With winter comes the call of Reelfoot

Bald eagle nest on the Mississippi River levee,

Winter trips for Reelfoot Lake always involve meteorological guessing. The lake’s wintering bald eagles pick the most unpredictable months of the year to soar and next in northwest Tennessee. Polar vortices, el Nino and the odd storm patterns of Tennessee winters muddy the forecast. Originally we planned on Valentine’s weekend. Then came a call from the bed and breakfast owners warning us about the incoming storm. The hosts were kind enough to let us defer for a week so we didn’t have to brave icy farm and levee roads to observe eagles.

The weeklong delay replaced freezing rain with spring temperatures. With binoculars and a picnic lunch we set off for Reelfoot. From Nashville, Nancy and I seem to travel west least. Beyond the Piney River, site of many kayaking trips, I know little. We’ve taken our trips, but the drive to Memphis can feel longer than 200 miles if you don’t find some ways to break it up. Most of the state parks touted on exit signs are 30-plus miles away, so they aren’t easy options.

Enlarge to see the white bison

Before and after Reelfoot, it was a weekend for roadside attractions in Tennessee’s west half. We found some new gems. On our drive home, we stopped at Patty’s Drive-Thru, a burger shack off I-40 in Wildersville. Given the price of our meals, I expected a catch. Instead Patty’s delivered grilled burgers better than most fast-casual chains. Paired with shakes, fries and onions, we didn’t need another meal that Sunday. The small building could easily be missed for the chains that rule interstate exits, yet Wildersville boasts a burger joint worth revisiting.

Tiny piglet

The road threw other curveballs. A dozen miles past Jackson, we got the warning – keep your thumbs on the sides of the food tub as the animals eat from it. We passed the Tennessee Safari Park on other Reelfoot excursions. Seeing its ostrich, deer and antelope on the soft West Tennessee hills, we almost wanted to stop – almost.

This time we did. Driving up the admission booth, a peacock strutted past us and zebras lounged in an nearby enclosure. Home to Tennessee’s first herd of bison, the safari park hosts 80 different species and a three-mile drive replete with exotic deer, antelope, emus, ostrich, llamas, swine and cattle. Every animal that sampled from the food buckets attempted to try it from our hands. An aggressive llama succeeded in acquiring Nancy’s and a diminutive donkey nearly pulled mine to the ground.

Waiting for food

The zebras and bison were penned off in separate enclosures outside the drive-through area. At a distance the bison could not hide their herd’s rare member, a white bison. The circumstances of the bull’s odd color were not immediately apparent, but its beauty was unmistakable, an alabaster mound among the reclining herd.

 At the drive’s end, camels loomed large, standing in a cordoned-off area. These imposing creatures get the last of the food buckets, posing with the plastic tubs on their snouts.

No bucket escapes the camels

 We skipped the walking portions of the safari, eager to press onto Reelfoot. Somewhere along these lonely roads we glanced the trip’s first hawk, always the first of dozens more. Past Dyersburg, the land irons out any hills; only water towers and distant forests break up the farm fields and small towns.

Down a farm road in Tiptonville, we found our lodging in a large 19th-century farmhouse. The Dragon Fly Inn was a bed and breakfast, with its four second-story bedrooms converted into guest suites. All modern, the inn anchored itself in another era, from its dark wood interior to its wide comfortable porch. To city dwellers far removed from food production, it might have seemed a throwback, but farms cover broad expenses of Lake and Obion counties. Across the street a wheeled irrigation system stood dormant, at least for a few more weeks.

The whole area felt anxious, with spring about to erupt beneath our feet. A few 60-degree days enlivened millions of frogs. At dusk they hopped across the roads, tiny yet almost impossible to miss in their vast numbers.

 This year, almost all our eagle sighting came away from the lake. On Saturday night we stopped at one of the observation towers near dusk. The wide, muscled wings of a juvenile bald eagle broke against the hazy night, frogs chirping and legions of ducks laughing in the reeds. The binocular soon gave us no advantage as night swarmed over Reelfoot, the moon futile in efforts to punch through the clouds.

Tiptonville is a quintessential small town, kept alive by the Mississippi and a nearby prison. After a long-awaited picnic and a swing around Reelfoot Lake, we stopped at the Dairy Queen for a cone and a sundae, timing our visit between the waves of locals stopping by. Unexpected menu items included chuck wagon and fried okra. While there were also crowds at a handful of restaurants on the lake’s southern shore, the DQ was the nexus of activity in Tiptonville on Saturday night.

