As I left the little town of Atkins, that to many would seem to be not much more than a map dot, I stopped at the gas station to refill my water and get something cold to quench my increased internal temperature from the mornings hike. I had a great conversation with the friendly clerk Amber and one of the regulars that went by Rooster. They gave me a nice smile and a few laughs before I headed out the door. The sun was hot and the pavement was the oven that cooked my every step, the clouds danced between the sun and me, I never minded this intervention, it was a natural blessing. The hike to Russelvillle was long and led me up to a small town called Pottsville and as I stepped ever closer to the center of Pottsville a guy pulled over named David. He told me of his many journeys shared with his borther that crossed the United States and the last journey they took, that was his favorite, hiking the John Muir Trail which ended abruptly from his fathers passing. David dropped me off at the Walmart in town so I could do a little restock again. While I was wandering around the Walmart two of their employees were super helpful, the first was a bright eyed young lady that carried a good peep in her step, she helped me locate the last item I was looking for to complete my food resupply, unfortunately I didn't catch her name and the second was Cody, he gave me some direction to where I was headed here in Russelville. Cody informed me the camping I was seeking was Lake Dardanelle State Park, which was located on the outskirts of town. I trucked down 64 after the restock, with the ever growing and recently lanced blister on my right heel making my gate a little awkward and slightly painful. Yet I pushed on determined to get to my destination, find a nice tent site that would lead me to some good rest. As I moved through the town the sun began to drop, casting a play of shadows and light off the buildings and streets, the traffic lights stood undaunted by the melodrama before them.
As darkness settled in I realized I was breaking one of my rules for this hike, I was hiking at night,which was only a problem because I was next to the road. I stopped to clarify my directions once more, just making sure that I didn't unknowingly miss the road leading to the park. I stop in a gas station called "Darrell's", which was doubled in greatness when I left, within Darrell's were two super kind and super helpful people. I was feeling completely bushwhacked at this point but still had some miles to go, so I wanted that certainty, which Tyrone Williamson and Jenn Doehring gave me. They assured me I was on the right path, told me to sit have a soda and a breather, which I happily obliged. They said I was still about five miles away and it was already nine in the evening, I had been hiking since just after seven that morning, tired felt like an understatement. Jenn offered me a loaf of bread as I was heading out the door and I was feeling so tired at that point I didn't want to add it to my pack weight, maybe the first time I've turned down free food in my life. I trotted with heavy steps through the traffic and tall grass that grew beside the road, past the movie theater as the high school kids were leaving the movies with their cars packed to the hilt, up the hill and down the hill, around the curve to the light and the sign, Lake Dardanelle State Park 2 Miles. Finally, my thought so loud it almost burst out of my head. I took the turn and traffic seemed to be moving pretty fast down the side road, so I made sure my headlamp was as bright as it could be. I trudged onward, feeling every footstep and visible span of road was nothing but more and more tiring, wiping my energy out past my reserves. At one point I stopped at a church on the way and took my pack off, knowing that I had already done more than a mile and thinking if I tell myself it's only another mile I'll be there in no time. I gave myself a meager one minute break, then with back pack slung on and guitar in hand I left for the last mile. As I thought I had neared the last miles finished, my mood began to sour and I stopped to urinate, even in the darkness I could see the color change to my urine, I knew it meant only one thing dehydration, making my mood turn even more. Just as I turned to debate with the road and whether I should turn around there bounced in hand a flashlight. It turned out to be the Tom Stolars the Regional Manager of the State Parks in Arkansas. Tom told me of this belief he had that when you take a bag of marbles and drop it, most certainly two marbles will hit the ground at the same time and that is a moment that is supposed to be, that he explained was the slight chance that he would be walking out to get something at the late hour as I was looking for the camp grounds. As he told me this I couldn't help but to notice the strange cloud formation that looked like a nuclear reactor, I thought I must be tired. Tom pointed out a couple of areas that it would be ok for me to camp in and informed me that there was a girl I should talk to in the rangers office that would be really helpful to my hike, Sasha Bowles. I found a site after much deliberation, dropped my gear, my tent went up and my head went down with a quickness that would have made sleeping beauty jealous. I awoke early in the morning to a light rain, quickly put my rain fly on and went back to sleep. Even when the rain had woken me during my previous nights slumber I
really didn't mind and when I realized the amount of precipitation that I
had aloud into my tent it really didn't bother me either. I have found
in long distance hikes as well as in life, flexibility and finding that
silver lining a crucial to positively responded to otherwise negative
situations. I was told by a fellow hiker and a heck of a nice guy, Dave Wojcik, that one of my strong
suits and an extremely important character trait was dealing with
problems in an unorthodox fashion, being able to see the fix that
sometimes was not easily seen. It is always the silver lining I'm
looking for, so in this my tent and some of my gear got a washing while I
got some sleep.
