in the day and I discover I can lean against the wall of steel at the base that is chilled from the massive volume of water it contains. It brings some measure of relief. The next morning we descend "breeze hill" the single longest stretch of downhill I have yet encountered, it goes on for a couple miles flying along with no need to pedal.  I nearly reach St Genevieve without breaking a sweat for once.
My plan was to meet up with my Harley driving  brother-in-law Rocky in this town who lives about an hour away.   Unfortunately, timing does not work out but the town proves to be quite historic being the oldest community in Missouri.

Very Old

Very New

Founded in the early 1700's by French settlers the historic downtown is well preserved and many buildings carry the title of "First ___ west of the Mississippi".  The homes are distinctly french with shuttered windows, low slung roof wrap around porches and unique hewn vertical log construction that are white washed with locally produced lime.  Murphy and I take a walking tour of several and learn about the lives of the prosperous merchants who once lived there.  Eventually, even I reach my history saturation point and head to the town's new community center to rest and refit.  The community center emulates the local french architecture and thankfully has the rarest of commodities available to me-hot showers! It also has a library, water park and work out facilities though I decide to pass on the exercise bicycles.  I spend two nights here tenting hassle free once again with the help of the local constable on a piece of sanctioned city property.

Food for thought in St. Genevieve

Chapter 20 A Milestone, Critter update, A bone to pick

I am now roughly halfway to the Gulf.  So far I have broken and replaced 4 spokes and had to replace a rear tire as well as both of the tires on Murphy's trailer.  No flats just worn out. Mechanically the old Schwinn is holding up despite the tremendous load it carries.  My steady southward progress is starting to show.  Yesterday, I spotted some banana trees growing in backyards. I don't think they were fake. This explains why I am plagued by hot weather as I am clearly moving faster than the chill of autumn. Another sign is that the daily roadkill mix is changing. I saw my first flattened possum a couple hundred miles north as I entered  more possum friendly climate and habitat.  They were neck and neck with raccoons for a long time, but now they are clearly the king of roadkill. In one of my earlier posts I listed frogs as the no. 2 roadkill and they still are but I have a new theory as to their demise.  Most are not squished but merely expired. What seems to happen is they decide to cross the road (I do not know the answer to that) and traversing a broad expanse of hot radiating asphalt with their delicate skin simply does them in. Perhaps it is the siren call of girl frogs croaking from the opposite ditch.
 However, possums reign may be short-lived.  Just yesterday south of St. Louis I passed my first flattened armadillo. They are not common this far north but I learned they are heading north as all invasive pests seem to do.  These curious creatures are not equipped for really cold weather (being hairless) so we don't need to worry in Minnesota.  They eat grubs and insects and have a habit of digging lots of little holes in your yard looking for them.  This does not endear them to lawn nazis or golf courses so a battles rages here to control them.

Does this dog look bored?

I have related in an earlier post how Murphy's most excellent adventure is being lauded by most everyone and given a thumbs up as I pass.  Well, not quite everyone.  One morning at a convenience store Murphy is waiting outside for me while I pick up a snack.  When I emerge I am cornered by a young woman hands on hips who asks "Is that your dog?"  Usually that question depending on the tone of voice can go either way.  Yes he is. "Well I have a bone to pick with you!"  It seems I am the engaging in extreme cruelty to subject a poor animal to the dangers and privations such as my journey entails.  "Why would you ever bring a dog with you doing this?"  A fair question,  and I had to admire her pluck as I towered over her.  I explain that she doesn't don't know the whole story. Murphy has done more, met more people, had more adventures and generally had a good time in the past 4 weeks than most dogs get in a lifetime. Most dogs left at home as you propose are alone, bored stiff waiting for their masters while they work or worse, are kenneled or chained.  I assured her we regularly take breaks for him to play fetch. swim to cool off, or just sit in the shade with a bowl of water always provided. In fact. I have learned to always put out a bowl of water for him (more for appearance sake) whether he wants it or not. Given a choice he would choose adventure over boredom.  This rationale seemed to disarm her a bit and she grudgingly acknowledged and drove off slightly less indignant.

Taunted by cruel children.

Never gets petted.

