Chapter 29 West Memphis to Helena, AK, Razorbacks, Blues Festival

Our camp at T. O Fuller State Park

I spent my last afternoon in Memphis traveling to the T.O. Fuller State Park that is actually within the city limits.  It is notable because it was the first state park in the U.S. where it was actually legal for a black person to camp.  It was originally built for the use of African Americans in the great depression by the CCC. 

A reconstructed home at Chucalissa.

Next door is an archeological site and Museum known as Chucalissa that preserves the mounds of early Native American tribes that lived there.  My visit coincided with hundreds of school children who mobbed poor Murphy. 
I crossed the Mississippi into Arkansas over what was described as a "bike friendly"interstate highway bridge.  There is a narrow separated lane for bikes but the pounding of a continuous train of Semi tractor trailers caused the entire structure to vibrate exceedingly.  I could not help but wonder what the safety factor on the gusset plates was.  Before I even get on the bridge my tire goes flat again, this time a victim of the minefield of broken glass and metal shards on the shoulder.  This happens despite the "FPS" flat protection system the tire advertises on its side.  Halfway across I am blocked by a rotting Lazyboy recliner someone had dumped onto the bike lane.  I had to man handle the thing over the side of the bridge to get by.  Once over and short cutting down the weedy highway embankment I was safely off the freeway onto a frontage road I had spotted below me.  I google mapped my way to West Memphis a couple miles from the river.  It tells me there is no way to get there except the freeway (which is illegal). It seems someone does not want me to get to West Memphis.  However, I followed the frontage road to the dead end whereby unknown to the "all knowing" Google there is a newly built bike path that runs alongside the freeway all the way into town. The good news here is that there is currently under construction a bicycle bridge converted from a RR bridge that by passes what I just dealt with. It is scheduled to open October 24. I missed it by just a few days.  I actually tried to use it but the contractor said no way.
West Memphis is the very poor cousin to Memphis. Struggling to survive, it reminds me of Cairo, IL except with people around.
I stopped at the Hardware store to fix my handlebar mirror. There was an older black woman who had on a FEDEX shirt waiting at the counter. I knew FedEx is based there and asked how it was working for them.  She had only been on the job a month as a package handler. She said they handle 2.2 million packages each day at her facility and she feels like she handled every single one of them today. More specifically she repairs packages that get smashed or torn.  "You would not believe the treatment these handlers give them.  They throw them boxes back and forth on the line to keep up.  She yells at them please don't throw them boxes! I gotta fix them and I am already behind!" I asked her if I should send my stuff UPS.  "No, just don't use no flimsy boxes."
I spent the night in Marianna, AK.  a town big enough to support a Post Office.  I came preplanned to pick up my absentee ballot that Sue had sent to me so I can vote.   

Murphy found the well Timmy
 fell in near the derelict ball park

That night I camped at a remote derelict ballpark on the edge of town.  Technically it was not allowed but a conversation with the police granted me an exception.  I had some nocturnal visitors that night.  Several times I heard a chuffing, grunting sound in the nearby woods.  I shone my light and could see a pair of yellow beady eyes shining back.  I am pretty sure I have the company of the famous Arkansas razorback or wild pig.  Razorbacks are descendents from domestic pigs escaped from early settlers.  Somewhere in time someone had the bright idea to introduce into the gene pool some imported russian boars that bred with and produced meaner tougher and nastier offspring.   I kept Murphy close at hand all night in the tent.  I didn't bother them, they didn't bother me.


 


"Boot Hill" in Marianna

In the morning I visited an old cemetery that was next to me.   It was barely maintained and had a distinct "Boot Hill" character.  Old tombstones teetering this way and that on a hillside and rusting ornate wrought iron enclosures similarly falling apart.  They contained curious marble ovals that looked like buried old fashioned bathtubs holding what I presume was the remains of individuals of a family.  It was a interesting place to visit in the early morning light. 
In the afternoon, I shared a table at a cafe with a guy in his 70's who told me about his Huck Finn adventures on the Mississippi. He and 7 of his pals had cruised 300 miles down the river in pontoon boats to Natchez.  He had a fearful respect for the river. He said he had always wanted to do something like it but he finally made up his mind one day while sitting through yet another funeral of one of his friends. He decided now would be a good time. He told me in the course of the 12 days he saw probably 10 - 15 people in canoes and kayaks who were traveling the length of the river from Itasca. I hear about similar encounters from a lot from locals along the whole way during my  trip.
Late afternoon I finally reached Helena, AK.  I rode down a hill right onto main street.  I had stumbled quite by chance onto a street festival.


