AR Part 2

His name was Jim, and he was walking back to his car that was parked in a town called Ponca, which was about four miles north of where we were. Jim was from Tulsa, and he had just enjoyed a week away from civilization (and his job with American Airlines) in the woods of the Buffalo River. We walked the four miles up to Ponca together, and it was great to walk with someone for awhile. Jim was a very nice guy, and the miles go by at lightening speed when they are walked while engaged in interesting conversation. I haven't experienced that in a long time. It reminded me of the time I met a guy in Wyoming that had quit his job to travel around the Rockies for awhile. We traveled together for a couple weeks before he decided it was time to go home.

Jim's pack was actually larger than mine, and it sure looked alot heavier, too. He was looking very dehydrated when I met him, and I was glad to be able to share some of my water with him. Since he was going home to Tulsa, before we parted he emptied out his pack and blessed me with some very fine hiking and camping delicacies, the kind that a tuna and rice eating man like myself considers luxury items--about a pound of beef jerky, bags of nuts and dried fruit, and some Tang mix.

Lucky wanted to walk across America with me, but there is a reason why I am not traveling with a K-9 companion, even though I would like to. Lucky the dog was a perfect example of why. He just didn't understand the concept of staying off the road when cars drive by (or what the concept of "Go Home, Lucky" meant). I would watch him up ahead when I could hear or see a car coming. He would just be standing or walking right in the middle of the road. I tried to yell at him the first few times, but then I gave up and just watched, hoped, and prayed that his life would not end on the road in front of me. The people in their cars would slam on the brakes and swerve to avoid him, and then they would glare at me as if to say, "Keep your damned dog off the highway!" as they drove by. This went on for five miles, and I could not for the life of me lose this dog. Finally, I made a stop for a swim in the river, and when I was done, Lucky was gone. I packed up and walked away from the river as fast as I could. I kept looking over my shoulder for the inevitable sight of Lucky running behind me with his tongue flapping in the wind, but Lucky was never to be seen running behind me again.

Wednesday, November 10, 1999: Sam's Throne

In Jasper, I met a very nice guy named Randy, and after talking for a while, he simply said to me, "Well, would you care to stay indoors tonight?" Randy lived a few miles north of Jasper on the border of the National Park. I stayed at his house last night, and this morning he gave me a ride back into town for my walk south through the now infamous (to me anyway) Mt Judea (pronounced Mt. Judy, and if you're from around here, you just call it Judy. ie: "Be real careful when you walk through Judy.").

The first person that I met in Jasper yesterday (his name was Jeff) told me that I might want to change my proposed route through Mt. Judea on back roads to a place called Sam's Throne. When I persisted and told him how much I really wanted to walk that way and see Sam's Throne, he told me that I would probably be okay if I walked through Mt. Judea quickly, in the daytime, and on a weekday. His last warning to me was, "Watch out for those Bubbas," which I would assume are large, beer-drinking, rednecks who probably would be a good thing to watch out for.

After meeting Jeff, I proceeded to ask everyone that I met in Jasper their opinion on walking through Mt. Judea. Most of the folks thought that I would most likely survive the trip, if I didn't talk to anyone, stuck to the highway, and just walked through quickly. Some folks said, "Judy's not as bad as it used to be, but if you had asked me ten years ago, I would have told you that it was a very bad idea." One guy asked me if I had ever seen the movie Deliverance (I hate it when people do that), and another said, "Well, at least you're not black," indicating that being white would greatly increase my chances of living if I chose to walk through Mt. Judea.

Well, I made it through Mt. Judea today. Although the people there were very far from a description of being friendly, they really didn't pay all that much attention to me. Most of them either ignored me or stared at me with "What is he doing here?" or "What does he think he is doing here?" looks. And that is just the nature of where I am today, walking through very small communities in the hills of Arkansas. I'm not pointing any fingers at Mt. Judea. I am sure that there are some nice folks there, but in a town like Mt. Judea where most people live their whole lives, it can become very klanish, and the folks there don't tend to like outsiders much. They take extremely good care of their own; but if you're not local, they don't really want you there, and you will be persuaded to leave. God help you if you're not local and they have some reason to dislike you other than the fact that you're just not local--you might not survive that particular situation.

The guy (Jeff) that I met in Jasper was a carpenter, but he could not find many jobs because he moved there about four years ago. The local carpenters were booked with work through the spring, but Jeff usually only received a carpentry job here and there if someone needed the work completed before the local guys would have time to get to it. They just take care of their own around here; and to be honest, if you're not their own, they will make you feel alienated, unwelcome, and unwanted--that is if they allow you to stay at all.

