Lt. Al Robicheaux arrived at headquarters exactly on time.
James Lee Burke has mysteriously changed the person I previously knew as C. Alfonso de LaSalle. For the sake of non discussion, we'll leave it at that. Whatever is working for Al is working for me.
After 30 minutes, for which I cannot fully account, we were off on the ride. I had issued printed maps marked with points of interest for the Lt. to review. His only remark was, in his new cop speak followed, "Whatever the course of this investigation would take, he and his men were up to the task".
What men? Did I have a posy in tow along with Lt. Al?
I disdain group rides, but I guessed that if they were invisible and kept to themselves, it would be OK.
WE ALL turned south out of the driveway, leaving an imagined voluminous cloud of dust and disturbance. I needed fuel so Al and I, joined by the deputies, stopped at the Exxon station in St.Martinville. After filling up, I showed Al and company the old bridge at St. John Plantation which is right down the road sitting in, not across, Bayou Teche, as it has been swung out of usefulness.
From there I did my time travel magic, learned at the knee of a Hoodoo Princess from Arnaudville, which landed us in Abbeville, the beautiful and historic gateway to the southwest plains. The sky was a Colorado blue, a light wind was blowing from the north. A perfect day in South Louisiana lay before us. I heard no complaints from the assembled as I took this well behaved group to where the Southern Pacific had crossed the Vermillion Bayou under the direction of Chief Building Engineer Cushing way back in the beginning of the last century. I felt, after crossing the downtown motor car bridge, that a crowd should be gathered and a band playing to celebrate this new adventure. I believed that somehow we should be riding in Model A's or Packards with Teddy Roosevelt at the wheel. Or possibly it is now I feel that way after the fact?
I know I need to get a grip. It's been less than 24 hours since that ride ended. I walk a very fine line between returning to sanity and remembering the course of a ride day, which sanity erases.
Speaking of remembering, I know where the 2 spikes came from, duh on us. That mystery was the subject of the post ride conference which lasted an hour, each of us circling the yard with forefingers under chin. You found them, Couyan. They were where we are going in this ride report, Mallard Junction. I guess I'm a couyan, too, as I was very excited to have a memento of that likewise historical and beautiful place, so put your pistol away, Lt.
I'll have to remember to pull his firing pin from time to time.
The pictures and and text will start on the next page. This ride will eventually meld with he Ride to the Border which is in progress, in Jennings where more pictures and info will be added as, yes, we got to ride US 90 home, a never ending source source of sore butt.
CLICK HERE for page 2