On the Tail of Trails and No Return

[TexasShadow]

Come onnnn! Let's get this show on the road!

"Hush, Wylie. I'm trying to pack the bike. We're already late."

Ah! You have ears afterall!

"Oh shut up."

Escape from Workhatten

Work late, commute long, come home tired, and that's the day. They pile up like a mountain of stinking offal until the insides turn sour and we become sourpusses. We can't even stand ourselves. Neither can the others. All work and no play is unhealthy and destroys the intellect. Our brains become soft and we move like zombies.

What is this, a horror story?

"Okay, okay. You're right. Let's forget the zombies and move on."

We -the bike, the gear, myself and Wylie- got a late start Saturday morning. Eventually we made it to Ed's house and did the first order of things: drank coffee. Ed put the aluminum tank panniers from his KLR on the Wee and, I suspect, was giggling inside: 'She'll never be the same after touring with these boxes.' He was right, of course. Tease.........

The boxes and luggage rack were repacked and I stepped back to admire the work: there was left over space....... Oh. My. God. I'm in love. I knew, though, that the empty space would be occupied at some point during the trip. We'd have to wait and see. At least there was space to stow away the layers of clothes as they were shed. Forecasters boasted that the temps would rise, but I never believe anything they say. Or write. We'll see.

We decided, against my nature, to slab it north. The steed was capable and the will to do nothing but auto-pilot prevailed. Navigating the escalator of tarmac to I-35, we headed north. On auto-pilot. No voices in the head, no songs in the helmet, nothing but an occasional blink-blink of the eyelids. I barely remember anything but an urge for drink and food a few hours later.

Just north of Gainesville we found the usual road fare: Cracker Barrel. I don't even have to look at the menu; I know the three things I usually eat on the road and they have bottomless iced tea. And I can shed a layer or two.

Feeling now a bit more revived, we debated where to go. We had nothing on our trip menu, no itinerary, no destinations. Just get on the road and go.
"North?"
"Yup," I says.
"Oklahoma?"
"Yup," I says.
"Arkansas?"
"Sure," I says.
Let's go.

Where we going?
"I don't know."
Whatta ya mean you don't know?
"I don't know."
Why don't you know?
"You ask too many questions, Wylie."
..
..
.
I'm not 'Wylie'. I'm Coyote!!
"Yup, you sure are, Wylie."
Hey!

I didn't want to ride on Hwy 82. I've ridden it too many times. I wanted something different and new. We decided to skip the border north into Oklahoma and ride east north of the Red River.

OK Hwy 70 was a nicer road; less traffic, more rural, smaller towns; it was nice. I got interested in riding and shut off auto-pilot. Just east of Kingston is part of the Lake Texoma dragon. Really, look at Lake Texoma on a map and it looks like a blue decrepit dragon with arthritis: one leg here, the other there, tail twisted, it's head leaned back and with frizzy scales, blowing bubbles up towards Tishomingo. A twisted dragon with a bad hair day. We rode over its face and it didn't even care. But it gave us the opportunity to see the lake from the northern shore.

The day was now hot and muggy. The kind of day where the sweat doesn't evaporate from your skin, and your clothes and gear stick to you like flypaper. We left rural Oklahoma and entered a big rural town stuck in between the seventies and ninety's with vehicles from the 21st century crowding the main street. Rural Oklahoma is very different from rural Texas, but I can't say I like one more than the other. I like them both. Just for what they are. And what they were.

Hey, look at that horse on fire!!

As we turned at the intersection in downtown Durant, I pulled off the road onto a gravel area and stopped. I needed to shed some hot gear and replenish the fluids that seemed to escape my skin and soak my clothing. We also wanted to check out the two horses standing on the sides of the roads oblivious to the bustle of traffic.

The corner of the main and side streets there is dominated by a rearing stallion in a blaze of fire. Standing more than ten feet tall, his hooves and head paw the skies with flames of red, orange and yellow spiraling up from cool dark hind legs and tail. It is a magnificent statue and commands presence. You can't help but stand there underneath, looking up and wondering if those hooves are going to come down on you and smash you into the ground.

