Arkansassy, With Trees

Happy to be back amongst the trees. Hills roll up and down, winding back and forth. Wes bobs his head up and down as he grooves to his music. I can tell when he's really into a song because his shoulders start to dip a little more. He's putting a little swagger into his ride and he may not even know it. Trees are consistent, but blotchy in type. Spooky pine groves line the road for a while, then quickly blend into lush patches of deciduous trees. Contrasts between needles and leaves show, but it's the colors which make it more apparent. Fall colors continue to move with us at the rate in which we travel. Always immersed in early colors of yellow and orange, but rarely witnessing the full blast of reddening foliage. Two variations of tree blotches, alternating between dark greens and yellowy oranges as we ride. It must look like wavy tiger stripes from above. Much of it appears natural, by spacing, undergrowth and access. Other times it seems planted, attested by the tiling of logged lots and tree farms, interspersed amongst the stripes. One night we hang between tupelo trees in a dried swamp. Another between shortleaf pines atop a hill. Another between white oaks in a quiet area right outside of a town. Wes finds a mini biome, prospering in a bottle. Various plants and mosses have grown to utilize the bit of soil within. Reminds me of a damp rainforest. 

We enjoy the mostly peaceful roads as they wind through the hills. Shoulders are only about a foot wide, or less, but the roads see very little use and therefore require nothing more. Curves are long and swooping, allowing us to ride slightly in the lane until we hear somebody approaching behind us, in which we move over to the edge. Man in a white sedan isn't satisfied with this method and tries to give us a little nudge. Catching his intention at the last moment, I veer a tad to the right as he skims by. Blood jumps up a few degrees. I want to slam my fist down on his trunk, and am fully within reach, but realize I've had better ideas. One flustered man behind the wheel of an automobile is the last thing I want to deal with on a desolate Arkansas road. Once again, I wave wildly and smile.

This area seems to be rather sassy with its rain. Due to this, I've begun referring to it as Arkansassy. Its favorite game is soaking us for a day and night, then delivering residual gloom the next. We never experience a sunny day in The Sass, but there also aren't many raindrops bouncing on the streets. Moisture simply sits in the air, every bit of air, as an invisibly suspended mask. It's always plastering my face and soaking my jacket, yet I can never see it. Breathable, yet invisible, like secondhand mouthfuls from a singular smoker across a room. 

We ensure our shelters, fleeces and sleeping bags never get wet, but it's fair game for the rest of our gear. Wes' wears his Chacos at times to keep his shoes dry. I'm clipped in and wonder why I'm still carrying mine. Days are soggy, with sticky shells, dripping helmets, pruney fingers, and sloshy feet. Nights are warm, fluffy, dry, and cozy. Soggy days can be overwhelming, yet they also produce some of the biggest smiles. Once everything is wet, I've accepted it and embraced it, I feel like the young boy splashing in rain gutters all over again. My brother and I used to make Lego boats and float them down these road rivers. Now I'm riding my bicycle through them in Arkansas, yet still look for the deepest puddles, with the most splash potential. Rain reverts everything back to a simpler meaning and function. Wet, one short word, is now able to describe everything I see. There's a strange beauty in it, even if it's paired with shivers and salty drops of headband water into my eyes. 

The Sass has introduced me to hot popcorn, called Okie Corn. Essentially popcorn covered in flaming hot seasoning, it's what I look forward to for lunch. Hotter than original flaming hot, it makes the possibility of stopping even less probable. I start with one popcorn kernel and stop a couple hundred later, as my mouth burns and lips carry a redder hue. After every lunch, I jump back on my bike and wonder why I put a brick of fire in my stomach. There's a version mixed with caramel corn, possibly even more delicious, but I can't commit to the experimentation quite yet. 