Chapter 19 Forest Park, A most commodious host, Milestones

I am now wholly dependent on my google mapping to find a bicycle route using city streets to penetrate the city.  The traffic is getting thick, I follow bike trails where possible but eventually resort to riding on sidewalks to stay out of traffic.  The afternoons are still perversely hot in the high 80's and the route is hilly so my progress is slow and arduous.

Ted and Jocelyn and some really tall guy

 By early evening it starts to rain,  I call it quits and head for nearby Ladue, a inner suburb and the home of Ted Fundikos and his wife Jocelyn , my hosts for the night.  They have two teen daughters and two siamese cats who are intensely interested in Murphy.  We keep them apart as Murphy is not socialized to cats and would cut short my welcome if he got the chance to retrieve one.  The cats keep jumping up to get a glimpse of him through the door window separating them.  Ted is a real estate developer working on developing a youth hockey complex for St. Louis and Jocelyn was once an actress (made a living for 17 years) in LA. She is currently writing a novel.  I learn a great deal from both of them about their pursuits.  Ted is also a serious cyclist who recently returned from Colorado where he undertook a series of high altitude bike climbs in the rockies including one up Mount Evans, a 14,000 footer accessible by pavement. I am being exposed to some real adventure junkies these days which make my efforts look pretty humble.  The next morning brings some serious rain and thunderstorms but my hosts graciously allow me to wait out the worst in the comfort of their kitchen.

Forest Park Art Museum

The "Crystal"

Determined to make progress, I set out for Forest Park despite frequent downpours trapping me under bridges and canopies along the way.  Forest Park is an urban park in St. Louis that is larger than New York's Central Park.  It is beautifully landscaped and studded with museums, fountains, flower beds, gardens and recreational facilities. It was the original site of the World's Fair and Exposition in 1904.  My original plan to blow through it is instantly scrapped when I realize this place deserves more time.  It is amazing despite the rain and I intend to see as much of it as possible.  I sample some of the museums (refuge from the rain) and Murphy was on a first name basis
with the museum security guards as he waited under their canopies. Since I made so little progress my hosts from the night before invited us back for another night despite our soggy condition.  It rained most of the night but it finally tapered off come morning.

The Gateway to the West

Posing Princesses

 Bums who are posers.

I made a dash for the St. Louis Arch reaching it by mid afternoon.  Currently it is surrounded by a construction project to rejuvenate the grounds so the tourists were herded like cattle by chain link fence pathways to the base.  I make a point of visiting it as it is the signature symbol of the city.

City Museum

 A lesser known but a more fascinating place to visit is the "City Museum".  In a word : wonderfully bizzarre. In a former downtown shoe factory, some wealthy artist created a fantastical playland of found objects (like jet fighters and steam shovels), organic sculptures, tunnels, hamster habitat-like crawling tubes snaking through the air and architectural ruins all interwoven together. It spills outside as well and even has a carousel on the roof next to the school bus that cantilevers off the parapet 5 stories above the ground.  People including adults are crawling all over and through everything trying to keep up with their pizza fueled children. I have never seen anything like it. As an architect my biggest sense of wonderment is how they ever got this place approved by the building inspector. It is worth a visit even if you don't have kids.

Chapter 18 Approaching St. Louis, A most agreeable host in St. Charles

Winfield had jumbo mosquitoes that clearly eclipsed our  highly vaunted Minnesota
State bird

I left Elsberry that afternoon with a twinge of sadness as the place had been like a home for the past 36 hours. I only cover about 25 miles today given my late start and spend the night in Winfield a town down the road about the same size as Elsberry.  One strategy for finding a place to pitch a tent unmolested is to just ask the police.  Better to make your presence known than have someone call and report you.  After a quick phone call am a soon being escorted to the local fairgrounds.  The only problem is to find a place to locate my tent that is out of the glare of street lights that  typically surround such a place. You have to wait until it is dark enough for them to kick on and then find a spot with the most intersecting shadows from trees and buildings to be able to feel like you are not sleeping in a jewelry showroom. These days it is finally cooling off at night even if the afternoons are hot. This morning I know that the day will bring me within striking distance of my first major metropolitan area I need to traverse: the City of St. Louis.  This poses some challenges because camping is not realistic leaving motels ($$$) or Warm Showers.  Www.warmshowers.org is an on-line organization that matches up people traveling by bike with hosts who are willing to provide as a minimum a spot in their yard to tent and a shower. I have yet to try it and thus far have found few hosts along my line of travel.  However, there are dozens in the St. Louis area.  That morning I get on the phone and after reviewing their bios select 4 contacts, leave messages and wait for a bite. It takes a bit of research to find suitable contacts.  One for example, invites travelers to stay with a community of disenfranchised international drifters who offer the opportunity "to see first hand the devastation wrought by urbanization and globalization". Ah, no.

