The Natchez Trace

In mid-May I left Nashville, Tennessee and biked down Highway 70 to Mt. Joliet, then along Highway 171 past Lake Hunter State Park. Fortunately, a wide shoulder provided some protection against the heavy morning traffic. I followed Highway 31 South into the small town of Franklin where the local residents were preparing for a parade. I didn't stop to watch, however, because I still had a long way to pedal that day.

The northern entrance to the Natchez Trace

About noon I reached the northern entrance to the Natchez Trace. I struggled up many steep hills but it was fun coasting down them. Soon the sky darken considerably, threatening to unleash a torrent of rain upon my body, bicycle, and gear. In the distance lightning flashed at intervals but I heard no thunderous response. I saw a cyclist on the other side of the road. "I hope you get ahead of that storm," he warned. Luckily, within a half-hour the storm blew over, the sky cleared and the sun shone brightly.
Just after 5:00 p.m. I reached Meriwether Lewis Campground that offered free camping to all visitors. I pitched my tent on a large flat block of concrete beside the restrooms. It was a convenient place to camp and I detected no foul smell in the air. I was surprised that no one was occupying that pleasant site.
Two retired fellows in their 60s from Arizona, Jim and Oli, camped near me on scrubby terrain. Unfortunately, their tents were not free-standing as mine was so they struggled to stake them down in the rocky earth.
After supper I washed up with water from the spigot inside the restroom because no shower was available. I also washed out my clothes in the sink. A park ranger had scheduled a campground program to begin at 7:45 but I was too tired to attend it. After all, I had pedaled 103 miles that day.
Instead, I chatted with a 10-year-old boy and his younger sister who stopped by my campsite. The boy explained that they had nine other brothers and sisters, and that their family was traveling in a bus loaded with bunk beds. "We're looking to rent a house around here," the boy said. "My father finally found a job." The boy seemed quite surprised to learn that my tent cost two hundred dollars. I assumed his 12-member family was fairly poor.
The next morning I said good-bye to Jim and Oli. Because I had slept poorly on the cement slab, I was glad to hit the road again. My bicycle and I flowed slowly over the smooth Natchez Trace highway. The few motor vehicles that passed by did not disturb me. I was in a meditative mood, lost in my own day dreams. Just me, my bike, and the road.

There was very low motor traffic on the Trace.

