2021-04-28
I slept soundly at Lake Fort Smith. Just after I turned in, a few drops pattered on the rain fly, and I remember nothing else except being briefly awoken by a single peal of thunder.
In the morning I peeked out and things were wet, but it wasn’t raining just then. I got moving quickly, intending to pack up before another wave swept in.
Didn’t succeed.
I’m grateful there wasn’t a continuous torrential downpour the entire time, but there almost might as well have been; sporadic showers happened just often enough and at just the wrong times such that almost everything got wet, and some things thoroughly soaked.
At least this was my last planned camp; I didn’t expect to spend a night outdoors in soggy gear.
At the visitor center I paid my camping fee and asked the ranger if she knew anything about weather to the west. She pulled up the radar map which was nothing but heavy dark green rain and yellow and red storm cells streaming from the southwest. It looked like it might continue all day in this locale, but I’d be in the clear if I could get far enough west – which meant, basically, Oklahoma City.
As I stepped out the front door the sky exploded in a brilliant flash, a blitz as it were, gut-shaking thunder virtually simultaneous.
The continuous torrential rain started then.
If I had landed in a lodge the previous night, as might have happened if I’d arrived at the campground just a few minutes later, I’d have immediately booked another night and gone back to my room, or to the bar if it was open.
Instead I stood there under the entrance awning with a masked man and his standard poodle, who was remarkably calm about the electrical storm raging directly overhead. As we started talking I realized the man behind the mask was Ian. Shortly his wife Robin joined us.
I slept soundly at Lake Fort Smith. Just after I turned in, a few drops pattered on the rain fly, and I remember nothing else except being briefly awoken by a single peal of thunder.
In the morning I peeked out and things were wet, but it wasn’t raining just then. I got moving quickly, intending to pack up before another wave swept in.
Didn’t succeed.
I’m grateful there wasn’t a continuous torrential downpour the entire time, but there almost might as well have been; sporadic showers happened just often enough and at just the wrong times such that almost everything got wet, and some things thoroughly soaked.
At least this was my last planned camp; I didn’t expect to spend a night outdoors in soggy gear.
At the visitor center I paid my camping fee and asked the ranger if she knew anything about weather to the west. She pulled up the radar map which was nothing but heavy dark green rain and yellow and red storm cells streaming from the southwest. It looked like it might continue all day in this locale, but I’d be in the clear if I could get far enough west – which meant, basically, Oklahoma City.
As I stepped out the front door the sky exploded in a brilliant flash, a blitz as it were, gut-shaking thunder virtually simultaneous.
The continuous torrential rain started then.
If I had landed in a lodge the previous night, as might have happened if I’d arrived at the campground just a few minutes later, I’d have immediately booked another night and gone back to my room, or to the bar if it was open.
Instead I stood there under the entrance awning with a masked man and his standard poodle, who was remarkably calm about the electrical storm raging directly overhead. As we started talking I realized the man behind the mask was Ian. Shortly his wife Robin joined us.
We four lingered there for a long time, three of us chatting and the other conveniently tall enough that scratching behind his ears didn’t require leaning down. The weather remained far too heavy for them to entertain the idea of walking back to their van.
As for me, it would have been ridiculously dangerous, even by my standards, to have ridden the motorcycle that was parked only a few feet away.
I suggested retiring to the back porch, which had nice seating and would have been a good place to relax and enjoy watching the storm. It would have meant garnering permission for Finnlee to pass through the center, which frankly I couldn’t imagine the rangers denying. But Ian went to check and said the back porch was being swept by rain.
I discovered a very nice space inside with a couple rocking chairs in front of operating windows that would have presented a view of the lake had it been visible through the opaque curtains of rain. There was even a writing surface and outlets I could plug into. I figured I was going to be there for a while and might as well spend the time writing a blog. Robin kindly loaned me her umbrella so I could pull my laptop out of the saddlebag without destroying it.
One blog post later…
The rain was as heavy as ever, but the lightning had largely moved on. I went back to my bike and did my best (which was not good enough) to get my laptop back into the saddlebag without it and everything inside getting drenched. I donned my rainsuit, including the upper even though my Firstgear riding jacket was supposedly waterproof.
As I rode away another bolt of lightning cracked across the sky.
Not proceeding directly to a lodge and getting a room is what made the next few hours basically one gigantic demerit.
I headed south on I-49, where traffic was light and the riding not particularly unsafe. Swinging on to I-40 westbound, traffic predictably got much heavier with a consequent reduction in visibility through the clouds of mist kicked up by heavy trucks.
Proceeding under these conditions was not advisable, but I did it anyway. I brought all my decades of riding experience to bear on mitigating the risks as best I could.
At least the temperature was mild and my multiple layers of gear were doing a great job of keeping me dry.
As the radar map had suggested, the heavy rain continued until nearly Oklahoma City, where it gradually began to break up. It was still wet and visibility still suboptimal as I crossed the conurbation, and traffic got still heavier and less predictable, but once I was out of it the horizon grew ever brighter and nearby vehicles fewer.
Still it wasn’t until I stopped for gas in Sayre, nearly to the Texas state line, before I felt confident enough to peel off the rain suit. I found Larry had left me a message which my phone had shunted directly to voice mail rather than giving me any indication I’d received a call.
