Our route from Fort Smith towards Little Rock would follow the Arkansas River valley, providing an unusually flat path through an exceptionally hilly area. Long ago French explorers had penetrated the Ozarks via the Arkansas, trading with the natives whose footpaths followed the river. Old way meets new, new way replaces old. Those not in line with the new way do not survive. The pattern was set from centuries past.

The white settlers became more numerous and the boats larger. Homesteads were erected, and communities emerged. Riverboats crawled the river and the towns where it docked thrived. For a brief while the Butterfield Stage Coach ran down up the Arkansas River Valley on it’s way across the country to California. Next the railroad was built through the valley, breathing life into countless whistle-stop towns and depot cities along its path. The rail lines were the arteries of commerce for decades, and cities bypassed by the railroad languished.

Later, the era of the automobile arrived. A highway was built, Route 64, and towns along it thrived in the new fashion, providing service stations and cafes to the cars and trucks rolling down main street. Finally, the interstate came, vacuuming traffic and commerce away from the old highway and railroad. Towns with an exit ramp evolved and survived, taking the flashy clothes of the new age: truck stops, fast food, and Motel 6.

Towns not along the superhighway struggled, still wearing the old garb of a two-story main street and Patsy’s Diner. Their way is not fast enough, not new enough, not uniform enough for the zooming crowds of the interstate. “Give me the same tank of gas, the same can of coke, and the same bag of fries I had six hours ago in wherever that was, and I’ll be on my way.”

This leg of our journey, Laura and I followed a federal highway that braided with a railroad and an interstate along the north bank of the Arkansas all the way to Little Rock. At the nodes where old 64 and I-40 crossed, we passed through a 2007 city, with shining BP stations and fast food aplenty. In the loops away from the interstate, we traveled through Arkansas half a century ago, eating in mom & pop diners, waving at people rocking away the day on their front porch, passing dozens of flea markets and hundreds of homes whose accumulations of worthless oddities had not yet reached official flea market status.

Our first day out of Van Buren, we stopped mid-day at a park across from a bluff on the Mulberry River. We read and rested for a while, took naps on the picnic tables, then headed down to the water for a swim. The water was like chocolate milk, but it felt good to swim and escape the heat for a while. On our way out, we met a husky older fellow in a black western-style shirt, black denim jeans, and black leather boots with silver spurs sitting and staring absentmindedly at the river. He spun us the tale of a rough and lonely life: “Judge put me in the military when I was young…when I got out of the military (well, actually, they put me out)…I grew up all over, but my wife grew up here [Mulberry]…Spent 32 years in a truck; now I live alone in a four bedroom place up the road…got no kin folk, but you gotta live somewhere.”

His spoken autobiography was certainly not a cheery one, yet he didn’t speak with any bitterness. Perhaps the years of loneliness had softened him towards others. As we talked, an older gentleman walked past in a well-worn wetsuit top and faded swimming trunks. His face was set with a single-minded purpose: to do his daily backstroke in the river. As he slowly disappeared upstream, the man in black piped up, “I used to swim in that river, but mostly fish now. I’d never go near that bridge; there was a rattlesnake that swum across ever’ afternoon at the same time.”

“Rattlesnakes swim?” Laura asked, a new arena being added to her fear of snakes.

“Gotta get across somehow…Used to think the only good snake was a dead snake. Now I think they’re here for a reason, just like us.” On that note, we left him to his thoughts and were on our way to live out our reason for being at the moment: to experience Arkansas by listening to stories like his.

Passing through Ozark, we noticed a self-conscious effort to embrace the Arkansas stereotype: there was a Hillbilly Quick Stop, a Hillbilly Inn, and a Hillbilly Realty. Usually, a place that is self-proclaimedly parochial isn’t, but in this case there may have been some truth to their self-image: we passed by two used car lots where the only customers were inspecting the tractors for sale on the lot.

