Pinky's Passion in print and online motorcycle magazine.
Motorcycle Riders Divided Can Not Ride !!!
Many of the “facts” in this story are based on Legend and Myth as much of the history of theMotorcycle and it’s Culture was lost in the Great Rebellion of 2057.
Taken from a history book in the year 2095… Motorcycles And The Culture They Inspire 1868-2017
Motorcycles started out as steam engines strapped on to bicycles in 1868. Soon after the gas engine took its place and by the 1900’s there were Motorcycle shops and Dealers all over the World. For awhile, Motorcycle’s were simply used as transportation. In 1907, when Henry Fords, Ford Motor Company, released the Model-T at a price many could afford, the Motorcycle soon went from a necessity to a luxury item.
In the 1940’s, the Motorcycle Culture really took off. An organization called the American Motorcyclist Association (AMA) held races and events all over the United States of America. In 1947 the AMA held an event in Hollister California. This event was attended by many of the AMA Racing Teams and Motorcycle Clubs. This event marks the beginning of the separation of Motorcyclists which eventually led to the end of Motorcycling in the year 2017. Newspapers, being what they where in 1947, got a hold of some pictures of Motorcyclists having fun at the event. The press decided to embellish the facts and transformed the story into a torrid tale of Bikers taking over a small town! More negative news stories soon followed. Soon after Hollywood began releasing movies that portrayed Motorcyclists as lawless and evil.
The American Motorcyclist Association, trying to end the bad press, responded by basically saying that the Newspapers had lied and that it was only 1% of the Motorcyclists that caused problems. This resulted in the first ripple in the Unity of the Motorcycle World and the Medias’ hatred of Bikers. Around the same time, the AMA began adding new requirements for motorcycles to be able to race in AMA sanctioned Races. Those whose motorcycles didn’t meet the new AMA requirements started their own Race Leagues. Because the new Race Leagues/Clubs were not AMA sanctioned, they soon became known as Outlaw Race Leagues/Clubs. Although many Bikers raced in both the AMA and Outlaw Leagues, another great separation had begun.
By the late 1960’s, the separation of the Motorcycle Community was becoming more evident. There were now three basic Motorcycle groups. The American Motorcycle Association, Outlaw/ 1%er Clubs(All 1%ers were Outlaws, but not all Outlaws were considered 1%ers) and Independent Riders. Over the years, the AMA continued to grow. In addition to racing, they began to champion Motorcycle Rights and Safety. As time went on, others formed independent groups whose goals were similar to that of the AMA. The inability or outright refusal of these groups to work together with each other, resulted in further separation of the Motorcycle Community and Culture.
In the 1970’s, rifts began to grow between some of the Outlaw/1% Clubs. By the 1990’s, the media had inflated these conflicts into stories that rivaled the tall tales of the old west. These tall tales where ment to invoked fear of the Outlaw/1% Clubs in the public. Everyone was lied to,. They were told to stay away from and fear all Outlaw/1% Clubs. The media began referring to Motorcycle Clubs as Motorcycle Gangs, a term meant to further instill fear into the heart of the Public. Stories and rumors began surfacing, claiming these “Gangs” were ruthless and would kill or maim people for little or no reason at all. By the early 21st Century, every minor conflict between Outlaw/1% Clubs was made into a book, made for TV movie, or docudrama. Titles like “Motorcycle Gang Wars In Your Back Yard” were common. Although real wars, conflicts, and suffering were occurring worldwide, the Corporate owned media chose to report fiction over fact.
In 2009, a conflict between two rival Clubs was captured on Video at a “Biker Build Off” event. The coverage by the media and negative publicity that followed was so overwhelming that in 2010, the United States Government passed a law banning all Outlaw/1% Clubs. In response, the Outlaw/1% Clubs put aside their differences and formed “Bikers United”. The Bikers fought back stating the law was unconstitutional and un-American. Even as late as 2010, Many Americans still clung to the misguided belief that they had rights and lived in a free Nation. The Bikers fought hard and came very close to winning, but without the support of the Motorcycle Rights Groups,The many other Clubs, and the Independent Riders, all of whom had been brainwashed into believing the Outlaw Clubs were criminal organizations, they were defeated.
Many of the Outlaw/1% Clubs tried to stay together. The Clubs went underground, but after many raids and constant Government harassment, they all but disappeared. In 2013, in an effort to ensure that the Outlaw/1% Clubs never returned, the Government decided to outlaw all Motorcycle Clubs and organizations. The AMA, the many Clubs and Motorcycle Rights Organizations United in an effort to battle the Governments oppression. They tried to use many of the same tactics and strategies that the Outlaw/1% Clubs used. Unfortunately, the Government was much smarter and stronger this time around. They had learned many lessons in their fierce battles with the Outlaw/1% Clubs, and they used what they had learned against the united Clubs and Organizations. With no Outlaw/1% Clubs left to assist them and without the support of the Independent Riders, the United Clubs and Organizations were defeated.
In 2015, the Government passed a law that made it illegal to even look like an Outlaw on a Motorcycle. The Independent Riders banned together to try and fight the law, but by this time their numbers were few and there wasn’t anyone left to show them how to fight for their rights. After a brief protest, they too were soundly defeated. In 2017, What was now a “Global Government”, in its infinite wisdom, decided that Motorcycles posed a danger to the public. They passed a law banning the manufacturing of Motorcycle’s and their use! They ordered that all existing Motorcyclesbe destroyed. This brought to an end, the History of Motorcycles. It would take until the year 2093 before anything even close to resembling a Motorcycle reappeared.