At Collingwood I briefly left the Natchez Trace to buy some groceries. After lunch I continued pedaling south and soon I crossed a long bridge spanning the Tennessee River. I turned into the Colbert Ferry area and found a campground specifically for cyclists. After setting up my tent, I washed up in the nearby restroom. It was wonderful to feel clean again especially after biking 64 miles.
As I gobbled down a bowl of cereal with milk for supper, I studied my AAA map. Someone had left an Adventure Cycling map in the camp registration box so I studied it as well. The map covered the entire length of the Natchez Trace.
After supper I rode my bike a short way down a hill to the Tennessee River where many visitors had launched an assortment of boats. As I relaxed on the lawn there, I watched a man water-skiing up and down the river. Soon a speedboat came by pulling a teenage girl in a rubber raft. "To each our own thing," I thought. "My thing is bicycle touring."
The next morning I continued pedaling down the Trace. It rained off and on all day. Sometimes the sun shone and sometimes it drizzled. And once it poured like a fat garden hose turned on full. It was a long day's ride.
By early afternoon I reached the Tupelo Visitor's Center where I met Albert, a cycle tourist from Alabama. "This is my first bike tour," the 20-something fellow said. "I'm biking north to visit a friend."
A park ranger at the Center informed me of a free primitive camping area located in the woods across the highway. "You're welcome to join me," I said to Albert.
We pedaled to the edge of the woods and walked our loaded bikes down a rough trail. Soon we came to a large clearing where we saw three rustic cabins, a water spigot, a small outdoor amphitheater with benches, and an outhouse. Brown and yellow leaves blanketed the ground from the previous autumn. The place was deserted. Albert set up his tent in one of the cabins and I did likewise in another.
Afterwards, we walked several miles to a Wal-Mart in Tupelo. The store was farther than I thought but it was worth the long hike there because I found a McDonald's restaurant where I had lunch. I also bought a quart of milk to eat with cereal at breakfast the next day.
When Albert and I returned to camp, I shaved and washed up under the outdoor spigot. The water was cold but it felt clean and fresh against my skin. Keeping clean on a bicycle tour is one way to maintain good health.
Our campground seemed quite isolated. In fact, a park ranger at the Visitor's Center had told me, "That area is a secret. We don't give out its location unless someone asks for it." I explained that I knew about the campground from the Adventure Cycling map that I had found at Colbert Ferry the day before.
At about six o'clock in the evening, a strange and potentially dangerous incident transpired. Albert had walked back to the Visitor's Center to telephone his brother. When he had not returned to camp for a long while, I felt something was wrong.
Unexpectedly I saw a fellow in his mid-30s walking slowly along the path through the woods. The man was partially bald and he seemed to be quite fit. Suddenly, he saw me watching him. He stopped walking, looked at me from a distance, then continued walking very cautiously toward me. When he was about one hundred yards away, he stopped again and stared.
"Hi," I said to break the tension. He didn't answer although I knew that he had heard my greeting. Instead, he stared at me suspiciously and longingly. I felt very uncomfortable and apprehensive.
A few minutes later Albert appeared in the distance. A rather plump fellow about 25 years old with a short black beard was following him about a hundred feet behind. It was a relief to see Albert again. I felt safer. When the plump guy saw me, he froze. The balding fellow continued his silent vigil.
Finally, Albert approached me and spoke in a frightened, gloomy tone. "We've got company," he said sadly. We sat on top of a picnic table and discussed the matter at hand as we watched the two intruders who were observing us silently from afar. "Those two guys followed me into the woods," Albert said. "They're kinda spooky."
As we chatted, both spooky fellows began retracing their steps out of the wooded area. Albert and I felt relieved. "Let's go talk to a park ranger about this, Albert" I suggested. "Good idea," he answered.
We walked slowly behind the retreating spooks. The plump stalker got into his pickup truck and left. To our surprise, the balding starer stopped to talk with us. He wanted to know what we were doing in the woods. After we explained that we were going to camp there for the night, he left in his car.
The Visitor's Center had closed so Albert phoned the local sheriff. When the officer arrived in a squad car, we explained our frightening situation. The officer pointed to the highway and said, "Across the street is a well-known gay pick-up area. The parking area over there, the Visitor's Center restroom here, and two places down the street are where gays come to look for pick ups," he explained. "But don't worry, they're harmless. They won't come back again tonight."
Albert and I didn't want to take any chances on the sheriff being wrong, so we asked his permission to camp next to the Visitor Center. "Ok, no problem, fellows," he said, understanding our anxiety and concern for safety.
Albert and I return quickly to our campground, took down our tents, and repitched them under an overhanging roof beside the Visitor Center. As the sun went down, we chatted at great length about what had happened that afternoon and what could have happened to us.
As I lay in my sleeping bag that night, I said a silent prayer of thanks. It had been a long, adventurous day.
