The ride out from the center of Arkansas would turn out to be drastically different than the ride inwards. On the way in, we had followed the Arkansas River valley, passing through but not over the Ozarks. Now, heading north to Missouri, there was no option but to go into and over these exhausting mountains.

We retraced our route up highway 365 to Conway, where we took a break at Hendrix College to do a phone interview with the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. From Conway we took US 65 to the north, but it turned out to be busy, loud, and unpleasant. Sections of it had a nice shoulder, but on other sections, the shoulder would disappear completely, forcing us to claim our lane on the busy highway.

In Greenbriar, we took our first opportunity to hop onto side roads. State highway 25 took us up onto a high, rolling pastureland covered with grazing cows and tightly rolled hay bails. We were one day too late for “Dairy Days” in tiny Guy, AR, where the only bank promised on their marquee: “We plan to stay. Not mobile.”

We rolled on through Quitman, where by that time we felt like doing just that–quitting. The terrain north of Quitman on Highways 225 and 16 were fully into the heart of the Ozarks, and our week-and-a-half old touring legs struggled to overcome them. The summer was also upon us, enveloping us in a balmy blanket of heat. Without question, this was our hardest day yet. We hit our highest speed of the trip so far at 42 miles an hour while racing down a hill, only to perform our first walking push up the incline that followed. Repeat this twenty times, and your idea of touring in the Ozarks is nearly complete.

Yet a goal kept us pedaling on: a little tipi on our map indicated campgrounds along Greers Ferry Lake. To reach it would require a 60 mile day from us through these punishing mountains, but the idea of taking a refreshing dip in the lake and camping on its cool shores seemed too good a destination to stop just five miles short.

We arrived late in the day (6:00 pm) with salt crusted clothing, too exhausted to pedal another mile. We stayed at the “Narrows Campground” where the caretakers for the past 17 years had been Bill and Sissy Prothro. Bill approached us at the entrance, clad in his western style shirt, jeans and boots. After directing us to a beautiful spot on the shore of the lake, he instructed us to come back around 7 to “get a barbeque” with him and his wife. After swimming, setting up camp, and enjoying a warm shower, we walked back up to Bill and Sissy’s caretaker RV site. We were greeted by at least a dozen relatives and friends of the Prothro’s, and a table covered with dishes of pulled pork, baked beans, two kinds of cole slaw, and cakes. The crowd was informed by Bill about our journey, which resulted in 20 minutes of curious questions. Then the usual conversation patterns settled in, and Bill took his proper throne as chief yarn-stringer.

Bill Prothro had spent seven years as a high school shop teacher, which was the context for one of his funnier stories: “One time I had to give fifteen boys a whoopin’ in one day,” he said. “ We was buildin’ a house (it was a vocation training program) and I had to leave for a few minutes. I told ‘em, ‘Don’t cause no trouble, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’ Well, when I got back, they had the lights off and wuz throwin’ pieces of wahr at each other like darts in the dark. They all had little red spots on their cheeks - nearly put their eyes out. I told ‘em: ‘You can take a whoopin’ an’ then we’ll go to Mack-Donal’s (see, I was usin’ psychology on ‘em) or you can not go.’

Well, all of ‘em took their whoopins, but one boy. He says ‘I don’t want a whoopin’ Mr. Prothro.’ So I says ‘Alright, then we don’t go to Mack-Donals.’ You shoulda seen them other boys circle ‘round him. So he says he’ll take his whoopin’ but he says, ‘Don’t bust me as hard as you done the other boys!’

He exploded the last sentence out in bursts of laughter, a twinkle in his eyes, and his hand slapping his knee. Later he asked us, “You know what it sounds like to put a rope through a tin can?”

“No, I don’t believe so” was our natural response.

“Sounds like a bobcat. When I’s a kid, we done that to old ladies behind their houses in the fields at night. Would you believe that they shot at us, thinkin’ we’s a bobcat?” Another contagious gaffaw.

