Mishaps in Mississippi, 24-26/1/2010

Part 1

Once again I crossed the state line late in the day. Yet again the new state was initially made up of impenetrable swamps.

It was 20 miles to Popularville and the nearest legitimate campsite. At 16.00 with an hour and a half until sunset and 60 miles under my belt already, it looked unlikely I would get there.

I set off promising myself to nip into the woods ASAP.

However there was one small problem: no woods, or at least none on dry land. This was very residential part of the state, quite well to do, well fenced and patrolled by the obligatory barking guards, my canine nemeses.

"Keep the faith" I told myself. "somewhere always comes up in the end."

Sure enough at 17.30 I found some mixed pine and hardwood forest on solid ground. It was definitely private property though: in between two large houses and surely claimed one of them.

I was fairly confident it wasn't a good place to shoot things, so I started to pull my bike into the woods. It was more difficult than I expected to cross the little creek between the wood and the road. In the process I got stung by poison ivy on my bare legs.

Then the pesky security noticed me, once the yelping had started I knew it wouldn't stop.

I bailed out and carried on my search into the night. I had really blown it this time. It was properly dark and there was nowhere to go:, no ditches, no bushes, no pine woods, nothing but swamps and private homes.

Once again the dogs were everywhere, although better contained than in Louisiana, they seemed to notice me from half a mile away and not stop barking until I was a mile the other side.

Running on empty with cooling thighs and seizing calves, I didn't think I could keep going much longer. I began crossing a road bridge over a swamp when I remembered drinking beer under just such a bridge with Johnny and Sarah. Maybe I could camp underneath?

I tucked the bike out of view and went down to see. The ground was only flat right by the water's edge, and it was a pretty spooky place. There was thick misty swamp forest on either side of the river and the frogs were in full swing.

I felt unusually alone and vulnerable for some reason, I have developed a sense for these things, an instinct I know not to ignore. I wondered if there were alligators in the river, I had seen some in some pools in Louisiana.

I decided I would be safer 5 feet off the ground and 20 metres away from the river. There were some ideal trees up a rocky slope, on the edge of the forest. I could be seen from the road but would not be eaten by a prehistoric reptile!

Having I strung up the hammock, I cooked dinner under the bridge and I wrote some of my journal . I felt I could justify my camp if discovered but still turned off my head torch when cars drove by. I suppose I thought it easier not to bother anyone.

Suddenly I heard voices in the woods, they were quite close by but on the other side of the river.

It took me by surprise. “They must be hunting in the dark.” I thought.

I quickly turned off my computer and put myself to bed. It was best not to move around or make noises like a deer in the dark. I did not want to get shot by mistake.

Strange noises came from the forest: possums hissing, deer roaring and raccoons wailing, frogs making all manner of racket. It was exactly like the jungle, only colder.

Cars were driving around on the far side of the river. They drove backwards and forwards over the bridge and up and down the dirt tracks on the far side. Something was going on. This time I was certain of it.

They would see my hammock. It wasn't really hidden at all, just tied in the trees fifteen feet from the road.

“Here we go.” I thought. “They must have seen or heard me from the woods. They are going to think I'm on the run or up to no good. They'll probably confront me nervously at gun point. It will all be fine in the end, but before that it's going to be really stressful." What a pain!

However there is an expression 'The best place to hide (something) is in plain view'. I stayed deathly quiet and completely still. I was cold and uncomfortable, I wanted a pillow, but I didn't move a muscle.

After ¾ of an hour so the to-ing and fro-ing of vehicles and lights died down. I heard confused voices with a tones of resignation, cars leaving but not driving far to get back home. I continued to lay low long after they were gone.

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Part 2

There is something about the state of Mississippi, a timeless mood of mystery and magic.

Maybe it 's in the water? There's a lot of it about, standing in the swamps and pools; rising into the morning air- so thick it could be smoke; condensing on the leaves, on the fences and on a passing stranger waking wet and cold, hanging in his bed.

As I rode off without breakfast, I passed fine, large houses with steaming ponds and mirror lakes. Horses grazed in the lush green fields behind well kept wooden fences. The sun shone through the mist and I knew I would warm up soon enough.

I rode down long straight roads passing tidy mobile homes and neat panel board houses. Everything was well presented. Folks took pride in whatever they had, be it humble or grand.

The locals were starting their days as I arrived in the sleepy town of Popularville and I got my first impressions of the people of Mississippi.

A skinny white farmer with a pointed nose and piercing eyes, wearing baseball cap and dungarees, drove past in an old, white pick up.

An elegant elderly black man, wearing a perfect suit from another time, climbed out of a car as antiquated as his style.

An overweight woman served up high fat fast-food with a Dolly Parton accent and a smile.

Two convicts from the 'county farm' swept the steps of the town hall: big, muscular men wearing green and white striped uniforms.

In the same grounds a memorial paid tribute to the Confederate soldiers who fought on to the bitter end during the American civil war.

It was quite a place, quite different from where I'd been before. There was a strong sense of the lazy rhythm of time, an undertone of continuity from Mississippi's past to its present.

Louisiana had given the impression of a would be phoenix, rising anew after the collapse of an old order. Southern Mississippi said - 'things are what they are here and they don't change anymore than necessary. '

It certainly was an interesting place to be.

Southern Mississippi is very hilly, though there are no hills as such. One can never point to a rounded dome and say “I'm going to climb to the top of that hill.” Yet wherever you travel go you are always going up or down.

That morning I climbed up and rolled down again and again, happy in the sunny evergreen woods. The sweet smell of pine filled my nostrils while crickets and songbirds sang out from hidden perches.