The countryside now was a rolling bucolic scene, with hay fields interspersed with long chicken barns. If the signs above the mailboxes were to be believed, everyone’s name here seemed to be Tyson. The cut hay smelled wonderful; the chicken trucks smelled otherwise.

We had our first flat tire that day along US 64. The entire process of removing gear, removing wheel, removing tire, finding puncture, patching puncture, replacing tube, replacing tire, replacing wheel, and replacing gear took about 30 minutes. In that time, surely no less than 100 vehicles passed us, and the neighbors across the street also arrived home. Though we did not require or seek it, it was surprising to us that no one had stopped to offer assistance. Apparently growing up in Oklahoma had skewed our perspective of what is normal courtesy.

Despite a hot and tiring day, we pushed on, having heard that Arkansas’ wine country lay ahead. We had visions of California’s Napa Valley or Germany’s Rhine; we got Altus. At first glance, it was a charming small town boasting two wineries and a small town park surrounded by quaint businesses. But upon closer inspection, the park was a converted RV ground (electrical boxes still sprouted in rows across the lawn), and almost all the businesses turned out to be alcohol-centric. The old train depot was a liquor store, as was the building across the street. Caddy corner was a bar, and nearby was another. Two “restaurants” were also on the square, but after walking into one, we realized that they were actually bars that served food.

Tempted by the city park, we asked a passerby where the police station was located so we could ask permission to camp. “We had one cop, but he left,” she said. Hmmm. After eating our dinner and observing the makeup of the locals passing by, we no longer felt tempted by the park.

We pressed on, disappointed and tired. Laura in particular was disheartened by the unwelcoming interactions we’d had with the locals and the uncertainty of where we would stay that evening as the sun dropped lower and lower.

A few miles later, our prayers were answered: a perfect place to wild camp. To the north of the road stood a unfenced fallow field, tall with grass and wildflowers. A fifty yard long line of cedar trees provided a dense natural fence between us and the road, and we pitched our tent just behind it. The sunset and wildflowers were beautiful, providing hope that the rest of our time in Arkansas might be better.

The original plan was to head straight east from Red Oak into Mena, Arkansas, but the grimaces on Mike and Larry Joe’s faces when we told them this made us reconsider. “Them hills ‘as broke many an axle–oil companies gone broke sending trucks up there. No, you don’t wanna go to Mena,” they warned. So upon the locals’ suggestion, and with the blessing of a south wind, we turned north.

This new route made us miss another Oklahoma state park whose central feature was intriguing but, like Robber’s Cave, was of dubious historical accuracy (or even plausibility): the Heavener Runestone. In 1800’s, a twelve foot by ten foot rock slab was discovered with what appeared to be eight letters pecked into it. It was not until the 1940’s that the Viking hypothesis emerged, claiming that Norse explorers crossed the Atlantic, rounded the tip of Florida into the Gulf of Mexico, found the Mississippi River, and sailed into its tributaries, the Arkansas and Poteau Rivers, around 750 A.D. The translation of the letters is hotly contested, as are the Viking origins, but the idea certainly does fascinate the imagination. On a previous bicycle journey, I visited the fully-verified Nordic settlement at the northern tip of Newfoundland called L’Anse aux Meadows. The site was intriguing and makes me pause before outright dismissing the daring and competence of Viking explorers.

Instead, we passed through Poteau, catching a glimpse of their self-proclaimed “world’s highest hill”, Cavenal Hill. (Since a landmass must rise 2,000 feet above the surrounding landscape to be considered a mountain, Cavenal’s measured height above its base of 1,999 feet makes it, in the eyes of Poteauns, the world’s tallest hill.) In town we also passed Pansy Kidd Middle School, which sounded to us like a cruel joke in the vein of Johnny Cache’s “Boy Named Sue”.

