My father loved the outdoors. Vegetable gardens, mountain hikes, trees, strawberries, flowers, coffee on the deck, squirrel hunting, perch and crappy (or “sunfish” as he called them) fishing on the Mountain Fork. Dad spent most weekends working in our yard or taking us to the river or mountains for some expedition. He grew up near Tahlequah, Oklahoma and wandered the same river bottoms and farm land you read about in the book “Where the Red Fern Grows.”
A newspaper man by trade, dad was a writer, editor, photographer and businessman but he really loved growing things in his garden. We probably cut down ten trees in our backyard and planted more than a thousand bushes, flowers and ornamental trees as replacements over the years. He loved every season, with spring being his favorite and autumn a close second. The cycle of the seasons were ever-present in the Monroe family home.
So it wasn’t unusual, depending on the amount of moisture our SE Oklahoma community received, that we would take a trip in late October or early November to see the leaves changing color. One year we drove north out of McCurtain county toward Big Cedar (in Le Flore county) in the middle of the Ouachita National Forest. More specifically, we headed for the Winding Stair Mountains and state highway 1.
I remember it was a beautiful day with clear blue sky and red, yellow and purple leaves on ridge after ridge of forest. We made several stops along the way and finally took a break from photography for a picnic at a long deserted rest area just a hundred or so yards off the road in a quiet little clearing. We ate sandwiches and I played ball with my brother. You couldn’t hear traffic noise, if there was any, for the dense vegetation. I felt like we had found a forgotten little place in the woods just for the four of us.
We were packing up the car about to head back out on the road when the thunder of 20-odd motorcycles came down the dirt road from the highway. These weren’t racing bikes or dirt bikes or big expensive roadsters from Tulsa. No, these were the bikes you see at roadside bars or on the front yard of a house in Idabel.
We stopped throwing the football and watched as this noisy crowd of tough looking riders rolled into our quiet little oasis. I was so surprised by the suddenness of people and machines and noise and I was also a little bit uneasy about what we were going to do since they were blocking our exit.
This was my dad’s favorite trip of the year and he was a journalist who talked with strangers everyday of his life. After taking pictures of mountains and trees and an empty, winding road all day he must have come up with a thought and walked over to one of the bikers. I couldn’t hear what they were saying so I walked closer, partly to hear and partly to support my dad. I was still uneasy about the whole biker party.
What I heard was my father telling the guy about our outing and asking him for a favor. The guy looked approachable and they seemed to be hitting it off. My dad suggested he would like to walk out to the middle of the highway and stand facing down into the valley with the ribbon of road disappearing into the distance. He was asking the group to ride past him and he would take their picture as they motored away. It would make for a more interesting shot to be sure.
I think there was some mention of sending them copies of the paper with their picture on the front page. The group seemed to like the idea and before you know it we were in the middle of highway 1 with the bikers roaring past. Dad clicked a bunch of shots and the group made a u-turn in the distance to come back to the picnic area. They waved as they exited for their gathering.
We got in our car and started back home.
In the quiet of the car I asked my dad if he had once thought the bikers might have been trouble or if we were in any danger. He thought for a second and said, “I figured they were doing the same as us. Who wants trouble on a beautiful day like today?”