Southern Sojourn

You know that saying about "the best laid plans..."? Well, sometimes having your plans change can lead to a more interesting and enjoyable outcome than you might have expected. Such was the case with my Southern Sojourn.

DAY ONE / FRIDAY, MAY 3

My friend and fellow BMW GS-rider Roger Sinclair and I had decided to ride together to the Georgia Mountain Rally near Hiawassee on the first weekend in May. This is one of my favorite BMW gatherings, filled with friends from across the U.S. and centered in some of the best riding territory in the country. After the rally, I would head out for a week on the road while Roger returned home.

This was to be a trial run of sorts, a test of our riding compatibility in preparation for a northern Canada trip in 2003. We had never traveled together, and a prospective 5,000 mile trip is a bad way to find out you don't get along.

Roger would be coming from his home in Richmond, Virginia and I from mine in Orange County, outside of Fredericksburg. We decided to meet at Afton Mountain, the beginning of the Blue Ridge Parkway. We would ride the BRP part of the way down, then jump onto faster roads to make it to the campground before dark.

When we met at the gas station near the Parkway, we were both having doubts about the wisdom of our plan. As we topped off our gas tanks, we both felt the sting of the wind, occasional rain, and the 40 degrees Fahrenheit. We had each seen the weather that morning, the green blobs of rain forecast for northern Georgia most of the weekend, and neither of us looked forward to a weekend of camping in the rain and mud.

While we both danced around the idea, I had the feeling neither of us wanted to go to Georgia quite that badly. After some hedging, we decided to blow off the rally and just head into West Virginia for the weekend. Rather than start down the Parkway, we pulled onto I-64 towards Staunton. We would follow I- 64 into the Mountain State and then just wander around for a bit. When we looked over our maps, we spotted the New River Gorge area, and plotted a course for a river crossing. With any luck, we might cross on one of the very high bridges we'd seen in photos.

After about 130 miles on I-64, we pulled off onto U.S. Rt. 60 for 25 miles. At Rt. 41, we turned south towards the New River. We crossed the Gorge, enjoying the beautiful lushness of the tree-lined hills, but missing the drama of the tallest bridge crossing.

Just north of Beckley, WV, we picked out U.S. Rt. 19 and headed south. On the maps, it had some nice twists and turns, and it looked like it would be a fun ride. A few miles south, we were greeted by a "Road Closed" sign. It seemed the rain we had been experiencing off and on had been falling here for several days, and that had resulted in some flooding. We pondered our next move for a few minutes, until we saw a few vehicles coming out of the closed section. "What the hell," we figured, we can always turn around.

Soon we were experiencing the curves the maps had foretold. While there were sections covered with mud -- some were that really slippery, silty stuff -- we nonetheless were enjoying ourselves. Then came the Bluestone River. Near the hamlet of Spanishburg, we encountered the overflow of this formerly small creek. The road was completely covered for a distance beyond our view, but the real problem was the depth. We visually followed the line of fence posts as they slowly descended into the flowing water. There was no way we would be crossing this.

Checking my GPS, I found a county road that would, we hoped, take us around the flooded portion. We had to backtrack a bit, but that just meant we could enjoy sliding through the mud again. Once we bypassed the worst of it, we headed down to Bluefield, WV, where we enjoyed a fantastic late lunch/early dinner at Chacy's On The Avenue. Believe me, if you are in the area, find this restaurant. The food and the service were first rate.

Crossing back into the Virginia, we headed northwest on Rt. 460 at Richlands. Arriving in Grundy, we decided to stop for the night. It was starting to get dark, and accommodations are not that frequent in the mountainous back country.

As I checked in at the Days Inn, I mentioned to the desk clerk that I had noticed the emergency vehicles -- state police cars, power company trucks, and so on -- and guessed they were responding the flooding. "Oh, no," he replied matter-of-factly, "they're here for the explosion."

Turns out a few days before, authorities were doing a little blasting as part of the effort to move the town up the mountain a bit, so as to protect it from future floods. Whoever was in charge of packing the dynamite went a little overboard, using 4 or 5 times the required amount. The results were as you might expect -- a LOT of rock and dirt showering down into the valley, and guaranteeing jobs for power shovel operators and truck drivers for some time.

