Embarking on the Natchez Trace

Day 4: Natchez, MS to Hohenwald, TN

“From forgotten Native mounds to gas station heartbreaks and haunted clown wind, this leg of the Natchez Trace delivers beauty, absurdity, and the occasional Tall Boy. A ride through heat, history, and detours.”

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The temperature dropped last night fairly quickly, so my roost at Natchez State Park was pretty comfortable. It was just primitive camping, with no bathhouses, bathrooms, or anything else—just a patch of woods, which was fine with me. There was no one else there, so I took a “shower” using my trusty bath wipes to freshen up for evening cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, only to find that there would be neither unless you count a few sips of water. I didn’t even pick up a tall boy at the gas station for some reason. I slept great until an insane wind woke me up at 3:15 am. I’ve mentioned this before, but when the wind picks up, the rainfly on my tent does this rustling thing that sounds just like an evil clown pulling down his trousers, getting ready for some mischief. It’s not really what you want to hear at 3:15 am when you’re in the middle of the woods by yourself. Stupid, evil clowns.

I was on the bike by 6:30 am. I’m always amazed by how different everything is between the planning stage and the actual doing-it stage. I remember thinking, I’ll get to camp early on this one, set up and relax, and enjoy the nature, maybe go on a hike. I’ll sleep in, maybe read in the morning. But it never goes the way you imagine, and if it did, that would be disappointing. I haven’t wanted to get to camp too early because of the dreadful heat. And when I wake up, what am I going to do - lie there and read? I could - but it’s never going to happen. Once I’m up, it’s time to pack and get on the bike. But with this trip, as with all of the others, I’m trying to make a concerted effort to slow down, to stop and actually look at things, to take the time to drink a coffee and see what there is to see. It never works, but I always try.

It was nice and cool this morning. I went a few miles past my route to check out Emerald Mound. It’s the second-largest Native American mound in the country, bested only by one in Illinois. I did a video about an ancient Indian mound that’s located in Franklin, NC, a few years back, and through that got to learn a bunch about the Cherokee in that area. I watched a real game of Stickball - a precursor to Field Hockey - and they were not kidding around. It was rough, and those dudes were tough. The tribes used to settle disputes by playing stickball instead of killing each other, although they sometimes killed each other while playing stickball. But all in all, a very civilized way to settle things. The Emerald Mound dates back to 1200 AD and was not only a burial site, but also housed temples and was a ceremonial center. In my life, there is something I’ve come to call the Cherokee Tragedy, which occurred after a lifetime of being told we had some Native blood through a great great grandmother came crashing down when we all got DNA tests to learn that there is not even a drop of that blood in any of us. How depressing.

I hopped on the Natchez Trace route about 5 miles from the terminus in Natchez and headed north. This road is quite similar to the Blue Ridge Parkway and is maintained by the National Park Service. I don’t think the views will compare with the BRP, but the road follows an old footpath used by the Natchez Indians to travel from Natchez up to the Nashville area. I stopped at Sunken Trace, which is a short section of the original footpath where you can see how thousands of travelers over hundreds of years wore down the soil to create these “sunken” sections. I can now count myself as one of those travelers.

I held out but stopped in Clinton, MS, for some coffee at a great little spot next to a college. Good artwork and students and professors staring at their laptops. So many times in places like these, I think to myself, “I could totally live here.” The coffee tasted like when Dr. Frankenstein flipped the switch to send some electrical juice into his monster giving it life. It’s the little things.

Sometime between when I walked in and walked out, Mr. Heat had obviously gotten some juice of his own. Holy shit Mississippi - settle down! I decided I could never live here. There’s something really fun that not everyone probably knows about, but when you are in unbearable heat and then put on a heavy padded motorcycle jacket that stinks like yesterday’s sweat, it is a really magical moment.

There were a ton of pull-offs on the Trace, and I tried to stop at all of them. A few had boardwalks through the Cyprus swamps, which were really cool to see. Right up until the mosquitoes tried to carry me away. I made a hasty exit, and in the parking lot, I met a guy who said, “How are the mosquitoes?” I gave him the bad news, and he proceeded to give me a long list of things to see and do on my way north. Old men with knowledge to share are the moth, and I’m the porch light. We chatted for a good 15 minutes. There was a time about five years ago when I went from assuming everyone was older than me to assuming everyone was younger than me. That was a hard phase to go through. But this guy looked about my age, as far as I could tell. We’d been trading stories about doing crazy stuff, and I just asked him outright how old he was, and he said 72. I don’t know what that means, really, but I think it’s good for him and bad for me, most likely. I just hope I’m able to do crazy things when I’m 72 like this guy. I can dream.

Now, if you’re comparing the Natchez Trace to the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Natchez Trace is going to lose. It’s just a bit boring; there are none of the jaw-dropping views, and it’s sort of the same the whole way. On the other hand, it’s a gorgeous, meandering road that is super pleasant to ride. I’m not sorry to have checked it out at all.

Back on the Trace and I started to stop at the many pull-offs. Each of them had a sign explaining what happened there. An Indian Mound site, an old Missionary post, etc. There was one called Sunken Trace where you could walk down a path to the original trail that had been made into a gully by hundreds of years and thousands of travelers. Another place where you feel that heavy vibe of everyone who came before you. I enjoy that vibe.

