Days on the Road, Again!

Wednesday

I woke up in the morning with several flips of consciousness. It felt like I was awake all night. Maybe random spots of blankness where I can’t remember laying around and doing nothing. I did, however, do a lot of that. Laying, sitting, rolling, one side or the other wishing for sleep even though I did not feel tired. When I finally pulled myself out of the tent at 8am, I was tired, and everything was wet. It had rained. All night and harder in the morning. I was thankful for this, as it provided a constant and predictable source of noise. Forest rain music really, instead of a continual night of wondering what every noise was and how it would consume me. Really, I did that more than necessary despite soothing heavy rain noises. Something about my solo mind that seems unable to be quieted by my internal and external demands. “Stop it, please” I begged of my ever churning brain. Always churning out the worsts of situations, seemingly unable to appreciate just being.

Well, the morning was a series of weird choices and random tidbits. The highlight being a 15 minute walk in the pouring rain next to Shores Lake. The lowlight being the feeling of defeat and incapability as I drove away without a proper hike, in the pouring rain of highway 215, away from the bear-filled and beautiful Ozarks and back to the trustworthy 40.

The 40 took me to the town of Van Buren, which promised a college, promising (by my standards) a coffee shop with wireless and a hot, steamy latte. I wandered around the internet, trapped in various worldwide web’s of interest and social custom. After about an hour, I had found my next step in the game, had met Kari, who I knicknamed Greedows, for her green eyeshadow and enjoyed a warm cranberry scone and a latte, a little less steamy than I had imagined, but delightful none the less. I checked the weather, promising more rain, and checked the rest stops, promising a break before the texas border where I could stay for free if the idea of spending money to put up a tent in the pouring rain seemed dismal hours later.

Back in the car I finished Bill Bryson’s Walk in the Woods, which was lovely really and perfect for my adventure, although did notably make me more upset with my failures. Highlighted them really, placing my dark and failed tiny goals next to the backdrop of his shining accomplishment of hiking the AT.

After more potholed swiss cheese Interstate 40, the worst of all the states yet, I pulled off at 44 North, towards the town of Foss. Now, if there’s an idea you have of Oklahoma, it will be fulfilled by the small town of Foss. Cows, open fields, wind mills (maybe I imagined that), old, rusting equiptment, bouncing trucks, and stubbly yet surprisingly lush grass fields… that fit your picture at all? Anyways, even in the relentless drizzle, I was happy to be driving down this somewheresville road toward somewhere the internet had said had “wonderful and accommodating hosts.”

What Foss State Recreation Area campsite at “Chinaberry” had was a lack of hosts and signs: just some clean looking RVs, boats, a lapping lake and more of that Midwest drizzle. Oh, and a small tent campsite area amongst a stand of thin trees which seemed to have dropped beer cap leaves and cigarette butt buds everywhere. I cleared a space, put up the tent and then, in an attempt to be left alone after hours, went searching for how to pay. I’d already circled the area twice, pausing at anything with lettering. I went out to the main gate and across to the store… maybe that’s where you pay? The liquor store signs mentioned nothing. At the corner of the road, nothing as well. I did find where I could rent tubes and boats if drizzly Thursday wanted a morning stall. “Sorry I was late, thought I might just take a dip in the downpour on a reservoir in Oklahoma on a rented floaty toy.”

I walked around after I had settled that I had very valiantly attempted to pay for my 10 square feet of tent space and copious usage of toilet paper. I walked through some tall grass, past small trees, trying to quiet my mind that anything or anyone was going to pop out of the wet trees and try to mean me any harm. It was so difficult, and remains one of the trickiest things. I think it’s a self defense mechanism to not allow me to let my guard down, or to always be prepared. Whatever the subconscious reason, it’s getting rather difficult to enjoy my own company.

I tried very hard to enjoy my own silence as I sat in my final outside moments before my retreat into my tent. Pouring myself a glass of wine and adjusting my tiny set of binoculars I watched blue herons quietly do nothing along the shore. I wondered what they were wondering, then sipped my wine in a deliberate attempt to shut my brain, which was making me look back at my campsite every two minutes and wince at every noise that wasn’t a cicada or airplane. Finally I chose to ingnore, an internal bipolar war. I claimed Switzerland and took to neutrality, trying not to feel failure in the battle. I changed, put too much stuff in the tent, and crawled in. After a brief chat with my Uncle and Laura I sat for a spell of typing. Now, all the words I had been shuffling around in my head, in a mental drafting of this entry could be settled. Phew. Tomorrow is another day. A hike in the grasslands, an hour or two of walking in what I expect will be like a wild front yard, then hours on the road, hopefully ending in success of finding Celeste in Albuquerque.