As a Historian looking back at the History of Motorcycles and the Culture it created, it amazes me how powerful the Motorcycle Culture could have been had they not let every little thing separate them. Instead of embracing something they all had in common and working together to protect it, they instead let their differences, the media, and the government divide them. By the time the Bikers realized how much they were connected and needed each other, it was too late. Their numbers were certainly sufficient to achieve victory, but their failure to come together as Brothers and Sisters and work for the common good ultimately caused their demise. Had they been victorious, it may have been enough to stop all of the oppression and tyranny that soon followed. History is full of stories just like this one, over and over again. The ones who love and honor Freedom the most are taken down first and the rest soon fall like dominoes. Until the Great Rebellion of 2057, we as a Global Society did not realize how important it was to put aside our differences. It may have taken awhile, but we finally figured it out…Just in time!
Two events held in West Monroe attended by Shreveport motorcycle community
I first met David on the internet, via FaceBook, when he contacted me
and asked that I promote his project and motorcycle events,, that would result in raising funds to support the Children's hospital in Memphis, TN. I contacted him via telephone, and realized he had a
grandiose plan and would need as much help as he could get. He told me
that he believed in the children and in what could come from the biker
community getting involved in their care. I continued to follow his
project on FaceBook and tweeted and reposted as much as I could. Then
yesterday, I made the 90 mile trip to West Monroe to participate in the
bike show held at Hooter's. I pulled into the parking lot, and was
immediately asked to enter Lacey in the show, which I declined. I opted,
instead, to make a donation to the cause. I was next introduced to
David and his family. He had involved his wife and children, and
extended family in the project. With the help of several dedicated
volunteers, they organized an impressive bike show and games. The wing
eating contest consisted of eating five 9-1-1 wings and to win it one
had to be the first to finish. They were having trouble getting
volunteers to participate, and I tried to talk my husband into it; after
all he likes hot, spicy food. But, he declined. So, the nice person I
am, I entered the contest. I have no experience eating super hot wings,
and really didn't know what to expect. I was going up against two men,
and folks were cheering on the lone woman entered in the contest. As I
sat at the table and they set the plate of hot wings in front of me, I
could see the jalapeño seeds and wondered again what I had gotten myself
into. The countdown began and I picked up a wing, and stripped the meat
from it and took the first bite. The sauce was hot, but not as bad as I
thought it would be – I just kept eating without thinking about it, and
to the cheers of the crowd around me, I surprised myself by finishing
first place. I received a gift card and donated it back to the cause. We
hung around a little while and watched some more games; the frozen
t-shirt and the toilet paper roll on a plunger game. Finally, we bid
goodbye and with directions in hand to the next event, we rolled out of
Hooter's and rode to Rumor's Bar, just a little over four miles away.
At Rumor's we met Chilly Willy, the President of NW Louisiana BACA
(Biker's Against Child Abuse), and his Sgt at Arms, Opie. When we
arrived the party was in full swing and the band was setting up. The
smell of smoked chicken, baked beans and potato salad permeated the air,
and plates were being sold for a small donation of just $5.00.
Motorcycle clubs and groups all came together to raise money for a
headstone for a fallen brother, Snoopy. Plenty of Shreveporter's were in
attendance and the weather cooperated this day, as if Mother Nature
were looking on with approval. I was introduced to several of the MC
presidents and other club officers and given permission to take
photographs. It was the first of many good riding days in the south
where weather begins to break early and the cold winds are just a fading
memory.
Continue reading on Examiner.com:
The Legend of the Boggy Creek Monster Motorcycle Adventure (this is a long one, so get some coffee or other preferred beverage, sit back, and enjoy)
Sometimes when we're bored, we just sit around and talk about a variety of topics. We ramble on about road trips we've taken, things we've done, places we've been and people we've met. We talk about our fears, dreams and desires. We reminisce about the good times and make plans for the future. Sometimes the conversation takes a turn and a big plan for the next road trip begins to form. That's what happened when Ric and I were sitting in the game room, and the talk turned to the Momo Monster, a monster that Ric swears he encountered in the plains of Kansas when he was a little boy. I've heard the story many times and it was even collaborated by his friend, Dean, who was there that day.
As the story goes, three, 10 year old boys who were called “The Posse”, because when you saw one of them, you saw all of them, gathered up their camping gear and rifles and set out for an overnight adventure. This adventure would prove to be more than they had bargained for. They built their camp site on the far side of Grandpa's property by the creekside, and under the big cottonwood tree, thought to be over 100 years old. The tree was so large that it took seven people hand in hand to reach around the base. Under the hot sun, shirtless, and dripping sweat, the boys pounded large machinery pry bars into the ground and strung an old piece of clothesline rope between the bars. When they threw the blue tarp over the line and staked it to the ground, they had the perfect tent for their sleeping quarters. By the time they finished, they were a sight to see; not an exposed part of their body was free of dirt, they were exhausted, and their shirts were sweat stained. But, with the work done, they sat down for a lunch of fried chicken and potato salad lovingly prepared by Grandma.
These boys were not afraid of the coyotes, badgers and other wild creatures that inhabited the land, but they grew up in the country, and like most country boys their age, carried their rifles with them everywhere they went. This day, they were glad they did. Momo is the name of a monster similar to Bigfoot that inhabits Missouri and has been spotted up and down the Mississippi river. Different names have been given to different monsters sighted in various parts of the country, including the Sasquatch of the northern United States and Canada, Bigfoot, the Momo Monster and the Boggy Creek Monster of Fouke,Arkansas fame.