We spent the evening around the picnic table with stuffed bellies, listening to old Bill tell tales that would make a fisherman blush. Every once in a while, Laura and I exchanged knowing glances with each other that said “This is right where we need to be.”

As we were settling into our tent, Bill’s friend Ken came by to make a kind donation to our trip. Incidentally, the amount was just enough to cover our camping fees for the night. The gift, along with our aching legs, convinced us to take our first full day off.

We spent the day writing, swimming, and reading, only getting on the bike long enough to cross the bridge to a restaurant on the opposite side of the lake for lunch.

That second night, some of Bill’s relatives who we’d met the night before invited us over to their site for a fish fry. Jim & Debbie, and George & Linda managed to put together quite a feast. We munched on bass and crappie, catfish, hush puppies, fries, and frog legs that they’d just “gigged” that day. Along with the cold beverages they provided, we had the perfect southern meal.

After dinner, Linda and George offered their jet skis to us to take an evening cruise on the lake. We zoomed along on the water, zipping around each other, making waves for each other to bounce over on the otherwise smooth lake. We ceased our play for a few moments to behold a glorious, blood-red sunset over the water–confirmation that we had chosen the perfect place to rest.

Out of Atkins, the road took us through flat river bottom land: corn and I-40 on our left, soybeans and the railroad on our right. Rocking chairs and front porches were the standard here, and plenty of people were rocking the morning away, watching the world go by. Our particular means of transit seemed especially amusing, and we got plenty of friendly waves along our way.

Painted on the roof of an old weathered barn just outside Conway: “Paladino Chimney Sweep. I’ll even dance on your roof.” Another sign: “Chickens and goats 4 sale.”

A little further, we notice in the distance a man walking down the shoulder holding what appeared to be a giant white pole. As we neared, it became apparent that what he was carrying was in fact a ten foot tall homemade PVC cross. Wearing a white tank top, white shorts, and white tennis shoes, he labored under his heavy load. We had to stop and talk.

Flush with enthusiasm, David Dodge told us of his unique journey that he had begun that very morning. “God told me to carry this cross 2,000 miles and not take anything with me. When he sent out his disciples He said, ‘Don’t take nuthin’ with ya, not even a second tunic.’ I figure if He could make a donkey talk, he can provide for me.” True to his convictions, he carried no backpack nor even a water bottle. The day was already hot by late morning, and beads of sweat rolled down his face. For once, we could offer instead of ask; he took a long drink from our water bottle and told us with gratefulness that he had been praying for water.

David told us of his former life, where he had gotten involved in drugs and alcoholism. “I spent a few years in th penitentiary, and that’s where God told me–2,000 miles.” In the past few months he’d relapsed, “And that’s when God told me: It’s time.”

“Where ya going?” we asked.

“I’m headin’ West, 2,000 miles, wherever that takes me. California’s 2,000 miles. I’ll go across the desert.” Suddenly our mode of transportation seemed less crazy and our motivation for travel less faith-stretching. We talked on for a few minutes then wished him well. He repositioned the folded shirt used to pad his shoulder under the cross, then walked slowly off to the west. We stood and watched in amazement at the simplicity and sincerity of his faith.

The sun was not kind to human powered travel that day, and the temperature continued to climb well into the nineties. We ducked into a pizza place in Conway to borrow a phone book and ended up succumbing to the delicious smells emanating from the buffet. After lunch we rode through downtown and came across a street preacher just packing up his megaphone. We pulled over and chatted with him for a few minutes. He had recently returned from a stint in Iraq with the Army and was now going into ministry. A woman pulled up and handed the evangelist a bottle of cold water. “You keep preachin’ the gospel, brother,” she encouraged.

From Conway we took highway 365 south towards Little Rock. Passing through Mayflower, we waited out some of the blistering afternoon in the cool library before pushing on towards Maumelle and the center.

