Sur La Plaque!

Miles: 71

Total: 1,643

About 10 miles in I saw a second fire tower. This time, I admired its majesty from the ground and finished off a bag of Cheetos rather than trot to the top. There’s not much between Houston and Hartville. Bendavis is halfway between and offers a convenience store, which was conveniently closed. The sign says open, but the doors say locked. I filled my bottles off the outdoor spigot and pushed on.

A strong and sustained wind came out of the south today. Because I’m headed west, it’s mostly a crosswind. But it did feel nice the two or three times I jogged north for a half-mile to make a turn. Closer to Marshfield, I stopped to watch a farmer-topped tractor pulling a baler. Down the lane, like a vacuum cleaner, then stopping every so often to dispense a big round. I’ve seen a lot of bales along the route, but never a baler in action. Likely the most exciting part of my on-bike day. Not every day can be full of pancakes and 84-million-gallon-a-day springs, you know.

Camp tonight is Webster County’s Fairgrounds, in Marshfield. Edwin Hubble was born here. As I was resting under the Centennial pavillion, Don Greer came by and introduced himself. He invited me across the street to another pavillion where his ham radio group (MAARS) was taking part in field day, the ham-organized fourth Saturday in June where everyone tries to talk to everyone else. It’s for fun, for testing, for seeing how many operators you can reach and for practice. These guys have matching trucker caps, perfectly perched on the very top of their heads.

Amid the Morse code, MAARS reached Australia, Canada and a bunch of domestic folks. Don explained a little radio theory to me, including the idea of an EME transmission, which bounces signal off the moon. We were having such a good time we neglected to check the radar and barely pulled down and rolled up all the cable antennas down before a big line of storms hit. Don told me to come across to church for coffee and cookies around 9 a.m. if I was still around.

I managed to stay dry under the pavilion. There’s a shower with a hot and cold taps, but couldn’t coax any hot H2O out. It’s just me tonight, well me and a pigeon.

Too bad we’re going left.

Gorgeous.

I didn’t climb this one.

Home tonight. I stayed pretty dry.

Miles: 75
Total: 1,572

Blueberry Pop-Tart toaster pastry filling contains 10 percent fruit — a melange of blueberry, apple and pear. The balance is made of corn syrup, palm oil and a lot of other things so delicious you need a food science degree to fully comprehend. Yet, they were breakfast. I paired with a pint of actual blueberries from last night’s Town and Country run. Hopefully it nets one for the good guys. The blueberries were $3.50-something, a 12-pack of on-sale Pop-Tarts, $2.68. God bless America. Produce’s become easy to find west of the Mississippi.

I shared foggy CR 106 with dump trucks this morning. Turns out we’re headed to the same place. Road crews are repaving west of the Current River. A crewman told me they’re adding shoulders — at some point. We talked for a few minutes while I waited for a pilot truck. He lives just outside Johnson’s Shut-In, and is used to cyclists passing by. I had an escort for about a mile up hill from the river — hot asphalt has a way of waking you up in the morning.

I saw my first live raccoon of trip today, along with perhaps my twentieth dead armadillo. Greg and Jamie said folks call ’em possums on the half shell. At any rate, they’re a Missouri phenomenon.

Eminence (pop. 590) has a pair of diners. One includes a drive-thru liquor lane, so I settled on teetotaling Ruby T&Ts. Second breakfast was a stack of pancakes and a couple eggs. A real treat, but filling just before another big climb. Eminence is close to Jacks Fork River, a popular tourist/boating/tubing attraction. Lots of RVs and vans lugging trailers of kayaks.

Five miles down the road is Alley Spring and a mill dating from 1894. Built at a cost of $10,000 (a pretty penny 120 years ago), it ground corn and wheat, using the spring as water power. Alley Spring puts out 84 million gallons a day. That’s 972 gallons a second. It’s a huge number. The spring’s underwater, but when the wind is down, you can see the surface ripple right above the outflow. It’s a really pretty blue color. The ranger I spoke with said that’s because of dissolved calcium carbonate. The Ozarks are one of the oldest mountain chains, and home to a ton of springs and caverns. The mill’s closed for renovation, but should be open limited hours in July. Nuts.

I also paid a visit to a fabulous pavilion in the park, where I found a picnic table to sleep on for a little more than an hour. Hey, my pancakes needed to digest.

