Down the Boatmen's Road

At the Tupelo Visitor Center, while we walked down the Natchez Trace's timeline, we overheard a ranger on the phone: "Is this the mother of (young girl who's name I forgot)?" The girl left her wallet at the visitor center and the ranger picked the worst phone introduction imaginable. The range spent five minutes apologizing profusely for the scare and assured the distraught mother that the National Park Service would mail the wallet. Fortunately, the painful call ended there.

Morning  view from Baker's Bluff.

That was the extent of the drama Nancy and I experienced traveling the Natchez Trace Scenic Byway from Nashville to Natchez. The byway follows ridgetops through Tennessee and its brief slice across northwestern Alabama, then descends into the dense forest shading much of Mississippi.In the early days of our Republic, flatboat operators would head down the Ohio and other tributaries to the Mississippi. At Natchez, they would sell their goods and their boats, then take the overload route home.

The original Trace was carved by bison and other fauna traveling from water to salt licks; by following the ridgetops, they lessened the chance of predators catching them in a valley. Indians followed the bison and it turned into their trade route as well. The Trace diminished once better boat technology made return trips possible, although it did receive a boost as a military supply route during the Civil War before falling fallow again.

In the early 20th century, historian interest in the road eventually led to the construction of the byway along the original orientation of the Natchez Trace, although the final sections are less than 20 years old.

There are dozens of historic sites and nature walks. More important is what the Trace does not have - commercial vehicles are barred, the speed limit never beats 50 and most of the day, we were alone, skirting close to towns like Hohenwald (Tenn.), Florence (Ala.) and Tupelo (Miss.) without any of the gaudiness that afflicts America's travel routes. 

During spring, you can call it the Turkey Trace. Moments after leaving behind Nashville's west suburbs, a turkey grazed along the highway.  Thirty-plus turkeys, most just grazing roadside, one tom puffed out in full-on mating plumage.Another determined female took flight above a northbound car then curved above Nancy’s car, almost grazing the windshield.

To spice up the trip to Jackson Falls, we hiked up a little ridge and back down, flushing out another female turkey. The ridgetop provided an even more scenic view of the silent farm below. We had seen Jackson Falls and the farm visible from Baker's Bluff in January. With the spring rejuvenating the local flora,

Nancy smiles on the banks of the Buffalo.

Since we scouted the Merriweather Lewis grave site on our January Trace journey,our next departure from the road came at Metal Ford, a a spot on the Buffalo River with a smooth stone bottom perfect for crossing.

Where the Duck flowed softly, almost imperceptibly, the Buffalo babbled up a storm. The clear water showed off that stony bottom littered with algae-coasted rock. We followed a section of the Old Trace through the woods, as we would many more times in the next 24 hours. As with most historic sites, we had the place to ourselves.

After an Old Trace loop through the woods that crested on some steep overlooks, we viewed a section of Sunken Trace that would be repeated through the journey. Three channels had been cut so when rain turned the road to mud, wagons could be diverted to sturdier paths. From there, it was time for a moment of goofing. The morning chill had disappeared and the sun beat down on the endless green forests punctuated by occasional patches of clover.
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The dead zone between Tennessee and Alabama leads to awkward poses.

Following  the border sign, Alabama's stretch of Trace was brief and lively. The road descended toward  the Tennessee Valley, peaking with a one-mile bridge spanning the river.

The river would be unrecognizable to the ferry masters who vied the Tennessee during the Trace's heyday. Dams transformed this section into the deep-blue Pickwick Lake. Down the road in Mississippi, the boatmen would also not recognize the Tennessee–Tombigbee (Tenn-Tom)Waterway, a man-made channel with 10 locks and dams that connects the rivers to the Gulf of Mexico (others consider it the ultimate pork barrel project).

Just shy of Mississippi, we hiked the steep path to the Alabama overlook for a view of the  rolling valleys that included Pickwick Lake. The road quieted significantly in Mississippi. We still examined every lookout we could find. One of the Trace's jewels came next: the Pharr Mounds, a set of eight Indian burial mounds that ranged from two feet to 18 feet tall. We just stood and soaked in the ancient cemetery. These mounds occupied a broad meadow perfect for contemplation (once all the other tourists left).

We made our first departure from the road in Tupelo for lunch. A decent pub just outside of downtown and adjacent to Tupelo's arena fueled us up. Despite thoughts of hunting for the Elvis birthplace house, we soldiered on, heading for the Bynum Mounds. These series of burial sites dated back almost 2,000 years. In the parking lot, a pack of motorcyclists discreetly passed a joint..

Back on the road, I marveled at how verdant Mississippi was. The state gets a bad rap for almost ... everything, yet the dense forest blanketed the Trace. Unlike the interstate, the trees often grew just feet off the road, making for a more intimate drive. Not only was the road isolated, but the speed limit gave Nancy's Mitsubishi  its best gas mileage ever.

