The Long Haul

27 October 2008

The Buffalo River winds around limestone bluffs and caves and ancient homesteads, and a blue haze lingers over its wooded banks. The first run of the Ozarks climbs steeply between the Buffalo and the Arkansas rivers. Essentially a plateau, its corrugated ridges stretch toward the horizon in a smoky violet green. They rise again between the Arkansas and the Ouachita. I passed through Hot Springs, a town where Victorian roots, criminally organized infrastructure and hipster accents collide mercilessly.

During the climb into the Ozarks, and especially on the descent, my mindset shifted. I had been content to wander, I was now intent on home. For the next week and a half, I simply rode. Sleeping briefly in city parks and roadside hideaways. Rising, riding, rendering, resting and rising. Neither rushing nor lingering. Observing intently, but not meticulously. Pearly dawns. Migrating shadows, long westward, underfoot, stretching east, dissolving in the burnt orange falling sun. Following dusky road lines and constellations to the next wayside camp.

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