The city of Maumelle, despite being a relatively new suburb of Little Rock, had taken its name from a much older source. In the 17th century, French explorers plying the waters of the Arkansas River had named a prominent peak along its banks Mamelle because its perfectly conical shape reminded the lonely bands of male explorers of the shape of a female breast. The state of Arkansas has since adopted the more family-friendly moniker Pinnacle Mountain, while Maumelle is a corruption from the original French.

Near the bridge over Palarm Creek we passed a small field of gilded wheat with an old man driving an old tractor, his young grandson riding on his lap. The farmhouse they were heading back to was simple, stately, and tidy. With uncertainty still lingering about what the center would hold, we mused aloud, “Wouldn’t it be perfect if the center was there?” Despite our philosophy of arbitrary travel, we were certainly not immune to the temptation to try and select the “ideal” story from such scenes.

But our curiosity about the unknown true center outweighed the temptation to create a convenient and contrived story. Crossing the bridge, we caught a glimpse of the mighty Arkansas River to which Palarm Creek contributed its muddy trickle just west of us. Highway 365, on the other hand, turned east and climbed into the hills. Just across the Pulaski County line, we were met with a handful of stores boasting of their selection of beverages prohibited in Faulkner County. Now fully into the hills, dense trees cast shadows across dilapidated houses as shadows of doubt clouded our hopes of a perfect story.

Pulling out the GPS unit, we homed in on our unsuspecting target. When the center was nearly perpendicular to the road, we dismounted the bike and paced up and down the highway, trying to discern which door we should knock on. A nondescript white house seemed to be the destination, so we parked and knocked.

No answer. It was only three o’clock, so we debated where to wait until the residents returned home. However, a man in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts smoking a cigarillo soon emerged from the back door. “Can I help you?” he asked in a friendly but somewhat wary tone. Our first cold knock at a state’s center. Laura and I exchanged uncertain glances and launched into a fumbling explanation of our journey.

The man’s name was Barry Prater, and with a half smile he gave us full permission to tramp up the hill behind his house in search of the heart of Arkansas. “Watch out for those fire ants,” he warned. “I’ll be out on the back patio when you get back.”

We gathered our camera, tripod, and GPS for the hike to the center. The hillside was steep and had been recently been logged, six inch diameter oaks now replacing two-foot diameter pine stumps. The young trees had allowed the underbrush to thicken, making progress slow. We passed old rusty lawn chairs, cinder blocks, and rotting tree stands before reaching the flatter ridge top. Here we homed in on the exact center and snapped our picture among the tufts of bright green grass opportunistically springing up towards the light breaking through the young forest’s spotty canopy.

Even under the trees, the day was hot and we reemerged at the bottom of the hill tired and thirsty. Barry brought us cold sodas and we all sat down on the shaded patio to chat.

Three generations of Praters had been grown up on this land. Barry’s mother had run the general store in Palarm (now part of Maumelle): “We sold food, feed, whatever else you might need. It was back in the day.” Barry and his two brothers had grown up playing on the hill behind the house where the center lay. They drank from the springs, shot at squirrels and cans, and modified an old car by installing a stovepipe in the roof, allowing them to camp inside in the winter. “That’s just what we done,” he said numerous times.

The old stagecoach from Little Rock to Conway ran atop the ridge, and growing up, Barry could still see the ruts from the coach wheels. A Palarm old-timer had also told Barry that the Trail of Tears had made a winter camp nearby.

Barry’s mother now lived next door, and his two sons had also grown up playing on the hill. Marshall, his 21 year old son who planned to enter the Navy soon, was now living at home and emerged from the house with a ghastly black eye hidden behind sunglasses. We later learned the injury had been caused by his older brother who’d just returned from the Marines. He was living at home as well, but at the moment was nowhere to be seen, in the dog house for his blowup. Throughout our conversation, we were impressed by the open and frank nature of the Praters and their sons. Marshall mentioned a few of his youthful indiscretions unflinchingly in the presence of his parents, who obviously already knew.