Many markers heralded long-gone history. Spanish explorer/conquistador Hernando de Soto camped near the road, which ended when his men entered a dispute with the local Indian tribes. Imagine that.

With Jackson and nightfall growing closer, we reached the Trace's famed bald cypress swamp.Our first swamp stop detoured us all-too-briefly through a small patch of trees.  The second cypress swamp fared much better. Cut as a river channel separated from the Pearl River, the swamp is slowly losing water and will run dry in a few centuries. The bald cypress trees loomed large, blocking the setting sun. 

No lagardo sightings to report.

For some reason, even on a temperate night, I felt a little skittish about alligators.I relaxed when it occurred to me that we were too far north for their eyes to breach the still water. Then a marker kindly pointed out that on irregular occasions, gators found refuge in these waters.Plenty of spots along the banks to hide a clutch of eggs became immediately evident.

From the swamp, we had to race daylight. Soon we camp upon the Ross Barnett Reservoir, a popular lake. Fishermen lounged on the banks, cyclists and runners crowded onto its trails. Mississippi definitely routed this portion of the Trace well, because it couldn't have served as a better introduction to the state's subdued capital.

Capitol One
Nancy offered to end our long drive at the Mississippi Capitol, letting me knock another center of government off my list. At 6 p.m. Friday, state government had long since called it a weekend. We briefly walked the grounds, and the near-total absence of people drove my paranoia. Aside from a car of Asian tourists and capitol police, downtown Jackson sat deserted.

I have no problem walking around Cheyenne, Wyoming in dawn’s freezing temperature, yet the abandoned Mississippi capitol sets off my alarms. Go figure. Massive, ancient trees obscured the building from a good picture, but I did the best with my limited photographic skills.

Some laws you don't agree with probably passed here.

Wandering back north of Jackson, we found a hotel and little more.  Hopes for local cuisine quickly skipped away and we just chilled in our hotel room. The 12-hour driving day sapped any desire to explore Jackson

On an overcast Saturday, we skipped breakfast in Jackson, opting for a rapid return to the Trace. A short interstate detour dropped us back onto the boatmen’s road. A morning bicycle race marked the first few miles, followed by great stretches absent of cars. A few Mississippi state troopers roared past, but mostly, we were alone with the thriving forests and occasional floodplains.

The former spring trickles onward.

A few turkeys and vultures intruded. We pulled off the byway at Owens Creek Waterfall, which housed a spring before the local water table fell. Whenever it rained, the small creek turned the rock formation into a drizzling waterfall. Recent storms gave us a demonstration of its flow, falling about 10 feet from a sharp ledge into a reflective pool that fed a small stream.

The last major stop came at the Sunken Trace, the notable remainders of the old road that shoes, pack animal hooves and carts trampled down the soft soil into a gully 15 feet deep. It was both the last gasp of the old road and its most dramatic cut.

The last 20 or so miles ticked away rapidly. We passed a few old homesteads and even with Natchez just miles away, traffic rarely intruded. Soon, the Trace hit Mile Zero and curved into one of Natchez's main routes, 444 miles from the Nashville entrance just west of the Loveless Cafe.

Natchez
Immediately the antebellum architecture and the stylish balconies on downtown's buildings spoke from a different era. Natchez sat high above the muddy Mississipi. After all our car time, we regrouped at a visitors center with nice views of the river and metal bridges tying Mississippi to Louisiana. Before we could proceed, in the event of something catastrophic, I had to take the cheap route to removing Louisiana from my list of unvisited states. We crossed the bridge into Vidalia and immediately returned.

Melrose Mansion, part of the Natchez National Historical Park.  At the Melrose House, a mansion included in the Natchez National Historical Park, we found the tours filled up and the ranger would not start a list for the next one until later in the day. So we strolled the grounds, which loomed quite similar to The Hermitage. We paced through a quiet garden away from the growing cadre of tourists swarming the estate's out-buildings.

Does it not resemble a giant foot with a pelican tattoo?

The drive from Natchez to Baton Rouge wore on me. We hadn’t eaten and the rolling landscape just east of the Mississippi could not captivate as the Trace had. But entering my 46th state could. At long last we came to the Louisiana border, only for the blue sign to be sullied with a Kony 2012 sticker. Fortunately, a more picturesque sign sat just one mile south.

The highway's pastoral hills grew increasingly industrial as we approached Baton Rouge. Never more than a few miles from the Mississippi, industry won out 20 miles form the capital. We diverted through some interesting neighborhoods. They might have been slums elsewhere (they might have been slums in Louisiana, actually), but the brightly hued homes beamed as the sun broke through the clouds for the first time since Friday. 

A few minutes on an interstate and we took a quiet exit to Baton Rouge's core. The rapid lesson in Louisiana culture was about to begin.