Helena, AK Blues Festival

Not just any festival, but the 31st Annual King Biscuit Blues Music Festival.  I quickly learned this was a big deal.  Blues aficionados come from far away states to attend this.  There were 10 blocks of blues music coming from well known purveyors of this sound on each block with a big main performing stage at one end.  It was in full swing and Murphy and I slowly worked our way down the historic main street being stopped frequently by dog lovers or bike lovers or both.  I kept him in his trailer because he is incorrigible on a leash trying to snarf up every cheese curd and piece of kettle corn.  Until that day I was not even a faintly aquainted with Blues music so for me it was education by immersion. Now I know who B.B. King is.
Finding a quiet place to camp that night was going to be a challenge with the thousands of visitors and noise.  I headed to the edge of town and was eyeing up a churchyard along the highway. There was a white haired older black man working in his what appeared to be a salvage yard across the street.  I approached him asking about the church and spending the night.  " Hell, I own all that land around it, go ahead and pitch your tent anywhere you want."  Joe Hughes owns a logging/trucking operation which explained the trucks and rigs surrounding his trailer.  I soon learned about his battle with the City of Helena.  It seems he had a big operation for 30 years when one day an over zealous zoning inspector came to tell him it was now illegal as they changed the zoning. They denied him a grandfathered use permit. At first he could just put up screening fences though they could not tell him what they would approve, then they did not like what he put up, then he went to court, then his lawyer's sister got on the zoning board and the lawyer chickened out of fighting his cause. The story went on for some time and got so confusing I gave up trying to make sense of it.  I believe it is still in litigation. Anyhow, he owns 16 acres and I camped behind one of his screen fences next the pile of truck tires, engine hoist and pair of refrigerators all with weeds holding them in place.  Helena was the site of a major Union encampment that had been attacked by the Confederates.  Newly freed slaves had followed the union army trains there and many joined the Union forces ultimately defending Helena.  Joe told me he has a civil war cemetery still somewhere in the woods in the back of his 16 acres. Not maintained, he had not seen it since he was a boy and now it is buried in a dense mass of vegetation.  I was tempted to do some exploring but lacking a machete decided to move on.

Chapter 28 Walking in Memphis, Sara and Harry, Bike shop blues

As I have been on the road now for over 7 weeks, I am beginning to realize what this trip is really about.  It is not about the physical challenges, it is not about the scenery or even the history and local lore I have absorbed.  It has become really about the people I have met along the way and their stories, generosity and hospitality.  I am continually amazed at the spontaneous acts of kindness that have come my way.  I have no illusions, if I were traveling by car, my experiences would be quite different. But being on a bicycle especially with a dog seems to make you approachable even vulnerable. It seems to break down barriers, open doors and sparks people's curiosity.  It happens daily even hourly.  The past weeks events have reflected that more than ever. Now on with the rest of the story.
Memphis being a big city means finding real accommodations.  My first contact through Warmshowers.org leads me to Harry Freeman and his partner Sara.  They are an couple in their 70's living right in Memphis near a small college and the Memphis Zoo.  I had to warn Harry over the phone that before he agrees to host me I have a golden retriever with me.  While Harry admits he is not a dog person Sara very much is- especially for golden retrievers.  He wisely does what Sara wants, I am golden with a golden.  We arrange for my arrival in the afternoon leaving me free to see Memphis some in the morning.  First order of business is to get my  failing bike repaired.  I take it to Midland Cycle near downtown.  The place is pretty forlorn inside and a mess.  Half repaired bikes strewn around, piles of cycling goods, empty boxes, dim lighting does not give the best first impression.  Doug, the owner fixes my wobbling rear tire and replaces yet another broken spoke.  He figures out that I had replaced some spokes in my earlier repairs incorrectly which contributed to my problems. My rear tire which is just 3 1/2 weeks old has already worn out and is showing the cording.  He orders a new rear tire and new rear sprocket cluster that will take 2 days to arrive. I am not real confident with the place.  His workbench is piled high with debris.  I can't see how even finds anything.  The most accessible tools are the dozens of empty beer cans that line the edge of the bench. But, I put myself in his hands and hope for the best.

Memphis is named after the ancient city in Egypt.

That morning I make my way to the newly opened Bass Pro Shop that occupies the former basketball arena known as (and shaped like) the pyramid.  It is huge, the largest sporting goods store I have ever seen.  The interior is theatrically themed and more Disneyworld than Cabela's.  In fact, I learned that Bass Pro has purchased Cabela's that very morning for 6 billion bucks.  Inside the interior space is vaulted at least 20 stories high with a veritable recreated forest, bayous and backwaters serving as a setting for the merchandise.