Barry worked at a dairy processing plant in Little Rock, which required twelve-hour shifts but recompensed with additional days off each month. Fortunately, we had caught him on such a day off. His wife Joyce arrived home a little later from her job in accounting with North Pulaski Schools and joined us on the patio.

They recommended that we try to stay at Bull Shoals state park campground when we got to northern Arkansas. The park was a favorite of the Praters, who had serendipitously discovered fly fishing there. They saw some people fishing the 45 degree waters below the dam and got to talking with them about fly fishing. The sport looked appealing, and it wasn’t long before Barry gave it a try. “I bought him the gear one Christmas,” Joyce recalled. She herself took a bit longer to switch to flies. “He was tryin’ to get me into it for a whole year. ‘You just think you’ll look stupid,’ he said. Well, he called it, and I finally came around. Now we’ve been doin’ it for nearly eight years every summer.”

“She might be better’n me,” Barry chuckled. We spent several hours on the Prater’s porch, rocking and talking. Laura and I pointed out how we’d seen many Arkansans spending time out on their porches. “It looks like a good life,” we remarked.

“It is, it is,” Barry agreed. “We sit out here almost every night.” With family and friends to chat away the evening with, the Praters said that they rarely watch much television. Laura and I found this idea refreshingly old-fashioned and chimed in that, for our first year of marriage, we’d chosen not to have a TV either.

As the afternoon faded into a cool summer evening, I began feeling a bit anxious. Laura and I had not specifically asked about the possibility of camping in the Prater’s yard, nor had anyone made mention of dinner plans. The uncertainty began turning to awkwardness within me, and just as I was groping for a way to broach the subject, Barry stood and told me he had something to show me. We walked around to the back of their house, where their shining RV was parked. “You two are welcome to stay tonight in our RV,” he said and showed me inside. With the slide-outs, the RV was probably as large as the tiny apartment Laura and I had shared our first year of marriage, and Barry welcomed us to make ourselves at home.

When we rejoined the group, I told Laura the delightful news, then the Praters suggested we all go out to dinner together. We piled into their truck and headed to “American Pie”, a pizza joint that Marshall had once worked at in Maumelle. Here we ordered a few pies and a few pitchers, continuing our conversation until well after dark.

At one point, Laura asked how Joyce and Barry had met. “We met in Houston when we were both working there,” Joyce said.

“I liked you so much, I had to marry you twice!” Barry chimed in. There was obviously a story here, so we prodded him to share. It turns out that they’d decided to get married in Kansas near Joyce’s hometown in Coffeeville, MO. After reserving a church and sending out all the invitations, they discovered that Kansas law required them to obtain their wedding license in person seven days before their wedding. Joyce’s parents tried everything they could, but to no avail–the bureaucracy was an immovable object.

“We had already sent out all the invitations–there was nothing we could do,” Barry laughed. So he and Joyce got married in civil court in Houston on January 14th, then “just went our separate ways to work.”

When the February date rolled around, they headed up to Kansas for their church wedding. “And the church had a wall torn out–they were replacing the pipe organ,” Barry said. “There were pipes all up and down the walls. We just had to move it to another church that day, and had people stationed there to direct them to the new location.” Nowadays, the Praters have two potential anniversaries to celebrate, and when one of the dates falls at an inconvenient time, they simply choose the other.

We also learned from Barry the real story behind Altus: this little community had chosen to vote itself wet within a dry county. A boon for liquor tax revenue, certainly, but it seems that the decision had unintended consequences. Barry also shared with us a story of the politics behind dry county voting: a friend of Barry’s owned a liquor store in a wet county (Pulaski) that bordered a dry one (Faulkner). Each time Faulkner County decided to give its citizens a chance to vote themselves wet, Barry’s friend had poured lots (on the order of six figures) into the coffers of a Baptist group that was opposing the initiative to bring liquor to Faulkner. Barry’s friend was all too happy to keep the neighboring county dry and its residents in need of his store’s wares. Strange bedfellows indeed.