Climbing out of the river valley, I came across a fire tower. Nothing said keep out, so I worked my way up, only to find the observation trapdoor padlocked. Still, a great view of the Ozarks. And a different kind of ascent for a change.

Near Summerville I ran into three eastbounders. Eileen, Anthony and Hannah started in Astoria and are headed for Ellington tonight. I told them about the hostel, and they told me to have fun in Kansas. And to stop in Newton to visit the bike shop, which also provides lodging.

I’m quitting tonight in Houston’s West Side Park (you better believe Houston city’s in Texas county) . I have the pavilion all to myself, and there’s a stiff breeze to keep the bugs away, so I’m sleeping on top of a picnic table. I arrived just in time for a hot shower and cold dip before the pool closed at 6 p.m.

But what goes down …

The Current River.

Dissolved minerals give the water its blueish hue.

At 84 million gallons a day, the water’s gotta go somewhere. It drains to the Jacks Fork River.

The mill, built in 1894, use the spring to grind corn and wheat. It’s undergoing renovation to bring it into its second century.

Ozarks fire tower. Great view from the top.

It just plain sucks.

Home tonight. I arrived just in time for a quick shower and dip before the pool closed.

Miles: 64
Total: 1,497

Settled into Al’s Place, I didn’t want to hit the road today. I deployed the toaster, coffee machine and computer — all of the civilized man’s tools — delaying the inevitable. I walked to an ATM to pay my bill and hit the road about 9:30 a.m. The first 20 miles were cake — Trevor had texted me: look for five dogs 15 miles in and more importantly that crushed ice and water’s available at the Convenience Barn. Crushed ice is on a whole ‘nother level.

The grades were substantial but gentle, including a nice five-mile descent out of Pilot Knob, where I ran into Nikki and Josh (in a Stone Brewing jersey), who started in California. They let me know there’s an unlisted hostel in Ellington, and to go the pizza place for directions. And for the love of God, not to call Herman. Herman’s on my maps as the contact point for a church cyclists-only lodging, which is no longer available, according to ACA addenda. I guess they stopped hosting a while ago, and he’s tired of phone calls. We compared notes on what was coming up, and the headed our separate ways, me with a bounce knowing I wouldn’t be camped in Brawley Park tonight.

I stopped in Centerville (pop. 191), where I learned that the place (the only place) to eat is 21 Diner. Lunch was the special: French fries and mini tacos. Both conveniently deep fried. After my meal, I oozed out of the booth on to the courthouse lawn and 93 degree heat where I spent an hour dodging the sun, letting my lipid levels lower. Around 4 p.m. I headed off for the final 15 miles to Ellington.

The last leg was a slog. I was full of grease and sluggish, and the grades picked up. I was glad for the steep descent into Ellington. I found the promised pizzeria, where the first thing she asked me was, “You didn’t call Herman, did you?” I told her I was too scared to call anyone. I guess she’d given him a buzz and he’d given her a piece of his mind. Squared away, I headed down the road to the hostel, which opened this spring. It’s a small place, but it’s got A/C, a hot shower and a few cots, as well as fabulous wood paneling. There’s a bottle of Manischewitz in the fridge, too. Welcome home. It’s great to see towns adding (free!) cycling accommodations for weary tourists.

Maybe they like prime numbers.

Ellington just opened this hostel, complete with hot shower, cots, A/C and a minifridge this year. I was delighted to find it.

Miles: 54
Total: 1,433

Assault at first light. That’s the plan, man. The target: Penitentiary Bridge over the Mississipi. The crossing into Missouri’s a narrow two-laner, with no shoulder. Melissa and Faye in Buckhorn Lake (day 10) said to just take the lane and ride over. There’s a fair bit of truck traffic and no room to pass. Why DOTs refuse to tack on few more bucks for shoulders when shelling out millions on a bridge is beyond me.

But before the bridge, I stopped for a photo with Popeye, another TransAm must-have. Two big things collected in the first four miles of the day. Right over the bridge, gas fell about 40 cents to the mid-$3.40s/gallon, and I was in heaven. Not from the gas prices or the heavy-looking fireworks stands –I bet you can really lose a limb in Missouri — but from the flat floodplain. The next 10 miles were full of corn, soy and a nary a bump. Man, the US grows a lot of corn. I mean, A LOT. It’s not something you realize till spending hours and hours, miles and miles pedaling next to armies of maize. It is neat to see how the corn’s come up as I’ve come across.