The next day when I finally aroused from the broken heap of me and looked toward the day it was overcast and drizzly, which given the heat I've been experiencing it was happily welcomed.
I meandered towards the park ranger station to check my tent sight in and talk with Park Ranger Sasha Bowles person that Tom had spoke of. When I arrived a very kind and smiley Kathy Webb helped me to register my site and called Sasha for me to ask a barrage of questions. Sasha arrived and was more than helpful, not the first person I would have liked to add as of the gear I carried. She was super nice, she helped me plan for my next few goals to camp and hike mileage for the rest of Arkansas and referred me to the library resources they had in the park. Also somehow she knew I had been eating peaches or the universe and my travel were just well aligned for some things, because she informed me of a peach festival in the town Clarksville, Arkansas. The silent partner in the background Rebecca Valentine, got a couple of giggles out of me and my antics. I parted company with the three super nice ladies, as another helpful person, Park Ranger Andy Thomas, walked into the door. I thanked them for their assistance in my most recent endeavor and exited to go do some much needed laundry and take an equally well needed shower.
I took a shower while my clothes washed and while they dried I went over to the marina and splurged on a microwavable burrito and Dr. Pepper. The kind woman that worked their told me about a veteran that was from Michigan that was driving a team of two mules to visit his fathers grave, when the wagon was struck from behind by a car and incidentally killed the mules. The heartache that I have felt along this trail as a third party continues to well. I do hope that he was able to safely get to his fathers burial location to pay respects as his journey was intended, much love and respect to a fellow journeyman. After my laundry was finished I met a forth right and strong willed guy named Steve. He and I got into a good conversation, like I seem to do frequently, I told him what I was doing and he told me about his life, his family, taking care of another family, racing dirt bikes and invited me to have tacos with them later. I graciously accepted his offer just before he went back to attend to his family. Not even thirty minutes after Steve retired, Clay, who was camped right next to me, introduced himself. Clay was a very kind hearted individual that you could tell had been through a lot in the world. His words were very thoughtful and impacting, it was the second philosophical conversation that I was able to have, that is metaphysical, western and eastern philosophies. Steve popped back in the conversation with Clay and I, shortly there after the rain picked up again and everybody disappeared into their perspective camping locations. I escaped my tent when the rain broke for a short while and walked back up to the Lake Dardanelle Ranger Station where they had a very nice museum that covered the many different fish and the geographical area surrounding the lake. I went back to my tent, after mulling over the museum, just in time for Steve to bring over the promised and well anticipated tacos. They were great and a definite change from my regular ramen and tuna diet. Rain began to pour again, so Steve and I parted company. I had been in my tent for maybe fifteen minutes when Steve said, "Hey Matt are you still hungry? My wife made you some more tacos!" I had been sorting out where in my tent to put my rain gear and was in no position to open my tent, which as all hikers know I was naked. So with very few details shared Steven left the food by my tent as the rain was still pouring down. It was a simple, yet truly kind gesture that could easily be taken for granite and like most of the selfless acts that had shown me grace, I did not want to take it for granite, I was and still am very grateful. When the rain finally stopped Clay, Steve and myself entered back into the open aired world. When once again shared a nice conversation about life. Clay brought out a very nice Takamine guitar which he let me play on and we broke bread as well, to be specific we broke sour dough bread. Clay said he didn't really play guitar and wanted me to get out my Cordoba, which he referred to as, "Hearing me play in my waters." I meant to, though it didn't happen before the conversation took us into the late hours. Clay even offered me a little work if I would have like to join him on a landscaping job the next day, I regretfully declined the offer. I always like to pick up work whenever I can, but when I'm hiking unless I need to, I would rather finish my hike, then work. In this philosophy work is almost like food for me. I fell into my tent for another nights rest, with the intention of the next three days being big mile days for a finish in a week or less.
Steve was up when I began packing up my gear, I tried to dry it out as best as I could as I ate breakfast. He told me that if I were still here when he returned he would take me out to the main road, saving me a few miles. Which I had just finished packing up and eating breakfast when Clay came over to wish me well in my future miles. We parted company and I went over to say good by to SuAnn, Steve's wife and there kids. SuAnn told me she really like my blog, I blushed and thanked her for her and Steve's kind words and hospitality. I through my gear in Steve's car and he dropped me off at the road to cross the lake. He thanked me as we parted company, thanks I had received during this hike and after this hike stay with me even now.