Albert and I awoke at 6:00 am. During the night I woke up and went back to sleep at least twenty times. Horrible scenes of rape, murder, and robbery filled my dreams.
After packing my gear, I ate a large breakfast, then said good-bye to Albert. I wished him good luck on his trip and began biking southwards along the Natchez Trace. There were few uphills along the way, and I averaged nearly 14 miles per hour.
At 12:30 p.m. I arrived at the Jeff Busby Campground. Albert would have been surprised that I had pedaled 73 miles so quickly in one day. He had expressed some doubt that I would reach the campground. Fortunately, the road was slightly downhill all the way and a tailwind provided an extra boost.
Nobody was at the campground, which made me feel apprehensive. I didn't want to camp alone; that seemed dangerous, especially when I thought about the previous day's events with the two gay stalkers. But the shopkeeper in the campstore assured me that I would be fine. "We've never had any problems," he said. "And you won't be camping alone today. Some people in cars and RVs will be pulling in around 5:00 p.m. or so."
He was correct. Later that afternoon some folks in RVs and several couples on motorcyclists arrived at the campground. I felt relieved and safe. After supper I sat at my picnic table and wrote in my journal a list of items that I thought made the day successful:
* I made better time than I had expected.
* I completely washed up with cold water in the men's restroom before anyone showed up in camp.
* I could choose to camp on any site because I had arrived so early.
* The campstore was well stocked with food.
* I felt quite safe.
* It wasn't raining.
At 5:30 the next morning I woke up to the natural world that surrounded my tent. I lay in bed listening to birds singing in the tall trees nearby. By their varying songs I counted five different kinds of birds. I felt fortunate to attend their melodious concert.
By 7:00 a.m. I packed up my tent, ate breakfast, and was rolling down the Natchez Trace once again. The road was mostly flat, so pedaling was easy despite a light drizzle. I stopped briefly at French Camp for a pit stop and to look around a bit. On the left side of the road I saw several log cabins in a large clearing in the woods. Wooden fences marked the perimeter of the area. I felt like I was transported back in time over 100 years ago.
One of the log cabins was a bed and breakfast lodging. Another was a small cafe from which the smell of bacon and pancakes permeated the air. A sign posted outside the cafe announced that it would open at 8:30 am. I looked at my watch and thought, "Hmm. It's eight o'clock and I just ate breakfast. I don't want to wait a half-hour to have a second breakfast. And I don't want to spend money on another one."
The light drizzle turned to steady rain. I continued pedaling in a southwesterly direction along the Trace until it ended just north of Jackson. That's where the confusion began.
I saw a sign that read: BICYCLE INFORMATION. I looked around and felt perplexed. "Where is the information?" I wondered. I biked to a nearby building that was a combined gas station and grocery store. I stopped an elderly man who was entering the place and asked him directions to Goshen Campground. According to my map it was somewhere east on Highway 43. The man pointed east and said, "The campground is just over four miles that way."
I started cycling down that busy road which soon became a dike with water on both sides. After a few miles I felt that something was wrong. I sensed that I had gone the wrong way. I turned around and rode past the gas station-grocery store. There seemed to be a small motel ahead. I thought, "Maybe I'll get out of this wet weather and stay there for the night."
As I approached the string of motel units, I could see that the owner had the business long ago. I saw a young woman outside her house nearby the motel. I asked her if there was a motel or hotel close by. She had no suggestions.
I pedaled past the gas station-grocery store once again, and rode to exit where I had left the Natchez Trace. A park ranger was collecting garbage there. I said, "Excuse me, sir. I saw a sign over there that says 'Bicycle Information' but I couldn't find any."
"There's a little box by the sign," he answered. "In the box are maps for bicyclists. The maps show you how to get back on the Trace on the south side of Jackson."
I pedaled to the map box, embarrassed and angry with myself that I hadn't seen the darn thing. But when I opened the box, it was empty. I rode back to the park ranger and told him that the map box was empty. "I'm sorry, young fellow," he said. "I can't help you."
I was very tired and hungry. I stopped at the gas station-grocery store where I bought some chocolate milk and chocolate donuts which I devoured on the spot. That junk food and the short rest gave me energy to pedal northwest on Highway 43 North eight miles to the small town of Canton. On the way, the rain finally stopped. I felt strongly that my luck was changing from bad to good. I continued pedaling to Ridgeland on 51 South. A small triangle beside the word "Ridgeland" indicated that there was a campground nearby. An employee in a grocery store confirmed that fact. "I've heard of it but I don't know where it is," she said.
I stopped at a gift shop to ask the location of the mysterious campground. The clerk didn't know but she was amazed when I told her that I bicycled there from Nashville. I stopped at a discount bakery store. The clerk didn't know where the campground was located. I cycled to a craftshop where I inquired once again.
