Footloose in America: Dixie to New England Read Online Free PDF Page A

after the show. He was dressed in faded denim overalls and wore a tattered red cap with the words “Woo-Pig-Sooie!” across the front. His right cheek bulged from the wad of tobacco behind it as he shook my hand and said, “The only reason I’m here is ‘cause the wife dragged me. I’d planned on going cat-fishing tonight, but she insisted.” He stopped and spit on the ground to his left. “And to tell you the truth, I’m glad I came. Ain’t never seen anything like this. I had a damn good time.”
    He extended his hand, and as I shook it I asked, “Was it better than cat-fishing?”
    “You’re pushing your luck, son.”

    The morning we walked out of Conway on Highway 64 East, it was hotter than any day so far. Above the pavement, the air wavered like a desert scene in a movie. The four lanes of cars and trucks charging past us created a wind that felt like it came from a blast furnace. And the forecast was for even hotter days ahead. So we decided to find a shady place to camp for a few days.
    Several people suggested Lester Flatt Campground. They said it was in a pretty mountain valley with lots of shade and a spring-fed lake. Going to Lester Flatt meant an eight mile detour, but everybody said it would be worth it.
    That morning, as we walked down Highway 107 toward Lester Flatt, it was so humid I felt like we were wading there. I usually wore a bandana headband under my straw hat to keep perspiration out my eyes. But that day it didn’t make any difference. I was constantly wiping sweat out of them. Each time we stopped to drink water, I had to wring a small stream from my headband. It was like the water was flowing directly from my mouth to my pores.
    Around two in the afternoon we got to the dirt road that led into Lester Flatt Campground. It had taken us nearly five hours to walk eight miles. Worn out from trudging through the mugginess, we were more than ready to put down for the day. Especially if it was in shade next to a spring-fed lake.
    But it was still a mile back into the campground and most of it was uphill. In that mile we stopped to rest and drink water more than any other mile in my life. Finally, at the top of the hill, we found ourselves gazing down at a shimmering pool of blue cradled in the lush green Ozark foothills. It was oblong and prettier than I had fantasized it would be. Just the sight of it refreshed me. Before long we’d be soaking in cool spring water.
    But on the road down to the campground we came to a hand-painted wooden sign nailed to a tree that read, “Absolutely no horses.”
    “It doesn’t say anything about mules,” Patricia said, as she handed me the water jug. “Maybe when we tell them what we’re doing, and that we walked out of our way to camp here, they’ll let us stay.”
    Before I took a drink, I said, “That sign is mighty emphatic.”
    “We’ve come this far, I say we go down and ask.”
    “And if we can’t use the campground maybe we could set up in the woods.”
    The park was only on the east end of the lake. The rest of it was undeveloped woodland. Camping in the woods might be a solution to the “Absolutely no horses” rule at Lester Flatt. So we walked down into the valley.
    Lester Flat had a sand beach, several RV sites, a large pavilion and a small store. When we stopped in front of the store, a man in his late sixties, wearing Bermuda shorts and flip-flops, walked out. His right arm below the elbow was missing. With that stub he pointed up the way we came and said, “We don’t allow horses here. There’s a sign up on the hill.”
    “We saw it,” I said. “But we walked out of our way to get here because everyone said we’d be welcome. Are you the owner?”
    He shook his bald head. “No. The lady who owns this place isn’t here. She works in Cabot. I camp here and keep an eye on the place for her. And one of her rules is no horses.”
    It felt like I was whining when I said, “If I’d known that before, we wouldn’t have come