Livingston Road Trip 2022: Second Leg Back to Missouri: The Bad, the Good, and the Grind

 

Rain and slow gas at the Flying J in Texarkana, off I-30. Arkansas. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

The Bad

It appears that it was my destiny to suffer a miserable rainy return to my temporary Missouri base. 

I thought I'd avoided that on the way to Livingston by postponing my westbound trip by one day. But no. The universe just tacked it on to my eastbound return from Livingston.

Furthermore, my departure time was delayed by a crazy wrinkle on Saturday morning: The Flying J gas pumps. 

My original plan: Gas up my car before wheeling out of the travel center. But.

The pumps inexplicably were on a slow machine protest strike, where each of us pumpers thought, "Is it me?" only to realize, just as slowly as the gas ticked into our tanks, "No, it's not me, it's the pumps," as each pumper individually experienced the same phenomenon, but which the staff inside did not yet know.

I didn't see this next thing happen, but one man was so frustrated, apparently he tore away from the pumps without having taken the handle out of his tank. 

This was relayed to me by a woman who pulled up after I had tried at two different pumps to get gas and she said to me: "Is it me? Am I doing something wrong? - or is there something wrong with the pumps?" I had just returned to the pumps after an unsatisfying conversation with one of the cashiers inside, during which I'd tried to explain that it took five minutes to put less than one gallon of gas in my tank, and the cashier just wasn't getting it. I was simply the first of what was to become many with the same complaint.

To the woman who asked me, "Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?" I replied with reassurance: "No, it's not you; it's the pumps. And now you can switch to being disgruntled."

Fortunately, there was a gas station across the road - the DK - where I did finally fill my tank successfully with gas. 

The DK in Texarkana, off Exit 2, I-30. Arkansas. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

Afterward, I sat in my car, gazing contemplatively through the windshield at the rain. It was so gloomy outside and I dreaded getting back on the interstate, knowing that although the rain was relatively light where I sat, it would be amplified on the spray-spewing, semi-truck-laden highway, making for a miserably tense drive at a high speed. The weather forecast told me that I wouldn't be driving out of the rain any time soon.

 

Rain at the DK in Texarkana, off Exit 2, I-30. Arkansas. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

We make small and large decisions all the time on a road trip. We plug in all sorts of algebraic variables into the decision equation, depending on our individual tastes, fears, time frames, and "shoulds." 

Like this "should": "You should buck up and drive on the interstate. Don't be a wuss. Be a warrior. A chingona."

 

The Good

And then I thought: "No. I'm on a road trip. A road trip is a pleasure trip, not a test. Take the blue roads. Relax. Be serene." 

So I poked a no-highway re-route into Google Maps, decided I could live with the extra time slapped on to the trip duration, and hoped I'd eventually get out of the rain, at which point I could switch over to a faster track. 

I immediately relaxed. I felt good.

A bonus good:  Gorgeous fall color in the forest of the Oachita Mountains.

The Bad

Mountains + valleys + rain = mist. Mist is the romantic word, except for those of us who've read Stephen King's The Mist. (Trivia: And in the movie, seeing The Walking Dead's Carol there.)

Fog is the more pragmatic word. The Oachita fog was almost impenetrable. Around blind curves. Down steep inclines. Occasionally coming out of the fog for a brief respite and the visceral release of a held-in breath, then a plunge back into the white-out. The occasional oncoming idiot without their headlights on. The stoopids.

The Grind

Despite the beauty of the mountains and the forests, despite the relatively relaxed drive through the rain (once the fog was behind me), the distance still to go became a grind. 

I was prepared to spend another night on the road, but in one of those algorithmic equations that go into decision-making, I was not enthusiastic about pulling into a minimal-standards motel at a Saturday-night rate. My Google map told me that if I deadheaded it to my Missouri base, I'd definitely be rolling in after dark fell. 

The Bad

To my great consternation, a fairly recent development for me is difficulty driving at night, so it's a tense enterprise under the best of circumstances. The best of circumstance = clear weather, well-marked road lanes (i.e. fresh white reflective paint lines), not too many deep curves, and speed limits at 65 or less.

Another night in a truck stop would be fine, although the blacktops aren't known for many truck stops. It was a gamble. I started looking for a truck stop at 5:00 p.m.

The Good

Eventually, the rain seemed to have dissipated enough that an interstate - both for its faster track and more plentiful opportunities for a truck stop to overnight in - had me reroute my way back home. In theory, the new route sliced an hour off my time. 

The Bad

It looked like I'd still be driving at night, after all, unless I found that elusive truck stop or rest area.

Fortunately, as night fell, I was on a highway with the desired well-marked white lane lines and plentiful pilot cars that I could follow at a helpful, yet not too close, distance. (Don't want to scare my unwitting road guides by tailgating.)

The Good

In the end, I brought myself all the way back to my Missouri base, thanks to the unknowing kindness of my pilot cars.

 

Some other rainy times and places

• 2019: Tucson: Creation Stories
• 2017: Arkansas: Lake Catherine State Park: Engineering
  
• 2015: Jefferson Island, Louisiana: Rip Van Winkle Gardens
  
• 2013: Alamogordo, New Mexico: The Rain Came
• 2011: Caucasus Georgia: Gori: Supra in a Fiat
• 2011: Louisiana Road Trip: Driving Day in Driving Rain

 

Missouri: Linn: A Turtle and a Memory

I met a sibling for lunch in Linn, along Highway 50. 

Outside the restaurant, on the pavement, was a turtle. 

Turtle outside Mexican restaurant in Linn, Missouri. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

 

An odd location, it seemed. 