Though this day was another warm one, it was a very enjoyable and successful day for hiking. Along the way the light summer breeze seemed to move me along. I passed many fine four legged friends that were more than happy to show off for the camera.
I took a small break when I was in between the towns of Knoxville, Arkansas and Lamar, Arkansas at a little gas station that didn't seem to have any shortage of business. The person behind the counter was a kind girl named Brandy who had recently moved to the area with her husband. The short break I had intended on quickly turned into a very in depth conversation about social awareness covering topics like homelessness, drug and alcohol addictions, retired military veterans enduring hardship and the hopes for a better future with what little we as individuals could do. She struck me as a person that was transplanted into a human garden far away from where she would like to be, though it was her dedicated to her husband that gave her the strength. During our discussion she welcomed me to pull up a stool and sit at the counter, I did so and indulged in a luxury soda and bag of chips within the comfort of air conditioning. I left Brandy's company after about an hour of cool down to ramble on down the road towards the days goal of Clarksville, Arkansas. I knew was getting close and it was beginning to be the hot part of the day, I slowed my pace a little to help keep my core cooler.
When I made it just outside of the little town of Lamar, Arkansas I was offered a ride by a very nice, yet quiet Julie. She really and truly had nothing to say other that she had lived in Lamar her whole life and it was a small town. Her speech was softly rasped by the cigarettes she smoked, that may have not been altogether straight tobacco. She let me out on the other side of Lamar and I moved onward towards the Peach Festival in Clarksville. I could almost taste the peaches and truly I was pretty excited for one, hiking always makes me crave more vegetables and fruit for the temperament and weight makes them luxury item. As I neared the town of Clarksville I stopped to clarify the place I was looking to camp, Spadra. I asked a nice lady who abruptly referred me to her husband, he kindly directed me with words of encouragement. I walked maybe another 300 yards when an very unusual character offered me a lift. His name was David, sometimes called "Paddlehead". David was a very high energy fellow that was also a wealth of information. David said the Peach Festival was still going on and he wanted to go get some peaches if I didn't mind, then he would happily take me to the camping location.
He asked me on more than a couple occasions if he was annoying me, he never did. I found his company to be different than most, but good company non the less. David was a very good guitar player and introduced me to a Texas style of playing that still rings in my ears. He left telling me to give him a call and he would help me get back to my path of travel and I called it a night shortly after he left.
Around seven in the morning David showed up, I was just finishing packing my gear up before I could get to a phone and give him a ring. David did make one additional stop, back over to the area where they were handing out the free peaches, which with great success he acquired some and offered me one. I declined at the time which was a mistake, because later on I forgot to ask. David wanted to make sure that I was able to get to a church service, which he also wanted to attend, before dropping me off just outside of the city.
As I began to traverse the day the lesson from the service rang in my head. It was about anger and the analogy given was:
A boy was angry and his father told him to take a hammer, nails and a piece of wood. To then pound the nails into the board and out until he was no longer angry. When he was done his father told him, anger is like the nails, you can drive them in to express the anger and drive them out to make amends, but the damage of the board cannot be fixed. This is very often the case with life.
The road felt welcoming to my steps today as I smiled and waived at the passing cars. Like usual, some would wave back, some would get a smile or a little laugh and some would stare. I would always look behind me to see what they were staring at, but I never did... a sheepish grin now sits on my face. In the distance I could see parts of the Ozark National Forest in Arkansas.
As I approached the little area of Wiederker Village, which seem to have a tourist draw with a mining history and memorial for fallen soldiers.
A car pulled up to talk about guitar, it was a nice older fellow Jimmy Wood and his wife Ruth. They also offered me a ride to the campsite that was about six miles away and just asked if I would wait up at the gas station while they ran their errands. At the gas station I might a nice Lisa who told me sit down and take a load off, so I did. The conversation about guitar made me feel like playing, so I sat down outside with a cold bottle of Coca-Cola and did just that, I played. People in their vehicles and passing by seemed to enjoy the sounds resonating from my guitar and my voice harmonizing along. After I had played for about thirty minutes Jim and Ruth showed up and through my gear in the back and we headed towards the Ozark Aux Arc Park. They helped me find the place to get situated with, I set up my gear and sat down to play some more guitar. As the sun slowly fell on the river.
For the second time since I had been hiking on the Trail of Tears I was near a fire, the first was back at Davy Crockett State Park with the four girls, this one was all for me and the solitude I felt. As the wind blew shuffling the clouds the sky opened windows for the stars gaze upon earth, while keeping the bugs at bay. On the side of the river the night felt very peaceful and all things seemed in balance. I slept with ease.