The woman employee asked in a long Southern drawl, "You mean Timberlake Campground? That's five miles from here. But there's a Comfort Inn and a Red Roof Motel about two miles away."
"No, I want to go to the Timberlake Campground," I said thinking of my frugal nature.
The woman nodded, then patiently drew a crude map and explained how to reach the campground. "You'll have to go up here to the spillway and bike along the top of it. Be careful now, it's busy at this time of day. Timberlake Campground is just on the other side of the dam."
I thanked the woman profusely, then I headed out again, armed with my hand-drawn map. I also said a silent prayer. I entered the rush hour traffic of Jackson, and found my way across the spillway. On the other side was seemed to be a wonderful mirage: a McDonald's restaurant! To me a McDonald's means inexpensive and tasty food, clean restrooms, and familiarity that gives me a sense of confidence, security, and feeling at home.
I stopped at a gas station where an employee gave me directions to the Timberlake Campground which was just a few blocks away. Excited, I pedaled there quickly and found it to be a fine campground. "It's going to be expensive," I thought.
The cost was $8 to set up my tent and included a hot shower. It wasn't a bad deal after all. Besides, I was very tired, it was already 5:30 p.m., and I had biked 120 miles. I found a site in a tents-only section. I was the only camper there. After pitching my tent, I took my first hot shower in one week. It was great!
Then the finale of the day: I walked to McDonalds for supper and truly pigged out. I treated myself to a chicken deluxe sandwich, French fries, two tall glasses of lemonade, and two hot apple pies. Sometimes life is so sweet. The next morning I couldn't resist returning to McDonald's, this time for a filling breakfast of a sausage and egg McMuffin, hashbrowns, and coffee -- all of which cost only $1.65 because I asked for and received a senior discount.
I rode across the spillway again which had considerably less traffic on it compared to the day before at rush hour. I turned left on Old Canton Road and followed it to Country Line Road which took me to the outer fringe of Jackson. I continued straight on County Line Road and stopped at a small post office in Tougaloo. There I asked for directions to Clinton, Mississippi and the Natchez Trace.
I followed Cynthia Road to Clinton, a pretty highway leading to a pleasant town. I followed Melrose Road to its end at Mississippi College, then turned right and headed downhill out of Clinton. It was getting warmer so I took off my Gore-tex jacket.
I continued pedaling toward the Natchez Trace and soon reached a frontage road that paralleled Interstate 20. I saw an exit sign announcing the Trace but somehow I didn't see the entrance because there was no other sign announcing it. I continued pumping until the frontage road ended. Now where to go?
Instinctively, I turned left and rode under the Interstate onto a frontage road on the other side and followed it back. I asked a man for directions. "Just keep going up this road and you'll see a sign to get on the Natchez Trace," he said.
He was correct. Soon I saw a sign: EXIT 34: NATCHEZ TRACE PARKWAY: 1 MILE. I looked at my cyclometer to be sure I wouldn't miss the exit. After one mile the frontage road curved to the right away from the Interstate, then came around and paralleled it once again. I pedaled under a bridge over which I assumed passed the Natchez Trace. I rode a bit farther on the frontage road, then noticed a break in the fence. I saw a sign bearing only the letters "M, M" with an arrow pointing to an opening in a fence. I had no idea what those letters represented but I felt that the arrow would lead me to the Trace.
I was correct. I had no other alternative than to bike up the wrong side of an off ramp and finally reached the highway. What a hassle! I wished that I had received better directions for finding my way to the Trace from the point where it ended north of Jackson.
I pedaled down the Trace about seven miles and exited onto Highway 467 leading to Edwards, Mississippi. After pedaling down that road for nine miles, I arrived in Edwards, a small town with mostly African-American residents. From the Champion Hill grocery store I telephoned Rich who is a member of Servas, an international homestay organization. I made arrangements to stay with him and his wife for two days. Rich said that he would be home about seven o'clock that evening.
I bought some lunch food at the grocery store. When I gave the teenage cashier a $50 traveler's check, she looked at it carefully and frowned.
"What's that?" she asked.
"It's a traveler's check."
"A what?"
"A traveler's check. It's as good as cash," I explained.
"I ain't never seen one a dem," she said. "I have to check with my supervisor."
As I watched her walk to a nearby counter to speak with her supervisor, I thought it was incredible that the cashier had never seen a traveler's check. "Is this the end of the 20th century or the beginning?" I wondered.
The cashier returned and looked satisfied. "It's okay," she said, and gave me my change.
As I was coming out of the grocery store, I noticed that an African-American teenage boy was looking at my loaded bicycle. "Where you headed, man?" he asked.
"Down the Trace, then over to Florida and up to New England," I answered.
"Woooooie! Damn! Where do I sign up?"
I laughed. "Just get on your bike and go," I said and waved good-bye to the young fellow.
I cycled a bit around Edwards, passing Rich's fading yellow Victorian mansion across the street from the Merchants Bank, the most modern building in town. I returned to Rich's house and carried my bike and gear up to his front porch. I relaxed and had some lunch.