I bent down to take a look and to take a snap, and to whisper a hope that if it planned to cross the road that it would do so safely as it moved through the parking lot. 

Seeing the turtle reminded me of an upcoming anniversary: The Great Flood of 1993. 

That spring and early summer, before the flood came, it had rained and rained and rained and rained for weeks. There'd also been more than usual rain in the preceding fall. 

From the street's-eye view of that time, it wasn't the rain that caused note. It was the End-Times number of creatures that my descendant and I saw en route to Arrow Rock from Jefferson City, each day we went up for her rehearsals for the Arrow Rock's Lyceum production of Oliver. Snakes, turtles, frogs. Some living, some squashed. 

My parents' business was in the flood plain of the Great Flood. 

Here's an entry from my mother's flood journal: 

Saturday, July 31, 1993

The impossible happened - the levee that was built to withstand a 100-year flood ... broke. At 11:30 p.m. Friday night something awakened me - and my eyes focused on the television ... I could see a spotlight shining down on flickering water and hear the helicopter whirring sound and the announcer's voice telling of the levee break. 

In a very short period of time, hundreds of acres of what was Chesterfield's [Missouri] economic boom were under 10 to 14 feet of water in some places. Some 500 businesses were down - virtually all without flood insurance. Many of us had gotten it a day or two before - feeling the Tuesday crest just might spill a few feet over the levee. A five-day [waiting period in coverage] (after you pay the premium) is required before the insurance is effective so most of us will not have flood damage insurance money. 

All day we watched and listened; we saw a man chest high in the water plucked up into a basket lowered by helicopter, people rescued from rooftops of businesses .... 

Missouri: Jefferson City: Three Observers on the Greenway

 On a recent walk along Jefferson City's Greenway, I encountered these three observers: 

Cultural Pedestrians sculpture on Jefferson City Greenway. Missouri. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

The tall watchers immediately put me in the mind of the people and descendants of the Clotilda, "the last slave ship," in Mobile, Alabama, my most recent temporary base. 

I especially like this connection because Jefferson City is the home of Lincoln University, a historic black college or university (HBCU) ..... 

... As the American Civil War drew to a close in 1865, two regiments of emancipated Black soldiers took action on a decision that would reverberate from their Army station at Fort McIntosh, Texas, all the way to the Missouri state capital. The men, who learned to read and write as part of their training in boot camp, were determined to start a school for other freed Black people when they returned to their homes in Missouri after the war. The soldiers of the 62nd United States Colored Infantry, whose pay averaged $13 a month, came up with $5,000 to establish an educational institution in Jefferson City, which they named Lincoln Institute. The 65th Colored Infantry contributed another $1,400 to the school’s endowment. ... 

 

The allure of the installation's verticality, the faces, the jewelry - got me to stop my walk so I could look at all of the details. And isn't that one of the objectives of art? To seduce one's gaze, to prompt thought, to feel something - joy? contentment? sadness? discomfort? illumination? 

 

Cultural Pedestrians sculpture on Jefferson City Greenway. Missouri. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

Cultural Pedestrians sculpture on Jefferson City Greenway. Missouri. October 2022. Credit: Mzuriana.

The installation also reminded me of my visits to the sculpture gardens in Colorado in 2016 here and here and here. 

It seem serendipitous to learn that the artist, Sue Quinlan, who created Cultural Pedestrians, is based in Colorado. 

Cultural Pedestrians was awarded to City of Jefferson Cultural Arts Commission through Sculpture on the Move, a program provided by Creative Communities Alliance, based in St. Louis. Participating communities rent a sculpture for a two-year period, making it more affordable than purchasing the sculpture. It costs a community $1,000 a year to rent these pieces and after a two-year period, the community has the option of buying the piece to have it on permanent display.

 Source: Jefferson City News Tribune

 

 

10 Years Ago: Oliver Lee Memorial State Park: My Temporary Home

Ten years ago, I'd embarked on the first of my annual relocations, carrying out that idea I had on a marshrutka on a ride between Rustavi and Tbilisi. 

The original post from 10 years ago here.

And for your convenience, republished below:  

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park: My Temporary Home

Hello! Thanks for dropping in to my temporary place in the Tularosa Basin!

(And between you and me, I'm happy you've only got the two legs.)

Let me show you around.

So here's a pretty good view of the campsite shelter. Not all the sites have them, but they're a must to keep the sun at bay and also protect me from the rain, although a fellow camper said when the rain hits really hard, there can be veritable creeks running right through the living room.

The tablecloth there? Every day, a hummingbird stops by and re-confirms that, no, these aren't real flowers. I bought this tablecloth in the Yukon more than 15 years ago when my daughter and I took a road trip to Alaska.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

Here you can see a view of the Sacramento Mountains behind my site. 

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

And here's my living room. The table I bought from friend Jackie at her garage sale when she moved to Tennessee. That Playmate cooler figures prominently in my road trip pack list.  The plastic trash bag affixed to my chair - the campsites are bereft of places to attach things like trash bags, clotheslines, and the like, though I did learn of one trick from a fellow camper. More on that later.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

This is the view from my dining table: the Tularosa Basin.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

Since I've been in the area, I've seen six tarantulas, a rattlesnake, and other ominous-looking critters.

This visitor just barged right in without asking. We agreed that if I left it alone, it'd leave me alone.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

On the way back from a ranger talk, I saw this long rattlesnake crossing the road.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.

When I first arrived at my campsite, I found these four pennies on the picnic table. In case they were somehow maintaining order in the universe, I left them on the table, though I did rearrange them in a fashion more pleasing to my eye. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

Oliver Lee Memorial State Park near Alamogordo, New Mexico. September 2012. Credit: Mzuriana.