When the morning came I was ready to hike, the sunrise was big, bright and peaceful. I broke camp and headed down the path that spoke the most accuracy to lead me back to the bridge crossing the river and into the city of Ozark, Arkansas. I stopped on the way through Ozark at a gas station to get a cold beverage and heard the most interesting and possibly to graphic story for this blog. Sometimes being a fly on the wall or simply passing through and over hearing a conversation can be very amusing. I left the gas station with a sly grin enjoying the humor from the ladies using it as motivation to push me up and down the Arkansas hills. The miles seemed long, yet bearable. I decided to stop in the warm sun beside the road for lunch because their was a pond that seemed to be caged, but it's beauty was more fuel for my hiking fire.
I wondered if the pond or the trees had been conscious, would they wish to escape the fence and wires that surround them, though not appearing like restrictions by space, they were in fact the locks to keep honest people out. I moved on after lunch never really wanting to stop in one place to long, especially not in the sun that seem to bake me into the gingerbread man with every step. It never ceased to amaze me the number of beautiful rusting and decrepit old structures that rest beside the rural highways.
The beauty contained in the craftsmanship of old and the decomposition of weathering patterns adding to it's brilliance; perfection is indeed at a loss to imperfection in the world of decay. The photo of this old Chevrolet almost got me assaulted by a two pound guard dog. The more I hiked the more I felt pushed and the drive I needed to push on. With a song from the revolutions in Jamaica emanating in my head from immortal lyrics of Bob Marley's, Iron Lion Zion as the little town of Mulberry approaches.
As I neared the boarder of this little town a young guy around my age asks me if I could use a lift and I accepted. His name was Buddy and buddy like me had desires of seeing the world, but was like most of my family attending to his family. Buddy then dropped me off at the other side of the town and from their I pressed towards the border of Arkansas. The town of Alama, Arkansas was fast approaching and when I arrived I was looking for two things a cold beverage and a Popsicle. I stopped in two smaller stores before approaching my most common restock location Walmart, where I bought a box of Popsicles and gave a few away to random people seemed as happy for one as I was. While I sat their eating my popsicles and drinking a liter of lemonade I debated whether I should call Jim Wood. Though my goal was really Van Buren, Arkansas, I was still about ten miles away and I figured it might be late by the time I was able to place a call to him. After the popsicles were done the debate was over and I decided it made sense to place the call. Jim said he would arrive in about thirty minutes, for what could be a long walk is really a short drive. This gave humanity a point o shine not once but twice. The first moment was when Heath Burger approached and his first words were, "Are you hungry? When was the last time you ate?" It is truly inspiring to see people that take an interest in the well being of people. So I told Heath what I was doing and my goals for my hike. He was kind enough to offer me McDonalds before we spent some time talking about his time in the military that was spent in the middle east. As he left to go back to his family and head over to McDonalds two more kind hearted people approached. Jennifer and her son Gavin came up to me, Gavin holding a twenty dollar bill in front of him in on hand and gripping his mothers hand tightly in the other. Jennifer told me that Gavin was shy do to his Aspergers Syndrome and also quite attentive to other people and details going on . She also expressed her concern for me at first thinking that I was homeless, then realizing I was hiking still expressed her concern for me and still insisted that I accept the twenty dollars as it might help my future. I thanked her for this and I remain very gracious for this donation towards my hike. It was right about that time that Jim arrived with Ruth to give me a lift over to their place where I would be able to camp, get a home cooked meal and play some guitar. A short car ride later Jim and I sat in his kitchen plucking away. Here is Jim playing a little on my guitar, recalling songs he sang in the past, some of which he got very close to being famous in country music with. We played as Ruth kindly cooked us hamburgers, the guitars were down just long enough to eat then we picked them back up and played into the late hours of the evening. I felt the miles that I had made this day, with a full belly and music ringing in my ears I went to my tent and fell right to sleep.
I woke up the next day and spent it hanging out with Jim and Ruth again, for an actual day of rest. Jim told me from their place I wasn't far from the Oklahoma border. Ruth fixed amazing food through out the day as Jim and I played our songs to the fullest. Jim seemed to particularly like the song that I had been writing about this hike, so he recorded it with enthusiasm. The day of rest I took flew by and before I knew it night came and I was once again asleep. When leaving the next day Jim needed to get a newspaper and dropped me off at the gas station. This was the second time, maybe third time I left a place feeling like it was a bit of home and that it would always remain in my heart.
