Natchichotes, LA. 8870 miles.

I woke up this morning smelling like horses and rode through north Texas ranch country listening to Steve Earle. I highly recommend you do that sometime before you die.

At Paris, I turned south and headed through the greener parts of east Texas as the plains slowly turn into hills and then some thick forests. After lunch in Jefferson I headed off the highway and took a farm route about 70 miles through some back country and into Louisiana. In true Texas fashion, the Louisiana sign was riddled with buckshot scars and bullet holes and there were shell casings everywhere.

It never ceases to amaze me how much you can actually tell the difference between states just at the border. Seconds after crossing in the air turned to soup as the humidity skyrocketed. It was only about 90 degrees so while riding it felt perfectly pleasant, but if I stopped for even a second to take a picture it was instantly like being in a sauna. I would easily trade the 120 degree heat in the Arizona desert for this kind of awfulness. But the scenery was beautiful and the roads remote and as long as I kept moving it was a fun ride through some twisty fun terrain.

I made a wrong turn at Many and ended up on some even more remote roads through some DEEP country in the Louisiana woods. The cyprus trees started to appear and the grass was an electric green I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. It wasn’t that long of a detour and I knew from the map exactly where I was going, but there are times on the road when 99% of your brain tells you everything is fine but that last little 1% won’t shut up saying “Are you SURE this is actually going to take you back to civilization?”

It always does, sometimes even when you wish it wouldn’t as I came into Natchichotes (pronounced “Nakatosh” for some reason) from the south end and pulled into a motel. There aren’t any pictures, but let’s just say I finally found my limit of what I can stomach from motel life. The “manager” stumbled out in his underwear and thankfully showed me the room before I gave him any money. It was basically a cinder block shed which he graciously said I could park the bike in right next to the bed. The guy hanging out in the parking lot with a pack of stray dogs said that was probably a good idea in that neighborhood. I got back on the bike and took off as quickly as I could and in a minute I was over the river in old Natchichotes which might as well be on another planet. A little old cajun town with a main street on the Cane River sporting iron fenced balconies, it is basically a miniature French Quarter. I had some gumbo and watched some fireworks. They really like fireworks down here – they sell them every half mile and apparently they have shows just about every night in the summer.

Tomorrow is a short ride to New orleans where I can hopefully spend a little extra time. The looks like it might get dicey with a storm coming in from the Gulf but hopefully I can stay clear of the worst of it.

Wyatt Neumann was a phenomenally talented photographer and director, a loving husband and father, and a passionate motorcyclist. On June 11th he was doing what he loved riding in Delaware when he suffered a brain aneurysm which caused him to lose control of his motorcycle. He died shortly after. Wyatt was instrumental in both inspiring this trip and planning many of its routes and logistics. The title of this site was unapologetically stolen from his series of photographs from his own travels. He leaves behind a wife and two young children. A memorial fund has been established to help his family in this very trying time. Please consider donating. Any amount will help. Thank you.

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