Ozark torment

Day 1 Missouri means day 1 Ozark Mountains. Somebody had to explain it to me cause really, I thought I was all set after the Appalachians, flatten it out till I'd hit the Rockies. Clearly I was wrong. This Missouri stretch is apparently the hardest of the whole trip (yeah, right! That's was I was thinking: how come I missed this little piece of information ...?). I was not, at all, ready yet for more mountain-material. But then again I'll probably never will be, so hit me. Hit me hard.

It was bad. If for once I'd have liked to be dispatched over more rugged topography, this is it, right here, Ozark Mountains. But nope, didn't happen so I had to rely on these mussels-from-Brussels to get me to the other side. Early head-outs in morning 'cool' (we're in the high 80's now) got me through.

Another, rather discomforting, issue about moving slow (no top speed going up these fella's) is a forced in-depth study of road kill. If you let me, I'll share. First there is the smell (climbing 15% hills in boiling sun means heavy breathing so no escaping from that one). You know there's something out there, somewhere. Then you see it, or usually part of it, followed by the rest of it. A stomach, an intestine, an arm, a piece of skull, morphed to the asphalt. If not avoiding driving over the whole carcass, I zigzag between chunks of this and that while, involuntary, but it's stronger than myself, mentally jigsaw the picture back together. One time, a medium-sized former-turtle looked like somebody distracted himself with its bits and pieces and topped a neat little Jenga-tower out of it. Another kept waving at me in eternity, one arm up. It's repellant. Road kill always makes me sad. But being the good-as-ever-ambassador of the road, I do save the ones I can. They usually flinch up in their shell but this one fella (I promise I get his picture up here, as he is a star) was either not aware of having a shell to hide in or anyways was not going to drop without a fight. He kept, head up, spinning all fours in the air. I like it. May he live, at least, another day.

And I am, after two weeks or so, back in my tent! After nights in churches, bike-hostels and -shacks, WarmShowers and random peoples' home, I'm in the mountains, in my tent. And happy! Nothing more romantic than sleeping in a tent, under the stars, in the mountains. I am so easily pleased.