The Bones of Missouri

17 October 2008

Hill country. Hill upon hill upon hill. Kind of like the steep ones better, as the work feels shorter and the reward greater. Pleasant countryside, just experiencing the first tinges of autumn. More quantity and variety of roadkill than all other states combined. Not sure what this means for bikers. I try just to keep my eyes peeled and not think of the implications. Cities like Warsaw and Lebanon that seem to compare aptly to their old world namesakes. Osage-Orange trees with their distinctive and impenetrable fruits. Black walnuts scattered along the shoulder. The Katy Trail, an endless arcade of sycamore, oak, telegraph poles and more. Gusty scatterings of rain while camping on Pomme de Terre, the Osage River. Amish country, with horse and buggy, and fresh pommes d'amour. A day of heavy and interminable rain. Luckily warm enough to embrace it, of course after fighting it at first. The rain cleared into a brisk autumn blue. A bald eagle joined me briefly. Going further south, the farms seemed better kept. This is as rural land ought to be. No reason that any place shouldn't be well maintained. Took back roads, on to gravel roads for a piece. Past a quaint junkyard. Who knows how many antiques hidden there. Fourteen junkyard dogs gave chase. I don't know what they'd do if they caught me. More dogs gave chase. One old and fat. Imagine the body of a limousine steer, scaled down to a large black lab. I slowed down to give him a little hope. Applaud the effort. Mark Twain National Forest. Perhaps he ambled here. Went through Mansfield, land of Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Little House. Didn't visit the historic home, as I figured Mary wouldn't be there, at least not how I remembered her. Camped in some woods near Mount Zion, Missouri. Woken by a murder of crows, cawing in unison. Ferried across the White River.

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