I maneuvered the curvy roads and hills to find my way into Oklahoma, ever closer to the finish of this hike. All the while, my continued awareness and growing sadness of this historic tragedy became more and more evident to my heart. My goal for this day was to get to Sequoya's cabin and if possible make to the Dwight Mission where there was said to be camping. On my way to Sequoya's cabin a few people decided to give me small lifts, making these first steps into Oklahoma, the ones I had yearned for over the last month come easy. The first was John who was a pastor and was kind enough to take me a few miles down the road, then dropped me off in front of his ranch, as he needed to work on one of his rental properties for a person who recently returned from a mission abroad. I was grateful as always for the breeze that came from an open window at more than my three mile an hour pace. David and Tracy stopped next, they were going the opposite direction from me, yet felt compelled to offer me a ride. They asked how far I was headed and I said I was hoping to make it as far as I could, though Sequoya's cabin was my days goal. We talked like old friends, our conversation was largely focused on faith and how living simply in life can express so much meaning. They dropped me at a closed gas station on the top of a hill and I traversed down into the valley below. Then another kind fellow carrying a shot gun named Herman gave me a lift in his old white pickup. He dropped me off at the cabin and told me I should most certainly stop at the Dwight Mission before heading to Tahlequah, Oklahoma.
**Sequoya (
ᏎᏉᏯ Se-quo-ya) created the Cherokee syllabary in 1821, making reading and writing in Cherokee possible.
As I explored Sequoya's cabin and the museum I spoke with two people, Anthony and Carl Edwards. We talked a little about guitars, a little about my hike, a little about the Trail of Tears and a little about Oklahoma and the "Okies". They were a nice refreshing pair of spirits that had been added to the continued blessings of my day. I finished walking through the museum and decided this was as good a place as any for a lunch break. Sitting there, staring at what was once the spring Sequoya drew water from, I pondered on the growing sadness welling within me of this tragedy from the pages of history. A question rose in my mind, would this hike be accepted by the ancestors of the people that were forced down this path 175 years ago? This was the first and only time I questioned this hike or anything that took place on it. I wouldn't have an answer until it was finished. I stopped in the visitors center and spoke with Mike Allen to double check my barrings and see if there were any other places I should stop by on the journey. Mike confirmed that Dwight Mission would be a good place to stop and Tahlequah was the capital of the Cherokee Nation and a seeming suitable finish for this hike. I left felt that I was heading in the right direction and the road was more clearly marked.
Along the way I was offered a ride from Roy Rogers and his lady who had heard about me and my hike. This was not the Roy Rogers of country legend, though that would have been awesome for numerous reasons. They were headed to the hospital in Tahlequah and were happy to give a lift to this strange hiker they had heard about. It was a shock to me that my hike had been talked about through the grape vine. These two seemed genuinely happy that I was doing this hike, that I was seeking understanding out of it, blessed me and thanked me for it. Sometimes you get taken back by the beauty of the human condition and I was just that. They pulled up to a stop sign and I hopped out. I ran across the busy intersection of the highway and over to the gas station where I would find a couple of delicious popsicles to cool my core. I thanked the young Clara in that gas station who sold me the popsicles and confirmed my direction and was wished well as the bell rang upon my exit. The pavement felt warm at just after two and beside the road the grass had recently been burned.
I was now about ten miles from the Dwight Mission and that was the place I would hopefully camp for the night. The day stayed hot as I crossed over the hills, traversed the curves, switched from one side of the road to the next dodging cars and poison ivy. I felt like the Dwight Mission would be around the bend every fifteen minutes, yet it seemed every mile would stretch out before me extending it's length, making me wonder if the time itself was effectively becoming the measure of distance and changing the standard mile I had grown to know. Then before I knew it, there was the Dwight Mission. The cabin so reminiscent of a building that was next to the campground on the river by the town of Ozark. And before I knew it the relief I felt when I laid eyes on the Dwight Mission, was burst by a guy in the phone named Pete, via the very kind Donna in front of me. Apparently this Presbyterian named place was unable to allow camping when a group was on the grounds and being that they had two groups, this rule was in full effect for my visit. So I left, tired and bitter over the incident that so obviously lacked compassion, realizing that it was most certainly a rule that could have been changed, bent or even acknowledged as a letter, yet not as the spirit of the letter.
I hiked on to the next little town and into the gas station where I slightly vented to Mark, the gentleman behind the counter. He advised I take a load of in the air conditioning for a moment, grab a cold drink and regain my composure. In retrospect I see this moment with the Dwight Mission as a moment of rejection that was most certainly some that that peoples forced on the Trail of Tears endured. I regained my focus and my drive for my goal was so close I could could taste it. Though it might have been Fishes, a place in Tahlequah, that was recommended by Mark. Mark was another kind soul that was going through a rough patch in life and though his circumstances left him with a lot of inner turmoil his goals seemed solid and directed to lead him on the right path. He was a teacher that was a few years from retiring and ready to ride his motorcycle all over the nation. Mark was kind enough to give me a lift just outside of town to where I could hike over to a decent camping spot.