Jason and precocious daughter Charlotte were my first Warmshowers hosts

Jason Kumla call me back and says "no problem" so I am thankfully not homeless that night.  He lives in St Charles a outlying town at the western edge of the metro area.  St. Charles I later learn played a role in the Lewis and Clark expedition.  It was the last outpost of civilization on the Missouri River that they left behind as they headed into unknown wilderness  and eventually a passage to the Pacific Ocean.  The comments in the expedition journal describe the inhabitants as "miserable and poore but agreeable enough".  I found Jason and his family more than agreeable.  I told him he was my very first warm showers host and he feared he would be a poor first impression.  Not so.  He invested a great deal time in me and in addition to providing food and shelter armed me with the information I would need to safely get through the city. He is an uber cyclist. He had completed the TransAmerica route in a competitive race in June.   Sixty six riders started, some 30 made it, he was no. 15. This bicycle route takes you from coast to coast, Oregon to Virginia across the heart of America and was first run for the 1976 bicentennial. Here's what's astonishing; he biked 4,200  miles in 24 days. He slept 4-6 hours a night. That is 175 miles per day traveling unsupported. My daily mileage averages 35-40 miles.  He travel with only 20 lbs of gear to my 150 lbs with a wet golden retriever. We share a love of long distance bike travel but our approaches are slightly different. Jason continued to look after me and the next day arranged a host for me using his cycling connections for the following night.  He is a great guy.

Charlotte meets a even more precocious dog.

The next day my route takes me through historic St. Charles along the original main street off the banks of the Missouri.  I could easily spend a day there.  It is fronted with sturdy 2 story stone and brick buildings that date back to 1769.  It was Missouri's first State Capitol and once home to Daniel Boone.  Today the district is a charming and thriving string of shops and eateries (unlike most of the river towns I pass through).  Before I rolled in I had never heard of the place. Now everyone should visit!  St. Charles is also along the Katy trail.  This I had heard of.  It is the longest rails to trails conversion some 240 miles running east west across the state.  Its surface is crushed limestone and the name comes from the original name Missouri-Kansas-Texas railroad or MKT in railroad parlance that was shortened to KT.  I get to ride it for 4 or 5 miles today on my way into St. Louis.

The Missouri River at St. Charles. This is the highway taken by Lewis and Clark.

Chapter 17 Louisiana, MO to Elsberry, MO: The kindness of strangers

Murphy and I are loaded and
ready to roll

The next morning Murphy and I must say good bye to Sue, our intrepid team member who we will miss greatly.  It has been great having her shadow me along the way for the last 6 days knowing if the going gets tough she comes to the rescue.  With the bike reloaded with panniers and trailer and dog she heads north back to Minnesota and I head south.

Our farewell Breakfast at the Eagle's Nest Cafe in Louisiana, MO.

Today pass through Clarksville down the road and there meet a young man who takes an interest in Murphy.  He is covered in tattoos, nervously smoking a cigarette waiting for his girlfriend to show up at the picnic shelter I am resting in.  I ask him about his various tattoos and learned his story.  He is only 23 and has spent 7 of those in prison.   He listed off a smorgasboard of prisons he has seen the inside of.  I asked his what it was like and he responded only that it was "hard... really hard".  He is meeting his girlfriend at a remote location because her parents don't approve of him (I can't imagine why).  Apparently drugs have been his nemesis but he assures me he is clean now and strives to live a better life.  I wish him luck and move on.
Down the road I am stopped by a detour sign.  The bridge beyond is being rebuilt.  I ignore the sign and go see for my self.  Surely there must be some way through with a bike.  I had been warned about this by others and after trying all options short of swimming the stream it crossed I resign to taking the detour.  The detour turns out to be 20 miles of hills.  I end up going only 18 miles further toward my destination but biking 38 miles today.  Toward the end I start climbing one final hill with one crest following another until finally I am spent when faced with yet one last crest.  I decide to just lay down in the shade of a ditch and regain my strength.  That is when I hear someone calling out if I need anything, a drink?  I spy a woman who is walking my way and has upped the ante to a cold drink.  It turns out I have basically expired near the end of her driveway.  I am soon meeting her husband and enjoying a ice cold Gatorade in the shade of her patio.  The patio overlooks a vista of lush rolling hills and farms.  Katy and Alan Lagemamn are the absolutely the most welcoming people.  A shipwrecked sailor could do no better than landing on their shore.  I am invited to spend the night in a nice cool bed, get cleaned up and even fed on zero notice.  I am not fool.  I accept their hospitality that is generously offered for both Murphy and I.  I soon meet one of their daughters who stops by for a visit and learn all about their other children, family history and living in Elsberry, MO population 2500.  Alan works for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and Katy for the local School District.  The next day I am invited to work on this blog at the High School and interviewed by a reporter for the Elsberry Democrat Newspaper.  It may be a slow news day in Elsberry but in our view Murphy and I have hit the big time.