The sun slowly went down in a splendid fashion with streaks of red, orange, yellow and purple as it finally dipped below the horizon, only to be replaced by a full, shining, and bright, harvest moon. The boys were hanging out around the campfire warming their hands and telling ghost stories that only little boys can dream up. The fire was dwindling, but they didn't need it for the light or even for the warmth; the moon was giving them light and they were dressed for the chill that came when the sun set. But they needed the fire to give credence to their stories, and so agreed to play a quick game of rock, paper, scissors to determine who would be sent to gather more firewood. Dean lost and with a show of bravery that he didn't quite feel, he stood up, dusted the dirt off his jeans, grabbed his shotgun and left the group. The remaining two boys laughed and as he turned his back to them, they taunted him with snide comments; “don't get lost”, “watch out for the monsters”, “go on little scaredey cat”. Dean was out of sight and the boys sat quietly listening to the night. There seemed to be a sudden silence that came over the area. The little creatures; crickets, frogs and even the owls were silent. The boys became nervous and sat up with their backs against the old cottonwood, and their rifles in hand and placed between their legs, ready to be used if needed. They fidgeted with small stones and drew patterns in the dirt with sticks. As time went on, Ric and his friend, Monty became worried because Dean should have already returned. They courageously cajoled each other into going in search of him. It wasn't long, or far from the campsite before they found him. He was standing quietly by the edge of a small clearing. As they watched him, they saw something move in the darkness of the trees on the other side of the clearing. Dean was startled and remained rigid and frightened, although he didn't get a clear view of whatever was in the trees. He was, however, aware that something big was out there that shouldn't be there. As the boys stood watching, the creature stepped out into sight, highlighted by the full harvest moon. It's eyes glowed red, and it breathed deeply making a low growling sound as it exhaled. The creature was on two legs and at seven or eight feet tall, towered way above the boys. It was covered in course black hair and the stench was almost unbearable. Fear gripped the hearts of the little boys as they grappled with the thought that something that horrid and inhuman was standing before them, threatening them. Their legs were like rubber and they couldn't get moving. After staring at it for what seemed like an eternity, Monty fired the first round and, the silence of the night broken, Ric and Dean came to action and followed suit. When their 22's were empty and the monster was still standing before them, there was nothing else to do but turn around and run as fast as they could. In a single bound, they hurdled the four strand barbed wire fence between the pasture and the Milo field. Behind them, but too afraid to look back, they could hear the monster crashing through the field hot on their trail, snapping the stalks of Milo as it closed the gap and came closer to them. The scream of the monster as it stalked them was blood curdling and sent chills through their spines. But, with the adrenaline fueling them, their little arms and legs flailing, and out of breath, they arrived safely at the farmhouse. For some unknown reason, but thankfully, the monster had stopped at the edge of the field, perhaps afraid to come out in the open, and it's screams ceased as it disappeared back into the Milo field.
At the farmhouse, out of breath, and screaming, they yelled “Grandpa, grandpa, there's a monster down in the field”. Grandma came running, wiping her hands on her apron and Grandpa calmly said, “now boys, settle down, there's no monster out there.” The boys began to describe their encounter and Grandpa waved them away saying “it must be a black bear”. “No”, the boys yelled, “too big, it was so scary, it was a monster Grandpa” and they begged him to believe them. Grandma and Grandpa were concerned; certainly the boys had seen something, but surely common sense told them, it was not a monster. “Boys, settle down, we'll go check in the morning”,grandpa said.
In the morning, the boys loaded up in the pick up truck with Grandpa and drove to the campsite where they found an unbelievable scene. There was blood everywhere and the pry bars had been pulled from the ground and were bent over at 90 degree angles. The tent was in shreds as if it had been torn to pieces one thread at a time. Grandpa didn't know what to think, but surmised that the boys had played a prank and must have killed a rabbit or some other small animal and spread the blood around. It didn't make sense because he couldn't explain their obvious fear the night before, and most of all, he couldn't explain several large four toed footprints around the grounds. Not knowing how to handle the situation and not sure what to do, he called the Sheriff to the scene. Scratching his head, the Sheriff told Grandpa that the boys could not have bent the bars without heating them first, and there was no sign of that. He took a plaster mold of the footprint, but didn't take blood samples or photographs. He emphasized that it was not a monster, and that there was surely an explanation, and he would get to the bottom of it. Resigned that no one believed them, shoulders sagging, the boys dejectedly left, knowing what they saw and also knowing they would never, ever, convince the adults. And they were right, they never heard from the sheriff again and Grandpa never spoke of the event again.
It was months later that Weekly Reader ran an article about a girl in Eastern Missouri seeing the same type of creature, describing it right down to the awful smell. Their science teacher did some research as there had been a lot of reports of livestock mutilations up and down the creeks and rivers from the Pacific Northwest all the way into Kansas. He surmised that the creature may have been Big Foot migrating South. Shortly afterwords, the momo monster and the Boggy Creek monster were sighted in Missouri and Louisiana.
Ric has told this tale many times since I've met him, and it's always the same. His fascination with the monster and the possibility of running across him again often comes to the forefront of his mind. This day, thinking about the monster, we began to do some research and looked up information on the boggy creek monster. We had been through Fouke many times on the way to Texarkana, and we knew a little about the creature spotted there from the movie “The Legend of Boggy Creek”.