"I'll take two"

Inside the cathedral of Bass Pro

The gun shop has a Beretta shot gun for sale for $82,000.  I prowled around for an hour finally buying some jerky for 6 bucks. Unfortunately, I can't afford the weight of a new Beretta lashed to my bike.
I also take in the usual tourist hot spots.  Beale Street is famous for its Blues music venues, beckoning neon signs and the Coyote Ugly café. Nearby Sun Records is where Elvis cut his first recordings. Today it is a restaurant.  The balcony of the Lorraine Motel is the location of Martin Luther King's assassination.  Years later it was saved from the wrecking ball and renovated into the National Civil Rights Museum, the exterior preserved to look as in that fateful day in 1968.  I decided to pass on
Graceland.  I am not a big enough Elvis fan to pay $62 for see his sock drawer on the VIP tour.

At home in the guest house.

When I arrived to the home of Harry and Sara that afternoon I found it to be a  wonderful refuge from the city and a great place to recuperate.They have a charming guest house fully furnished,  private and complete with kitchen and bath. Not too rough to for this weary traveler. Sara is taken in hook, line and sinker by Murphy.  He is especially ingratiating and worms his way into the big house in short order. Harry and Sara are both retired, he an environmental engineer and she a speech pathologist. I remarked that she had no southern accent.  She told me that she was originally from the North and being a speech pathologist, worked very hard to never acquire one. They were well traveled and earlier this summer had even been to Minnesota for 12 days.  Harry had read a book about the Great Hinckley Fire and was determined to see where it happened.  They drove from Minneapolis to Grand Marias making his pilgrimage to the Hinckley Fire Museum along the way.  I was ashamed to admit that I had not been to it nor the Connor's Northwest Fur trading post despite driving past both hundred's of times. They even had breakfast at the Naniboujou Lodge and knew the interesting story behind it.   Being good Memphis citizens they saw to it that I am taken out to have some genuine Memphis sweet BBQ that night.  In fact, I spent 2 nights with them.  The next day they even loaned me their car to visit  The Dixon Art Museum and Gardens.  I really had some very enjoyable and interesting conversations with them during my visit - all for a stranger.  When I finally rolled out of the driveway, I was carrying a gift  box of king size Milk Bones for Sara's new buddy.
Meanwhile, my bike shop buddy never seemed to answer his phone.  I had no idea if anything had progressed beyond some serious beer drinking.  However, when I arrived at his shop he was true to his word. The parts had arrived and were soon installed and I was on my way.  That is until 20 minutes later when the tire went flat.  I limped back and he replaced the tube and gave me a spare "on the house" even though it turned out one of my earlier tube patches had failed. As with other places on my journey, I had been warned by folks out in the hinterland of the dangers of Memphis- riots, murders and rampant crime.  I am sure it has it's problems, even serious ones but I saw nothing of the sort.

Chapter 27 Flat tires, broke spokes and a crocked sprocket

I have previously bragged that I have not had a single flat tire.  That all changed today.  I must have run over something because suddenly I am running on the rims of one bike tire and one trailer tire.  Of course I am in the middle of nowhere. I set up shop in the shade of a roadside tree to fix things.  After much searching I found a tiny piece of hairlike wire stuck in each tire.  I also discover I have two more broken spokes on my rear wheel.  I tried out some new-fangled peel and stick  inner tube patches which worked at first but shortly failed down the road.  I had to do it all again this time using the traditional glue and rubber patches which held.  Don't bother with peel and stick patches. The spokes where more problematic.  To replace one required that I remove the sprocket cluster to access the replacement.  This means I need a huge wench. I walked to a nearby house but no one is around despite the fleet of vehicles in the yard.

Daniel keeps me rolling.

 About this time a pick up truck pulls up and out steps Daniel, an 80 something friendly fellow who is more curious about finding out why I have been lounging along the road for the last hour (he had passed me on an earlier trip). "Do you need help?".  Do you happen to have a huge wrench? "I dunno, let me look."  He rummages around and comes back with a huge wrench and an even a battery powered air pump.  Pretty soon we are joined by another neighbor of equal age who are entertained for quite a while meeting Murphy and watching me getting the job done.  We are back on the road.
The following day a new problem develops.  My rear sprocket cluster has been acting up and now it has begun slipping.  It feels like the chain is jumping but actually the internal ratchet that engages when you pedal must be failing.  The effect is a constant slipping and jumping which is at best annoying and likely eventually will fail altogether. Sometimes it stop doing it and works fine for hours and then it starts again. I can't really fix this.   I check the mileage to the nearest bike shop.  Its exactly 99 miles in Memphis.

Back on the road again.