Across from the bikes was a more pleasant and docile horse. Another painted pony (I refrain out of respect from calling the fire horse a 'pony'). This one was also red, but its colors and pose more domesticated. After the fiery stallion, this one was almost boring. A contrast between power and strength and domestication: "Hold it right there! I'll take that pose".... snap! Frozen in time wearing abstractions.

After tearing off the knee-hi MX socks, the long-sleeved shirt, and peeling off the leggings over the UnderArmors, the mesh jacket and MX pants felt darn good. Along with a bottle of water guzzled down. Checking the time we decided to head towards our camping spot: Robber's Cave State Park near Wilburton.

Back on the bikes we headed east again along Hwy 70 towards Hugo, turning north to Antlers and pick up Hwy 2. We were back in rural Oklahoma again: rich red soil, green grass, cattle, horses, and peace. My face inside the Fishbowl wore the semblance of a smile and the tiredness slowly began drifting away in the wake of the humming engine.

Hey! Everyone is waving at us! We're a parade!
"I guess it's like a parade. But it's called 'reciprocity,' Wylie. We smile and wave at people and they wave and smile back."
Everyday should be a parade.

Boswell is a small town, if that. But everyone outside and in their vehicles waved and smiled at us. For a moment in time, we rode through their lives and we felt we knew each other. I liked that.

Time shed its meaning as we turned north on Hwy 2. Towns were further apart, smaller, less people and more trees. The ground rose and rolled under us, and we leaned the bikes side to side, matching our wheels with the winding motion of the tarmac. We were finally getting into mountains. Old mountains. But mountains nonetheless. Mountains make me smile.

Back on auto-pilot, but this time the pilot was alert and absorbing the views, air and wind. Thick blue-gray clouds were piling up to the north and threatened rain. Maybe we would make it and set up camp in time. Maybe not.

We slowed while riding through Clayton. I could see the allure of that small town. Not to live, but to stay nearby for several days while riding, fishing or hiking. The local LO pulled out behind us and followed us through town, but we were barely riding the speed limit and didn't look threatening. We passed through with no incidents.

I nodded at Hwy 1 East, knowing that it leads to Talihina and the Talimena Skyway. But I suspected we would visit that road at some point on our meanderings.

Now we were on the lookout for the entrance to the park. We were both getting tired. My back was sore from riding on less than good suspension. And something was snoring behind me.

Two signs for Robber's Cave State Park pop up on both sides of Hwy 2. Ed pulled into the one on the right and he hesitated, unsure if that was the right turn. I nodded him forward and we wound up and around to a camping area and the headquarters/store. I barely peeled myself off the bike and resisted falling down.

You've turned into a weenie.
"I'm sore, yes; but also very tired and hot. But I'm not a weenie!"
*giggle*

I wanted a cold bubbly soda and an ice cream; the cure for everything. I found them both inside. The park staff were pleasant as pie, telling us that the campground next to them was full. BUT...... there are spots available next to the river down below.

"They're primitive; no electricity. The water spigots are scattered and there's just one restroom building."

I looked outside at the RV's stacked together like leggos and replied, "That's fine. We'll take one of those."

After paying our fee for the night, we donned the gear and back out we went; down the windy road, across the highway and onto a track with potholes and ruts. Carefully -potholes and a blown rear shock don't mix- we navigated the obstacle courses down onto a gravel and dirt track along the river and found a spot.

I stake thee as my spot!
"Yes, Wylie, we're camping here."
I'm not Wylie. My name is Coyote!
"Yes, it is."
Why does Coyote Master call me 'Wilbur'?
"Because you are."
What? Hmm....I'm going to pee on the corners of our spot.


We started setting up camp, and I keep thinking, 'I sure am liking these panniers......' Even down to the base layers, there was still some room in the boxes.

The tent was set up and I was heading for a Time Out: laying on the mattress and bag pad eating Advil chased down with a cold wet bubbly Diet Coke. Ed went exploring. And our watch shadow kept an eye on the place from his throne.