Further north, we passed through Spiro, the namesake of a fully verified and genuinely significant state park, Spiro Mounds. This site was the western-most ceremonial complex for the Mississippian culture and was inhabited between about 850 and 1450 A.D. From Wikipedia:

Spiro was part of a vast Mississippian trading network that brought obsidian from Mexico, colored flint from New Mexico, copper from the Great Lakes, mica from the Carolinas, and conch shells from the Gulf Coast. The engravings of humans, animals, and geometric designs on the conch shells at Spiro are particularly well rendered and undoubtedly had profound symbolic significance. Spiro’s ceremonial objects are some of the most sophisticated artforms ever found in the Mississippian region.

We crossed into Arkansas in a town that straddled the border both in location and name: Arkoma. A sign in the gas station window read: “Divorces, $39. Why pay more?” A good question indeed. Although we speak from the comfortable position of a young and optimistic marriage, it seems to us that making divorce quick, easy, and cheap unduly stacks the deck against family. If a relationship is struggling, then restoration is doubtless a long and difficult process. But if we make the choice one between a difficult good and an easy bad, it seems we have trusted ourselves too much and created an environment where family longevity will be a rarity.

Inside the gas station, we asked the attendant where a good place to eat might be. She gave a long set of directions that did not include a single cardinal direction, the words “right” or “left”, or a street name that appeared on our map. We made several attempts at clarification, but the case was hopeless. Our hunch was that we had just met someone who had never left the county and had no basis for empathizing with the plight of a traveler in an unfamiliar place.

Instead, we made our way to and through Fort Smith, but the route we took gave few good impressions: run down motels turned slum apartments, used car lots offering “weekly payments”, dingy industrial sectors, and the placeless interstate corridor of gas stations, chain restaurants, and motels. Likely (or at least hopefully), Ft. Smith has a multitude of charms, but we managed to slip through the city without awakening one of them.

That day the wind had pushed us from behind, and a force had also pulled us from ahead: the promise of a night spent with family. Van Buren was the home of Laura’s uncle and aunt, Brad & Twila Cartmill, along with their two children, Emilie and Bryce. We met up with Twila at the church where Brad is a pastor and spent the evening in their home, luxuriating in warm showers, a cozy indoor bed, and a hearty meal at Outback.

Before leaving Robber’s Cave State Park, we felt some obligation to visit the eponymous cave, so we rode our bike three miles back uphill to the cave after breakfast. According to the park’s pamphlet, there are no actual records of any outlaws hiding out in the cave, but due to the secluded location and proximity to stagecoach routes, its history as a hideout for Jesse James and Belle Starr is “almost certain”. Sounds to me like a tall tale grown into tourism gimmick, but if it successfully lures families away from the television and into the mountains to hike and swim together, perhaps we can tolerate the historical embellishments.

The cave itself was a bit underwhelming, but the trails through the surrounding mountainside were great—tight squeezes through deep splits in the rocks, secluded stone corrals, and expansive views of the Sans Bois mountains. At the trailhead we observed a family pile out of their SUV and walk to the trailhead, only to turn back after discovering that seeing the cave would require a ten minute hike up the hillside. So much for the lure of the outlaw gimmick—the draw of ease and pavement was too strong.

The day was humid and heating up quickly, so after breaking camp, we took one last dip in the lake before heading down the mountain to Wilburton. Here we cooled off with a root beer float and a deli lunch, then got back on highway 270 east. From here to Red Oak we were roughly following the route of the old Butterfield Overland Mail stage, which ran 2,812 miles from St. Louis to San Francisco. This stagecoach line was initiated for the purpose of transporting mail to the Pacific coast (at the time mail was being shipped around the tip of S. America or shipped to the isthmus of Panama and trekking overland to a waiting ship on the other side), but brave souls could also use the stage as transport across the vast continent.

