Journeys

Sunday, June 20, 2021

Threeish hours

As we depart from Shamrock, Texas, this morning, and head out across the mostly treeless plains, I'm pretty sure I can discern the curvature of the Earth way off yonder. The contrast with the forests we left just yesterday is stark. It's got me to thinking how different it is for us as we tear along at Interstate speed from what it was like not so very long ago for so many who experienced that change in their surroundings gradually as they lumbered along rough and rutted trails in their wagons for days on end, with little knowledge of what was to come. Wouldn't you wonder if you had been misled or doubt the reports of what was ahead?

In that vein, we have an advantage about the countryside ahead of us, but so many times, we are reminded that the future is unknowable despite our illusions of what we think life will be like tomorrow. The shock we experience when we are confronted with tragedy reminds us of our lack of control. What is left then is only how we react. Surely all of us have at one time or another surmised that we could not bear the loss of an offspring, yet millions have and do. As with every experience of life, it is unknowable until you are there.

The fact of Darren's death seems unbearable, but we continue on for what purpose I am unsure.

So, this is what our morning's three hours on the Interstate highway has led me to. Soon we will return to our preferred mode of travel on smaller slower side roads that allow for stopping whenever the mood dictates that something needs to be explored.

In this series of my blog, I have skipped over and/or completely ignored major parts of the journey. Truthfully, my heart's not in it. I will hearken back to one of the last places we visited with the kids: a wholly unexpected feature in Arkansas - a cypress swamp. I am enamored of places such as that; we have explored a number of them with Darren in the past.

It was another preserve or wildlife management area that always stand out as a place to check out. Sometimes they turn out to be duds - mostly closed off or lacking much interest - and this one seemed that it might be of that ilk. We drove along dirt roads that flanked flat agricultural fields. It became clear that many of them were planted in rice, obviously created as a refuge for migratory birds.

As we sought a route to the Black River that flows through there, we encountered sloughs supporting lacy-needled cypress trees with their root "knees" poking above the water where they prevent the tree from drowning in its watery lair.

One of us wandered out on a fallen log and opined that we could launch our kayaks from there when we return another time to fish and admire. One of us opined that it would be a cold day in hell before we would try to launch a kayak from that log.

Between the silent swift river, surrounding park-like grassy areas, the sluggish sloughs, acres and acres of grain fields, I expect the place fair teems seasonally with millions of birds.

I was enchanted to come upon that spot so unexpectedly, and would love to return for more exploration and fishing. Inexplicably, even there we encountered almost no mosquitoes; however, somewhere along the line we did pick up a few hitchhikers: ticks and possibly a few chiggers, or as I unfondly call them "chicks and tiggers".

We enjoyed an interesting wayside stop at a picturesque historic mill. From near the structure, a 12-mile running battle occurred between Union and Confederate troops in 1864. It jars the senses to realize the tragedy of war that marred the serenity we now experience in these places. You can read a bit about the conflict at Martin Creek and Morgan's Mill here: https://www.hmdb.org/m.asp?m=49108.