Enter Smokey Crabtree. We found that Smokey, the foremost authority on the Boggy Creek Monster, still lives in Fouke, Arkansas and after a few phone calls to local establishments, we were able to get his phone number. An idea for a ride and overnight camping trip was taking shape. We thought we'd call it the monster ride, and in order to make plans for the scary trip, we had to meet and talk with Smokey. On the phone, he rambled on about the monster, the movie, and his beloved Fouke. He invited us to come visit him, and we were delighted. The weather was cold, but not rainy; still we decided to take the car, rather than the motorcycles, on this trip, because he promised to take us around the creek sides and help us choose a camp site. He was true to his word.
We arrived in Fouke an hour early and stopped to get gas and a bite to eat. Since it was Sunday, and we were in a very small Arkansas town, there weren't many options, but the clerk at the Monster Mart told us to head on down to the pizza place on the left. They had just added a Subway and a little country restaurant, all under the same roof. We paid for our fuel, cigarettes, and chewing gum, and made the short trip down the road where we shared a foot long sub while watching the local Sunday afternoon church crowd come in to eat. We were hungry, and it didn't take long to snarf down the sandwich. We we were going to be early for our appointment, but nonetheless, off we went in search of Smokey. I missed our turn, and only after several miles did we realize it. So making a quick Uey (u-turn), we went back the way we came. Fouke is small and to get lost on the roads there takes some doing, but leave it to me because I can get lost in my own back yard. I turned on the proper highway this time, and shortly I came upon Smokey's house and a white trailer beside the driveway that read “Smokey's Two-Books Bookstore, Fouke Gifts, Souvenirs, Used Books and Museum”, in bright red and blue lettering. I knew at once that we had found the man behind the legend. The home was a one story brick model, and as we approached it, our hearts were beating fast and our fascination with the legend and Smokey was foremost in our thoughts. I rang the bell, and in what seemed like an eternity, it was finally answered by an elderly gentleman who apologized for the delay, and shook our hands as we introduced ourselves. Smokey got the keys to the trailer and with shaking hands, opened the doors to his museum. The small space was cluttered with books, artifacts from the area, and even a mounted wild hog head. The service counter had a small cash register and t-shirts, mugs, books and posters for sale. I was enthralled with the man and the stories he told us as we perused the artifacts, and I purchased his three books, even getting autographs from him. We made our way to the back room and the museum where there were framed newspaper ads, concert posters from the Monster Jamboree, and relics from Smokey's long and interesting life. We found out that Smokey had been a Merchant Marine and as a young man was on a sinking ship where he swam to safety, one of only a few survivors. The headlines blazing across the old newspaper was all the proof we needed. We learned about his failed grocery store business in Fouke and his work with the Monster Jamboree and local musicians who would become famous. We learned about the movie, The Boggy Creek Monster, and how he felt that he got short changed in the deal by Hollywood producers. We learned that he had been searching all his life, but had never seen the monster, although he has had close encounters and has heard its piercing screams and smelled its vile scent on several occasions. We learned that his son has seen the monster. And most of all, we learned that he was a good, decent, honest and interesting man, unwavering in his beliefs and dedicated to his town. There were some questions he wouldn't answer. He said to read the books, and then he would entertain our questions.
As promised, next he got in our car and directed us to a couple of areas where we could set up camp for our planned trip. We selected a secluded, yet beautiful area with a large pier. There were all the facilities we needed, and Smokey informed us that to reserve the area, all we had to do was display a sign announcing our intentions, one week before we wanted to use it, and it would be ours. He said he would place the sign out for us to save us a trip, and he promised to join us at our camp out and tell us some stories about the legend.
Back in the car, trusting us, he told us he would show us something that we would be very interested in. And true to his word, he took us to an undisclosed location which I can't reveal, and showed us a...
real live skeleton of one of the monsters. It looked half human, half animal. It had long arms and fingers and was four toed. The head was missing, but the rest was preserved in a glass display case. The stench was still emanating from the fourteen year old skeleton and I turned away several times, gagging, but each time had to look again, trying to imagine what this seven or eight foot creature would look like if encountered in the woods of Fouke. Ric didn't have to imagine, he now knew what he had encountered back in Kansas so many years ago. And Smokey told us that in his opinion, there are more of them outthere.
It's a good idea to pre-ride any planned group ride, and that's what six of us did on the Saturday afternoon prior to our camping trip. We took the sixty or so mile ride from the Shreveport Harley-Davidson dealership to Fouke, where we stopped at the Monster Mart in search of Smokey Crabtree. We had forgotten his phone number, so looked it up in the thin Fouke phone book and when he didn't respond, we left him a voice mail and shopped the little Mart while awaiting his return call. It wasn't long before we heard from him, and even though we had just dropped in on him unplanned, he welcomed us to his home. I walked up to Smokey and was greeted with a smile and a hug. It felt like we were dear, old friends, reunited after a long separation. Smokey went to retrieve his keys while we all once again cranked our Harleys. We followed Smokey to the campground where we made final plans for where we would locate our grill, our campers and tents. The trip was growing by leaps and bounds, and we already had over 50 H.O.G. Chapter members and guests from Shreveport signed up to participate.
When we arrived at Alex Smith Lake County Park, there was a notice posted on a pole of the pavilion that read “Smokey Crabtree and Mary Baker of Chapter 1702 of the Harley Owner's Group has reserved this location and nearby campsite for Friday, May 9 and 10, 2008.” Smokey reminded me that this was the method used to reserve the site. Anyone who wanted a reservation only had to post a notice and contact phone number one week in advance. I have been asked many times, by members, how I found this place, and I gave all the credit to Smokey. It is not on the map when you look up campsites, and at the time, it was difficult to Google unless you knew the exact location and could zoom in on the pier in satellite view. The pier was the only identifiable landmark amongst the trees and dirt roads, and I used it to gain accurate directions that would get our campers there with little difficulty.