Chapter 26Wily Coyotes, Kudzu, Holy Carp!

I spent the night near Reelfoot lake along a canal that cuts through fields on each side.  About 3 am the coyotes started calling to each other with some uncomfortably close.  It was an eerie crescendo chorus of yelps and howls that while pretty cool is also creepy.  After a few minutes it felt like they were closing in on us.  I was afraid Murphy might go native on me.  I stood up outside and beamed the horizon with the front lamp from my bike.  Abrupt silence.  Never heard from them again.  At dawn we are awakened by the sound of gunfire.  Several shots nearby in the field across the canal.  Murphy likes gunfire because it means downed gamebirds to him.  I figure out that it is dove season when I see scattering flocks flashing in the early light each time a volley of shots erupt. Good morning.

The vine that ate the south.

Kudzu

 These southern lands have problem with invasive species that make our milfoil in Minnesota look pretty wimpy.  Kudzu is a vine that I am told was introduced by highway departments down here as a means to stabilize road cuts from erosion.  Yes it does that really well.  It also has taken over the place.  It grows in profusion where ever it takes hold.  I see hillsides and valleys that are carpeted with a 3 foot thick layer that shrouds over everything including trees, signs, power poles, roads.  The landscape becomes a weird Dr. Suess-like land of fluffy green lumps emerging from a green blanket.  It is impossible to penetrate.  The interwoven lacing of tough vines would require a chain saw to cut a path.   Then there are the famous flying Asian carp.  They are in Reelfoot lake.  I am told some lakes you can't even power boat on for fear of being knocked out of the boat. Once again they out compete and eat the other species to starvation.  Closing lock and dam no.1 in Minneapolis to stop them from getting into the upper Mississippi was a real good idea.  Ironically, when I toured the Reelfoot Lake Visitor Center I learned something.  Inside are exhibits that date from 1983.  One discusses the lake ecology and show a black and white photo of a beaming biologist holding up a "white amur carp" (aka asian carp) that was proudly being introduced into the lake as a means to control algae.
  While not something I would call invasive I am being affected by what I would call an infectious exposure.  That is the southern drawl.   Since Kentucky the drawl has gotten thicker and more difficult for a Yankee to understand.  Now I have some southern relatives in Georgia who while transplants from the North,  have mostly acquired what I would call "southern" accents.  However, compared to what I am hearing now they speak the King's English. I would imagine that as soon as I open my mouth I sound like some national network broadcaster. I am pegged right away as a yankee. I am told that a yankee is a northerner who visits but a northerner who stays is a "damned yankee".
It is all in fun of course. I think.

After traveling over 1,200 miles along the Mississippi River trail
 I finally met someone else doing the same thing.  Bill came
cycling up behind me one afternoon so we stopped to chat.
He is 69 years old and from Washington state. He also had never done
 anything on this scale.  He is traveling with his wife driving
 a support vehicle ahead and staying in motels- hence no gear.  Loaded down as I am
I was soon in his rear view mirror.

Chapter 25 Food Desert, Fort Pillow, Entering Memphis

Even though I am within shooting distance of Memphis this is some of the most remote and sparsely populated sections of the MRT.  My original plan of eating at convenience stores and little cafes along the way is starting show some flaws. One day I pass absolutely nothing all day and end up camping along the highway in a soybean field.  Fortunately, I had purchased some reserve rations the day before at what was billed as a grocery store in the guidebook but was pretty bare.  I bought the last can of beanless chili on the shelf.  While it did sustain life, I was wondering what those soybeans in the field would taste like if added to the chili.
Despite my mechanical troubles I decided to take a side trip to Ft. Pillow State Park and spend the night.

Fort Pillow State Park architect designed toilets.

No picnicing on these grounds.

 It is a 18 mile round trip and takes me past a Tennessee State Prison which is rather ominous. The road cuts through prison property for at least a mile. Warning signs everywhere.  Do not set foot off the road.  The prison itself is a complex of guard towers, light poles, shining silver chain link and barbed wire that screens barely visible buildings.  It is surrounded by a 500 yard no man's land.
I thought of that kid I met who spent 7 years of his life in one of these.