DAY TWO / SATURDAY, MAY 2

After a good night's sleep, we watched the news (as well as the obligatory look at the Weather Channel) and discovered the area just north of us had been devastated by the storms. Southern West Virginia, so often hammered by rain and flooding, had taken it on the chin yet again.

I spent seven years photographing natural disasters and other subjects for the American Red Cross, so I was somewhat used to this type of occurrence. Roger, on the other hand, had never witnessed this power of nature first hand. We decided to go have a look see. The town of Welch, WV, seemed to be getting a lot of attention in the press, so we set our course and headed out.

About 45 miles later, after picking our way through damaged sections of roadway and slowly driving by residents literally shoveling out their houses, we pulled into a small town with its main street completely under water and its other roads destroyed by the surge of water that had hit the area.

We stopped for a bit to take photos and talk to the locals. One after another, they told us how quickly the waters rose, trapping many in their houses before they could flee. I believe there were 6 dead and others missing -- given what we saw, it could have been a lot worse.

Slowly, we made our way north up U.S. 52 toward Huntington. While the distances were not great, it took a lot of time to traverse given the terrain, weather, and damage to the roads.

Once we reached Huntington, we settled in for the night. This was a good spot for us to split in the morning, Roger heading east on I-64 to Richmond, me pointing my bike west for Lexington, KY and beyond.

DAY THREE / SUNDAY, MAY 5

After packing our bikes, we said our goodbyes and pulled out of the motel parking lot. I jumped onto I-64 west, following it west to Lexington. There, I started down the Bluegrass Parkway, a four lane highway through some of the finest horse country in the lane. I've lived in rural Virginia for some time, and we certainly have our share of beautiful scenery. The sprawling horse farms, with their lush grass and miles of fencing, rivaled any I've seen. It was a thoroughly enjoyable ride until I pulled off onto U.S. 31 at Boston, KY.

We all have our little things we do on trips. One of mine is to collect U.S. National Park stamps. At any National Park, you can purchase a Park Service "Passport," a little blue book with info on the entire parks system. The idea is, when you visit a park, you go to the Passport station and stamp your book with the visa-like imprint unique to each location. While I'm not quite as fanatical about this as some of my friends, I like to plan my rides with some attention spent on hitting parks that are new to me. My sojourn was planned with this at least partly in mind. U.S. 31 would take me to a new site, Abraham Lincoln's birthplace.

Cruising south on U.S. 31 south of New Haven, I hit the brakes hard as I passed a sign for Lincoln's boyhood home, Knob Creek Farm.

The only Kentucky home Lincoln could remember, his family moved here from Sinking Spring Farm in 1811, two years after his birth. Here, was introduced to education, rudimentary as it was, walking two miles to school each day with his sister Sarah. It is thought that here Lincoln first witnessed the scourge of slavery, as blacks headed for the slave market were walked along the dirt road near the farm. The Lincolns stayed here only until 1816, when they headed west.

Just down the road from Knob Creek lies Sinking Spring, where the future 16th President was born. At the birthplace national park site, there is a cabin of the era preserved in an impressive memorial atop a hill.

The log home was originally thought to have been the actual Lincoln homestead, but there is no real documentation of that. Regardless, it is very similar to what the Lincolns would have had. At the foot of the hill lies Sinking Spring, the Lincolns' water source for their farm.

Leaving the Lincoln farm, I headed south again, this time toward Mammoth Cave. You can tell you're getting close when you hit towns with names like Horse Cave and Cave City.

Now, much as I would have liked to see the largest cave in the world, I confess to just hitting the visitor center for my park stamp. So sue me.

Back on the Interstate now (I-65 south), I stopped for the night at Savannah, Tennessee, on the way to Shiloh.

DAY FOUR / MONDAY, MAY 6

I am something of a Civil War buff, and I have visited most of the battlefields in the eastern U.S. The western campaign, however, was known to me only by reading and seeing it depicted on screen.

I pulled into Shiloh National Military Park, and after watching the video presentation at the visitor center, got my stamp and took a driving tour of the park on my bike.

The brutality of these Civil War battles always amazes me. In an era of laser-guided weapons and cruise missiles, it's hard for us to imagine thousands of men fighting with swords and muskets, but that is how much of the war was fought. If you're close to one of these hallowed sites, you owe it to yourself to stop in and learn about the bravery of the men on both sides and the incredible hardships they endured.