Frog legs stretch out across the meat department of grocery stories. They resemble little human legs. At least closer than, let's say, cow, pig or chicken. Some of their thighs look bigger than my stickly legs. I hope frogs evolve into cyclists some day and take over the sport. Lets take this all the way and hope for a frog cyclist apocalypse. We contemplate cooking up some frog legs, for the novelty experience, until I remember I didn't enjoy the last time I chomped them. Not even novelties are worth a bad bite. 

Spending Halloween in a loud Sass woods, near a highway, ours is very different than most 24-year-olds'. We see photos of friends going out in their costumes, receive texts about their evening plans and reminisce about our own past Halloweens. For a second, we ask each other what we're doing camping  in a wet woods, discussing different strengths of Gold Bond, stretching out lactic acid and drinking chocolate milk, as many friends are engaging in the social excitement of life. It's easy to forget about how the grass is always greener elsewhere. Halloween on a bicycle tour, while thinking about entertaining social interactions. Somebody finding their big break in the financial world, while envying those who get to kayak big rivers of the world. Travelers only thinking about getting back to their families. Something as small as getting your plate at a restaurant but then seeing how much better the spare rib at the next table is. It's easy to think about all these things and allow them to consume, but often even easier to let it go and enjoy the moment. I look down at my chocolate bars and find two spiders enjoying them with me. One prefers Hershey Cookie Crunch bars, while the other fancies blue Symphony bars, with toffee and almond. I share my chocolate with them and thoroughly enjoy my Halloween. Smiling, as I smush chocolate all over my teeth.

Stopping at a gas station, Wes begins a conversation with an older man out front. Little is asked about the trip, but Wes hears a lot about the man's life. Stories of family, war, the local area and wild hogs. Wes nods in understanding and throws in new questions, between bites of cheeseburger. Coming out to smoke a cigarette, the store owner shakes her head at everything he says. "No no no" she mouths in silence, with a tightened brow, as he talks about wild hog attacks. Meeting new people and hearing their stories are some of the best experiences of this trip, but sometimes I simply want to eat my lunch! I'm happy Wes has taken the reins of the conversation, while I look up from lunch only to gaze off blankly across the street. Luckily, another man joins the huddle with exactly the same intent. Grabbing a nearby stump, he plops it next to an old gas pump, which isn't functional anymore. Hasn't pumped gas in years, I'm told. Less than ten feet away, the man doesn't speak. He lightly listens to the conversation between Wes and the old man, but never comments. He blatantly stares at me for a while and I do the same back at him. Neither of us greet each other or exchange words. We both simply acknowledge the other as different from our norm, and accept the stares which that deserves. Store owner asks what he's been doing and he responds with the loosest mumble I've ever heard. There's no way she, even with her immersion amongst the local dialect, understands what he's saying. As we leave, I nod at the man before I get up out of my plastic chair and pack my water jugs. He dips his head with a nod and our conversation is over. I wouldn't say I gained anything from this man, and neither did he from I, but it was one of the most amounts of nothing I've ever shared with a person.  

Maddie, at the Foreman gas station, hears our story as I buy a beverage and fill up on water in their sink. Minutes later, she comes out carrying bags of potato wedges and ketchup for us. Minutes after that, bags of jalapeño poppers and mozzarella sticks. She gives us hugs and tells us to be safe on the road. Makes sure we have lights and walks back into the store. Little things like this continue to happen and continue to show the inherent desire of people to help and care for others. Whether needed or not. Whether deserved or not. 

Pedaling into Oklahoma for the night, it's indistinguishable from The Sass in these areas. Only a sign tells us otherwise. Pulling into camp, a game camera flashes a photo of me a second after I see it. It must be a hilarious photo. I plan on going back with my email on a piece of paper, asking the owner to email it to me. Another one of those hopeful ideas, trumped by more time gulping hot cocoa in the morning. Pedaling through Oklahoma, we spend less than twenty miles in its grasp. We'll add it to the checklist regardless. Supposedly, there's quite the state ahead of us, in both size and reputation.