Reconstructed breastworks at Fort Pillow

While this place is designed to keep people in, Fort Pillow was designed to keep people out.  It is another confederate fortress on the banks of the Mississippi intended to block Union boat traffic.  The fort as originally built consisted of 5 miles of perimeter protective earthworks for a garrision of 20,000 men.  I
t was too large defend and never manned.  They ended up building a smaller set of fortifications within.  It fell to the Union anyhow.  More significantly, late in the war this fort became notorious for what was later called a massacre by the north.  It had been manned by a Union garrision consisting of  newly formed colored troops and white troops. The Confederates returned and overwhelmed the garrison in a raid. Nearly all the colored troops (which were despised by the south) were killed.  Most of the white troops survived being taken prisoner.  Even then it was called a needless race driven massacre giving impetus to a "Remember Fort pillow" slogan for the black Union troops thereafter.  Interestingly, the Confederate general responsible, Nathan Forrest, remains a controversial figure in local history, revered by some and decried by others. I later saw his statue is in a park in Memphis but it has recently been renamed from "Forrest Park" to the rather strange name of "Health Sciences" park.

I finally limped into Memphis with the rear sprocket hanging on for the 99 miles.  The MRT actually takes a really nice route into Memphis.  I expected having to traverse miles of suburbs, strip centers and busy arterials before I can get anywhere close to Downtown.  But it follows a corridor of green somehow avoiding the suburbs and drops you at the end of a riverfront park with a bike path the rest of the way right into the City Center. I spent the night camped behind a river levee just outside the park which seemed fine until I discovered my location aligns with the end of a nearby commuter airport runway when the first flight roared overhead.  Didn't sleep too well.

Chapter 24 Hickman, KY, Reelfoot lake, Earthquakes, Nightriders

I am now in Hickman, KY which is a small community but big enough to support a library which I need to write these entries.  Murphy has to wait outside while I do this but he has a ability to attract admirers who come looking for me inside to get permission to pet him.  Soon the librarians learn my story and shortly later the local newspaper editor comes to interview me.   I know...it's tough being a celebrity.
Unfortunately, I never get to see my picture in the paper because I am on to the next county before it hits the streets.  That evening, I am planning to crawl off and sleep behind the town water tower (next to the library) but once again serendipity intervenes.  The the owner of the pizza place where I had dinner invites me to stay in the church down the road.  I am thinking I am sleeping on a wooden pew in some musty sanctuary washing up in the janitors closet.  That sounds pretty good compared to the usual diet of mosquitoes and stickiness.

There was room at this inn.

 Instead I am escorted to the brand new West Hickman Baptist Church.  It has a separate fellowship wing that is like a travelers dream.  I sleep in the central "living room" with overstuffed couches and reading lamps that pull out into beds.  A door leads to a large commercially equipped kitchen with a stocked refrigerator.  "Help yourself to whatever you can find in there". I do.  Then there is the full men's and women's facilities with showers. " There are towels in there and bedding in that closet".  No mint on the pillow but otherwise I am very grateful. Thanks for your Christian hospitality!  If Mary and Joseph had stumbled on this congregation the nativity would have turned out a little different.
Over the next few days I am sheltered by two more churches at night both Methodist who welcome me in unhesitantly to pitch a tent or use their facilities.

Tennessee snow

The next day I crossed into Tennessee the Volunteer State.  It is flat and about 10 miles in a major change occurs.  I have been staring at corn and soybeans for the last thousand miles.  Suddenly I look up and there is this strange field filled with green plants studded with white puffs.  I have never seen cotton grown before but this is where it comes from.  It is a novelty for me.  I stopped and picked a boll.  It  has about 2 dozen seeds that need to be removed by teasing them out from the fibers. I takes me 15 minutes to remove half of them before I give up.  Eli Whitney was a genius. I can't imagine the toil once required to pick and clean this crop by slaves.

Sunset on Reelfoot lake. The trees are bald cypress trees and the area is known for bald eagle watching.

The next stop for me is Reelfoot lake, one of the largest natural lakes in Tennessee.  Reelfoot was formed by a severe earthquake in 1811 that caused the Mississippi to temporarily reverse course according to the boat captains of the day and it flooded into a nearby land that had collapsed forming a lake.  Tremors were felt as far away as Montreal, Quebec.  Reelfoot is a beautiful area with bald cypress trees around  the edges that give it a very spooky feel.  I learned it had a violent human history as well.  Apparently after it formed the ownership of the surrounding land was murky and somehow a wealthy syndicate got control of it in the early 1900's.  They tried to force out and deny access to the local inhabitants.  Some formed an underground guerilla force called the "nightriders" who in turn terrorized and killed some of the syndicate representatives.  It got pretty ugly.  Eventually, the governor got control of the situation, hunted down the perpetrators and was able to acquire the land for the public use. Reelfoot is also in the middle of the New Madrid earthquake fault zone.  Another quake could happen any day.  It seems strange that the middle of  the country has the potential for severe quakes but it does.  I asked a local guy eating next to me at breakfast if there are still tremors and he said  "Yeah, last week we had one that was 3.4. The walls in this restaurant where you are sitting right now were vibrating".

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.