I like that my phone does that whenever I’m moving faster than a walking pace. While I’m riding I don’t even want to know that someone is calling me.
But I’d need to check in with him in a couple hours to finalize the details of a rendezvous the following day, which was tentatively planned for Alpine, Arizona.
My original plan for crossing the Texas panhandle had been to gas up in Oklahoma and not put my foot down again until New Mexico. The weather had fouled that up; I probably could still do it, but having spent the entire morning sitting under the storm in Arkansas it might now mean riding into the dark. Here on the open plains that wasn’t as dangerous as it is in the deer-infested woodlands I’d left behind, but I still wasn’t keen on the idea.
I stopped in McLean for a belated brunch at the Red River Steakhouse, where I was less than comfortable with what appeared a universal disdain for masking up. Knowing of this attitude (and the overarching reasons it might be prevalent) was one of the reasons for my original intention to avoid stopping in Texas.
I called Larry who tipped me off that yet more rain was rolling across my path.
Unenthusiastic about finishing a long day with another ride through the rain, I decided to push just to Amarillo. More specifically I’d aim for the city of Canyon a few miles south of Amarillo; this was because Kathy back in Cincinnati, and Ian and Robin that morning, had encouraged me to visit Palo Duro Canyon which they described as a mini-Grand Canyon that you could drive through. I’d never heard of it but my interest had been piqued.
Larry could secure a cabin in Alpine for the next night, if I could make it there from the middle of the panhandle. I assured him I could, especially given the forecast of a clear day for the ride.
Arriving at the Holiday Inn Express in Canyon, I was happy to find a strict mask protocol in effect.
I discovered a very nice space inside with a couple rocking chairs in front of operating windows that would have presented a view of the lake had it been visible through the opaque curtains of rain. There was even a writing surface and outlets I could plug into. I figured I was going to be there for a while and might as well spend the time writing a blog. Robin kindly loaned me her umbrella so I could pull my laptop out of the saddlebag without destroying it.
One blog post later…
The rain was as heavy as ever, but the lightning had largely moved on. I went back to my bike and did my best (which was not good enough) to get my laptop back into the saddlebag without it and everything inside getting drenched. I donned my rainsuit, including the upper even though my Firstgear riding jacket was supposedly waterproof.
As I rode away another bolt of lightning cracked across the sky.
Not proceeding directly to a lodge and getting a room is what made the next few hours basically one gigantic demerit.
I headed south on I-49, where traffic was light and the riding not particularly unsafe. Swinging on to I-40 westbound, traffic predictably got much heavier with a consequent reduction in visibility through the clouds of mist kicked up by heavy trucks.
Proceeding under these conditions was not advisable, but I did it anyway. I brought all my decades of riding experience to bear on mitigating the risks as best I could.
At least the temperature was mild and my multiple layers of gear were doing a great job of keeping me dry.
As the radar map had suggested, the heavy rain continued until nearly Oklahoma City, where it gradually began to break up. It was still wet and visibility still suboptimal as I crossed the conurbation, and traffic got still heavier and less predictable, but once I was out of it the horizon grew ever brighter and nearby vehicles fewer.
Still it wasn’t until I stopped for gas in Sayre, nearly to the Texas state line, before I felt confident enough to peel off the rain suit. I found Larry had left me a message which my phone had shunted directly to voice mail rather than giving me any indication I’d received a call.
I like that my phone does that whenever I’m moving faster than a walking pace. While I’m riding I don’t even want to know that someone is calling me.
But I’d need to check in with him in a couple hours to finalize the details of a rendezvous the following day, which was tentatively planned for Alpine, Arizona.
My original plan for crossing the Texas panhandle had been to gas up in Oklahoma and not put my foot down again until New Mexico. The weather had fouled that up; I probably could still do it, but having spent the entire morning sitting under the storm in Arkansas it might now mean riding into the dark. Here on the open plains that wasn’t as dangerous as it is in the deer-infested woodlands I’d left behind, but I still wasn’t keen on the idea.
I stopped in McLean for a belated brunch at the Red River Steakhouse, where I was less than comfortable with what appeared a universal disdain for masking up. Knowing of this attitude (and the overarching reasons it might be prevalent) was one of the reasons for my original intention to avoid stopping in Texas.
I called Larry who tipped me off that yet more rain was rolling across my path.
Unenthusiastic about finishing a long day with another ride through the rain, I decided to push just to Amarillo. More specifically I’d aim for the city of Canyon a few miles south of Amarillo; this was because Kathy back in Cincinnati, and Ian and Robin that morning, had encouraged me to visit Palo Duro Canyon which they described as a mini-Grand Canyon that you could drive through. I’d never heard of it but my interest had been piqued.
Larry could secure a cabin in Alpine for the next night, if I could make it there from the middle of the panhandle. I assured him I could, especially given the forecast of a clear day for the ride.
Arriving at the Holiday Inn Express in Canyon, I was happy to find a strict mask protocol in effect.
After a long hot shower I unpacked my wet gear and, because the laundry room was closed, started laying it out and hanging it from what points of suspension the room had to offer – which were far too few.
By the next morning much of it was still soaking wet.
But at least I had a warm dry bed.
By the next morning much of it was still soaking wet.
But at least I had a warm dry bed.
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