Capitol 2
Depending on who you ask, touching the Huey Long bullet holes seemed an act either sacred or blasphemous. But Louisiana wants you to see them.

The capitol is deceptive. In pictures, it looks like another office building, lacking the dome and stature of most state capitols. But few capitols anywhere can boast the lush gardens and artificial lakes surrounding the art deco tower.

America's tallest state capitol

Walking the grounds, we wandered among massive oaks, palmettos and of course, the gravestone of Louisiana's most famous politician, Gov. and Sen. Huey Long. You want a socialist? Take a look at Long, who's modernization plan for the state and "every man a king" philosophy surely fit that ethos. Corrupt and larger than life, he prodded the state legislature to approve this capitol, moving it out of a fortress-like building overlooking the Mississippi.

Statues, columns and decorations adorned the lower level exterior. Forty-eight steps led to the entrance, one for each state at the time of construction (Alaska and Hawaii later had to shared a step). The capitol was open for visitors on Saturday and although everyone went through a stringent security checkpoint, anyone could breeze up to the 27th floor observation deck. from the gardens below we could see a handful of spectators circling the distant deck. Flags, portraits and other features garnished the main hall. In a rear hall where Long took the fatal bullets. A plaque marks the spot, as do several holes i the marble. Across the

In seconds we shot from the lobby to the 24th floor, where we boarded a tiny elevator bound for the observation deck.   A lone security guard invited us to take as much time as we liked looking down on Baton Rouge, LSU, the Mississippi and the rolling green hills to the west. The grounds themselves remained the top attraction. This seat of government was still an active port. Barges, container ships and tugboats busied themselves on the waters below. 

Even from 350 feet up, Huey Long's grave held on as the focal point. Assassinated or not, the man ensured a massive legacy. The wind whipped as we rounded deck, looking out on the governor's mansion, the Arsenal, the massive refinery to the north, and the slow Saturday pace of a downtown dominated by government. Eventually, we descended just as rapidly. We stood in few places higher or more impressive on this jaunt down the Trace and beyond.

Taken from the 27th floor balcony. Huey Long statue stands in the middle.

Back to the grounds, we ambled past the armory, a bust of George Washington and a copy of the Liberty Bell. Before we would leave, one more Indian burial mound awaited us.
At the edge of the Louisiana Capitol complex, this 1,000-year-old burial site had been turned into a battery topped by Civil War-era cannons.

If any Southern state were to deviate from the state capitol template it would be Louisiana. It is a place apart, and should be applauded for standing out. The accents ring different here, the French Huguenot character shines even in the smallest cities. In a short visit to Baton Rouge, we could feel the change from the other Southern states we passed through.
 
Miracle Springs
The short interstate drive from Baton Rouge to Covington barely registered. Our rapid schedule large ignored the need to eat and now, we both grew hungry. Most restaurants surrounding the capitol closed for the weekend so we had no choice but to press forward to Abita Springs. The town known for its curative waters also birthed the Southeast's oldest craft brewery. While Abita's operations moved south across Lake Pontchartrain to New Orleans, its presence in the town of 2,000-plus has not diminished.

We parked next to a two-story pavilion preparing for a wedding reception. The pavilion came from the 1884 World's Fair in New Orleans. It was no Sunsphere, but its stately Southern design fit Abita Springs busy round-about perfectly.  It was too easy to sit back and observe the wedding crowd, but empty stomachs prevailed.

Wadding at Abita Springs Pavilion

We found the innocuous brewpub where it all started just off the main block in Abita Springs. At this little site, the Abita Brewing story began; those small tanks held its first ales. The brewpub's menu quickly eased our hunger with a plate of crawfish cakes with a remoulade, followed by quail for Nancy and jambalaya for me. Oh, and did I leave out the beer? Not at all.We had a few but not enough to dull our senses.

After acquiring a few hard-to-find Abita bottle at Artique's Abita Market, we explored the rest of Abita Springs. Traffic clogged the little circle so we moved toward a row of restaurants and banks. Further down, we found the town hall. On it porch, a bluegrass band swung through a set of hymns and standards. People congregated next to the street and the acoustic tones broke up the hum of evening traffic.

Saturday bluegrass on the town hall porch.

With twilight looming, we turned south from Abita Springs. There would be no night in New Orleans; it would only shortchange the Crtescent City experience (not to be confused with the Crescent City, California experience, which will shortchange you).

After a night in Slidell, we gave into highway necessity. With 400-plus miles to go, we cut up from the Gulf Coast through a number of places where we barely stopped (Hattiesburg, Meridian), leaving behind the flatland for the rolling hills of Alabama and the surprisingly steep ones that fold across Birmingham. We crossed back into Tennessee by early afternoon. Any Trace-like character on those highways was pure coincidence.