Home away from Home

Murphy and Katy and my knee

Chapter 16 Hannibal, MO, Mark Twain, Spooky caves and a Birthday

I cross into Missouri for the first time on the only stretch of Interstate it is legal to ride a bicycle on in the state of Illinois. I-72 is the only way for the MRT to cross to Hannibal, MO so apparently somehow the bicycle restrictions were suspended.  I recall once driving on the interstate in Montana and seeing a bunch of loaded down cyclists riding the shoulder and I thought what idiots they were.  You mean they could not find a better route?  Well it was my turn now to be the idiot.  It is a strange feeling as the monstrous green exit signs pass overhead.  You are out of place but the reality is that with a broad shoulder it is better and safer than ordinary highways.  

Interstate 72 Bike Path

Snookered into whitewashing Tom's Fence

 Hannibal is of course the home of Sam Clemens where he lived as a boy and later became one of America's most famous authors using his alias Mark Twain (which is actually an adopted steamboat navigation term).  We stayed a the Mark Twain Campground /Secret cave / Winery.  That pretty much covered it.  I toured the cave the next morning. It was a crisscross of passageways formed millions of years ago but more significantly was the boyhood playground of young Sam who later featured it in many of of his stories.  The interior is covered in graffiti that goes back to 1886 when it was first discovered and includes the signature of outlaw Jesse James who holed up there after robbing a bank. The fame obviously became a gold mine for a series of subsequent cave owners who currently charge the  princely sum of $20 for a 60 minute tour.  Hannibal has smartly played up its Mark Twain connection and has many building linked to him.

Mark Twain Cave

Lesser known is that Hannibal is also the home of Molly Brown, aka "Unsinkable" who became a progressive women's right advocate and even ran for Senate before women could vote.  Kathy Bates played her in the film "Titanic".
I studied the guidebook and gleaned the information that I would avoid yet more hills outside of Hannibal if I backtracked to the Illinois side avoiding 40 miles of roller coaster terrain.  Illinois was easy and flat and my only challenge was to cross back into the town of Louisiana, MO across a steep, narrow bridge that was not that fun.  As today was Sue's birthday we celebrated by staying in a cozy cabin on the edge of town and dining out at the Golden Corral buffet.  OK, it is pretty lame but it was the best I could do with what was available.  I could have bought her a "Mark Twain Cave" t-shirt at the gift shop but thought better of it.

Chapter 15 Keokuk to Quincy, IL, Grasshoppers for Lunch, Architectural gems

A disused bridge.

I have crossed the river back to Illinois and ride through some very quiet rural country side.  Sue leapfrogs ahead every few miles because it is threatening to rain and she can swoop in for a rescue if needed.  No one is on the road. It traverses the edge of a hillside overlooking vast cornfields that stretch uninterrupted for 2 miles across to the river beyond.

Corn, corn and more corn.

