The Choo Choo
Leaving Prentice Cooper State Forest, I descended through the hills around Chattanooga and blasted up past Nashville; Kentucky bound.
And yes, before you ask, I did see the famed Choo Choo in Chatinooga. However, Rona-guilt bared me from getting too close. The Choo Choo is now a hotel; the ticket station is a check-in lobby; the boxcars are unmoving rooms; and for me, seeing the big “choo-choo” billboard on top of the building was enough to prove that I had been there. Charming railroad-themed restaurants surrounded the building, but once again, my ill feelings regarding non-essential activities kept me ooing and ahing from my car like a rolling window-shopper.
Road Treasure
So I ripped the wagon north, and as the sky turned golden I crossed into Kentucky. The world changed from tree-lined crop fields, to fence-in horse pastures.
That evening, I found my first real road treasure; a private lakeside shore tucked at the end of a mud-soaked backroad in Land Between The Lakes National Recreation Area. Dispersed camping was allowed nearly anywhere you could park.
In the morning, energized and invigorated, I leisured about my private kingdom; reading, writing, and sipping on my coffee. It was noon before I got the wagon rolling, and even then I cruised at an easy pace. The Kentucky pastures melted into Illinois wheat fields, and soon a massive bridge bore me across the Mississippi and into Missouri forests.
Election Night
As I rode on, I listened to the radio, and distinguished voices on NPR hyped up underlying national anxiety the same way ads for Jerry Springer promise baby-mamma beat downs – It was election night. But I didn’t let such fears get within an arm’s reach of me. For weeks, I had been bragging to friends and family that I’d be spending election night out in the woods, far away from the inevitable madness, far away from any civil unraveling’s, and that was still the plan.
The sun set, I entered Mark Twain National Forest by way of a lumpy dirt road that led far from town. At the road’s end, there was an open grassy field bordered by a river. There were no park rangers, no buildings, and I got no service on my cell phone. I parked. Across the field, the last hints of daylight revealed a single man, a pickup truck, an RV, and a tall fire burning in a steel barrel about 100 yards away. I took a deep breath. I opened my plastic folding table and covered it with cooking supplies. I lit the stove. My water boiled. BANG! The explosion echoed in the trees. It came from near the RV.I looked over. There was only the fire and a headlight now; the last rays of twilight were gone. My hands trembled – I wasn’t expecting gunfire out there – and that made it tough to measure rice. I stirred the water in my pot, making sure to – BANG! Same explosion from the same direction. That second one got me. I tried to refocus on my cooking. Come on rice, be fucking done already! I looked over again; nothing now. For a moment, there was only the sound of running water in the river. Then suddenly a great and terrible roaring began, and headlights burst forth through the darkness, and I saw the pickup truck light up like some horrible dragon lurching to life. The engine was ferocious and its howl grew louder. The truck turned towards me; white light washed over my cooking operation. I pretended it was all fine, I stirred the rice, I pretended I was used to it, I looked up into the blinding lights as casually as the adrenaline would allow. Surely this is just an ordinary Missouri camping trip, right? Who’s thinking about the election? I sure ain’t. The truck got closer. I gripped my spoon and pot like a knight clutching a sword and shield. Then, just before reaching my encampment, the truck turned down the lumpy road and rolled towards town. The headlights faded in the night, the engine’s roar grew distant, and at last there was only the bubbling of the river and the thumping of veins in my neck.
Good Prices, Good Amennities: Finn’s Motel
I ended up spending election night at Finn’s Motel in St. James Missouri, two hours from the campground in the Mark Twain National Forest. Finn’s has soft beds, and the humming of I-44, 100 yards out your door, isn’t too loud. At $50 a night it’s a good deal. The furniture is a bit dated though, so: 4/5 stars.
What’s that I hear you saying? Dylan, what happened to that guy at the campsite? Where was he going? Why was he firing off a gun? Did anyone put out that barrel fire? That’s a real hazard. Ah,these are all great questions and I don’t have answers to any of them because by God I was not sticking around to figure anything out. And you may say that I overreacted, and you may say that this guy was just blowing off steam, same as I was, and these things may be true, but when I was in those woods, jumping at gunshots in the night, my gut screamed at me to get the hell out of there, and I’ve learned to trust those visceral feelings born from deep down because sometimes the gut knows better than the mind.
I made my notes, I rolled on and I don’t regret it. The takeaways will be useful down the road I’m sure: be wary of remote campsites in National Forests, and, as an America, don’t pretend you’re outside the reach of national politics’ anxieties.
Wrap Up
That’s all for this week. Come back next week for Nebraska, South Dakota, and the beginnings of Montana where we’ll find lots of mountains and few masks. Until then, be kind to yourself, be kind to others, and safe travels out there.
Dylan
