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.