Barron Fork Creek

Last weekend offered a 180 mile round-trip excursion to Barron Fork Creek, just east of Tahlequah, Oklahoma. A neighboring Oklahoma aquarium club invited our Arkansas club to join them on a collecting trip.


Collecting involves using dip nets and seines to collect native fish suitable for the home aquarium. "Regular" fisherman refer to this as "bait fishing". To read more about what we collected, visit my fish blog - Wet Socks.

The only collecting equipment I own is a bait bucket, a cooler, and some river shoes. Since I didn't have a net to transport I opted to take the trip on the Beverly. It also gave me a chance to try out the saddle bags I bought at a yard sale last summer.

Scooter fuel costs estimate out at 180 mi/70 mpg = 2.5 ga x $1.95 = $5

vs.

Truck fuel cost at 180 mi/19 mpg = 9.5 ga x $1.95 = $18.52
(read: ready for summer fuel prices?)

I could have taken the major highways and made better time. But why would I do that when I could take the scenic route and enjoy my Saturday on the bike? The trip into Oklahoma was 90 miles of hills, curves, and small town intersections. Can one feel more alive?

Granted, the trip began before sunrise. (Dark = not ideal) It was raining. (Not the safest.) And patches of intermittent fog. (Who do I think I am?) I had checked the radar before I left and determined/hoped that I was riding south west as the tail end of the storm was headed north east and I would find myself in good riding weather just after a stop for breakfast at Braum's.

Fortunately the weather cooperated but not before a final cloudburst soaked through my jacket. This is the first time that the jacket didn't keep me dry but it was a significant amount of rain in a matter of minutes. With the temp at 48F and the wet jacket/shirt I started to get chilled when I crossed the Arkansas/Oklahoma line.

Three small towns later I found an open Dairy Bar in Wellsville. The full parking lot at this early hour reinforced my suspicion that it was the only place open for miles. I did my best to put on a polite poker face to contain my smile before I opened the door.

I knew what I was getting into. I knew I would open the door to a small town cafe full of over-all's, coffee, and Coppenhagen. (not that there's anything wrong with that.) And I would would be sporting a flourescent yellow riding jacket and black leather chaps coming off a scooter with a bait bucket strapped to it during an early morning rain in Regularville, USA.

They were polite. I ordered coffee. I warmed my hands on the cup that was sponsored by the local mechanic, school, and bank. The memorabilia on the wall suggested the Dairy Bar had been open since the fifties. I was disappointed that the Dairy Bar had nothing more dairy than regular milk and they were disappointed that I wasn't ordering breakfast. I enjoyed the coffee, or more so the warmth it gave me and drank in the conversations between farmers.

I paid the tab and tipped well (which I did spitefully. Can't a guy just order coffee?). In the parking lot a couple of paramedics were getting out of an ambulance and they asked me a couple questions about the bike. One of the drivers said he was getting one. I couldn't help but think "I hope I haven't just met the folks that will scrape me off the highway. That would be creepy."

Dark and morbid I know, but those kind of thoughts keep me from getting too comfortable. I told a new rider yesterday that there's nothing more dangerous than the illusion of comfort. That goes for driving a car, too.

Warmed up, I got back on the road which was now the final miles of the Cherokee Trail of Tears. It's good to see acknowledgement of what was done but so horrifying that it happened. The names of the towns and creeks I passed through reflected the Native American influence.

The terrain is beautiful. I had noticed during my pre-trip planning that I would be traveling through forest. I was surprised at the significant ice storm damage of the trees that lasted for miles and miles. It doesn't seem to be catastrophic and I take comfort in knowing that even this is part of the rhythms of Nature.


Barron Fork Creek is a part of the Illinois River drainage. The collection site was an appropriate end to a journey through wooded hills and valleys. The collecting was fun. I ratchet-strapped the now full cooler to the back seat, made the "flight plan" call home and saddled up.

With more pleasant conditions and dried out gear the return trip was much more enjoyable. I thought to myself "This is why I pushed through this morning." The same trip in the truck would have been nice, but not nearly the same experience.

I stopped at the Trail of Tears Trading Post I had passed on the way in. I picked up a handmade necklace for my squaw and a postcard sized painting created by a local artist. It caught my eye and when I looked at the title "Crossing Barron Fork Creek" I had to get it.

Two locals drifted in and asked me "Is that a bait bucket on that bike?"

I said "yes sir, that cooler's full of bait fish."

"We're goin' on up to try for some crappie."

"Good luck."

They smiled and moved on. I heard one of them say "See, I told you he was fishing with that bike. I bet he's got a collapsible pole in one 'em saddle bags."

The trip was great. I never would have thought that one day I would be wearing chaps, walking out of a trading post and putting dry goods into my saddle bags. What a life. It reminds me of a line from a song -

"If you hold on tight to what you think is your thing, you may find you're missing all the rest." - Best of What's Around by the Dave Matthews Band.