they are all very different. The contrasts are often obvious the moment you cross the state line. When we crossed the river into Missouri, we found the Delta to be just as flat as it was in Arkansas. But the dirt was redder, and the highway shoulders were much wider than in Arkansas, which made walking a lot easier. But the roadsides in both states had one thing in common–litter. Both had plenty.
August in the Show-Me-State was as hot as it had been in Arkansas. The day we walked up Highway 25 through Malden the temperature was near 100 and so was the humidity. North of Malden, the surface of the highway had been ground off to prepare for re-paving. The road was rough and rutted, and in some places, only half of our lane had been ground off. So we had to walk with one foot on a surface that was two inches higher than the other. We stumbled along that way for nearly ten miles as traffic flew past us churning up grit that landed on our sweaty bodies. And because there was no wind to blow it away, the exhaust hung above the road in a suffocating haze.
We walked nearly twenty miles that day before finding a place to camp. It was a wide spot where a county dirt road intersected Missouri Highway 25. On that spot were huge mounds of pavement that had been ground off the highway–mounds that would eventually be melted to make a smooth new road surface. This place didn’t have much grass for Della and barely enough room for our camp. But it was late, and down in the Delta we needed to be in the tent before the sun touched the horizon. Because–as you know–after dark mosquitoes rule.
“You left the pee jar in the cart?” Patricia was outraged. “Now what?”
“I’ll just have to go out and get it.”
My wife was exasperated. “As soon as you unzip that door, half of the mosquitoes in the Delta will fill this tent. They can’t wait to get in here!”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I have an idea.”
Then she started rummaging through the stuff next to her side of the bed. Suddenly with a flourish she pulled out a can of Raid and said, “I’ll count to three, you hold your breath, unzip the door, go out and zip it back up. Don’t breathe until you get away from the tent.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to cover you with this.” She shook the spray can at me. “When you come back we’ll do the same thing. Out there, you’re on your own, buddy-boy!”
“Oh great.”
Patricia snickered, “Hey, you’re the one who forgot the pee jar.”
Across the highway, about 150 feet from our tent, were two sets of railroad tracks with a crossing for a county road. Every locomotive blew its whistle several times as it approached. That night, at least once an hour, a train would barrel down the tracks.
“I’ll never forget
this
campsite.” My wife smacked a mosquito on her face. “Got ch’ya, you little bugger!”
Patricia said, “I’m not sure we should do this.”
From where we stood on top of the levee at Tootsie’s Landing, the Hickman Ferry looked like a toy in the churning brown Mississippi River. It was the only ferry still crossing the river, and we had just walked forty-two miles out of our way, down the Missouri Bootheel, to ride it.
“It’s so small,” my wife said. “What if Della freaks out and jumps off?”
The ferry was a small barge with a steel parking deck that had a tugboat attached to the downstream side. It had a low railing on the sides and chains across both ends. If Della freaked out and bolted, she could easily go overboard. I shared Patricia’s trepidation.
She said, “I’ll stay up here with Della, you go down and check it out.”
Right then, a man in an orange life jacket stepped out of the tugboat onto the deck of the ferry and motioned for us to come down. That’s all I needed. “Let’s go.”
Patricia yelled, “Wait a minute!”
“For what?”
Her voice wavered. “Well, I just think we need to check this out first.”
“If we
August in the Show-Me-State was as hot as it had been in Arkansas. The day we walked up Highway 25 through Malden the temperature was near 100 and so was the humidity. North of Malden, the surface of the highway had been ground off to prepare for re-paving. The road was rough and rutted, and in some places, only half of our lane had been ground off. So we had to walk with one foot on a surface that was two inches higher than the other. We stumbled along that way for nearly ten miles as traffic flew past us churning up grit that landed on our sweaty bodies. And because there was no wind to blow it away, the exhaust hung above the road in a suffocating haze.
We walked nearly twenty miles that day before finding a place to camp. It was a wide spot where a county dirt road intersected Missouri Highway 25. On that spot were huge mounds of pavement that had been ground off the highway–mounds that would eventually be melted to make a smooth new road surface. This place didn’t have much grass for Della and barely enough room for our camp. But it was late, and down in the Delta we needed to be in the tent before the sun touched the horizon. Because–as you know–after dark mosquitoes rule.
“You left the pee jar in the cart?” Patricia was outraged. “Now what?”
“I’ll just have to go out and get it.”
My wife was exasperated. “As soon as you unzip that door, half of the mosquitoes in the Delta will fill this tent. They can’t wait to get in here!”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I have an idea.”
Then she started rummaging through the stuff next to her side of the bed. Suddenly with a flourish she pulled out a can of Raid and said, “I’ll count to three, you hold your breath, unzip the door, go out and zip it back up. Don’t breathe until you get away from the tent.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to cover you with this.” She shook the spray can at me. “When you come back we’ll do the same thing. Out there, you’re on your own, buddy-boy!”
“Oh great.”
Patricia snickered, “Hey, you’re the one who forgot the pee jar.”
Across the highway, about 150 feet from our tent, were two sets of railroad tracks with a crossing for a county road. Every locomotive blew its whistle several times as it approached. That night, at least once an hour, a train would barrel down the tracks.
“I’ll never forget
this
campsite.” My wife smacked a mosquito on her face. “Got ch’ya, you little bugger!”
Patricia said, “I’m not sure we should do this.”
From where we stood on top of the levee at Tootsie’s Landing, the Hickman Ferry looked like a toy in the churning brown Mississippi River. It was the only ferry still crossing the river, and we had just walked forty-two miles out of our way, down the Missouri Bootheel, to ride it.
“It’s so small,” my wife said. “What if Della freaks out and jumps off?”
The ferry was a small barge with a steel parking deck that had a tugboat attached to the downstream side. It had a low railing on the sides and chains across both ends. If Della freaked out and bolted, she could easily go overboard. I shared Patricia’s trepidation.
She said, “I’ll stay up here with Della, you go down and check it out.”
Right then, a man in an orange life jacket stepped out of the tugboat onto the deck of the ferry and motioned for us to come down. That’s all I needed. “Let’s go.”
Patricia yelled, “Wait a minute!”
“For what?”
Her voice wavered. “Well, I just think we need to check this out first.”
“If we
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