The Union victory at Shiloh in April 1862 was a decisive prelude to the battle of Vicksburg in 1863. That would be my destination for tonight. South of Shiloh, I entered Mississippi on a state highway almost completely devoid of traffic.

I breezed along, enjoying the scenery, until I saw a sign for Brices Cross Roads National Battlefield. Clearly a sucker for these brown signs, I turned off.

The battlefield was far enough down the road that first I questioned if it was there, and then I questioned my sanity in continuing down this road. Finally, I came upon a small rural crossroads with a couple of cannon, a monument, and a sign.

Here, Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest, later one of the founders of the Ku Klux Klan, defeated Union General William Tecumseh Sherman in June of 1864. While the Confederate victory was a strong one, it did not stop Sherman from eventually winning the Atlanta campaign and taking Atlanta.

Backtracking to the main highway, I made my way to Tupelo, site of another battle and the birthplace of some singer named Presley. No, I didn't go visit his childhood home. It was getting very hot and I was looking forward to Vicksburg. I rolled on.

At Tupelo, I got back on the Natchez Trace Parkway, following its rolling meander as far as Kosciusko.

That may be an odd name for a town in Mississippi, but it's a good name for a hero of the American Revolution -- which it is. At Kosciusko, I shifted over toward I-55 to speed up my trip to Vicksburg. The farther south I went, the hotter it got. At Jackson, the capital of Mississippi, I jumped onto I-20 to Vicksburg and an air- conditioned motel room.

DAY FIVE / TUESDAY, MAY 7

The next morning, I rolled into Vicksburg National Battlefield Park in the early morning. Other visitors ranged from buses of schoolchildren to joggers using the park's trails and hills for their morning workout.

After watching the requisite movie and checking out the exhibits at the visitor center, I started following the road tour of the park. I knew Vicksburg sat atop a hill, giving the Confederates a commanding view of the vital Mississippi River, but I didn't realize the surrounding countryside was so hilly. Up and down, round and round I went, stopping to imagine soldiers charging up this hill or scrambling down that one.

The fall of Vicksburg was not a quick or easy one. Grant began his campaign to capture the city in the fall of 1862 with a series of amphibious operations. When those failed, he decided to march his troops south of the city and fight northward from there, taking the city by land. For a month or so, the Union army worked its way north, winning a series of battles with the defending Confederates.

Grant's Union forces mounted a siege of the city and its fortifications that lasted for 46 days until the rebels surrendered on July 4, 1863. At the same time, Union forces in the east were repelling Confederate General Robert E. Lee's troops at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. The victories combined to form a huge turning point in the Civil War.

Near the river, you pass a dry dock installation for the U.S.S. Cairo, a Union ironclad warship that was destroyed in December 1862, the first ship in history to be sunk by an electrically detonated torpedo (what we now call mines). Historians are working to preserve the Cairo in a protective structure while they gather volumes of information from its remains.

I made my way back to the Natchez Trace and headed towards Louisiana. I decided to avoid Baton Rouge by riding a loop through the southern part of the Bayou State.

After a brief ferry ride across the Mississippi at St. Francisville, I pulled in for gas at the small town of New Roads. The heat and humidity were really amazing compared to what I had been through the last couple of days. With temperatures in the 90s and the humidity at least as high, I was trying hard to stay hydrated.

While getting gas, I chatted for a bit with the owner of the store. His thick Cajun accent was so strong, I had to keep asking him to repeat himself. We ended up using some rudimentary sign language as well. What I DID understand was his offer of some ice water, which hit the spot.

Shaking hands and saying goodbye, I headed out and promptly went the wrong direction. Riding along on state Rt. 1, I was bouncing along a tar strip-laden road for something like 30 miles before I realized my mistake. I was not about to turn around and do that again, so I improvised a route to the north, then west, then south to head back in my original direction. Along the way, I rode through billowing smoke obscuring the roadway, the result of a nearby forest fire. With evening approaching, I pulled into a motel at Lafayette, Louisiana.

The desk clerk recommended Prejeans restaurant for some good food and music, and I was not disappointed. It was a little touristy, mostly in that they offered all sorts of souvenirs for sale, but the food was great. I selected Croc de Jacques (seasoned and fried alligator filets) as an appetizer and garlic shrimp on a bed of fettuccini and asparagus for dinner. The Cajun Five group, composed of men whose average age was probably 70, provided a rollicking sound track to a fine evening out.

