The engine screams in protest as its compression tries to hold us back. Taking a firm grip on the handlebars, Tina pushing forward against my back, we descend from Howell Avenue’s heights at what feels like a 45-degree grade. In the village below, we wind slowly along the valley floor, our heads swivelling left and right, taking in all the temptations in the quaint little shop windows of Eureka Springs, Arkansas. At the Mud Street Cafe over breakfast, our wives, Tina and Marie, announce that all of these shopping temptations have proven too much for them. They simply must take a day off to explore the myriad treasures they might find hidden on dusty shelves in the back rooms of shops with unique names like “Another Thyme,” or “All That Glitters,” or “Delphia Dreams.” What in the world can two guys do with two bikes, a free day, and no passengers? I cast a furtive glance at Hank, who was trying to look like we would be lost without our wives, and attempting to look downcast I ask, “What time do we have to be back?” Arkansas, wild and beautiful, awaits us, and we can’t wait for breakfast to end.
As a child and a prodigious bookworm, I thought Arkansas was pronounced like Kansas, with an R in front of it. When French explorers Marquette and Jolliet arrived here in 1673, the name was Akansea and later Acansa. Although the name is of native origin, it was pronounced with a French influence. In 1881, the General Assembly voted and the name became Arkansas, pronounced ar-kan-saw. Sharing borders with six other states, Arkansas became part of the United States via the Louisiana Purchase of 1803. And now, it is all ours for the day.
Leaving town on AR 62, we emerge from Eureka Springs’ canyon of springs to be surrounded by open fields of newly baled hay. At Berryville, we turn right onto AR 21 and carve our way through beautiful, sweeping curves. The towns of Cabanal, Metalton, Rudd and Kingston come and go as we head southward, rolling on to Boxley on the banks of the Buffalo River, America’s first national river.
In the 1960s, two groups established themselves; one group wanted to dam the Buffalo River for hydroelectric power, and the other wanted to save the river in its pristine glory. The political battle raged for a decade or more, but on March 1, 1972, President Richard M. Nixon declared it a national river, thereby preserving it in all its natural beauty. Two state parks, Buffalo River State Park and Lost Valley State Park, encompass much of the valley surrounding the river.
A gentle curve to the right, followed by a tight downhill left-hander, take us to the intersection of AR 21 and AR 43. Across the valley and just out of sight beyond a line of trees and against a mountain backdrop flows the Buffalo River, where we stop for a break. The silence is all encompassing as we take a walk around an old, abandoned house. A yellow and black warning sign with a bullet hole in it tells us of a frustrated hunter, and that elk may be present.
In 1933, the U.S. Forest Service unsuccessfully introduced elk to Franklin County’s Black Mountain, but within a few years, the elk declined and were gone again. Another try in 1981 proved successful, and the herd prospered. It’s rare to see elk during the hot months in the low areas. They usually stay high in the mountains from April to October, but can be seen regularly at lower elevations during the colder months.
A few miles on and we come to Ponca, where we ride along the north side of Buffalo Mountain. We follow AR 43 to Hwy 206 into Bellefonte and meet up with AR 65, where we head south to catch the part of the incredible Hwy 123 that we missed on a previous ride. After riding the southern part of AR 123 – the Arkansas Dragon – a few days ago, I’m looking forward to riding the northern segment today. A right turn off of US 65 at Western Grove puts us on AR 123, and although not as demanding as the southern part, its many sweeping curves keep our interest level high. Riding through Yardelle and Hasty, we hit the mountains again, and the bends in the road become more technical and frequent. I marvel at how radially symmetric the corners are. I have yet to enter any sphincter-contracting, decreasing radius corners. Running in wide, scrubbing off speed, and sweeping into the apex, with my knee brushing against the roadside weeds, I sweep outward again. I roll on the throttle, and as acceleration brothers up with centrifugal force, it brings me back to the centre line again. This is pure, adrenalin-rushing fun! And as a bonus, we have not seen the long arm of the law since we started this morning.
After the small town of Hasty, we stop for a break at a little gas station where AR 123 intersects AR 74. The road zigzags past a few farms, then dives down into a valley following a river on the right. Here, we enter onto some of the best and most demanding riding of the day, over to Jasper. Beautiful vistas of small farms, and roads curving between fertile fields in mountain valleys, with no traffic whatsoever, make this a joyful ride. Hanging a tight left, we cross a bridge and then shoot up a steep climb that brings us onto a strip of pavement cut into the side of a sheer cliff. A few more curves left and right, and we enter a long, left sweeper that brings us to a sloping, downward terrace overlooking the valley where lies the village of Jasper. We enter this quaint town of 466 residents on the east fork of the Buffalo River and park beside the courthouse, right across the street from the renowned Ozark Cafe. Sauntering across the street, we pause to check out an unusual motorcycle parked among many that arrived before us. It’s a beautiful Honda 750 café racer in pristine form. We stand gape-mouthed and gawking at this creation, which in times past spelled the end to the old British twins. Gingerly, we walk through the front door of the Ozark Cafe into a haven of history.
The Ozark Cafe opened in 1909. Its walls are lined with photos and newspaper articles from the past. I look up into a rustic ceiling – a geometric maze of rafters, struts and posts. The menu proudly displays a cow patty and an Ozark burger complemented by some onion peels or chicken crispers, all with enough cholesterol to bring you much closer to your maker. I opt for the chili cheese dog. I can tell by the clientele and the din of animated conversations that many world problems have been resolved within the walls of the Ozark Cafe. Every weekend, they have live entertainment called Jazzper. The Ozark Cafe is the kind of place that beckons you to return again and again to try more mouth-watering creations on the unique menu and listen to some country music with a local flavour. Backtracking from Jasper, we take AR 74 toward Ponca.
The road weaves through hills covered in luscious, verdant, deciduous forest, occasionally enveloping us in varying shades of green. The sun creates a kaleidoscope of dancing lights on the road as it streams through and around the foliage. The history and culture of the people of these hills add even more colour to the area. Tracing their heritage back to Scotland and Ireland, they were once labelled hillbillies. Others arrived more recently as travelling hippies, and with cheap land available, they called this home. For the avid outdoorsman, this is a nirvana, with a plethora of wild game and rivers filled with fish.
The beauty of the Ozarks themselves is unsurpassed, extending northward well into Missouri. The mountains that made it so difficult for early explorers are now the great calling card for tourism and make this a motorcycling utopia. Clear streams burble over rocks along the roadside. Ridge after forested ridge is filled with wildlife, and occasionally I see a brilliant red cardinal flitting between the trees. Sooner than we want, we turn north on AR 23 and we are idling downward into Eureka Springs. The sights and sounds of this playful resort town capture me once again. The town motto, “Where Misfits Fit,” holds true, with citizens ranging from New Agers, to those with alternative lifestyles, to bikers and dreamy-eyed honeymooners. There is something for everyone in Eureka Springs. Quietly gliding down AR 23 into town, we find our wives, all tuckered out from climbing the steep streets of Eureka Springs. And with the sun setting on another glorious southern day, we stop by Local Flavor to finish the evening with a fantastic meal and a heart-stopping crème brulé.