The flat inevitably ended, and I started climbing away from the river valley. Up and down, up and down. Some folks call Missouri hills a human-powered roller coaster. I crossed paths with Danny, who’s racing the TransAm, W>E. He’s having fun, though the winner, Mike Hall, has finished. The first thing he said was, “Did you cross another guy?” followed by, “How long ago?” These folks are nuts. Danny’s chasing a guy he had 30 miles on last night. He was overtaken while sleeping, and they don’t sleep much. The best competitors average 15 mph across the entire country. Average. That includes naps, food stops, mechanical issues, everything. They’re carrying minimal equipment, strong lights and remarkable discipline.

The roads changed from numbered routes to lettered routes in Missouri. I rode on H, Z, N, P, B and F today.

A few miles later I crossed two westbounders. They looked like roadies out for a spin, and one was. A half hour later or so, Brian McEntire pulls up alongside me. He was riding with the guy who organizing the TransAm race, and picking his brain. Brian lives in Farmington, and did the TransAm a couple of years ago. He says he’d like to race it. We spent a very pleasant 10 miles or so together. He’s out for a lunch-break ride and I enjoyed the company and conversation. See, I told you even crossing solo you meet folks. Brian had to get back to the office, but left me at Crown Valley, A brewery/distillery/winery about 15 miles out of Farmington. I stopped in for a pint of Black IPA, the first decent beer I’ve had since Sweetwater in Falls of Rough. It was nice to get out of the heat for a bit, too. The last stretch into town was slow, equally from the beer (always a gamble when there are still miles to put in) and reticulating grades.

Farmington’s fabulous. About 16,000 people, it has its own identity, but also embraces its position on the trail. The overnight halt is Al’s Place, a block from the courthouse because it was a jail until 1996. You store and can work on your bike downstairs, and upstairs is a hostel. The requested donation’s $20, and it’s more of an apartment than hostel. There are 14 bunks, two bathrooms, A/C, wifi, a computer to use, limited kitchen and full laundry. Farmington runs the service for cyclists, and uses inmate labor for maintenance. The hostel’s named for a local Al, who was an avid cyclist and friend to tourists before succumbing to cancer in middle age. The digs are decorated with signed jerseys, bicycles and other paraphernalia. It’s wild — Google it. I didn’t take any interior photos.

It’s easy to forget you arrived on bike
when sitting on a sofa, finishing Game of Thrones’ season four. Trevor started later than I did, and was headed down the road farther today, but we got together for chocolate-dipped soft serve cones at Hunt’s Dairy Bar and did some raccoon-replacing at the nearby grocery. We may not see each other again this trip. It’s interesting how people pass in and out. Somehow, transience amplifies our shared experience.

In Popeye Memorial Park, right next to the bridge.

And the mighty Mississipi.

Black River IPA.

Al’s Place is run by the city of Farmington. Nice digs.

Miles: 45

Total: 1,379

It had to happen eventually. After a 19-day dry spell (in the best possible sense of the phrase), we got dumped on. It started raining around 11 p.m. and quit at noon. My tent didn’t spring a leak, and pitching on the gravel pad turned out to be a good call. We were both up early, but where Trevor couldn’t wait to get out of his bivy bag (and I don’t blame him — he says his top half stayed pretty dry, though), I was happy to sit out the rain and read.

Two exciting overnight developments: first, the bear/raccoon story. Trevor doesn’t have panniers like I do. He sewed together what’s called a frame bag. It sits inside the main triangle and is attached with a number of velcro loops. It’s a good way to keep the weight centered and travel light, or in areas where panniers’ extra breadth is a liability. In the night, something cut into his bag, and it was a bigger creature, because the cut was clean and direct. Made with a sharp nail. At first we thought a bear, but maybe a pair of industrious raccoons got to it. ANYWAY, the interlopers made off with his Cheetos (probably what drew them in the first place), all of his other food, his toothbrush and deodorant (?), and his fish oil pills. So at least they’ll have great joints, all the better to sneak around. Luckily, they left his water bladder and bottle of bourbon intact. So he’s got the essentials. The tent site’s past a spillway, down at lower elevation. This morning, the creek was raging and we couldn’t get back out the way we came. Trapped. Trevor ended up heading out a different way, luckily. I hung around camp till about 9:30 a.m. or so, when the rain tapered briefly, then made my escape. By this time, the spillway was clear enough to pass, though the 12″ drainage tube was gushing like a Tarantino special effect.