DAY SIX / WEDNESDAY, MAY 8

I took the long way to New Orleans, riding U.S. Rt. 90 through southern Louisiana.

After a hundred miles or so, I stopped for breakfast at Boudreau & Thibodeau's, a Cajun style restaurant in Houma.

The food was good, but the Cajun sayings on the walls made this place a little different. Included in the list for "You might be a Cajun if..."

- Every so often you have waterfront property.

- You let your coffee cool and you find it's jelled.

- You sit down to eat boiled crawfish and your host says, "Don't eat the dead ones," and you know what he means.

- More than one living relative is named after a southern Civil War general.

You get the idea.

By the time I got to the New Orleans area, it was swelteringly hot, and I just didn't have the desire to visit a big city. I was much happier talking to the Cajun folk at the gas stations and restaurants and listening to music from some old local performers. Someday, maybe I'll hang out on Bourbon Street, but I don't really feel like I missed anything.

I continued on past N'awlins on the Interstate, heading for Mobile, Alabama.At Mobile, I pulled off I-10 and started north on U.S. Rt. 43 on my way to Selma.

DAY SEVEN / THURSDAY, MAY 9

This small Alabama town was the starting point for the historic march to the state capital of Montgomery in March of 1965. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and other civil rights leaders led the protesters despite the open hostility of local residents and law enforcement. Television coverage of the event brought the struggle into the homes of millions of Americans.

From Selma, I rode east and then north, following I-85 through Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, and into North Carolina. Passing through Spartanburg, SC, I tossed a little wave to the BMW factory and visitor center as I passed.

After a day of straightforward motoring, I grabbed a motel room at Greensboro, North Carolina. I could see massive storms just to my west, and didn't want to face them. With a relatively short riding day ahead of me, I turned in for the night.

DAY EIGHT / FRIDAY, MAY 10

While I was eating breakfast at a Greensboro Waffle House, a man walked in and sat at the next booth. "Excuse me," he says, "are you one of those hard ass guys?" It took me a second, but I realized he meant Ironbutt, as in the license plate frame on my bike. It turns out he was the brother in law of a friend and fellow Ironbutt rider, Ed Phelps. Small world. After a nice chat, I moved on.

I couldn't go through Greensboro without stopping at Carolina BMW, one of the newer shops in the country. I deal with Jason, the owner, frequently over the phone, and I wanted to see his operation. Jason and his crew were most accommodating, giving me the full tour and royal treatment. They have a very nice shop, and I encourage anyone in the area to check them out.

After leaving Carolina BMW, I hopped onto U.S. Rt. 29 north to Danville, Virginia. Virginia International Raceway, site of both motorcycle and auto racing, is just outside of town.

Next came U.S. 360 to South Boston and up to Keysville. At Keysville, I turned onto U.S. 15 north, which took me through the beautiful Virginia countryside and back to Orange County. By mid-afternoon, I was home and enjoying a nice shower and a home-cooked meal.

EPILOGUE

Some observations:

- Eight days, 3200+ miles, a really nice getaway trip.

- The R1150GS is a phenomenal bike. I consistently got 50+ mpg on the highway, it handles like a sport bike, and it's comfortable enough for long rides. I couldn't ask for more.

- Things that work well for me on the big GS include GIVI windshield; Touratech panniers; waterproof duffels (I saw a lot of water!), including Helen Two Wheels' bags; Garmin GPS; Throttlemeister cruise control; and a wood bead seat cover. Some people make fun of them, but I've put around 75,000 miles on the wood beads and wouldn't take a trip without them.

- Trips are more fun when you go someplace new. Louisiana was one of three states I had not visited before (this leaves only Hawaii and Oregon), and the Cajun culture you find in the small backwater towns was almost like visiting another country.

- Choose your riding partners carefully. Roger and I had never ridden together, but we worked well as a team and look forward to doing other trips in the future. Compatibility is important on the road.

- I like small, local attractions more than the big tourist traps. I don't need to see the French Quarter to get a feel for Bayou culture or music.

- The National Parks (http://www.nps.gov) are among the greatest assets our country has. Visit them, learn from them, and help support them.

Ride far, ride hard, and ride carefully. See the world on two wheels and your view will be very different from that inside a car or plane.