This past weekend, March 30-April 1, I was invited by my friends Rob and Christine Neall to join them for a canoe trip, hiking, and possibly some caving near the Buffalo River in northern Arkansas. The place had previously been discovered by another mutual friend, Amy Clark, who also joined us, along with a friend of hers, Megan Smith. Our hosts were Will and Eve S., a very gracious retired couple who gave us free lodging in a guest bunk house, and provided expert guide service as well.
Our group came together from two directions: The others from a few hours farther south in Arkansas, and I from Illinois. The driving distance for me was a little farther than I expected, just under 400 miles, or about 7 hours. There was no perfect route to take: It was either navigate through a maze of little country roads, or go far out of the way and stick to major highways. I opted for the shorter route, and went up and down hills, around 25 and 35 mph hairpin turns (lots of them!), and through dozens of little towns strung out along the Missouri-Arkansas byways. The spring scenery was beautiful, though, with dogwoods and other trees in bloom, and the variety of roads (I traveled at least 10 different highways) broke up the monotony of hours alone behind the wheel. Such journeys are always opportunities for extensive contemplation for me, since my Jeep’s radio and cassette player have been broken for years. (I seldom used them even when they did work, although these days I would be tempted to play podcasts I’ve downloaded.) They also afford a fine opportunity to work on my fake Eastern European accent: “Eet eez zo beauteeful here, no?” If I get on a roll, I can entertain myself with such monologues for … I don’t know … seven hours?