 It is idyllic quintesential countryside with a few towns.  I am cruising at top speed scattering grasshoppers sunning on the shoulder in my wake.  That is when one leaps up and is intercepted my my open mouth while chewing gum.  We are talking a big olive green Chinook chopper sized hopper that struggles inside my mouth with all his pointy barbed legs kicking.  It is not the best feeling. I instantly spit him out along with my gum.  Yeeecth!
That night Sue tracked down a campground called the Driftwood.  It is a former KOA that fell on hard times and has been resurrected by a new owner.  The manager is a real character who left nearby Quincy years ago to travel and work odd jobs in the American West.  He traveled by bicycle from Jackson Hole, WY to Quincy, IL so we instantly clicked and I spent the evening hearing his life story of divorces, working ranches, racing dirt bikes and climbing mountains.  Eventually as the injuries accumulated he wisely decided to hang it up, move back to Quincy leading what must be a very tame life now.  Quincy is a town that boasts the 10th most architecturally significant intersection in the country.  It makes me wonder why the list even went that far down.  Nonetheless, we visit this corner and I am truly impressed even as an Architect.  It is in the middle of a historic district of fine turn of the century homes that were built to impress.  All sorts of architectural styles, ornate details, wrap around porches, gables all executed in fine brickwork and masonry.  My question to the locals is: Who built these?  The downtown like all river towns struggles to stay alive against the chains and Walmarts on the outskirts of town.  While there are also many fine buildings downtown there are equally as many vacant lots.  I learned that Quincy was a leading center of commerce in its heyday with many fortunes being made as the river and railroads converged here.  These fortunes answer who built these mansions.  They are worth getting off the interstate if you ever pass near Quincy.

Chapter 14 Burlington to Keokuk, IA, Sue Joins the Team, Snake Alley

My lovely wife Sue drove down from Minneapolis and arrived in Burlington in the late afternoon to discover her sun burnt, grimy husband lounging around the waterfront tossing sticks into the muddy waters for her equally scruffy dog. We are probably more happy to see her than her us in our disheveled condition.
She is just in time as the temperatures have soared into the nineties and tonight we are heading to the air conditioned comfort the first motel room of the trip.  So far, I seem to live a charmed existence as once again I escape the ravages of mother nature.  That evening the skies pour forth a torrential rain storm that floods the streets stalling cars and trapping us in our restaurant for some time.  Tenting in some seedy locale would have been a disaster.  The next day the temperatures are equally oppressive and I quickly scrap any plans to bike or camp.  Instead we see the sights of Burlington which we soon learn is the home of the world's crookedest street called snake street.  Sure enough as proclaimed by Ripley's Believe it or not we find it.  I recall San Francisco has such a street but evidently this one is even crooked-er. The plaque explains it was a collaboration of a local city official, an landscape architect and a road contractor  back in the 1880's I guess just to see if they could do it.

Sue descending Snake Alley

When I finally set out the next day down river the game has changed. I am not being a purist on the issue of completing every mile self supported. Sue is hauling all my gear including Murphy so I am able to travel free of my baggage. While I am doing this Sue reconnoiters ahead by car and sets up camp at the next campground. En route she calls to report the campground we have selected is full of guys with sleeveless shirts and beer cans permanently affixed in one hand. They turn out to be real nice guys helping her with the tent and invite her to join them. She demurely declines. The next town down the road is Fort Madison.  Fort Madison is named after the first fort  located there establishing an official american presence on the upper Mississippi after the recent acquisition from France as part of the Louisiana Purchase.
Built in 1813 it lasted 5 years before being abandoned and burned.  During this time it weathered several hostile Indian attacks and several soldiers lost their lives.  Interestingly, it was not the Indians that caused the abandonment but corrupt government contractors from St. Louis that supplied rotten food to the post leading to the garrison having nothing to eat.  So they left.  Corruption is nothing new. Today there is a replica fort complete with costumed re-enactors who relate this story.

Fort Madison

Life in 1813

"real" time.  Ft. Madison is also home to the Shaeffer Pen company where the first pump fountain pen was invented.  Unfortunately, Sheaffer was acquired by pen giant Bic who gradually closed the place down.  No doubt because no one actually writes anymore.
The day's ride ends in Keokuk, Iowa.  I had to ride along highway 61 for most of the day which while not necessarily unsafe due to the shoulder it is not pleasant.
If any of you find your self in Keokuk, I have a recommendation for a restaurant which for those who know me know I look for value instead of artistically arranged green sprigs and drizzled sauces.  Ogo's  restaurant and buffet had a lot full of cars for a reason.  For $7.99 they offer a buffet of home cooked eats that are better than most.  In fact, the chicken is award winning and tastier than the Colonel's. It was clearly a favorite with the locals and based on their physiques they come here often.