Thursday, November 11, 1999: south of Lurton, AR

I walked south on what started out as a gravel road, but then it turned into highway 123 after about two miles. Thirteen miles after that, the sun was going down, and I was in a community called Lurton. The couple of folks I tried to talk to as I walked by their houses weren't very friendly, and camping near Lurton was not going to be an option. I needed to walk two more miles to Fairview Campground, and I was beginning to face the fact that the last two miles were going to be walked in the dark. I really hate walking in the dark, and walking in the dark in Lurton seemed like a very unpleasant idea. I had seen maybe ten cars all day long, and as I heard one coming behind me I prayed to God for some assistance. It was a truck, and it went past me and then stopped, reverse lights came on, and the driver's side window rolled down. A guy said, "Do you need a ride somewhere?" and I said, "Yes, I do." As I sat down in the cab of his truck, I asked him where he was from. His reply came with a smile, "Mt. Judea." and I thought, "Oh, God." Not to worry though, he was a very nice person and a teacher in Mt. Judea. He gave me a ride to the campground, saved me from walking in the dark, and I got to feel God taking care of me once again.

Friday, November 12, 1999: near Treat, Arkansas

I met a guy this morning at Fairview Campground, and he invited me to his campsite for breakfast. His name was Lonnie, and he was from Florida. Lonnie had purposely stranded himself at Fairview Campground. Before driving up to the campground, he filled his trunk with enough groceries for three weeks, left just enough gas in his car to get from the campground to the nearest gas station, and made it impossible for him to get any money until December 1st. He wanted to spend the time camping in the woods, and he didn't want any fleeting thoughts of "having a cheeseburger or maybe going to see a movie" to interfere with his time spent in the woods.

I just thought that what he did was very cool, and I understand the motivation to do such a thing. An extended time spent in the woods away from civilization is usually rewarding, and cheeseburger and movie cravings can be powerful, often times too powerful to resist when you are in the woods with access to a car that can quickly take you back into civilization. So what Lonnie had done may seem strange to some, but I thought it that made perfect sense and was admirable.

Saturday, November 13, 1999: north of Dover, Arkansas

It's opening day of deer season here in Arkansas, and the hills are alive with the sound of gunfire. Ninety-nine percent of the vehicles on the back roads of the Ozark National Forest today are pickup trucks transporting men clothed in camouflage apparel with bright orange caps. The other one percent are forest service employees and the fellas from the fish and game commission. It really is amazing (bordering on the ridiculous) how many deer hunters are out hunting today. All the gun shots are fairly disturbing, and although the scenery has been beautiful, I haven't been enjoying the walk much today.

I continued south out of the Ozark National Forest and began to realize that I was going to need a safe place to camp for the night. Tonight, I didn't have the luxury of just going into the woods wherever I pleased, for fear that my campsite might possibly be the same place that someone planned to do some hunting in the morning. Some people think that many hunting accidents aren't always "accidents" that occur when someone mistakes a person for a deer, but that they occur when someone like myself accidentally ruins a disgruntled hunter's chances of killing a deer for the day. Just the fact that some people think that is enough for me at the moment. The vibe that I received as I walked past a few houses with the thought of asking them for a small plot of ground where I could avoid being shot in the morning was not a good vibe. I was running out of sunlight and time.

I saw a couple guys drinking beer, admiring their rifles, and most likely discussing today's hunt. I'm not really sure why, but I decided to ask them if I could camp on their land. One of the guys (Tim) said, "You're not like a crazy person who travels around and kills people, are you?" I said, "No," and he gave me permission to camp in a horse pasture nearby where no one would be hunting in the morning. He added that I shouldn't be too surprised if there is a heavy amount of traffic on this dirt road tonight, because it's the weekend and the local bootlegger lives right up the road. That's just great, because now all I have to think about as I fall asleep tonight is being stepped on by a horse or the local bootlegger getting drunk and deciding to site his rifle this evening.

That brings up an interesting thing that you just don't see in most parts of the country, and that is the need for a local bootlegger. Many of the counties here in Arkansas are dry counties. In fact, Tim said that the nearest beer store is forty miles away. So, there becomes a need in the community for a way to purchase liquor and cold beer without having to drive forty miles every time a you feel inclined to do so. Thus, the local bootlegger responds to that need by driving up to Missouri now and then and returning with a pickup truck full of booze. I generally think of bootlegging as something that only occurred back during the prohibition years, but judging by the traffic on this dirt road tonight, it seems that the bootlegging profession is alive and well today right here in Arkansas.

Sunday, November 14, 1999: Russellville, AR

The walk to Russellville today had a little less gunfire but a lot more traffic. I walked through a town called Dover on the way, which was not a very pleasant experience. The people were not very friendly at all, and a girl walking her dog on the sidewalk actually crossed over to the opposite side of the street as she approached me. Maybe I'm just paranoid about the girl walking her dog, but I can sense an unfriendly community when I am in one, and that was real in Dover. I began to feel a healthy resentment for the folks of Dover, but tried to shake the dust off my feet as I proceeded to Russellville with hopes that the people would be friendlier there. They should be. It is a much larger community and they have a college in town which generally make the people more receptive to a person looking the way I do.