Little River

Little River Country

     You've been hanging around here for a while now, so you realize you'll have to endure a little rap before I get into the main story of this outing. I see all the chins bobbing. Good.
      Let me tell you how well this thing is progressing. Was, I use to jump on the bike and head out and absorb as much as I could, come home and write what I preceived about what I was riding through. Fabricate, mislead and plagiarize. Now, I'm sitting back and people are coming to me, suggesting I go here or there, and giving me the material to write.
     Easy street, or easy road, whatever.
     How hard can that be?
     No more hard work blundering into who knows what. Now it's a sort of treasure hunt.

Barry lived in these parts and suggested I check out the Little River WMA. I dig hydrology. I had visited the Little River in the Duty Article. So, there is continuity working here. And, it was just that far on the map. So away I went. From home, I headed up I-49, using it for speed.

Soon "speed" became old and I exited off the "I-" at Washington. I got on the Bayou Boeuf Expressway, La.182. It is such a beautiful, historical, unused road which has brand new blacktop on it. It turns into La. 29 along the way and goes into Bunkie. At Bunkie I got on the Mother Road, US 71 and went on up to LeCompte. At LeCompte, I got on La 457 going northeast..... (Lot of gotons). Reaching La.1, I goton it. I took La.1 until I saw a bridge going over the Red River in Alexandria, I goton it. I crossed the bridge which is evidently La.167/165's Red River crossing.
I was now, miraculously, on US165, the directed route. It was approaching two pm. I had meandered on the way up. Better a few minutes lost than looking at semi tires fly by and enjoying the "wash" of air off their
balistic sumeaux bodies.

Alexandria has grown across the river into Pineville's turf. Stip malls and shopping centers everywhere. I was in traffic. But, soon out. I was on the way to Pollock, my first landmark in the search for the Little River. Up and down the hills I rode, conscience of the growing shadows. I knew it would be a night ride back. So what. I was going to have fun now and face the music later. My way. I saw La. 123 going to the west. I wanted 123 going to the east. Barry, what's the deal? I saw surveyors working on the road. They would know. "We aren't from around here". But, he stopped the plotting of the new 4 lane US Highway165 to help out. I told him I'd mention his name in the article. Bill. He told me the road was 6000 meters back the way I had come. I looked as dumb as I could at him, my natural pose, and he converted it into American. 3.7 miles. I was back at La.123 wanting to go west.
No. La.123W.

There was another surveyor there. He wasn't from "around here" either. But, he said his helper was. I roared up to the guy expecting him to know just what my problem was. I restated the question after he gave me my previous look. He said the lane across from 123 was the way to Camp Hardner Rd. So, one more time, I goton it.
I passed up a cabin with a couple of gents sitting on the front porch. I waved, as Barry had directed. I knew to, already. When in the backwoods, act like you are someone's cousin come visiting. You don't need to yell, "How's grandma?", just wave and move on.

I found Camp Hardner and turned around, cause Barry's directions originated at Camp Hardner. If I'd taken the sign that said "To Camp Hardner" outside of Pollock, I'd been here, missed the multiple surveyor questionings, the obligatory wave and the threatening sense of lost.
I was back on track, I reversed, getting the map out. and sure enough things started coming together. I had seen the dumpster. The HQ was there and I turned in.. I was cruising down this packed sometimes loose sand road and looking forward to the

promised scenic beauty.
    Slamed on the brakes, put her over into a slide, stopping two inches from the water. No, I just easily came to a stop because the road was now river.
    Oh, piddlypoo.
    Pictured above, left. I got off the bike. Took a look around, took some pictures and realized I was in the scenic beauty. The river, according to Barry was still a ways up. I think he had said 3 miles from Hardner Rd. I had gone, maybe one. These little rivers really spread out in their valleys when flooded.

After stoking up on stolen Christmas candy and a pop, I got back on the bike. I headed back the way I'd come, fighting the urge to throw in the towel, placing tail between legs and going back on home. It wasn't three o'clock. I had plenty of time. I took the first road to the left. The picture to the right is what greeted me. It is a narrow gauge railroad crossing. This was fantastic. It was a remnant of the forestry operations in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Little steam engines would pull the cut logs out of the forest and deliver tools to the workers, as I understand it. Barry said there were rails running up to Georgetown and the ghost, lumber town of Selma.

More swamp and river, I don't think this was the Little, just a creek running into it, but might be wrong. I'll research this. Yea, right.

   After looking around a bunch, I remounted and went on up the hill. Barry hadn't mentioned this part. I was on my own. Having been on this kind of road before, one that disappears into the dark forest, I knew what to expect. Yes, exactly, so when I entered their enclave, I made a quiet U turn and left. I don't think I woke the baby. If you do this kind of exploring, use a very quiet bike. Very quiet says, "I don't mean to offend, I don't mean to intrude, I'm a nice person and I'm Billy Bob's preacher cousin from Jena."
    I headed back the way I had come. When I got to Hardner Rd. I headed back the way I had come.
    Some more.
    Toward Pollock.

The sun was sinking.

After returning home and writing Barry that it had been a good ride, he added this:

I <don't know> if the track you saw crossed the Little River or ran parallel to it. Had you continued over that r/r bridge, it would have taken you to the river but there is private property at the end of the road that people avoid. There are a lot of reclusive people in those woods that want nothing to do with the outside world. Long time ago, I had a dirt bike in the back of my truck, bringing it back from being repaired, and decided to do some exploring. I ended up down some road that dead-ended at an enclosed camp and was turning around when I saw an old jeep up on blocks. Back then, that was like waving a hotdog in front of ......... I drove straight inside the camp to the jeep and was almost immediately met by an armed welcoming committee, and basically told to get the heck out of Dodge or suffer the consequences, and that I'd missed a sign outside the gate saying "NO BIKES" ......... I had a few parting questions about the jeep. Guess jeeps were more important than my well-being. I drove out of there in reverse figuring if I got shot, I'd want to see who was doing the shooting.

   Maybe we should talk a bit more before I take off next time.
   Is there anything else you'd like to add?
   The trip continues, thankfully, by pressing "next".

Definintion. "A ways up". Undetermined span of space. Term commonly use here.