Though he had recommended a camping spot not too far away from where he
dropped me off, I pushed on from the fuel of the bitter log that was
put into my fire. My fire burned hotter from the ignorance that would
enable a rule to displace human compassion, than that of the sun that
bared down on me every day threatening to burn my skin. I needed to get this negative out of me, one should always try to leave the negatives of others sitting at the feet of themselves, so I hiked. As dusk approached, about an hour before the sun gave up the daily fight it waged with me I made camp atop a hill, above the road I had traveled next to specifically for the Dwight Mission. I slept the rest of my anger away.
I woke early the next morning ready to press on, ready to crest the hills and see Tahlequah before me, to see the place the Cherokee had made home so far away from their roots. The day seemed to welcome me with a fresh feeling, the air breathed in clean and clear and the light glimmered through the trees, letting the shadows dance on the pavement. I walked around six miles when a nice fellow named JT happened to be driving the opposite direction, stopped to ask where I was headed. I told JT I was headed to Tahlequah as my days goal and he said hop in. JT wasn't headed that far, yet was inclined to take me further than he had stated he would be originally willing, he dropped me off in a town called Keys. It was a kindness of character that had welcomed me into the city of Tahlequah. My destination in the city of Tahlequah was really the Cherokee Heritage Center, so I traversed the hills and headed straight for it. I stopped along the way to take a picture of the Murrell Home, which has a history tied into the Cherokee culture.
I left the beauty of this home and strolled down the road towards the Cherokee Heritage Center, when I looked to the left just in time to see an old bus crouched and ready to pounce from behind the tall grasses. I can only imagine the many innocent child victims that were taken to school when the bus was in service. Now it sits, aging into a timeless piece of art, camouflaged from many who pass by so quickly.
I approached the Cherokee Heritage Center with no expectations of what I might find. As I walked through the parking area people dressed in traditional Cherokee clothing could be seen on the other side of the fence in what looked to be an old village. My curiosity was peaked.
I walked into the main center where at the information desk a man sat, his name was Cliff. Cliff was a soft spoken and super helpful person with information I needed in regard to the Cherokee Heritage Center, cultural understanding and helping me to find my direction after the time spent in Tahleqauh. As Cliff was helping me to find the information I was seeking on the computer, a nice family sat rest at a table after the day was spent exploring this cultural gem. Cliff finished helping me just as his family arrived to gather him for lunch. I repacked the materials that I had unpacked and began to exit through the museum to explore this historical marker for my hike when the family sitting at the table had inquired to what I was doing. Claire Blakeslee and his daughter Meghan sat there wondering about this fellow with a beard and a rather large backpack. I explained my hike probably with more enthusiasm than ever before knowing that it was so close to being finished. As our conversation grew, Claire shared with me the great things about this region of Oklahoma. He worked for the near by hospital and had been becoming more enthralled with the nearby and unique Native American cultures. Meghan his daughter handed me a ten dollar donation for my hike, to which I explained that it really wasn't necessary, yet I was very grateful for the assistance. Claire's wife arrived as I we were parting company. I made my way to the Ancient Village where I would meet Cat Little. Cat led a small group through the village explaining the various facets of daily life, aspects of survival, the creation and implementation of various crafts and tools, cultural hierarchies and community trends. One of the defining Cherokee features that was explained were the belts worn with a sense of pride, found in an understanding for the time that was put into them by someone within the community. The gentleman below wore a belt that Cat spent three hours making.
The game that was being played by these two was at one time called "the little brother of war". It was used very much like the Olympics originally were, to settle tribal disputes and resolve issues before they would become problematic for the community. The objective was to hit the pole or the fish atop the pole, these games could last days. It is said that this game and lacrosse share the same roots. Here Cat explained the different techniques for making the beautiful pottery that had various different uses within the community.
Cat then took us over to Noel Grayson who was napping flint, which was often used and thought of in arrowheads, though it served many other purposes. Noel explained and demonstrated the Cherokee peoples techniques for napping flint, arrow and bow making, as well techniques for making materials and hunting. Noel was super helpful in telling me about an arrowhead that I had found along the way in Shiloh, Tennessee. Here is Noel napping a piece of flint which was turned into an arrowhead, then an arrow.
The Cherokee were very industrious in the way they would craft their arrows using reeds, branches, stone, sinews from various animals, glues and eventually metal.