With little nightlife in these parts, we split a bottle of rose Champagne intended for Valentine’s Day and played our first-ever rounds of dominoes. From the open window came an assertive breeze, cold to where we completely comfortable under the bedding. Day came to us in bluish light thrown out by an overcast morning.

Sunday’s first sighting was no eagle, just a northwest Tennessee oddity. The railroad tracks parallel the primary route on the lake’s western edge. A lone cat trotted down the railroad tracks, bound for parts unknown or on off to stalk from its choice of winter’s bird bounty. Juveniles were highly active in the morning, especially near the Black Bayou Wildlife Management Area. We drove through the swamp, scouting for raptors and only glancing a few. Eagles’ innate dislike of humans leads them to settle in such isolated spots with good fishing grounds.

Some eagles stay around Reelfoot year-round, but winter brings the largest concentration, more than 200, one of the biggest populations outside Alaska. They mate for life and return to the same nests year after year. When searching for eagles, their size and white heads quickly remove any doubt of its identity. The bald eagle’s majesty is unchallenged. I doubt I will ever lose my sense of awe when observing those giant wings and hooked beaks.

Heading to the Mississippi levee, the surefire place to spot eagles, we passed a flock of snow geese several hundred strong. They took to their defensive tornado formation as we slowed to observe them, less than a dozen birds sticking to the ground.

After some sunrise searching brought us four immature eagles plus a dozen deer, multiple raptors from tiny kestrels to larger hawks and scores of waterfowl, we returned for the meal portion of our B and B stay. Along with the inn owners and another couple staying for the weekend - they drove from Blue Ridge country in Virginia to knock the Reelfoot eagles off the bucket list – we had a giant breakfast of honey biscuits, sausage, scrambled eggs and sausage gravy. The conversation propelled us for an hour or more, then we resumed our eagle hunt. The levees awaited.

Overcast skies would not let the sun emerge, complicating our ability to spot brown birds among the barren trees. Even in the dense riverfront foliage, full of thickets that easily mask nests and birds, the massive eagle nests were impossible to miss. Usually wedged into the crook of a tree, the nests The occupants often take vigil among nearby trees. Bulbous black shapes in the upper branches were usually eagles. Even in silhouette, they cannot be mistaken for any other bird.

 The levee is not a lonely place in eagle season. Cars rumbled by. Some slowed to see if we spotted eagles, telescopic lenses leaning out of SUVs. In the distance a Tennessee state parks school bus plodded ahead, confirming our path’s prospects. We hadn’t see any outside of shadows – until we did.

An everyday occurrence on hte Mississippi levee

Our best encounter came on Eagle No. 11. Nancy spotted while I drive along the levee. We came to a bend and there it sat, 70 feet up a tree but closest we saw all morning. We put the car in park and watch the eagle for 10-15 minutes, passing the binoculars back and forth, watching it scan the area and occasionally staring straight at us. If we moved or talked too much, the eagle took more interest. I expected its departure at any second. These raptors avoid humans when they can - hard to blame them for that attitude - we edged upon its territory. Until we rolled away, the eagle stayed at attention, head pivoting in military precision.

Kentucky Bend cemetery marker

To wrap our visit to Tennessee’s northwest corner, we journeyed to the bend at the end of Kentucky. Known as the Kentucky Bend and the New Madrid Bend, the bulb of land is a geographic oddity cut off from the rest of the Bluegrass State. Unconnected to the rest of the state, an isthmus of Tennessee connects to the Kentucky Bend, otherwise surrounded by the twisting Mississippi.

There wasn’t much to see. Towns named on the map were unincorporated, little clusters of houses, some surrounded by junked appliances or fleets of scavenged cars. We stopped at a family plot, one of the few landmarks on a wide swatch floodplain down for a few dozen residents.

It is easy to disregard a plain below the Mississippi but many generations worked this land, some against their will. The worn stones of family graveyards beat silent tribute to life on an bend forgotten by all but geography nerds. Odds are good that Kentucky Bend's early residents also knew the sight of eagles hunting and soaring in their skies. The birds were witnessed by Indian tribes, farmers, slaves and now we travel to this distant part of Tennessee for the same privilege.