I retraced my steps out of the park back to Murphysboro, where the ACA provides an alternate route, along the levee. I’m working off section nine’s map, which will take me to Girard, Kansas. I wasn’t sure whether it would be passable with all the rain, but I was tired from the big day yesterday coupled with poor sleep, and wanted to give it a shot. It looked flat, and that was welcome news. Precipitation resumed (and then quit for good about noon), but I found the alternate passable, and very pleasant. Almost zero traffic — I saw perhaps five cars over 20 miles. You spend some time on top of the levee, and it’s serious. The river’s way down now, and the Mississippi not visible at most points. Some of the crops (mostly corn and soybeans) had flooded. Toward the end of the alternate, I crossed under a giant coal conveyer. It looked like coal was moving from land to river barges. Remember the quiet, flat levee roads? As soon as I turned left onto SR 3, both disappeared. The terrain picked up elevation and coal trucks constantly roared past. Maybe payback for escaping Kentucky intact. I don’t know how the citizens of Chester put up with the traffic. Every third vehicle on the road was a semi. Helps put in perspective how big a business energy (and coal) is here.

In Chester, I saw Trevor’s bike leaned up against a deli, and we spent a couple of hours airing our things out in Chester’s town square. The town of about 8,500 celebrates Popeye, as his creator, E.C. Segar, was born in Chester. We both decided to call it quits here. A short day, no doubt, but we wanted to dry out and rest. We’re stopped tonight at the Eagles Club, where my second TransAm Donna razzed us a bit, then showed us their accommodations. The Eagles offer tourists an air-conditioned bunkhouse, hot shower and easy access to their bar/restaurant for dinner and potent potables. After cleaning up and doing a little sink laundry, we climbed the hill for dinner. It’s a treat — and a little odd — to have a television on. Lots of World Cup action, including news of Uruguayan chomping?! I figured it was called football for a reason.

This guy popped up on our picnic table overnight.

A house in a sea of beans.

Doing my best to diversify.

Shuttling coal to and fro.

Make it a meat locker.

Shady Inn provided by Chester Eagles Club.

Miles: 97
Total: 1,334

Usually I ride by myself. It’s rarely lonely. You meet folks during breaks, chat with the occasional cyclist, and some evenings stay together at a hostel or campsite with other tourists. But today I rode about 60 miles with Trevor. He’s the guy headed to Moab to learn to build straw-bale houses. It’s different to ride with someone. You get outside your head a lot more, and tend to move a little faster clip. It’s nice to have the company now.

Right out of Elizabethtown I ran into hills. Not super steep, but one after the other after the other. Good warmup for the Ozarks. I met Trevor about 40 miles in, where he stopped to talk to Cade, an 18-year-old cyclist working his way from Kansas to Georgia. He’ll pick up the ACA’s Underground Railroad route right over the Ohio and turn south.

Trevor and I decided to ride together for a while. Our paces are about the same, except where I stack the miles early, he does late. He’s camping along the route, so rides till nearly dusk before calling it quits. We broke for lunch in Goreville, where Trevor turned a few tricks in the skatepark on his loaded touring bike. Fun to watch.

We passed though Crab Orchard, a beautiful fish and wildlife area before Carbondale, which at more than 20,000 people, and home of Southern Illinois University, is one of the bigger cities on route. The map takes you around the edge of Carbondale, but we decided to ride in. We passed right through campus (quiet with school out) en route to the library.

Right after 5 p.m. between Carbondale and Murphysboro (population: 15,000) we rediscovered rush hour. Even our supposedly quiet roads quickened with commuters.

Home tonight is Lake Murphysboro State Park. While I called for information, a man sharpening a Bowie knife in the square told Trevor we should go to Gene’s Place for a beer. Far be it for us to argue. Busch drafts, $1.25. Our bladed bud was on to something.

No one answered the phone at the park, which is about two miles off route up Illinois 149. On arrival we worked our way to the tent site (all ours, except for a brilliant white egret and a small army of bullfrogs). There’s no water or electricity, so we weren’t too distraught not finding anyone to take our money.

Peanut butter and banana sandwiches for dinner. I’m eating my way out of this weight problem.