The bows were often crafted by one generation and passed down through the family lineage.
Here Noel showed how the Cherokee unleash an arrow, it was a very instinctive method. The use of bows and arrows were more often for war or hunting large game. After Noel had explained this side of the Cherokee culture we moved over to the ladies weaving baskets. Cat explained to use the various techniques and the amount of patience that was needed for these practices.
Some of the baskets these ladies had made were amazing in detail and could be woven so tightly they could hold water. Truly, to me, it seemed all of the methods for crafting the necessities of daily survival for the Cherokee people required patience.
Cat explained the implementation and making of blow guns and the darts they used. She demonstrated with great accuracy how these could in fact be quiet deadly. The last thing that cat explained to the group was the cultural hierarchy and the some of the dances that would take place during gatherings. She strapped a noise making rattle that was various turtle shells with stones in it to her leg and began to keep a rhythm. These tortoise shells filled with stones could weigh up to thirty pounds a piece and would be played in unison rhythm for hours at a time by the women of the tribe. My jaw dropped when she said this. Cat set the group free to explore the rest of the Cherokee Heritage Center, including the Special Exhibit Gallery, Cherokee Family Research Center, Adams Corner Rural Village and what I was looking for the Trail of Tears Exhibit. As I made my way through the Trail of Tears Exhibit my heart felt the growing sadness I had endured though my hike, knowing that nothing I felt now could even touch the depth of pain that was endured by the Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Chickasaw or Seminole. Though my hike had been set to finish here at the Cherokee Heritage Center, as a vast majority of my hike was on the path many Cherokee had taken, I was told there was another stop I should make, that of The Five Civilized Tribes Museum in Muskogee, Oklahoma. When I left the Cherokee Heritage Center I made my way towards Muskogee and I felt depleted, almost as though all the miles I had hiked held no comparison of pain to the emotional impact I just endured for a people who's roots felt stronger than an oak. My steps felt sluggish and I had hoped to stop at a near by restaurant that I was told sold traditional style Cherokee foods. As I made my way towards dinner a horn sounded and a ride was offered for the few miles I was traveling. It was a very up beat fellow named Patrick, a veteran from the Marines. Patrick had what seemed to me a very hectic life that required him to be of energy. He and I shared a long conversation covering a variety of topics, but most interesting to me was his triumph from a severe brain injury to go back to school and finish a degree. His story had me elated and glued into the conversation; truly a good pick me up for my emotional state and the human ability to overcome obstacles. This helped me further define what strength was derived from the spirit of the Trail of Tears. Patrick dropped me off at the Cherokee Restaurant and as excited as I was to have some traditional food it was not meant to be, they were closed. I treated myself to some beef jerky in the gift shop attached and was told the Cherokee Casino also had good food and so onward I progressed. When I entered the casino I was asked by Mike, for security measure to empty my backpack, so I unpacked and repacked it while conversing with the security team. Mike and his associate seemed pretty interested in my hike even though they remained very serious about their business, they were very kind to keep an eye on my gear while I went to the restroom. The cafe inside the casino was the real treat for achieving the end of my original goal, though I still had to make it to Muskogee to now feel completion of this hike. My food was very enjoyable though, it may have been too much for me to eat and hike on, I left feeling like I was walking a little funny even with the backpack on. After leaving the casino I stopped across the street at the Timber gas station to use the phone and the people who's names I did not write so I have forgotten were super helpful, I thank them for their kindness. Leaving the gas station I hiked on, stopping only to save another turtle trying to cross this very busy road. Having hiked another seven miles or so after the food I was ready to find a place to camp with no real idea of where, thinking I should ask someone before sun down. There was a reasonably flat field that I located and hoped the people who lived their might be ok with me, so I knocked and waited. Nothing happened so I knocked again and still nothing. As I started to walk back towards the road a white suv pulled up and a very sweet young lady with a young child stepped out. She said her husband was probably asleep and she would wake him. A few moments later he came outside, looking half dazed. The gentleman stated it would surely be ok and I could camp anywhere I saw fit. I also did not get their names, this day I was two for two on forgetful, but not on thankful. Darkness fell and I drifted into slumber for the next morning would come soon.
I woke with the sunrise, packed my gear up and headed out, set on finishing my hike today. My steps felt light enough to run and happy enough to not feel the weight of my pack. After just a few hours a fellow pulled up and offered me a ride into Muskogee, he went by the name "Leech". He shared a lot of life insight with me he had acquired and one thing we got into a discussion about was the idea of what made a home, this rang a sound of truth for my entire hike as I had been mistaken for homeless more than once. It could be argued that my hiking was in fact a form of homelessness. Leech stated the thing that made him feel as though he had a home was the person he loved helping him spruce it up and making it a home. It had in fact less to do with the walls and roof, but more to do with the sentiment and purpose of the structure. This conversation left me with a lasting impression of truth about another misnomer in society, one of homelessness. A question still rings and may not have a real answer. What is a home?