As we looked over the site, Smokey fascinated my companions with his stories. Talk went around to the bugs, ants, and critters that we might have to deal with on our trip. Someone asked Smokey about snakes, and very quietly, he responded, “Well, there used to be a lot of snakes out here,” and he paused, then with emphasis said, “But, the damn gators have gotten so big, that they've eaten all the snakes.” This, I thought, was a true case of “I've got some good news, and I've got some bad news.” I would make sure I didn't locate my sleeping quarters near the river. We noticed the grass was high, there were ant beds throughout the site and we found out that there were absolutely no hook ups or running water, so we planned to bring all our drinking water. There was one street lamp located near the pavilion that would adequately provide light throughout the dark hours of the night. I, for one, was thankful for that. John S. marked it on his list to bring his weed eater and some ant killer.
Next, Smokey generously offered this small group the opportunity to see the skeleton which he has been caring for since 1991. Although some of them were not sure exactly what it was, they all agreed that it was real, and were amazed at the stench that still remained 17 years later. Smokey told us that the authorities had the skeleton for eight months to determine DNA, and when the scientist returned it to Smokey, he said he would not tell him what it was, but he did say it’s not all human. The scientist said that if he put his name to what he thought it was, he would be rejected by his peers and run off. Smokey told him, he’d like to have the money it cost to educate him, since any fool could tell it’s not all human. This pre-ride set the tone for the trip the next weekend, and amongst members of the H.O.G. Chapter, you could hear the mounting excitement and anticipation of the coming monster ride and overnight campingtrip.
It takes a lot of organization and planning to pull off a trip of this magnitude, and to make sure we have all the supplies and beer we would need for the weekend. And did I say “Beer”? Tom rode out early in the week to locate an appropriate site for his camper. He met up with the park caretaker who lives in a white house at the entrance of the park. The caretaker had seen Smokey’s notice that we would be there, and he had bush hogged the entire area, brought out trash cans and liners for our use, and put ant killer down. He told Tom that we could use his well to get clean, drinking water if we ran out. On Wednesday, a couple of members met at Sam's Club to purchase the food that we would need for the weekend, and several of us met on Thursday evening at the Shreveport Harley Davidson, where we loaded up tents, water, food, and other supplies on a 20 foot trailer which would be hauled out to the campsite in Fouke on Friday morning. On Friday afternoon, we met at Harley's Pub to pick up the refrigerated food, beverages, and ice, and then rallied up on North Market Street where we met up with Jack, who was hauling his Raptor on an 18 wheeler, (you might be a Redneck, if you haul your camper on an 18 wheeler), and Richard Nallin who would follow us with the Harley Grill. Bikes, campers and supplies could be seen rolling along Hwy 71 North to begin the Monster adventure.
At Alex Smith Lake County Park, we met Smokey Crabtree and his friend, Rosemary. Smokey was busy building an outhouse for us, and although useful, I was glad to have friends with campers that had bathrooms. First he used a post hole digger to dig the holes, and then put strong, sturdy tree branches in the holes and tied branches across the top. He wrapped the entire frame in black plastic sheeting, and placed a camping toilet inside. To finish off the project, he wrote a little sign with instructions to get in “pull back to open”, and placed a roll of toilet paper on a branch inside. John helped Smokey and got into a little poison oak that would break out his skin in a rash the next morning. All the campers were warned to stay away from the three leaved ivy that would almost certainly wrap around them and cause a painful rash. Thankfully, there was plenty of calamine lotion and benadrile to go around. Everyone was busy as a beaver getting things set up for the arrival of the group in the morning. Tammy brought 150 pounds of live crawfish out to the area, and we promptly put it on ice for Saturday evening's meal, hopefully not for monster bait. She said she was glad I told her to go by the Harley Shop and get an ice chest and ice, because her car would certainly have been a mess if she didn't. We set up tables and chairs and even a few tents before settling back for a cold beer and dinner. John S. fired up the grill and cooked some burgers and dogs for the group. John B. and I took our bikes down to the pier and after walking along it to make sure it would hold the weight, we decided that we would need pictures of our Harleys out on the far end of the pier and took turns riding out, while the other tookphotographs.
As the sun began to set, we got the fire going and gathered around to listen to Smokey's tales recorded on a CD. You can purchase this CD which includes six of Smokey's best loved stories, and is narrated by the legend, himself. Log on to www.smokeyandthefoukemonster.com for more information. The CD is loaded with the very best talent that Nashville has to offer. Red Lane, one of Nashville's most acclaimed Hall of Fame singer/songwriter's wrote and sings the song, The Legend of Smokey Crabtree. Ron Oates (also a Hall of Famer) wrote the music and produced the CD.
I was enjoying my time around the campfire, but sleep was coming fast, and in my true fashion, I got up for a bottle of water before heading off to bed. Jack had generously offered a bed in his camper, so I could sleep well without worrying about the Monster invading my tent. My husband watched as I got the water and came to see what I was doing. I told him I was sneaking off to bed and he escorted me safely to the camper. I got a little flak from the others the next morning, but it didn't bother me at all. When I'm ready to crash, there's no stopping me, and I don't even bother to say goodnight because I know that my friends will give me a hard time and try to keep me up. No, it had been a long day and I knew that I was done.