In Illinois, the TransAm signs returned! Most were in far better kit. It’s nice to have a sign confirming you’re on route.

One of the nicest things about country roads is the abundance of wildflowers, and seeing how the population changes as I move west.

And a few crummy roads.

Probably the second or third photo I’ve posted … but I love these plants and sprays of them are all over.

Really pleasant riding around this Fish and Wildlife Service Area.

You can’t see it here, but there are bines climbing in the backyard. It looks like a private residence, else I would have gone up.

Home tonight. On the water (with attendant mosquitoes), but very pretty. Free, too, though no water or electricity.

Miles: 68
Total: 1,237

Leftover coconut and oatmeal raisin cookies served as first breakfast. Thanks, Violet. We didn’t finish dinner and visiting till close to 10 p.m. last night. That, coupled with sleeping inside away from the sun, led to heading out around 7 a.m., into a blissfully cool and overcast Sunday morning.

Ten miles out of Sebree I crossed through Dixon and my first public library in many miles. Of course, it was too early, and they’re closed today, at any rate. I really want to organize a few photos — WordPress’ mobile app is passable for text, but really lacks when it comes to multimedia.

About 40 miles in I stopped for a bite in Marion (a bigger town at 3,200 people) as well as another loaf of bread and bananas to make peanut butter sandwiches. Their library’s closed as well.

The roads flattened out a bit as I left Kentucky, and it stayed tolerably cool till about noon. The magic hours for cycling are usually sunup to about 11 a.m. and then between 4 p.m. and dusk. You’re out of direct sun and the wind’s less aggressive. An interesting pocket of Amish live on the western edge of Kentucky, but of course today being today, all the shops were closed.

I hitched a ride on a ferry across the Ohio River. My second ferry in three days, though the Ohio’s much larger and the ferry’s free-floating (and free), not cable guided. There are lots of folks on the water for recreation and business, including a few of heavily coal-laden barges. I talked with a couple of Harley riders out for a 200-mile Sunday cruise in transit. All a matter of perspective, but the idea of a fun, 200-mile afternoon is hard to wrap a cycling brain around.

Once across, I entered Illinois, the so-called Land of Lincoln, though I think Kentucky has a pretty good claim on the family, based on the memorials visited over the past week.

Directly over the river is Cave-in-Rock, Illinois, and a synonymous state park. So named for a giant (perhaps 50′ diameter) limestone cave carved out of a cliff on the bank, the hollow has an interesting history, involving pirates and scalawags who used the cave to prey on merchantmen plying the Ohio. You can clamber in the cool cavern, and I did, enjoying the temperature differential and scrabbling on slippery rocks with my cleats.

It’s really pretty along the Ohio, and I spent a while sitting along the river. I’d planned on stopping in the park tonight, but Sebree Baptist told me there’s camping in Elizabethtown, about 10 miles down the road, so I pushed on.

I reconnected with Trevor in Elizabethown. We sat by the water and talked for a half hour or so. He’s pushing on — there’s plenty of daylight, and he’s packing light, sleeping in a bivy sack, which really opens up his stealth camping options, versus my large, yellow tent. Hopefully we connect in Colorado, if not earlier.

Home tonight is the backyard of the Rose River Inn B&B. Bruce and Sue open the yard of their 100-year-old home to cyclists for $10 a night, and include use of the pool, shower and bathroom facilities. I’m sleeping on the banks of the Ohio.

This passed me today.

What a name.

Under new management, so it says.

Getting ready to cross the Ohio. The ferry’s free, too.

There’s a person on the left side for scale.

It felt nice in here — probably 20 degrees cooler than outside.

Looking out to the river.

You have to head up RT 1, off route about a mile to find this sign.

Yeah!

Soft level grass and the pool and the Ohio right next door.

Built in 1912, this is a mighty old B&B.

Miles: 76
Total:1,169

Your first clue that Bob Hardison’s a stand-up dude is in his driveway. He drives a late ’90s Toyota Avalon. My man. But we’ll get back to Bob in a few grafs.

I was up and on the road by 6:15 a.m. (In Central Time for the foreseeable future). I said goodbye to BJ — Louis and Matt were sawing logs. They’re headed to Owensboro tonight — off the reservation, but it’s a big city where they can get plenty of World-Cup action. Right now, they’re riding bikes between matches. Pretty cool.

