Mississippi Muddin'

Crossing into Mississippi, we enter Tunica county. Until the recent legalization of gambling in the county, it was the poorest county in our nation. Since then, an influx of big casino presence has brought jobs and a stronger economy. However, the unemployment rate is still at 34%, nearly 3.5 times the national rate. Similar to sections of Memphis, it's an area with a bit of roughness. Shattered glass is blanketed across every shoulder, packs of feral dogs sleep in grass patches as we ride by, sides of the roads collect graveyards of automobile tires, lawns take more water than feasible to keep green, there's a dead pit bull laid across the edge of the road, and cars pass by with custom rattle-can paint jobs. Passing a few hundred feet over the state line, shoulders become very narrow and carved out by rumble strips. We ride into the first completely flat section of our trip. As far as we can see, the road extends, with the only inclines being bridges to cross intersecting roads. Sun's shining and all we need to do is pedal forward. Many of the crops seem dead, reflecting a recent drought in the area. Fields lack watering machinery and therefore must rely solely on clouds for life. Eventually, a police car has slowed down traffic by weaving back and forth, turned its lights on, and pulled up next to me. 

"You must remove your bicycle from the highway." comes through the loudspeaker. 

Pointing towards the edge of the highway, the officer then pulls ahead and stops to aid a disabled vehicle. Maps say we're allowed to ride on this highway, but I think she's simply noting some people will line up their hood ornament with us. I agree with the officer. This is a tiny shoulder to ride on, considering the plenty side roads paralleling it. 

Looking at our GPS, we spot access to the muddy beaches of the Mississippi, through a casino access road. Tailing off Wes' rear fender, I follow him down the beginning of the access, which leads to the levee protecting the Mississippi flood plain from rising waters of the river. Our tires slowly begin sinking into the mire deeper and deeper, as we travel further down this scarcely traveled road. There's a chain strung between two trees, blocking the road, but it's nearly sunset and we see no other options. Ducking under, there's sections where riding a bike isn't an option. Unbroken leaves scatter the road, showing the area possibly hasn't been accessed in weeks. Our tires form trenches as our feet slide through any uneven patch we step upon. It reminds me of running around a basketball court in socks, as a kid. Although, I'd probably still partake if anybody actually wanted to do it these days. 

This is a milestone of the trip. One of the grande landmarks which signify to us the distance in which we've rode. New York City, Shenandoah National Park, Great Smoky Mountains and now the Mississippi river. Each and every day seems exciting and accomplishing, but it's these days in which we really step back and recount it all. Recognizing where we stand in relation to Bar Harbor, Maine. The Mississippi River, one of the major dividing points in our country. 

Less than a mile after the gate, trees open up and we find a clearing, which looks out over the river. We push our bikes through the loose sand towards it. Beautifully spaced trees line the flat, muddy banks. Growing right out of the sand, somehow finding the water and strength to become tall and broad. We take our shoes off and shuffle our feet around in the cool sand. It pushes between our toes and allows our feet to decompress after a day of riding. We bought two Red Stripe lagers earlier in the day and now cheers them as we look out over the river. Sun's setting and showing all the little ripples caused by currents and critters. Barges travel up and down the river consistently, only dipping there flat bottoms a few feet beneath the river's surface. Each one has a high-power spotlight in which it places on the next bend of the river. I'm assuming to make its presence known to barges traveling in the opposite direction. Luckily we're on the opposing bank of the nearest corner and are never beamed with light. Each of the barges seems to move slower than the river. We wonder if we walk faster than a barge and soon agree we surely do. Barges' paths in and out of our sights consume a minimum of twenty minutes. 

We've come a long way and the Mississippi proves it to us. We talk about our experiences in Maine so long ago, during the childhood of our friendship. Sure it's only been three months, but quite the three months, in which we've laughed, learned, argued, rode, smiled, stretched, cramped and spit. We sit on the banks of the Mississippi and it reminds us why, something we already knew but is now reinforced. I lay back in my hammock, enjoy my book, while sipping some tea, and look out over the grand division. Never thought I'd be camping here. 

Being as large of a river as it is, it's not feasible to have numerous bridges across it. The next crossing is nearly forty miles further south. We slowly rise and find the cool sand to now be cold. Wes almost always wakes up earlier than I, and uses his morning to brew some coffee and walk along the river edge. Grains of sand inevitably find their way into my grits, but I don't mind. They'll allow me to carry a bit of the river bank with me for a little longer. 

Progressing towards the bridge, we chase the never-ending white line of an old country road. Alternating fields of hay and cotton pass by. Large farming equipment, operated by smiling men in overalls, cut down the hay. All the cotton seems overgrown and ready to me, yet we never see it being collected. There must be something we don't know. Shoulders are covered in tuffs of cotton. I can't determine if it's carried away from the fields by wind or if lost from the back of trucks during transportation. Wes is certain there has to be a better method of transportation. For us, it creates a unique sight, which I will always relate to Mississippi. The cotton roads from its muddy river. 

Nearing a small town, an 80s Buick, brown, pulls up next to me and slows down a pinch. While the front window is up, the rear window is cracked about five inches. I look over my shoulder right as it's passing and see a figure slouched back in its seat. Nearing closer, they move their mouth closer to the opening, yet remain out of sight. 

"Ya dead!"

Taken back by it at first, I eventually smile back and wave until the car drops out of sight. It's the only defense I have on the road. 

We pass through towns which don't seem to get many tourers. 

"Where y'all headed?"

"Oh, hell no!"

"Pedal, pedal, pedal!"

"More power to ya."

Each of these are yelled to us as we pass by. It's a weekend and everybody seems to be having a barbecue at their house. Cars sit still as groups walk from one house to the next. Everybody seems to know each other in these towns. We ride through the downtown strips and find them deserted. I feel like the cowboy in a western film where the shopkeepers lock up their doors as I turn onto the main drag. There's no standoff in our version though and we pass through after taking a few photos. 

The bridge crosses from Mississippi, into Helena West, Arkansas. Its arch is the most elevation gain we've experienced since before Memphis. Built before architects considered a bicycle might want to cross it, we feel the trucks pass by us. Their wind tunnels pushing and pulling us away from the railing. We want to stop and admire the view, but decide against it. We manage to time our sunsets perfectly, as this one presents itself throughout the duration of the bridge. As we reach the peak, we look out over Arkansas and its great number of trees, compared to Mississippi. Hopefully another hammock-friendly state.