Leech was kind enough to take me right to The Five Civilized Tribes Museum, he even waited while I went through the exhibits, which provided further information on the Trail of Tears and the stabilization of the tribes which endured it. Not feeling in a hurry and being super generous, Leech took me over to the bus station so I could catch a bus. He dropped me off at the Greyhound station and we parted company. I went in the station and bought a ticket for Dallas, Texas. Keesha was a very sweet young lady who I met while waiting for the bus to arrive. We talked about Texas, which I had never spent more than a few days exploring. When the bus arrived we boarded and were en route for Dallas. I sat next to a fellow named Kennan and across the isle was a guy named Scott. I thought it would be a quite bus ride and I might get some reading done or sleep a little, that was not the case at all. These two guys and I shared quite a few laughs along the way and laughed like we were friends of old. They helped the long bus ride to fly by and before I knew it I was in Dallas and the sun was setting.
Not really sure of what was next and unable to get a hold of my family living in Arlington I thought it best to get out of the main part of the city and I made my way over to Fort Worth. I met a guy when I got off the train that ran from Dallas to Fort Worth named Matthew Solley. He helped me to find a direction that would make the most sense to camp or so we thought. The question is always a bizarre one in a city, "Where is a good place to camp?" So I took the bus that was recommended to get me in the right direction. The bus drivers name was Chucka, a super nice and helpful guy with a thick accent. He gave me some job and living advice if I was going to stay in Fort Worth, it gave me a sense of someone cared. I walked through neighborhoods that looked a little rough at some points, just trying to find a place that would be safe to camp for one night till I could find better bearings and hopefully get in contact with my family. I walked around until a man who was drinking approached me and told me that I could camp on this hill, with the words only he would know where I was. I asked this rough looking fellow, smelling of booze where a gas station was that I could purchase a cold beverage. He told me and as I walked toward where he said another fellow crossed my path giving me the sense that he knew I would be there, it made me think that maybe I was marked and possibly being made into a target, which is easy to be when you have a large backpack and you're in a big city. I took a few extra turns through a neighborhood and went to a QT gas station. There I would sit with the kind heart of a girl named Kelsey assuring me I could stay as long as I liked. After purchasing a beverage and a sandwich I sat out in front of the gas station. I pulled out my guitar to work on my therapy and debate what to do with the rest of the evening. It turned out people thought I wasn't too bad and as I practiced the song I had been writing people gave me money, not because my hat was out or guitar case was open, but because they felt compelled, I played until sun rose the next day. The person who seemed to start off the giving towards the sounds of my music was a Halli Norwood. This grace made me feel pretty good in spite of the fact that I didn't sleep a wink after a long day of hiking and travel. The next day I fumbled around Fort Worth, trying to determine my next coarse of travel, knowing I could not stay transient or I would fall into the true impoverished vagrant situation. My goal and purpose in coming to Texas was to work and build funds for my next hike, I could not falter. I through it up on my facebook page, I needed to make a directional change, Fort Worth was nice, but I felt it was not the place for me. Austin was suggested and I went for it! I bought a bus ticket to Austin arriving around two in the morning with no idea where to go next, so I fell asleep.
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Wait I'm not done here, fine.....Till I get another computer with time in the library
Sources for more information:
Sequoya:
http://www.cherokeetourismok.com/Attractions/Pages/SequoyahsCabin.aspx
http://www.sequoyahmuseum.org/
http://www.okhistory.org/sites/sequoyahcabin
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sequoyah
Dwight Mission:
http://www.dwightmission.org/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dwight_Presbyterian_Mission
http://www.cherokeetourismok.com/Attractions/Pages/DwightMission.aspx
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dwight_Mission,_Oklahoma
Murrell Home
http://www.okhistory.org/sites/georgemurrell
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murrell_Home
Cherokee Heritage Center
http://www.cherokeetourismok.com/Attractions/Pages/CherokeeHeritageCenter.aspx
http://www.cherokeeheritage.org/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cherokee_Heritage_Center
http://www.cherokee.org/AboutTheNation/Visiting/CherokeeHeritageCenter.aspx
The Five Civilized Tribes Museum
http://www.fivetribes.org/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Five_Civilized_Tribes_Museum
http://digital.library.okstate.edu/encyclopedia/entries/f/fi011.html
http://www.fivecivilizedtribes.org/
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