You sure took a long time to tell this story.
"It's your fault. You can't decide on who you are."
Huh? I'm Coyote! Like Coyote before me, and Coyotl before them.
"Don't get all Aztec-y on me now, Wylie."
I am I-Am-Many!
"Yeah, many of...."
Hey!!!

And then it rained........

Next: Walls of Time

 

[Stromboy]

Hi Wilbur.

 

[TexasShadow]

I woke in the middle of the night to the pitter-patter of rain on the tent. Rather, on my face. Because of the warm muggy night, we didn't put the fly over the tent, opting for whatever breeze we could catch through the tent mesh. Sure enough, it rained. It rained some part of every day we were on the road, but it wasn't bad enough to interfere.

We both hobbled out of the tent in the dark in varying degrees of birthday suits and threw the fly on the tent. As soon as I was back in the bag, I was back asleep and dreaming of coyotes.

The morning dew was heavy and hung over the river like a cotton ball blanket. The bikes were dripping as if they had just left a sauna. My tongue was caught in my head and I had no voice that morning. Nods and grunts would have to do. Ed and I went exploring in different directions and the camera led me to a few nice spots of contemplation.

Everything was wet. Dewy wet. We procrastinated leaving, letting things dry out a bit, then resorted to the hidden rags that ride in the 'other' exhaust on the Wee. After wiping things down and loading the bikes, we headed south again to Wilburton to locate food and feed.

There's not much to chose from in Wilburton, especially on a Sunday morning. We resorted to eating breakfast burritos at a gas station/convenience store. After two large cups of coffee, I was ready to head out.

We decided to go north. North to Cherokee country. What was once a large thriving community of Cherokee refugees and survivors was now a mixed bag of cultures. Thanks to Mr. Dawes. After visiting some of their homeland in Tennessee, now was my opportunity to visit their new 'home'.

We headed north on Okhahoma's Hwy 2, cutting through forests and farm land, heading up to I-40. A short jaunt east was just enough to circumvent the toll highway and exit onto Hwy 82 that leads north to Talequah.

Just north of the exit onto Hwy 82 is a sleepy but alive little town of Vian. There, you can stand in front of portals and go back into time. And, if so inclined, stay back there, too.

Several murals adorn the building walls. If you stand in front of them, you can almost imagine yourself stepping through and into them. As if they were portals back through time. Or into stories.

I really enjoy these snapshots of stories: life as it was then, mythical and legendary stories, portrayals of how we live now, and how they may have lived then. Each presents its own connection in some way. It brings to life that which might lurk in the shadows, stories that may have gone untold, comments on life and people, then and now. We look at the past with eyes from the future, and mix it all into that which is the present. They all represent things that we might have never heard, read or known. Until we see them and listen with our eyes.

Even Wylie delighted in them.

Hey, I know that one!!!

After watering our selves, including pouring some water over myself, we saddled up and headed north again.

Next: Where the Red Ferns Grow

 

[achesley]

I have a very fond memory of Durant. A few years back at a motel on the west side ( I think ) I was asking this young india lady about a laundry place and she asks how much do I have and normally pay. I said about 3 bucks to wash and dry two sets of clothing. She says she'll do them. She did and brought them back to my room folded and neat in about 2 hours. Only had that happen two times in my travels.

Thanks for sharing your trip trip with us. Beautiful pictures.

 

[TexasShadow]

Leaving the small town of Vian was the beginning of tailing many trails. Vian, a trading post in the mid-1800's, was one of many small communities that popped up along trails navigated by stage coaches, mules and wagons, horses and riders, cattle and deer. Finding narratives about these communities is like putting together multitudes of tiny pieces of a giant puzzle that make up our country.

The commonality between most of these towns is they sprouted along a trail. A street, railroad, highway, carriageway, and, yes, even waterway. Many of these byways began as muddy, rutted, rocky or sandy, single or two-track trails. Then they grew. As long as our feet under us move, we will move. As long as our technology grows, so will the distances we move.

Cars, trucks and motorcycles have replaced the mules, horses and bicycles. Many towns and settlements have surged and expanded at their seams. Some have fallen by the wayside only to spring up again along some other nearby trail; others have died and nothing remains except ghosts and voices that are never heard.