Then suddenly, the Trace was closed northbound. There was a sign that had some numbers and the word detour. I pulled off at French Camp (a cool little tiny town) and got out the map app and made a plan. The problem was - I didn’t know how much of it was closed. I headed out, and there was one detour sign pointing the way, then another. But then there was a sign that said, “Detour Ends” - but no indication of where the hell you were supposed to go to get back on the Trace. I pulled out the map app again and headed West toward the Trace. When I got there, there were more road closed signs. I pulled out the app and continued to sweat my ass off. A lady pulled up to see if I was okay, and she said, “Follow me.” Great! Then she proceeded to do an excellent imitation of the Bandit doing 80 on these back roads in her boxy Chrysler, and I could barely keep up. I like this lady. We got to the intersection where I was supposed to take a left, and I did, and honked a thank you accompanied by a wave. But then I saw another Natchez Trace Detour sign pointing straight, where I thought I was supposed to take a right. I followed the sign, which led me to more road closed barricades. I swore up a storm inside my helmet. A guy in a pickup pulled up and said, “They sure done a shit job with those signs, ain’t they?” I wanted to say, “Yes, they ain’t,” but I wasn’t sure that was the proper reply. He told me what to do, and 25 long minutes later, I was back on the Trace headed North. I made an oath to call my Senator to get this detour thing straightened out. I have some other issues to discuss with my Senator as well.

I went through Jackson and listened to “Going to Jackson” - the Lee Hazelwood and Nancy Sinatra version. I went through Tupelo and listened to “Going to Jackson” again. I got to the campground I had planned on stopping at too early - like 2:30 pm - so I kept going.

There’s a cast of characters that sometimes show up in my mind on trips like this. There’s Big Boss, Ass (who has a quadruple going with Liz Phair, Danny Devito, and Rhea Pearlman, there’s Wrap Around Shades Guy, and Leonard Smalls from Raising Arizona sometimes shows up too. I haven’t heard from any of them on this trip. On my normal trips - I’m out in the remote wilderness on nutty dirt trails, and you feel very alone and isolated and a bit scared because things could go very wrong at any moment out there - and I think that’s what causes them to show up to keep me company. This is a different type of trip where I’m always fairly close to civilization and where some old guy is around every corner, ready to have a chat— and I’m some old guy ready to chat right back.

I stopped in Houston, MS, for gas and a Gatorade. I got in line at the register, which was five deep. At the counter, a gentleman was causing much confusion about buying scratchers. I’m not sure what exactly the problem was, but he kept pointing to one in the big case, and she kept giving him the wrong one, then there was a problem with the change, then there were a multitude of other problems. All of us waiting on this guy were like, “Dude - just throw your fucking money in the garbage can and get on with it. You’re not going to win, and we are about to murder you.” He could feel this tension, and instead of turning to us and apologizing, he got angry at the cashier, who was admittedly having some cognitive issues, which I guessed had to do with lead in the water or a toxic spill of some sort in the area. He finally got the hell out of the way, and we all made our vital purchases. Outside, one of the guys in line started jabbering away in a dialect that I could not understand at all - I mean not at all, but I gathered it was about what an asshole the scratchers guy was. I nodded, and eventually he stopped - and put out his fist for a fist bump, which I took part in and walked away before there could be a second act. He could have been reciting Shakespeare. I’m not sure.

I crossed into Alabama and rode down to see the edge of the Tennessee River, where I stopped to gather my thoughts and make a plan. I hadn’t eaten anything but coffee and Gatorade, and decided that I should make a snack a priority. I took a look at where I was, and at this point, I was within striking distance of the campground I’d planned on staying at tomorrow night. This always happens. I just keep riding, and I get too far ahead of what my plan was. I mean - I’d stopped at just about every single pull off and wasted time like I was immortal - and still - I was going too far too fast. I put tomorrow’s campground on the map app and then searched for a restaurant on the way. There was exactly one to choose from, a place called Sissy’s Diner in Collinwood, TN, so I chose it. Not much later, I crossed into Tennessee and got off to head for the food. I got there and saw a girl sweeping the floor through the window. She came out and said, “Sorry - no one showed up to work - we’re closing.” I asked if she could recommend another place, and she said, “Well, we usually eat at the gas station down the way.” This reminded me of a time when I was working a film job in nowhere, Kansas and I asked the desk person at the weird motel, “If you were having your 50th Anniversary and you wanted to take your wife to the best restaurant within 30 minutes of here - where would you take her?” He said, “Cracker Barrel.” I swear to God - that happened. I rode down to the gas station and pressed my nose against the glass case where one pale corndog was trying to hide. I really wanted a place to sit down in some air conditioning, to pull out my laptop and check on things, and to cool off. Instead, the pale little corndog winked at me, knowing it was the hottest girl in the joint. I took one bite and could taste the essence of three days ago when this little dog was probably born. I didn’t spit it out, but I should have. I placed the rest of the small town smokeshow into the garbage. Well, that was dinner.

I rode the last thirty miles to the campground, found a spot, setup my tent, looked for a bathhouse where I could take a much needed shower, realized there was no bathhouse within which to take a much needed shower, got out a bath wipe which I turned from white to black in seconds flat, and gathered all of my electronics together to charge and dump footage and do all the stuff that needs doing.

A guy on a Harley just pulled into the campground, and I could actually see the hate coming from each occupied campsite. It’s so loud and obnoxious, and the immediate assumption is that so is the rider. Not sure if that’s true, but it seems likely. Don’t get me wrong, I love Harleys and always have. But I’d die of embarrassment making all that noise. Luckily, the Wing sounds like a low-key Star Wars Landspeeder.

I did get two Modelo Tall Boys from the disgusting gas station and drank half of the first one in one glorious dust-clearing gulp. I rode 400 miles today, and that took me from 6:30 am until 6:30 pm— 12 hours in the saddle, and I’m not sure why. I’d hoped to make a plan for what the heck I’m doing tomorrow, but that will have to wait until tomorrow, which will be too late. And my last job of the day is to put a period at the end of this sentence.

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I want to thank MotoCampNerd.com for sponsoring this trip. If you’re looking for gear, get it from these good folks.

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