Nashville to Nashville (Brown County, 4th Day of July)

Already more of a seasoned camper than I

 Beyond a bluegrass band thumping away at Big Woods Pizza, I can’t speak for the music scene in Nashville, Indiana. The artist colony in southern Indiana charmed Nancy and I with its myriad shops and small-town friendliness. Every alley had secrets, opening onto courtyards with jewelers, woodworkers and more. Better still, it was only part of a brisk holiday weekend.

We left a rainy dawn in Nashville, storms delaying our trip north by a day. The campsite required a three-day minimum stay. Fortunately, they don’t give away sites if you show up late. Having no desire to assemble a new tent in the dark, we waited till morning.

Scarcely 70 miles from Louisville, as the rain finally began to break, we came to the other Nashville, the one with 800 residents. Like the Nashville further south, tourists flocked here, albeit in smaller numbers. The volume of campers and holiday travelers was high. But we had our site reserved.  We didn’t stay in Nashville. The trip’s purpose was always camping. Nancy had never slept in a tent, and we planned to remedy that in a wild pocket of Indiana.

Crossing a covered bridge and dealing with friendly staff at two guard shacks, we ambled into our weekend digs at Brown County State Park. Indian’s large park protects a large ridge in the state’s southern highlands.

The park roads converge on a ridge line. Opens in the tree canopy revealed rows of small bluish mountains. Similarities to the Great Smoky Mountains were not exaggerated.

As the rain dwindled, our tent arose. The Raccoon Ridge campground had a variety of camping lots, from small tent sites to the biggest mobile homes. At first our site seemed like a flat plot. Down a gradual incline, the tent pad, fire pit and picnic table sat below the parking spot. The campground architect had built privacy into places like Site 139. If we ever came back, we would pick the same spot.

In our little oasis, logs smoldered no matter how many fire starters we applied. All weekend we struggled to keep a fire lit. Between the rain and dense wood that stubbornly refused to burn, we counted ourselves lucky to have a some passable cooking fires and a few rounds of S’mores.

Strahl Lake

In the early afternoon the sun broke through and we hiked around Strahl Lake, one of the few large lakes in the park. Formed by a small concrete dam, days of rain muddied the trail that looped along the shore.

Before dinner I attempted to walk up the fire lookout, hoping for a quick picture of the ridges. About 40 feet up, I lost my nerve. The whole tower swayed with every step. When I stopped, it did not. Thinking back to the “climb at your own risk” warnings at ground level, I retreated to the car. The views I imagine would wait for a more stable platform.

Through the night we occupied ourselves with the fire, downing a few gin drinks and some campfire snacks.  The night passed perfectly. Camper noise died as quiet hours approached. The constant thud of beanbags on cornhole boards ended with daylight. Waking in the middle of the night, I was struck by the silence. For all the wildlife and people in a small area, only the faintest sounded survived at 3 and 5 a.m.

Morning blared to life. Ten minutes before quiet hours ended, a car alarm blared unnecessarily, and any inclination toward preserving the solitude vanished in a roar of waking campers and breakfast cornhole matches.

With zero chance of further sleep, we showered and decided to explore another nearby city of interest. The road crossed some hilly agricultural terrain as it wound into Bloomington. We came out into a campus of great beauty. Indiana University’s pristine buildings were surrounded by homes of equal age. The Independence Day parade wrapped as we arrived, closing streets and sending throngs of Bloomingtonians flocking for their cars.

The international flair of a major university town shined through in its culinary scene. We found a Middle Eastern café a few blocks from the parade route. The food was excellent, except for what I ordered. It could gently be called a mess, and I’ll leave it there in Bloomington. We took a post-lunch drive through town, exploring the crannies and avenues. Back in Brown County, we went swimming in the park’s giant pool. It was crowded but we carved out a little space in the water. I napped briefly at the campsite.

Even car-camping, it’s easy to let time slip away. It was July 4, and fireworks were in order. Unlike 2014, we would watch a professional display, not hundreds of amateurs illuminating every sandy span of the Florida Panhandle. First, we had to explore Nashville a little. We had pizzas and beers while waiting on fireworks. Big Woods Pizza serves brews from both Quaff On Brewing.

Nashville woodwork

I had seen suburban fireworks, but never small-town fireworks. The flags rippled on nearly every truck rolling through town. People swarmed toward the ball fields where the county had lined up its launchers.

Without a breeze, the firework smoke had nowhere to go. Clouding the valley well before the display ended, the crowd’s enthusiasm never waned. Gratefully the state park did not allow fireworks so once we left Nashville, we had no worried about enduring any personal late-night launches.

We sat around the fire as the coals slowly burnt out. Soon I began sinking into my chair, and snapping awake one too many times, crawled off to the tent, where Nancy joined me shortly.

Silence again enveloped the Indian night. Temperatures never felt uncomfortable. A little chill crept into the air, as it does whenever the only separating us from the element is a tent’s thin walls and a sleeping bag.

As Sunday began, campers scrambled to tear down their temporary homes. We slowly wrapped up our gear and filled the Scion. The last day of camping always feels sad. Without another night of night in the woods ahead of us, it’s best just to pack and go.

 We left the interstate in Sellersburg to find somewhere to eat. We ended up on gritty industrial roads flanked by factories and mills. In the distance, a familiar skyline reminded us of how close we were to Louisville.

Our plans changed immediately and we soon found ourselves on Bardstown Road. The culinary choices ran thick but we ran with Cumberland Brews, a small microbrewery with a broad food menu. Nancy had a BLT and I could pick nothing but the bison quesadilla. Over lunch, we began plotting our next camping trip.