This morning started at Nibletts Bluff Park, from there I headed down the beautiful, shady county road, then was back on the main highway, 90E towards Lake Charles.
The roads got even worse than they were the day before, just covered in debris and very confusing around the water. By 8am it was well over 90 degrees, 76% humidity, and I had to get to Lake Charles (the township) within a few hours. Trying to get across the lake was proving nigh impossible. But, one lady at a truck stop said she was training to be a cop and the law states one can walk across the interstate bridges (which was the only one, distance around 3/4 of a mile), pushing the bike, but not to get on it.
As I approached the bridge, I was terrified. It was non-stop, huge truck traffic, and the noise was deafening. But, it was around a hundred and there were no signs stopping me, and a narrow raised sidewalk. There was nothing to be done, I hopped off the bike and hopped on it. Those were some of the more terrifying twenty moments of my life. I'm a tiny bit afraid of heights, the bridge rumbled constantly, and one slip or tilt of the bike and I was a gone-er. But, it really wasn't that dramatic. I mainly just felt a little stupid.
See, most of the folks that cross Louisiana via the Southern Tier route do so farther north. So, I felt, again, I might have been too independent.
Later that night, I changed my mind.
Lake Charles was a low point, I didn't think I could go on. The heat, the bad food, my dwindling budget. All the weird people loitering at the grocery store, the library, leering, but not talking to me. The bad riding, and walking made me feel isolated and weary.
Lake Charles actually had quite a nice downtown--historic, but happening, lots of fun restaurants, cool shops, the like. But, I'd become quite un-civilized by that point, and had no part of it. I was wiped out, but, there was nothing to do but ride.
I couldn't bring myself out to ride again, though, until 5:00pm. There were no campgrounds, nothing really but rice paddies and swamp-ground for something like 35, forty miles. But it was flat, and the road was a scenic one, for Louisiana, fairly nice. (LA, I adore, but the roads aren't notorious for nothing. Though I don't blame them down there; they have way more to fight. That water factor is monstrous.) I found my third reserve of fuel, got into a rhythm of faster, and with the sundown cooling, and a fear of alligators eating me, rode to Shady Shores, an RV Park, outside Lake Arthur, in a two-and-a-half hours.
Now this place was shady, and swampy. Bugs crawling up and down the walls of the bathroom, trees growing out of the water. Old boats parked on the lawn near a rickety dock. But it was absolutely beautiful, magical even, all this under a reddening sun over the silver-gray swamp-water...
Then the mosquitos started biting, and I quickly located a resident, who happened to be the host. Tommy, who pointed a few hundred yards over to where I could put up my tent, and after I asked about food, said there wasn't any nearby, but would I like to come in for Hamburger Helper? (Note: I had emergency rations, but I was so tired of eating, and especially eating those, that I'd just as soon have gone without, and often did. When I arrived at a camp, though, I always asked about nearby possibilities, just to see if I could spark some interest. I'd really lost my appetite in general by this point, so hot and tired and sick of gas stations and minimarts. But, you know you have to eat. Like not putting gas in a car, someone told me, you'll just plum putter out.) I said, "Golly, thank you!" and, though I was tired, try not to miss out on the opportunity to meet and talk with people who live in the areas I'm traveling. I agreed to shower and put up my tent then come over.
Turns out, he was being quite the gentleman, or his wife sent him, and pulled the truck over to pick me up (remember I told you how it was about a 1 minute walk.) I couldn't believe it, in that short time, Christine, his wife had prepared a gigantic bag (really, actually, so much I had to give some back, I couldn't carry it) of cookies, chips, and candy--"I made you a care package!" she said, and hugged me, not once, but twice, as I entered.
Their place was tidy, but full of life. Christine has a ballcap and trucker/hunting hat collection, and that covered part of one wall. They rescue cats, and had two at that present. We hung out, drank Busch Light, and they served me up that super salty, carby Helper, two servings. And we talked for an hour: about my ride, their other drop-ins, and their lives and families, being raised in the area, relocated a couple times by hurricanes. I glimpsed overall just a scoch more of what it is to be Cajun.
It was getting late, and Christine was getting tired. They took my information and I theirs, making me promise to call when I made it home. In one last incredible stroke of generosity, Christine called her work, the Tiger Mart, and left a message for the woman who'd be working in the morning: Michele is coming in. She's a traveling cyclist. I'd like to buy her breakfast. Give her whatever she wants. Put it on my account."
I awoke to the most serenity I've experienced in awhile.
I stood out there on that dock for as long as I could, the mysteries of swamp life--both human and other-worldly biological--until the sun and my stomach started growling.
I had a sausage biscuit, orange juice, and coffee, sat and talked with more locals for a minute, then headed further southeast, to New Iberia.
The trip had gotten awesome again, my travel energy renewed.
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