Falls of Rough was foggy this morning. An ephemeral blanket cloaking everything in damp and low visibility. Traffic was light, luckily. Out of town I caught the tail end of a chase. A pair of hounds went round and round with a rabbit until they went round and round no more. The rabbit lost this one.

The fog burned off by Fordsville, where a driver shouted, “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a quart of motor oil, would you?” I replied nope … At which point I realized he was talking to a fellow across the street. We (I) laughed harder than we (I) should have.

I took a break for lunch in Utica, at a Marathon gas station. The ACA maps use a liberal definition when it comes to identifying grocery stores and restaurants. I continue to miss produce in small towns. Many homes have gardens, but if you’re not farming, you’re either living out of the freezer section or driving quite a few miles for vegetables.

In Beech Grove I came across a historical marker for James Gresham, born in town and the first American killed in WWI on November 3, 1917. A dubious distinction.

Home tonight is First Baptist in Sebree, a town of about 1,500. I rode up and met Bob Hardison, who turned out to be the pastor. He and his wife, Violet, have been at the church and hosting cyclists since 1979. The church put me up in its youth center, complete with a hot shower, mattress, A/C, wifi, washer/dryer and a full kitchen, which I didn’t have the opportunity to use as Bob and Violet invited me to dinner in their home, next door. Violet likes to feed “her cyclists” when she can, and cooked for 26 Ride the US for MS cyclists a few days ago (!). She fixed chicken, stir-fried vegetables with noodles, corn and finished it off with a big dish of ice cream topped with strawberries.

Right about 8 p.m., as we were cleaning up, Trevor rolled in. Violet fired the kitchen back up, I chopped squash and broccoli (yeah, veggies!) and we had dinner again. Trevor’s riding from Baltimore to Moab, Utah, where he’ll learn to build energy-efficient homes from the ground up. He’s loaded bike packing style, and covering serious ground (106 miles today). Violet is one of 15 children born into cotton-sharecropper family with an alcoholic and abusive father. Both she and Bob (married 45 years) are dedicated to family (two sons, six grandchildren), ministry and each other. Hearing stories of their lives and those of cyclists passing though was both entertaining and moving.

She baked cookies, too. She says that’s how you know she really likes you.

This map keeps track of cyclists Sebree’s hosted.

This map tracks how many cyclists Sebree hosts each year.

Sebree First Baptist has been hosting cyclists since 1979. It was a pleasure to spend time with Pastor Bob Hardison and his wife, Violet.

Miles: 86
Total:1,093

Time is an interesting concept. I woke up in Central Time, had lunch in Eastern Time, and went to sleep in Central Time. Nuts. This temporal border’s existence probably explains why the park’s visitor center says “Central Time” over the doorway and why a disembodied voice announces multiple reminders for tours.

This morning I descended to the Green River, where a ferry took me across, but left me to climb the other embankment on my own. The nice thing about ferries is that you know when a car’s coming from behind, based on its frequency — there’s no other automobile access point. I flushed a turkey out of a ditch on a climb. These guys fly like I dance. It’s all elbows and no one’s having a good time. Eventually the song changes and you creep away for some punch, or something.

I rejoined the main route in Sonora, which sounds awfully utopian/like the name of a midsize sedan for a town of 513 souls. Coming out of the Dollar General, a silver Cavalier pulls up and asks me The Usual. He (being Larry), recommends I stop at a store that’s not really a store … But I’ll supposedly see a lot of cars parked along a side street and there’s a faded sign that says Brook’s Grocery. Go in, says Larry, they have a book dating from 1976 with cyclists coming through. Oh, and you can get a real meal there. I hope Larry’s on Brook’s payroll, because I notice lots of entries in the book that start with, “thanks to Larry for recommending … ”

But it was worth a stop. I page through the book, which was started by the now-owner’s mother, and there are entries dating to the inaugural Bikecentennial. Lunch wasn’t bad, either.

Fortified, and somehow back in EST, I push on and meet two eastbound cyclists. One started in San Diego and took the Western Express, the other’s from San Francisco, but started in Pueblo, Colorado, and is finishing part two this summer.

The wind really picked up this afternoon. Mostly a cross-current, almost as annoying as a headwind. The wind tends to be most vigorous during the heat of the day. Another reason to start early. Both eastbounders said they had headwinds in Kansas. Maybe I’ll luck out.