The state's native hardwood and long-leaved pine forests were thoroughly harvested by the end of the second world war . Nowadays the rolling slopes are covered with commercial fast growing pines, they still provide a home for a range of wild birds and animals.

In true American style, vast areas of the land here are given over to this lumber production.

The woods went on for ever as the hours and miles rolled by.

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Part 3

At lunchtime I briefly found myself on a busy dual carriageway, pedaling away in the shoulder as heavy traffic raced by. The shoulder disappeared all of a sudden just as a big pick up came flying past. I was forced off the tarmac and sent hurtling onto the bumpy verge.

Bitterly cursing the passing drivers, I awaited my chance to rejoin the flow. Back on the road it was hard to make progress: something on the bike was rubbing. After a few hundred yards I got off to inspect.

Two more spokes had snapped in the rear wheel making a total of four missing now, and all from the same side of the hub.

The wheel was so heavily buckled that the tyre was catching on the frame leaving behind a thicker layer of rubber with each rotation. In places a solitary spoke now took the strain on that side for an entire quarter wheel. I was worried these could blow at anytime with disatrous consequences.

The situation did not look good. I was still 130 miles from the nearest bike shop (in Alabama), it seemed a long way to try and ride in this condition.

I wondered if I could hitch a ride but judging by the demeanour of those passing by it would not be easy. The traffic was mostly SUVs and people carriers taking commuters and families to their homes. Their suspicious glances did not fill me with the confidence that outside help could be relied on.

Getting off the main highway and onto a back road, I took a moment to consider my options.

In the spirit of self reliance I fiddled with the tension of my remaining spokes with my large pair of pliers. To a limited extent it worked, I had managed to stop the tyre rubbing at least, however the problem of the vulnerable spokes remained.

I kept going, thinking I should try and get out of the residential area and into a wooded area where I could stop without infringing on anybody's patch.

The bike was riding like an absolute joke, a caricature of a worn out bike. With the back wheel visibly wobbling from side to side, it all felt pretty unstable. How on earth could I ride 130 miles like this? It would be heavy going that much was certain sure.

After a few miles I came up with an idea: I could take some spokes from the front wheel and use them to back up the survivors in the rear. However I would need a large adjustable spanner to do this and I didn't have one.

As luck would have it within minutes I came across an auto workshop. It was oddly situated on a semi-rural back road a few miles from the nearest small town.

With 2 hours to go before sunset I had no time to waste. I explained my situation to the man working there and asked if I could borrow a “wrench” and take my bike to pieces in the car park.

A little taken aback, he naturally agreed and I got straight to work - taking off the wheels and letting down the tyres, the removing the rear cassette and the broken spokes.

Initially the garage guy stood there taking photos of the spectacle with his phone. I shouldn't imagine it's everyday that an Englishman stops off to rapidly demolish his bike on the forecourt.

Soon he was joined by an other older man and it wasn't long before they wanted to get involved. In my experience the mechanically minded man cannot help but come to the aid of an incompetent fool who is trying to muddle his way through. This is one area in which I have extensive experience, being just such a fool, in fact it is largely thanks to this phenomenon that my bike, my van and my canoe are in full working order.

The spokes had broken off at the hub and the garage guys came up with a plan to bend hooks in broken ends and then to reinstall them. I concurred and by the time I had removed one spoke from the front wheel, all four broken spokes returned with newly hooked ends.

It soon became apparent that they could now longer reach their original attachment points on the wheel rim. However they would go directly out foregoing the usual criss-cross pattern one finds in spoked wheels.

With nothing to lose 3 of the improvised spokes were put in place, leaving the fourth with an impossibly large distance to span.Instead it was retired to the spares kit.

I tensioned the reclaimed spokes as best I could, but without a spoke key fine adjustment impossible. With daylight fading and 10 miles to go to a US forestry service campground, I quickly rebuilt my bike, thanked my hosts and set off on the double.

The wheel was still buckled but at least there were a few more spokes in place. The chances of the wheel surviving were surely increased. I planned try to adjust the tensions further in the morning when I had more time.

5 miles down the road I got a puncture in the back tyre. It was obviously just not my day. My fight or flight response kicked in as I changed the tyre in record time. Nonetheless it was dark by the time I got back on the road.

It was the last day of the hunting season and being a Friday night the national forest in which I planned to camp would probably be teeming with hunters. The mechanics had told me how, in recent years, 2 girls riding horses on a public trail were accidentally shot dead at the very same camp I planned to use.

As a cyclist moving quietly through the woods I risked the same fate. As it is very unusual for people to be traveling any distance without a motor vehicle, any quiet movement could be taken for a deer.

Turning onto the mile long dirt track that led down to the old POW camp, I sang out into the cold, starry night hoping to alert any lurking gunmen to my humanity.

“ Oh give me a home where the Buffalo Roam
“ and the deer and the Antelope play,
“Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
“and the skies are not cloudy or grey,
“ Home ,home on the range

sometime I would sing out
“Oh Please do not shoot me.
"I'm a person you know,
"and you do not want to go to jail.” And so on to the same tune.

I was relived to get to the campsite unscathed and upon discovering the sign 'Alligator in Lake', I opted for another night in the trees away from the water's edge. Besides the 'gators, the hammock is always a good choice in areas with wild pigs anyway.

Tonight at least I could wear enough clothes to keep warm and use a pillow for my weary head. I was mentally and emotionally exhausted, there hadn't been a dull moment since I crossed the state line the day before.

With another big rainstorm due to arrive tomorrow, I would need a good night's sleep to tackle the challenges I would face extracting myself from the heart of the Mississippi woods in the morning.