I woke up at 2:30am with a raging headache and went to find my purse, which I knew contained aspirin. First, I found my husband passed out under the shelter of the pavilion on an old army cot, with no pillow, but using my jean jacket for a blanket. For a moment, I remembered that he had once shot at a monster, maybe this same monster, and his scent might draw him out of the woods and into the campsite. That would be very, very bad, and I wasn’t happy to be out in the middle of the woods with him. I was anxious to get back to bed. I retrieved the aspirin and a bottle of water. I found John B. in a chair by the camp fire passed out. He was snoring and each time he let out a snore, his body shook, but he was out cold, and didn't wake up. Ric, however, heard me rustling through stuff to find the aspirin, and did awaken. We threw another log on the fire for John and went off to bed.
I was up at the crack of dawn the next morning and enjoyed coffee with the early risers. The camp host made an appearance with his wolf dog, half wolf and half chow, riding in the back of an old John Deere used to haul bags of trash to the dump. He was a talker and we spent awhile chatting about the area, and his interest in guns – he showed us an old single shot musket that dated back to the Civil War, and still worked. He said he used it for deer hunting, and never missed. He said he only needed one shot, and it would take down a deer every time. We would see the caretaker with his wolf dog two or three times a day during our stay, and he would always stop to talk, before gathering up our trash for disposal.
Smokey had made plans for our group to have breakfast on Sunday, in town at the new restaurant, “Country Cafe”, which had just recently opened, so several of us decided to go and try it out. The ride in was cool, but exhilarating after 90 degree temperatures the day before. We met one of the owner's, Trina, and ordered up hot coffee, eggs and bacon, before riding the 19 miles back to the site. Almost everyone was awake, and Wade, co-owner of Shreveport Harley-Davidson, had even arrived and set up his camper. But John B., the last to go to the bed, was the last to get up. In fact, he needed a little help. It's not a smart idea to be in a tent when everyone else is awake, as John found out when I rode my bike over to his sleeping quarters and revved her up full throttle. I mercifully killed the switch and put the bike over on its kickstand, then I methodically took each tent stake out until the tent collapsed on top of him, and he had no choice but to rise and join the living.
The group out of Shreveport would be leaving at 10:30 from the Harley Shop and should be at the campsite by noon and hungry, ready to eat. So, once again, John S. fired up the grill and got busy cooking for the group. I saw someone pop open a can of beer, and thought, “not yet, too early”. But then again, “it's noon somewhere!” I grabbed my camera and fired up Lacey, my motorcycle, to go find a good place to take pictures of the group arriving at the park and campsite. I found a shaded, concrete picnic table, parked my bike, and sat down to wait. The riders were nowhere in sight, and it really was noon now, even in Arkansas. So I called Jeanie on my cell phone and said “do me a favor, bring your trike down here with a couple of beers and sit with me and wait on the riders.” I didn't have to twist her arm, and the beer was promptly delivered. We were soon joined by Tom, and were now a welcoming committee of three. It wasn't long before we heard the roar of Harleys rumbling down the road at the park entrance. Cameras ready, Jeanie and I pointed and shot off frames as fast as we could as each bike went by us waving agreeting.
There were bikes and people everywhere. Smokey said, “I’ve never seen so many people here; there are even more than when I had my 80 birthday party here last year.” He was introduced to our H.O.G. members and made his way from person to person telling his stories. He and Rosemary were obviously enjoying the company and we were proud to have them as our guests. Lunch was delicious and afterwards, everyone was ready to ride again. Smokey left before us to go and open his museum and bookstore, and I gathered everyone together for the fifteen or so mile ride to his place. We have some great pictures of Smokey's Bookstore with all the motorcycles parked in front and once again, he said he had never seen so many people at one time at the bookstore. In fact, there were so many that we had to have some people wait outside while the others went in to purchase t-shirts, books, coffee mugs and other memorabilia. Once again, the temperatures were soaring into the 90's and I would have paid $20 for a bottle of water. In fact, I saw someone with a bottle and for a minute thought about wrestling it away from her, but I was too hot, thirsty and tired to fight! When everyone was done in the bookstore and museum, Smokey escorted them to where the skeleton was stored and they all had the chance to see for themselves what one of the creatures in the woods may have looked like. Smokey explained that this skeleton was found in 1991 and that it could have done everything that the monster had been reported to do, except make the three toed prints. This creature had four toes. This might make you think that the monster had not been found, and Smokey will tell you that there are things out there that don't belong, and there are more than one of them. He said that the Smithsonian wanted it, and the FBI once called and said they were coming to get it. Smokey told them, “Bring lunch, I hope you have a lot of time, and a lot guns, cause I’ve got mine, and I’m not giving it up.” He never heard back from them.
Back at the campsite, it was time for conversation, beverages and a scavenger hunt. John B. and I had hidden 21 items in the surrounding woods; Barbie dolls, rubber chickens, water guns and the like. We instructed people that whoever found the most would win a prize. We also informed them that if they found any bones, they would get extra credit. We hid a couple of Hawaiian leis and grass skirts, and they were found by Mike and Stephanie, who were informed that they had to wear them. Some of the items found in the woods, were not items that we had hidden, but we decided to give credit for the meat cleaver, the golf ball, broken toy truck, and ball cap that were brought back. Wade, our dealer, agreed to give a gift certificate, tee shirts, bandannas and other prizes.
The clouds were gathering and some campers, who had satellite television, told us that there was a tornado watch and we were under a severe thunderstorm warning. The air was cooling and we could see lightening in the sky. A light show, some thunder, and a few drops of rain, however, are all that we were bothered by. Someone was looking over us as the storm completely went around our campsite. Cathy's son came right up to the campers with a three foot snake that looked like a water moccasin, but upon closer inspection, was just a harmless, non poisonous snake. Still, thankfully, it was dead, because there is no good snake but a dead snake, and I'm certain I have friends who feel that way, also.