Now in our highly mobile environment, we tend to overlook the spaces between the big places alongside the trails and highways. In doing so, we overlook important components of our public memory. Life doesn't only exist next to fast-lane freeways and highways. In between Point A and Point B is an entire world that is a part of us. All of it.

I think this is what I enjoy most about being a traveler on a motorcycle. It brings me closer to what America really was, and is. It feeds my collective identity and forms my collective memory. It makes 'me' a 'we'.

Highway 82 north of I-40 is referred to as the 'Cherokee Hills Scenic Byway'. The latter's northern trail begins in the foothills of the Ozarks (Hwys 59 & 412) of northeastern Oklahoma. The Byway then meanders south as Hwy 10 and follows alongside the winding upper Illinois River.

The Byway heads west away from the Illinois River and intersects former Cherokee tribal lands and the large town of Tahlequah (Hwy 62 & 82). Just 12 miles south of Tahlequah the Byway crosses the Illinois River which then becomes a lake with 130 miles of shoreline. Lake Tenkiller was purportedly named after a Cherokee family that operated a ferry service across the river and near where the modern dam is. How the name Tenkiller originated is lost to mythology and legend, but one source claims it as the name of a Cherokee warrior that arrived at Fort Gibson after traveling on the Trail of Tears and had ten notches on his bow.

Touted as the clearest lake in Oklahoma and Texas combined, it is a haven for scuba divers. And, as every place tends to boast a "Capital of" something, the lake claims title to the "Trout Capital of Oklahoma". Just nine miles north of Vian, Hwy 82 alternately hugs and strays from the eastern shoreline of the lake. It wasn't until we crossed the northern head of the lake near the dam that we realized how big it was. And how clear. It sure looked inviting.

By the time we arrived in Tahlequah we were starved and hot. Some time ago, someone had recommended stopping at the Iguana Cafe for lunch or coffee. We found it, but it was closed on that Sunday. Instead, we found sustenance at the pizza place across the street. At least there were a few tables outside to sit at.

Two couples sat at a table next to us and they chatted about school, classes, recent trips, etc. Tahlequah is home to Northeastern State University, which occupies the grounds of the original Cherokee Female and Male Seminaries (I find it amusing that they were named as such: 'Female' and 'Male'. As if the genders were scientific specimens. At least they didn't use 'Virgins' or something else like we call the flies in our lab. ) Although fallen into mostly ruins, sections of the original building for the Female Seminary still remain on the campus grounds.

Ed and one of the males (sorry, couldn't resist ) at the table embarked on a long discussion of motorcycles. Funny how that commonality tends to break barriers and ignite conversations. I was too hungry to say much of anything; smiling was enough for me.

After we ate, we wandered across the street to see something right out of my childhood: a more-than-life-size carved wooden statue of Billy with his two hounds in a burlap bag slung across his back.

Tahlequah-area native Wilson Rawls wrote a book in 1961 (originally published as a three-part series in Saturday Evening Post): Where the Red Fern Grows. Because he and his siblings were unable to attend school, his Cherokee mother taught them to read and write at home. His inspiration to be a writer was a book that his mother read to him, and was one of my inspirations as well (for many things): Call of the Wild, by Jack London.

Rawl's book was on my bedroom shelf alongside other great books: Mobey Dick, Call of the Wild, Old Yeller, Black Stallion.... you know. The 'classics.' I recall when my Dad and I watched movies Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows back to back. Both of us were sobbing at the end.

Isn't it funny how seeing things like this can transport you back decades and you're suddenly struck with memories. I was smiling and fighting back tears at the same time as I stood there next to the wooden Billy.

It was time to move on. I wanted to check out a large brick building we had passed while looking for the Iguana Cafe. And we found it.

 

[TexasShadow]

Tahlequah has a complex history beginning in the southeastern states of Georgia, North Carolina and Tennessee. In some ways its history still extends all the way from its present location in Oklahoma, east to those areas and in between; in Arkansas, Missouri, Illinois, and Mississippi. The town was the site of a new beginning for an old nation: the Cherokee.

