I left Cajun Campground with little idea where I was going to sleep that night. I just knew that West was the direction I wanted to head.
The night before I had contacted a few hosts on Warm Showers--a couch surfing-esque app specifically for touring cyclists. I was hoping I would have at least one response when I got up this morning, but I was met with silence. I took a look on Google Maps for a state park or campground nearby and found nothing. I decided to call some of the numerous RV Campgrounds nearby. I asked if they had a place for me to stay and I was told by many of them that they didn't have room for tents or didn't allow tent camping. Okay.
I started to look to plan C, stealth camping, when I decided to look further along my route to get a better layout of other campgrounds.
Turns out, I'm in a large camping dead zone. The entire region of western Louisiana and eastern Texas were geared towards RVers and not primitive campers. While there were stare parks, wildlife preserves, and the occasional campground they were largely out of my way or absurdly pricey. While stealth camping was still an option, I decided against it. This region of the country has a certain affinity towards their property and the guns. Michigan allows primitive, free camping in national and some state forests. Most of Texas and Louisiana is private property with enforce Castle Laws. I'll avoid trespassing instead. I decided to hotel hop for a few days. I have it in my budget and it would also give me the chance to get a good amount of rest in on beds that were thicker than my inflatable sleeping pad.
So I booked a room at the cheapest hotel and headed towards Lake Charles, Louisiana.
And what happen afterwards was a largely uneventful ride. I know I iterate how a lot of these rides feel like Michigan but I'm not joking. Between Eunice and Lake Charles, within the state of Louisiana, there is a lot of nothing. Much like riding on the expressway from Detroit to any direction leads to a couple of hours of tree and farm field-filled nothing. It's not necessarily a bad thing. It makes for productive snapchatting.
While on the road, only six miles from the hotel, I felt something strange churning in my stomach. I figured it was the gas station pizza I had the day before or the slightly brown "potable" water from the Cajun Campground. Regardless, whatever was had caused a potential nuclear weapon to magically move from my stomach straight past my intestines and knocking on heaven's door.
I was in dire straits. I knew I had to either find some bathroom or an outing of trees to hide in to release this digestive demon. Unfortunately, I was in the middle of massive cow pastures and rice paddies. There was no bathroom. It was either make it to the hotel NOW or ruin an article of clothing. Thankfully, something magical happened.
I took a left in the final three mile sprint to the hotel. I was desperate to make it somewhere public and revert from a 25 year-old man to a toddler. Suddenly, sitting in the middle of nowhere, was a port-a-potty. A port-a-potty along a construction site that had been abandoned, according to the sign, about a year earlier. I hurried to it and a second miracle had been performed: it was brand new and clean. Someone had delivered a fresh port-a-potty to no one in particular. And it was here waiting for me. I wanted to yell HALLELUJAH as I performed my exorcism but was too astonished at the series of events that had just happened.
I was blessed by the gastric gods today.
That's how boring my day was.