We were all having a good time, and the beer was flowing, but was getting really low. Keith and Sharon were bringing out more, and we were slowly sipping our beers, nervously awaiting their arrival. There's almost nothing worse than getting a bunch of people started drinking, and then running out of beer, especially when you're in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately, before the last bottle was drained, and in the nick of time, Keith and Sharon showed up with their pickup truck loaded down with reinforcements. They pulled up amid clapping and cheers, and we promptly unloaded the beer, ice, and even a keg. We’re an easy crowd to please.
If you've ever been associated with a H.O.G. Chapter, besides riding, there's one other thing we do well. And that is “Eat”. We planned a crawfish boil for dinner, and again, John S. fired up the propane to the cooking pots, purged the crawfish and dropped them into the boil with corn, potatoes, mushrooms, onions, and lemon. We all sat around the tables, peeling the crawfish and enjoying everyone's company. The food was excellent, and our stomachs were full. We soon gathered around the campfire again, this time to hear Smokey, himself, tell the story of the legend of the Boggy Creek monster. He started off, “I've spent more time in these bottoms than anyone I know, and you have more chance of seeing the monster than getting struck by lightning. I haven't even seen him, but I've heard him and I've smelled him. He doesn't like light, either.” This I thought was a good thing to remember, and I thought maybe the monster was at the edge of the creek now watching and listening to us, afraid to face us in the light of the campfire and the single glowing streetlight. We also had tiki torch lights surrounding our area, which I hoped would add to our security. I scanned the area for the tell tale, bright red eyes, but didn't see anything. Smokey and Rosemary stayed up late with us, telling stories and enjoying the comradierie. One at a time the people at the campfire began to disappear, as they went off to their tents or campers to sleep.
We were staying on the Sulphur River, which actually had more sightings of the Boggy Creek Monster than any other place. In the year 2000, there were three sightings. Smokey told me that the movie people just wanted to use the name “Boggy Creek Monster” because it sounded “Hollywood like” and was better than the “Sulphur Creek Monster”. I was tucked snuggly in bed (on the top bunk this time), since George and Guy had taken the bottom bunk. We were in a small room, maybe 8X8 and although we had air circulation, it wasn't enough. I woke up in the middle of the night and there was an awful smell – maybe the monster was nearby, I thought. But, then maybe it was because I was stuck in a small room with three guys who hadn't had a shower in over 24 hours. I carefully climbed down the ladder and opened the door to the kitchen area where there was a bed that Jeanie was sleeping on. I nudged here and asked her to move over, so I could share the bed. As I lay down without my blanket (I had been smart enough to drag my pillow down the ladder), I thought, “hell, it still stinks, even out here – them guys are nasty, or maybe it’s me! It was cold in the kitchen as the air conditioner vent was close by and I couldn't manage to find a blanket. Jeanie wasn't giving hers up, so I reluctantly went back to the small room to sleep with my husband. At least I had a blanket that I could draw up over my nose to eliminate some of the rotten egg smell. When I awoke in the morning for coffee once again, I was telling my story and was reminded that I had been told about a smell that some of the campers had experienced the previous night. The smell was that of sulfur rising up off the nearby river. I was relieved to know that my husband and friends, nor I, were not the culprits after all. Jeanie said she noticed the smell too, but was afraid to get up because she could just imagine that someone out there might have brought a gun, and might shoot her if she went rifling through stuff in the campsite, especially after the monster stories the night before.
It was Sunday morning, and I was awakened by the ringing of my cell phone. Sleepily I answered, and it was my daughter who had left a week earlier for the United Arab Emirates, in support of the war. It was great to have a Mother's Day wake up call from a daughter a world away. I crawled out of bed, and joined the early risers in what had become our morning ritual of having coffee and conversation. As time passed, more campers joined us. The morning air was chilly and we grabbed our jackets and blankets to warm us up. There were still a couple of people asleep in tents, and we treated them to the same thing that John B. was treated to the morning before. Tent stakes came up and tents collapsed on both Jay and Justin as they slept snug in their sleeping bags. It was time to get up and time for thebreakfast run.
About twenty five bikes lined the exit road and roared down the highway to Fouke. The owners of the restaurant had probably never served so many people at one time, and were thrilled to have us. They even had a biker special, two eggs, two pieces of meat (bacon, sausage, or ham), and all the biscuits and gravy and pancakes one could eat for $6.95. They sure knew the way to our hearts was through our stomachs. I would like to thank them for their hospitality and if you're ever in Fouke, stop by the CountryCafe and visit them.
As we were packing up and leaving, I was talking to Cathy, who said that she spent some time talking to the only other campers in the campground, who are locals, and they told her a story about a religious cult who camped out here years ago, and were hunted out and burned. This story, if told last night around the campfire, I thought, would have scared me and the other campers as much as the story of the famed Boggy Creek Monster. I did some research, though, and a little bit of Googling, but couldn't verify that it happened. There are many people who believe in the monster, and just as many who don’t, but I wouldn’t go in them woods alone, day or night.