The four (or more) routes of the Trail of Tears culminated in Indian Territory, now known as Oklahoma. Those Cherokee that survived the forced displacement from their homes in GA, NC and TN ended their weary travels in this area along the Middle and Lower Illinois River, a tributary of the Arkansas River. In 1839, the Cherokees founded a new town and capital: Tahlequah.

Years before the removal of the tribes in the southeastern colonies, small bands of Cherokee had left their ancestral lands and ventured west. They had heard traditional stories of lands in the west where all the game they wanted flourished and no white men lived to squash their traditional lifestyles and culture. Some settled in Arkansas, some in Texas, and some on the rivers in modern Oklahoma. The latter band of Cherokee had established a settlement and capital named Tahlonteeskee around 1829.

When the rest of their people joined the existing band in Indian Territory, things weren't exactly a homecoming. The established band were steadfast traditionalists and opposed adoption of the 'white ways': the religions, clothing, education, commerce, private property, and owning slaves. It was not 'their way'.

Many of the refugees arriving on the Trail of Tears were progressives. They realized and believed that the only way to survive was to adapt, adopt and change. They tried, but their efforts didn't alter the perspectives of encroaching settlers, colonists, and the rising upper class. After years of political and philosophical clashes, all the tribes in the southeastern states were driven from their homelands. It was time for the Cherokee people to unify if they were to survive.

The new Cherokee nation's capital was established in the new town of Tahlequah, north of the former capital. The name is a derivation of one of the older great towns, and a former capital of the Overhill Cherokee, in Tennessee: Great Tellico, the site of modern Tellico Plains on the Tellico River. For me, this was an irony. Having ridden and slept on their former lands in Tellico Plains, hiked and ridden on their former war paths and hunting grounds. And now here I am, standing in front of the former courthouse and on their new townsite: Tahlequah.

When the Dawes Act divided their public lands into individually-owned parcels, the town changed. It was no longer a Cherokees' home site. It became more like many of the places in this country: multiracial, multiethnic, and multicultural. The tribe and nation still exist as a solid community; they've adapted, adopted and changed. And they are the largest Native American nation in the country.

Walking around the courthouse is a walk through history. On the lawn were stakes with photographs that told a story: a remembrance of the relocation on bicycles.

A group of Cherokee students and nation officials rode bicycles from Calhoun, GA, and retraced parts of one of Trail of Tears routes. They arrived at the Courthouse in July of this year to a homecoming ceremony. The photographs shared some of their ride.

Walking around the perimeter of the building and square, one can learn quite a bit of history by reading the monuments and stones.

I was surprised, well, almost shocked, to see this. To embark on a long history of the Cherokee factions is beyond this travelogue. Suffice to say that Ross and Watie were polar opposites. Most of the Nation followed the leadership of Ross. Watie.... well, he paid a hefty price for a betrayal to the Cherokee people that cost them their homelands and ultimately thousands of lives*. On the other hand, it is a part of their history; no matter how painful it is. It is a part of their collective public memory. Better to acknowledge it, be reminded of it, than sweep it under the rug and ignore it.

Now, here was a surprise. Does 'Bell' ring a bell?
Anyone interested can read the long version of the story here.

Interestingly, interspersed in the brick and stone walkway around the perimeter of the courthouse are blocks commemorating all the principle chiefs of the Cherokee Nation since their arrival to Oklahoma. Including the present day chief, Wilma Mankiller (the first Cherokee woman chief).

The sky clouded, it drizzled, which was refreshing, and stopped. The sun shone again and we were ready to move on.

* Synopsis: "A group of Cherokees known as the Treaty Party began negotiating a treaty with the federal government. The group led by Major Ridge and including his son John, Elias Boudinot, and his brother Stand Watie, signed a treaty at New Echota in 1835. Despite the majority opposition to this treaty - opposition led by Principal Chief John Ross - the eastern lands were sold for $5 million, and the [minority group of] Cherokees agreed to move beyond the Mississippi River to Indian Territory. The [U.S.] Senate ratified the treaty despite knowledge that only a minority of Cherokees had accepted it. Within two years the Principal People were to move from their ancestral homelands."