Once back at the Prater’s, Laura and I showered then sank into the comfortable bed, thankful that the heart of Arkansas had fallen on the land of such unguarded and generous people.

Impressions en route to the center of Arkansas:

Commerce not limited to stores, produce not limited to grocery stores. Garden plots abounded, and roadside sales offered a variety of products: blue tick coon hounds, peaches, melons, honey, catfish, corn, tomatoes, cabbage.

Numerous chicken farms. Stopped at one to get water and a middle-aged Hispanic man came out to meet us among the scampering Chihuahuas. Al was his name, and without hesitation he ushered us inside to use his sink and restroom. Al had previously farmed in California/Arizona, but had come to Arkansas at the invitation of his boss. “How do you like Arkansas?” we asked.

“I like it here okay, except for the humid heat,” he replied. Pedaling up and down the hilly terrain that day, we felt the same.

Passed a rolling pasture where an old man was driving an tractor of about his same vintage. He looked our way, we waved, and apparently something about our rig amused him, for his delighted cackling laughter could be heard above the roar of his machine.

Came up from behind on an old shirtless man in brown polyester pants striding purposefully across his yard. He stopped, tensed, and BANG!!! Then we saw the barrel of his shotgun lower, and across the yard a squirrel writhing in its final moments of life. Perhaps some stereotypes have a basis in reality.

Rode into Russelville on a causeway over the Lake Dardanelle. Lining the roadway were innumerable turtles sunning themselves on top of rocks or larger turtles. Inexplicably, hours of traffic caused them no distress, but our passing caused them to flee into the water. It was almost as if we were on the water ourselves, as splashing turtles produced a wake behind us. We also stirred up several blue herons, their beating wings leaving tiny ripples like skipping stones as they flew just above the surface of the bayou.

Lunch at Fat Daddy’s BBQ, a place that focused on quality rather than variety. “We put the meat on your buns,” their sign boasted. With your meat, you could choose from among three sides: cole slaw, potato salad, or baked beans. We got all three, and for each it was apparent that great care had been taken in crafting the recipe. The baked beans were the best Laura or I had ever eaten, and Oklahoma is no slouch on beans.

Sixty miles that day found us in Atkins, population 2,800. The city hall, police station, firehouse, and EMS were all located conveniently on a half-acre lot, and we hoped to get permission to camp on the grass between them all. The police made obtaining permission seem like a passport application, but they assented and we set up near the firehouse. There we met Rhonda and Chris, the EMS squad for the evening. Chris was young, early 20’s, and still studying for full EMS certification, while Rhonda had been at it for years. They graciously offered us warm showers in the station and gave us directions to the library (next door) and the public pool (across the railroad tracks).

After a swim and some emailing, we took them up on their shower offer then chatted a bit. Born and raised in Atkins, Rhonda recounted how as a girl she had written a letter about her life and the town for Atkin’s centennial celebration in 1976. Her teenaged daughter come by later and practiced her softball pitching against the firehouse’s brick wall.

When she learned of our plans to go to the center of the state, Rhonda warned forebodingly, “Oh, it starts getting to be a dark area around Mayflower.”

“Dark?” we asked, naively puzzled.

“Yeah, you know, black. Lots of crackhouses down there,” she clarified. We were taken aback.

Chris tried to cover a little: “Yeah, but there’s still a lotta nice people around.” It was a bit shocking to see such a striking portrayal of the generational gap in racial attitude between Chris’s generation and Rhonda’s. It was also sobering to realize that, even in 2007, our journey would be an entirely different experience were our skin of a different color.

Nevertheless, her hospitality towards us was abundant, and as we read in our tent before sleep, Rhonda brought us out two piping hot hunks of brownie. Our teeth were already brushed, but who could resist? Bellies full and teeth decaying, we fell asleep quickly.