Nine passengers would cram into the coach, with the first two rows of three facing each other, knees interlocked. The stage ran day and night, stopping only to change horses and drivers. Passengers carried their belongings on their laps for the entire 25-day trip, for the space under the seats was used for mail bags. Many carried guns, for the natives of New Mexico and Arizona were not always happy about this early-day expressway running through their back yards. Passengers were also advised not to discuss religion or politics, and never to point out sites along the way where murders had occurred. The ride was dusty, bumpy, and seemingly interminable, and for the privilege riders paid the equivalent of $3,000 per head. Makes bicycling across the country seem downright civilized.

Unfortunately, in the moment we lacked this historical perspective; the heat, humidity, and exertion were wearing heavily on us both. Nearing Red Oak, we passed a house with a huge shade tree out front and several men sitting underneath around a cooler. They raised their cans in salute, and I waved back.

“I wish I’d seen that house before we passed it,” I said to Laura. “I can’t think of any kind of drink they could have in that cooler that I wouldn’t drink.” Laura was really feeling the heat too, and our moods were drooping. A few minutes later, a white Lincoln passed us, a wiry arm extending out the passenger window flashing a peace sign. The encouragement buoyed us along to Red Oak, where we stopped at the gas station and bought two large, cold Gatorades, chugging half before we even got to the counter to pay for them. Inside, were two men who were buying their beverage of choice: light domestic beer.

“You the two riding across the country?” They had seen us on the Tulsa news, and we confessed that we were the same couple. “We saw y’all back there when you rode by.” It turns out that they were the guys drinking under the tree earlier, as well as the wavers in the Lincoln. “Where y’all stayin’ tonight?” they asked.

“Not sure.” (Our now standard response.) “But we’re pooped and will probably stay in Red Oak. You guys know of anyplace we could camp?” Mike, the bigger man, told us they were grilling out and we were welcome to stay at his place. He led us to his home, ushered us inside his air-conditioned and immaculately clean doublewide, and told us for the first time of dozens that day, “My home is your home—help yourself to whatever you need.” We relished showers, laundry, and cold cokes before joining Mike, Larry Joe (the wiry waver), Pee Wee, and David out under a large Sycamore tree in the yard (once again around a cooler).

Most of this gang of old-timers were related and had all grown up in the hills around Red Oak. “We were dirt poor,” stated Mike matter-of-factly.

“No electricity, no running water, and all us boys born in the same bed—not one of us born in a hospital,” added Larry Joe. We sat around for hours, laughing at the yarns the boys spun. Larry Joe was a wiry, restless man in Wranglers and cutoff t-shirt. He never sat still for more than a few minutes, constantly hopping up to check on the grilling or walk around. Like the rest, he was a rough-neck, earning his living working the oilfields of SW Oklahoma. Yet despite being rough around the edges, they embodied hospitality. Larry Joe in particular was nearly doting in his attention to our needs; when dinner was ready, he sat places for Laura and I inside the air-conditioned house, and set out place settings, sodas, and water for us. “I wasn’t sure which you wanted,” he explained. Despite their wives being out of town, these seemingly unsophisticated men were consummate hosts.

As we sat together, the others continually jibed Larry Joe about his toes. When we inquired, he was at first reluctant, but eventually warmed up and took center stage as storyteller. “Couple weeks back, I was standin’ on my porch, getting ready to shoot a squirrel. The shotgun was loaded, and I was creepin’ forward but I stepped off the edge accidentally. ‘Fore I knew what happened, I was on the ground. Broke my ankle and shot off some toes on the other foot.”

Everyone roared with laughter, and Mike added, “He’s got the boot to prove it!”

“Hey, that reminds me: I took that boot in for repair and she ain’t finished yet—I been back two or three times, and she ain’t even started!” Larry Joe exclaimed. “I already paid and everything! She was gonna patch up the toe I shot off with a leather patch. Them was good boots.”

We stayed up for a few more hours, laughing with the stories, and then went back inside where Mike had given us our own room to sleep in. We rested well that night, thankful for a group of rough-necks with soft hearts.