Rich and Jackie live in this Victorian mansion in Edwards, Mississippi

At 2:50 p.m. a long freight train rolled by the mansion and shook it a bit. The engineer blasted the whistle as the train rolled under the crude single-lane wooden bridge. "Edwards truly is a small Mississippi town," I thought. At first I felt apprehensive being a white minority in a majority black town, but soon I got over that negative feeling. Visitors to new places often bring along their prejudices and fears, as I did.
Rich returned home from work at seven o'clock. He showed me his huge house that has three parlors filled with antiques including various pianos and a harpsichord. "We have live concerts here," Rich explained. "Friends from all over the United States come and play their various instruments. We have a good time."
I followed my Servas host up a winding staircase to the second floor of his mansion. He showed me to my bedroom, one of seven in the house. "My wife Jackie and I are fixing this place up," he said. "You can sleep in any one of these bedrooms up here. The bathroom is down that long
hall."

Rich and Jackie, my Servas hosts

Rich and I had supper and a long conversation. He is a Caucasian married to a delightful African-American woman. I met Jackie at about ten o'clock that evening when she returned home from Jackson where she taught French at a high school. "I'm sorry that I'm so tired," she said. "Someone broke into my classroom and stole all the final grades. I had to stay after school to recalculate them all. Some of my students and a few parents helped me." The three of us chatted briefly and retired for the evening.
The next morning Rich and Jackie left for work at seven o'clock. I had breakfast alone in their huge dining room. My plans for the day were to visit Vicksberg located about 17 miles from Edwards. At first I pedaled the wrong way out of Edwards. After asking directions at a dental clinic, I rode back into town and out the other end on Highway 80. I crossed the Big Black River and climbed a series of hills that led me into historic Vicksberg.
I stopped at a tourist information office to get a local map before riding across the street to visit the Vicksberg National Military Park. First, I saw a short free movie entitled "The Siege of Vicksberg." Afterwards, I pedaled through part of the cemetery. I saw green fields of monuments dedicated to both the Confederate and Union troops of the Civil War. "What a waste of good people," I thought.
I pedaled around Vicksberg, past the Coca-Cola Museum which I wanted to visit but didn't because I had already seen many Coke memorabilia at the headquarters in Atlanta. I rode past numerous ante-bellum mansions, each costing $5 to tour, so I passed them up.
I stopped at the Old Court House Museum and toured it for $2. The admission fee was money well spent. I was especially impressed by a small exhibit which explained a story worthy of Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum. The story goes like this: During the Civil War a young soldier and a young woman were standing beside each other. Suddenly, a shot rang out and a bullet passed through the testicles of the soldier and into reproductive organs of the woman. As a result of this freak accident, the woman became pregnant. After her baby was born, the couple -- who didn't know each other at the time -- got married. In time they produced two more children "through the conventional way," according to the sign in the showcase which displayed the actual bullet that caused the couple's first pregnancy.
From the museum I pedaled down to the Mississippi River where I visited several casinos. In Mississippi all casinos are built on barges because the state law forbids them to be constructed on land. The exteriors of the casinos looked like giant stern-wheelers in a Mark Twain novel. The interiors, decorated in red and gold and thousands of glittering lights, were jammed with slot machines at which greedy men and women played their luck and mostly lost their money. I stayed only ten minutes in two casinos, then pedaled back to Edwards as ominous rain clouds darkened above me.
After taking a shower at my hosts' mansion, I ate lunch and rested. Suddenly, the sky filled with lightning and thunder followed by a massive downpour. One might have thought the Civil War had started all over again. I thought how fortunate I was to nestle inside a cozy old home during such nasty weather. Luckily, I had just missed the storm.
The next morning I took a picture of Rich and Jackie in one of their elegant parlors. After thanking them and saying good-bye, I mounted my bike and retraced my steps nine miles down Highway 467 to the Natchez Trace.
Soon I saw three other cyclists ahead of me. I was fairly sure they didn't have fully-loaded panniers aboard as I did. It was difficult keeping up with them. Suddenly, the cyclists slowed their fast pace and I was able to meet them. They were all about 19 years old and were enrolled in a dental school in Jackson.
"We're out for a 40-mile ride on the Trace," one of the students said. We slowed down for you and hoped to hear a few stories." He had very black hair and a freckled face. We rode together for a while but the freckled face guy spoke with me. His buddies just rode their racing bikes and listened to my adventurous bicycle stories. After a half hour, the students turned around and returned to Jackson.
Soon it began to rain, softly at first, then harder and even harder. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed across the sky. I was quickly engulfed in a downpour. I didn't bother to put on my rain jacket, however, because I would have perspired in it anyway in the high humidity. I pedaled for at least 3 hours in the rain but escaped being struck by lightning.
Gradually the rain stopped and the sun peeked through a rain cloud. I felt relieved and wanted to dry out. I reached nearly the end of the Trace, then followed an off ramp leading to Natchez State Park. Just before reaching the park, I stopped at a small grocery store to buy food.