We didn't see the Monster this past weekend, but I saw a lot of people who looked like Monsters at 6am, and if you’ve ever been camping, you know what I mean. The story surrounding Fouke and the Boggy Creek Monster is interesting and deserves further attention. But really, the Monster was just an excuse for a ride, a camping trip and a chance to make new friends, and have fun. We fulfilled our mission, ride and have fun, this weekend. My deepest gratitude goes out to Smokey Crabtree, and I encourage you to visit his website, www.smokeyandthefoukemonster.com, for more information, and to purchase his books, all three of which I've read and enjoyed. I'm sure if you contacted him, and told him that I sent you, he'd even autograph it for you. Taken from www.smokeyandthefoukemonster.com
http://www.texasbigfoot.org/reports/report/county?county=Miller&state=AR
MY FIRST MOTORCYCLE MEMORY
The image of motorcycling was changing due largely in part to the Hollywood portrayal of the bad boy biker persona created in 1954 when Marlon Brando hit the big screen as an outlaw in film, The Wild One. The motorcycle mystique continued throughout the 60's and The Born Losers, released in 1967 which portrayed bikers as a social evil, only furthered the intrigue associated with the biker lifestyle. I was born in the 60's among all the hype, and I can remember my introduction to the motorcycle, and the excitement that filled my soul upon hearing the rumble of a V-Twin Harley-Davidson.
I came from a large family with three brothers, two sisters, a half sister and two half brothers, nine of us in all. My mom also came from a large family of three brothers and three sisters. The good thing about large families is that you always have someone to play with, someone to talk to, to climb high up in the apple trees with and to make memories with. My Dad was out of the picture by the time I was three, and it was just my mom struggling to raise her seven children, left behind in a broken family.
We planted a garden every year, and watched the seeds grow into something we could eat. We played in an old trailer, rode our bicycles in circles around the apartment complex, climbed the apple trees and ate the fruit before it was ripe. More times than not, we overindulged on the little green apples and climbed down holding our stomachs in agony running for the bathroom before our bowels loosened and caused intense embarrassment. We ran around the property chased by bees that busily built their hives under the metal awnings of the old silver trailer. The landlord's house was on the property just up the hill and reminded a little girl of an old castle surrounded by a moat and accessible only to the rich and worthy. We stayed clear of the house for fear of awakening the sleeping ogre who resided there, and paying the price in retribution for our noisy antics.
One hot summer day in Ohio, the seven of us children were scattered like flies around the place, running from tree to tree, playing hide and go seek and climbing the fence into the adjacent playground of the elementary school. The laughter of little children was carried in the air as we played, and brought a sad smile to the poor residents of the complex. My little sister, Debbie whom we called “Little Bit”, and who never left my side, were playing a game of tether ball while my sister, Rhonda, sat at the bottom of the see saw with the other end protruding high up into the air, since she didn't have anyone to take the other seat and balance it out. For hours Little Bit and I would stand on opposite sides of the pole batting the ball back and forth in hopes of being the one to wind the rope tightly around the pole and win the game.
On this wonderful day, a day that only a child can experience, with no rain and no worries, no welfare and no bills to pay – just the sun beating down on our little faces, the rope was finally wound and the game was over. Just then, far in the distance, we heard the roar of Harley thunder for the first time in our young lives. Rhonda looked toward the shambling apartment and stood up. Debbie and I turned to see what the noise was all about. The Harley made its way around the circular driveway and Uncle Bill, shirtless, muscular, and tanned, grinned at us and waved as he continued around past the landlord's house and came to a screeching halt on the other side in front of our little apartment, gravel flying from the spinning rear tire and stirring up a cloud of dust. At the same time, Debbie and I broke into a run, waving as we came closer to the apartment; Rhonda, a little slower finally got her feet moving and followed us at a fast pace, half walking and half running, stopping occasionally to hold her aching side, and finally stopping out of breath. Halfway around the circular driveway was the old metal trailer; Randy came flying out of it with little Johnny, just a baby, toddling after him.
My mom came out of the apartment drying her hands on an old dish towel and grinning widely. The kids hovered around the bike ooooing and ahhhhing, all of us, our mouths open wide in awe. Uncle Bill said to Mom “come on Sis, get on”, and she just shook her head “no”, all the while walking towards the bike. She surprised us as she hiked up the skirt of her dress and lifted her leg over the seat like an old pro, tossing the dish towel to the ground. Helmetless, but with a silk scarf tied snugly around her chin, she climbed up on the seat of the motorcycle and wrapped her arms around her brother, delighted in the opportunity to take a break from her arduous housework, and ride off into the wind on the old Harley.
As it roared away from us, the carburator back fired and the smoke puffed out of the pipes. It momentarily choked, but then caught hold and flung the riders into forward momentum as the bike gained speed and roared out of sight. All of the ruckus alerted my oldest sister Ruthi, a teenager, and she came out of the house with my brother, Ronnie in tow. When Ronnie was born the doctor's told Mom that he would never walk and probably wouldn't live to see twenty. in the first months of his life he had several operations on his legs and feet, and he needed a kidney transplant. But Doctor's aren't always the final authority on these things. More often than not, it is a higher authority and the persistence of moms that influence the outcome. And my mom was persistent. She refused to accept the doctor's grim diagnosis, and although there were metal braces from his feet to his hips, he waddled out the door to see what all the fuss was about.
Uncle Bill loved his sister and he loved her children. He always came bearing gifts and this day was the biggest gift of all as he allowed each of us a turn on the back seat of the Harley. He even lifted Ronnie on the seat and gave him strict instructions to hold on tight. There is nothing better than watching a little handicapped boy riding slowly on the back of a motorcycle. Even as young as we were, each of us knew this was a special moment, and a seed had been planted that would grow into something one day, an eternal love for riding. This, my first experience with a Harley molded my future and is a memory I will always treasure and will never forget.