The afternoon heat snapped with a quick 15-minute downpour. I was about to turn left on SR 79 when I found shelter under a liquor store overhang. I’m not a religious person, but I took that as a sign and picked up a sixer of Sweetwater IPA, a beer not distributed in my neck of the woods. Divine intervention continued, when I reconnected with BJ, Matt and Louis at Falls of Rough campground, my home for the night. I spent the day with them in Afton, and they had some stories to tell. Matt popped a spoke, so they ended up hitching a couple of times to a bike shop, then renting a U-Haul to get them and their bikes back on schedule. We share the campsite and the beer. Everybody wins. The state resort park (everything’s classier in KY) has an attached lodge where you can sleep in comfort. Said lodge has a buffet, which we ran a train on. Frog legs really do taste like chicken. Like delicious, deep-fried chicken.

Yeah, right.

I stopped here for lunch where the cafe maintains a logbook dating to 1976.

Home for the evening is Falls of Rough State Park, where I rejoined BJ, Louis and Matt for the evening.

Miles: 51
Total: 1,007

I took a side trip today. The TransAm, at 4,200 miles long, takes a lackadaisical track across the U.S., but even it offers Mammoth Cave up as an optional extra, tacking on 85 miles.

I got an early start to beat the heat, arriving in the park around noon (I also slipped into Central Time at the Hardin/Hart county line and gained an hour). In Munfordville I stopped to see Kentucky Stonehenge — exactly what it sounds like.

A dozen wild turkeys greeted me in the national park — all wildlife is federally protected, even snakes and spiders. I couldn’t get close enough for a decent picture without them running off into the woods.

There’s no entrance fee, but camping is $17, and you’ve got to tack on another $3 for a 10-minute shower. Come on! Pleasant campground, but the lack of walk-in sites meant lots of RVs. Interestingly, the bicycle’s the preferred means of transport (kids and adults) within the campground.

I took the 2 p.m. “Domes and Dripstones” tour, led by Rangers John and Steve, retired high school teachers. The two-hour tour covers 3/4 of a mile and 500 tight, twisting steps. Most of Mammoth’s more than 400 miles of surveyed passageway (more than twice as long as the next-nearest competitor, and geologists think perhaps 600 miles await discovery) are ancient dry riverbed, but a part of our tour took us to a wet area of the cave, where drips and seeps have created remarkable formations.

We entered though apparent doorway to nowhere (Dharma-initiative style) and descended 250′. The cave’s a cool 50 degrees F, and coming out the other end into the 90 degree heat and rampant humidity was like slamming into a brick wall. The respite was easily worth $12 all on its own. Native people explored the cave about 20,000 years ago through 4,000 years ago and researchers have found leavings (torches, shells, the occasional human remains) more than 10 miles in. There’s no evidence of exploration between about 4,000 years ago and 1798 when the cave was rediscovered by a hunter tracking a wounded bear.

The U.S. looked for status symbols in the 1800s — the country was an industrial and military power, but didn’t have ancient cities or the depth of culture Europe offered. In addition to Mammoth, the Grand Canyon and the giant redwoods helped bolster America’s reputation of scenic wonder.

In addition to its to not-insignificant tourist value, the cave produced a heck of a lot of saltpeter for the War of 1812. Congress authorized it as a national park in 1926 and it was established in 1941. Geologists and biologists are surveying the caves, studying how water moves through the area. An evening presentation by Ranger Jackie Wheet on the curiosity of caves related this anecdote:

Researchers frequently use dye tracing to track water movement. They’ll inject vividly colored (but harmless) dye in the surrounding area, and then wait to see where it shows up underground. They asked a nearby landowner for permission to trace his well. He wasn’t comfortable with the idea, and when the scientists pushed, he said, you can flush it down my toilet. Let’s see where my septic system leads. After all, he didn’t want to cause downstream problems. Well, a couple of days later the park gets a call from the guy, totally peeveed. He’s showering with green water. He thought they’d dumped dye in his well against his wishes, but his septic field and well draw were closer than expected.

Home tonight is the aforementioned campground. Site 81. While I was out, an enterprising squirrel helped himself to 14 cents’ of fig bars. I also rolled over 1,000 miles on the TransAm.

Three bucks for 10 minutes?!

Most of the cave network is dry riverbed.

So-called Drapery Room, underneath Frozen Niagara.

Our tour took us to a small section of wet cave where dripstones form beautiful artwork.