Only 86 more miles to Natchez

After a brief rest, I headed straight for the campground. It cost $11 to camp on a concrete block or $7 to camp in a "primitive site" area. I went to the latter where I saw two tents set up but no one was around. The ground was very muddy from the heavy rain and everywhere were 6-inch ruts made by campers' cars and trucks. Most of the terrain inclined toward a small river, so it was difficult finding a flat place to pitch my tent. A park ranger stopped by to collect my camp fee. He pointed out a flat place between some trees near the entrance to the primitive area so I decided to camp there.
I walked a long way to take a shower and to wash out some clothes. Then I ate supper and wrote in my journal. I was quite tired so I went to bed at 7:30. Within a half hour three ignorant yahoos -- two young men and one young woman -- returned to the primitive areas in an old dilapidated car. Both men sat in the front seat. The woman got out of the car and sat in one of the two tents. The threesome were definitely in an argumentative mood.
"I did give you some money, Jack" the woman insisted.
"You didn't give me no money, Debra."
For nearly an hour they argued over money: not having enough, getting more, and drinking beer as they squabbled among themselves. Once in a while, one of the fellows laughed uncontrollably.
Obviously I couldn't sleep with all that racket. So I decided to move my tent, gear, and bicycle to another area. It was nearly dark. I moved my belongings to the "regular" camping area, fully expecting to pay a four-dollar upgrade, and pitched my tent in the dark on a concrete block.
Fifteen minutes later it began to rain. Suddenly, some water began flowing under one side of the tent. In my haste I had forgotten to tie down the rain fly. I got out of the tent and scrambled to complete the job usig a stick and some old tent poles that someone left behind. I went back to bed feeling safer, drier, and somewhat peaceful.
I woke up at about six o'clock the next morning. Although I had slept poorly, I wanted to break camp and leave as quickly as possible. As I packed my soaked tent, I heard the same threesome arguing about something or other. I was very happy that I had left that area which was, indeed, quite "primitive."
As I rode down Highway 61 to Natchez, I saw a fine public campground on my right. "Darn," I thought. "I wished I had camped there last night. It would have been worth paying ten dollars extra for a comfortable site and peace of mind."
I stopped at a Hardee's and ordered their breakfast special: a bacon-filled biscuit, egg and cheese, and a senior coffee. A friend of mine would have called that a "by-pass special." I knew that the sandwich was high in cholesterol and it even tasted greasy. But the coffee went down well, although I'm not a coffee drinker.
As I rode into Natchez, I thought about the past nine days. Like the Natchez Trace itself, those days were filled with many "ups and downs." But such is life in which each day has its good and bad points. I believe it's wiser to remember the good points and let the bad ones fade into history.