The chow line at Ogo's

e  

Chapter 13 Travels with Murphy

My scheming plan to shamelessly use Murphy to break the ice is working better than I imagined. People love him. I am being stopped in the street as I pass. I hear "Awws" and "Look at that dog!" and "That is sooo cute!" all the time.  He of course is a natural ham and usually gets them to rub his belly in the end.  He is particularly disarming to groups of young women who fawn over him gathering around his trailer cooing and fussing. I would recommend any young single lad to get himself a golden retriever.
Charming as he is, he is still a dog.  Twice he has disappeared from sight only to have rolled in something foul upon his return.  Once apparently cow manure based on smell and once in a dead gelatinous fish which he shook off spattering me with stomach churning flecks. In both cases he was immediately given a bath with soap and malice. In all, he seems to be enjoying the trip as he is with his master 24 hours a day slowly expanding his "territory" down the river. At first he hung his head "out the window" all the time but now  he will lay down resting his head on the edge of the trailer.

I am meeting Sue in Burlington, Iowa next up for another rest and refit stop.  I have noticed that my rear tire is wearing through to the cording and needs to be replaced. This will be a chance to shed unwanted gear and resupply.

Chapter 12 Muscatine to Buffalo, Museums and Stealth Camping

Along the way I have been indulging in Museum going which Murphy does not care for as he has to wait outside bored.  He does get petted by everyone passing by.  I put out a little sign with his name to encourage this along with a bowl of water to let folks know he is not abandoned.  In Dubuque there is the National Rivers (and Mississippi) Museum and Aquarium which is something I never knew even existed.  I am told it is the number one tourist attraction in Iowa ahead of even the Amana Colonies. It contains much about river history, steamboating, Mark Twain, commercial fishing and the exploration and transportation role the river played in the development of the nation. It is well worth a visit.  Moline, Il is home to the John Deere company. There I wander through an impressive pavillion filled with vintage tractors, colossal combines and earth moving equipment. It chronicles the history of this company from its roots as a better "self cleaning plow" to a giant international company. I learned that this is a rare case where the first generation that built the company is replaced by a successive generations that are even more business smart, successful and shrewd.  Too often, it seems the later generations are wastrels that squander it all.  I have met a number of folks who have worked for the Deere along the way.

The story of the John Deere Company in Moline, IL.

At this point, I am doing mostly stealth camping. It allows me to simply camp under cover of darkness when the sun sets where ever I am instead of laboring on to the next official campground. It does require me to be completely in snyc with daylight.  I am normally a night owl but now I am in the tent at dark and out of there at sun rise to avoid early morning detection.  I camp anywhere that is mowed, out of sight and dark preferably some distance from any road or buildings. So far it has worked well.  One night however, Murphy and I did have some animal crashing about in the woods next to the tent. I never did figure out what it was. It seemed to bother Murphy more than me.  He was on high alert staring intently through the netting most of the night.  One night outside of Buffalo, Iowa I had resolved to spring for a real campground mostly to be able to take a shower. It was Labor Day weekend so I knew it would be hopeless to secure an actual campsite but surely they would not turn away a lone camper on a bicycle at dusk.  I was wrong. The ranger inflexibly told me it was not allowed to camp except in designated sites.  I pointed out that I don't need a picnic table, electricity, gravel pad etc just a patch of grass.  How about the field behind the bathhouse with room for 50 guys with tents?
Nope. Something about not having a way to enter my tent stay in the computer system.
I was directed back the way I came, now a darkening highway.  He thought it would be OK to camp on the City Park Beach in  town. It turned out to be a good thing. After groping around in the dark I found a spot in a copse of trees right along the river that proved to be the most delightful spot of the trip come morning. I actually stayed and just enjoyed my private beach until mid morning in my hammock.

Dawn on the river on my private beach

 I have crossed back into Iowa now and pass through Muscatine.  It has a giant statue of a "Clammer" on the waterfront.  Muscatine was once the "Pearl Button Capital of the World with some 43 factories cranking out buttons from fresh water clams in 1910's.  It all came to an end with the invention of plastic.  There is of course another Museum for this to tour but even I have my saturation point and decide to take a pass.

A well kept Farm is my home with permission from the hospitable Farmer.  He happened to be  wearing a tattered "Humphrey Metrodome" T- Shirt. I told him the dome is now history and to replace his shirt with a new US Bank Stadium version would probably set him back $175.