Having ridden all day without seeing another vehicle we weren’t too surprised when we encountered our first fallen tree lying across the trail. Occasionally we’d catch a glimpse of the scale of the forest that covered the surrounding hills through a break in the trees, mist rising from the depths of the valleys. Mule deer grazed at the side of the road, oblivious to our arrival until the last minute when they’d disappear rapidly into the dense undergrowth. The riding here is superb hard-packed mud with only a smattering of gravel. The trail took us into the Ozark National Forest. The sky turned black, the heavens opened, and the car park of the motel quickly disappeared under a couple of inches of water as thunder shook the building and lightning arced across the sky.Īfter a few minutes, the storm subsided a little and we rode out into the rain to continue our adventure. The following morning saw the mother and father of all thunderstorms hit just as we were preparing to leave. Undeterred we took a 36-mile round trip to the liquor store on the county boundary to get some, reasoning that we’d earned it. It was great fun, though, creating huge bow-waves as we ploughed through puddles that looked more like rivers flowing across the trail.Īt the end of this exhausting day we arrived in Clinton, Arkansas, and checked into our motel where the receptionist cheerfully informed that Clinton is a dry county, meaning that there was no beer to be had anywhere. The whole day was spent splashing through enormous puddles as the heavens repeatedly opened, dumping deluge after deluge on us. The riding was treacherous and it wasn’t long before Harold got dumped in the mud. The morning dawned dry, but the roads had turned from hard-packed dirt and gravel into a mud bath. The weather changed dramatically en route, going from hot and humid to heavy rains overnight. That same day we rode across Mississippi and the Mississippi River into Arkansas. ![]() We then abandoned any hope of getting across and resigned ourselves to taking the detour. It took us a good couple of hours sweating in 37-degree heat to get the bike back out of the water, first by lifting it up onto a plank of wood, then walking it over some strategically placed bits of broken bridge before finally pushing it back onto dry land. As he tried to get going from in the creek his bike dug into the soft creek-bed and sank all the way up to the swingarm! Photo: Paul Beattie Just roll the bike back into the creek to get a run up and then out he’ll get. ![]() He got into the water fine, but on the way up the steep, muddy incline on the other side he got stuck and down he went. After a thorough recce we chose what looked like a potential route in and out of the small creek and through the debris of the broken bridge.Īaron made the first attempt. The next ‘road closed’ warned that there was also a bridge out, but as the alternative was a long detour, we figured we’d investigate anyway. This was the case here and we simply rode around the signs, down a sandy bank and back up the other side, feeling very smug. We’d read on various forums that these are put up to prevent trucks and 4x4s trying to get through the roadworks, but that often a motorcycle can pass. ![]() We certainly weren’t going to risk riding over!įurther up the road we encountered our first ‘road closed’ sign. It took all three of us to get Aaron’s bike upright, not because of its weight but because we had to support each other while lifting it.Įventually we got it to the opposite side of the creek without falling over, and then walked the remaining two bikes across. The bottom of the creek was algae-covered rock with the frictional qualities of buttered Teflon.
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