A night on the Natchez Trace

Waving happily next to an assembled tent

When a Natchez Trace trip looms close, the anticipation runs high. The quiet parkway and (relatively) wild lands west of Nashville calls, and everything in our path urges us forward. In economical flaps, a bald eagle flew high above the Harpeth River. The grumbles generated by 10-lane highways will disappear when we curve onto the Trace.

We barely earned a moment’s peace at Baker Bluff thanks to a family that immediately proved ill-suited to the Jackson Falls connector trail, yelling and crying after a few steps into the trees. A red-tailed hawk vied with vultures for shreds of roadkill. After an easy drive down the Trace, a 15-mile detour cropped up a half-mile from our campground. Despite the bumpy road, state Route 20 passed along and over Big Swan Creek, spitting us out to where we could almost see where the detour began.

Baker Bluff

Soon we stood on a ridge above Little Swan Creek, surveying the wilderness around the Merriweather Lewis Monument. I’ve written about this place before – along with remains of an inn where Lewis died in 1809, the site houses his grave and a stone monument. On our half-dozen Trace trips together (Nancy has visited twice as many times than I), we never stayed on the Trace itself. The first-come, first-serve primitive campground seemed a good place for a night. Assembling our tent and campsite, the beauty of the site became apparent – our plot sloped down toward the creek, woodpeckers drumming on nearby trees.

 The 32-site campground was mostly full - Sprinkled between the Tennessee plates were campers from Quebec, South Dakota and Michigan. With a convoy of at least four mobile homes and a few other cars, Quebec outnumbered all others.

Either murdered or dead at his own hand, Lewis came to this stand, one of a series of inns for Trace travelers, much as we came to camp. It’s a natural stopping point, perfect for a scenic campground. Here we were, camping just off the Old Trace, with only the open sky and dense woods surrounding us. Sure, we had a car and a scenic parkway to bring us here, not a muddy footpath forged by migrating bison herds, used by Indians then 19th century merchants. By 21st century standards, the area is far from major cities and still rustic.

We took a quick run into Hohenwald for firewood and ice, then turned south to the Metal Ford of the Buffalo River. Home to an iron works and a conveniently shallow point in the Buffalo, the waters don’t appear drastically different from peak Trace years. Larger rivers along the Trace like the Tennessee and the Duck required ferries. Metal Ford was fordable except following rainstorms. We didn’t see another person at the often-busy river access; in summer, fishing and swimming dominate the banks.

Nancy at Metal Ford

Alone with the river, we waded in its chilled, clear water, sun shining down to the river’s stony bottom. Reddish-green grasses covered great patches of stone except where the currents swept too strongly. Schools of tiny translucent fish queued where a creek flowed into the Buffalo and formed a rocky delta. Metal Ford was a hard place to leave, especially when we claimed it for ourselves.

Strange grasses in the Buffalo

If the campground ever needed another name, it would be hard to do better than Woodpecker Ridge.
Neither of us had ever seen such large concentrations of woodpeckers. In small campground loop we saw nearly two dozen birds scouting trees or grubs and other insects shaken by their pecks. They sparred with each other, clicked and chirped a language with several intricate calls. They pulled meal after meal from the lean, towering trees that swayed lazily in irregular forceful winds. Among the came a pair of scarlet tanagers (brilliant crimson bodies and heads, black wings) and a tufted titmouse (crested head and … tee-hee-hee). The sun’s angle sent the shadows of soaring crows whisking across our campsite.

Our bird-watching escapades passed the late afternoon until time for a campfire arrived. Thanks to some well-dried wood and help from collected pine cones and needles, the flames burned smoothly well into the night. As we scanned for birds, the moon emerged, barely visible against the cerulean afternoon.

At 73 percent full, the moon brightened the entire campground. When walking around we had no need for headlamps or flashlights. The spindly trees on the ridge had only begun to sprout, giving the moonlight ample space to shine into the campground. Conversation carried us through a round of hot dogs and S’mores till the fire’s coals gave out, the moon still aglow.

When nature called hours after the moon vanished, I studied the dark canopy. Despite the moon’s absence, the walk was tolerable without artificial light. I found myself amazed at the amount of light pollution cast from Hohenwald. The pale-lemon glow rimmed the sky. Only when red and pale blue appeared among the yellows did I realize the first thrashes of dawn illuminated the horizon. My mind lagged behind my body in waking up.

Sunset from Merriweather Lewis

At one end of the campground, a barred owl’s classic series of hoots rose up from the hollow. As I reached our camp, a different owl broke out the same call. Having not grown up around owls, I never tire of the barred owl speaking from a hidden perch. As I lied down again, the dawn's chorus of bird calls erupted. In and out of sleep, as the dawn progressed, the woodpeckers resumed their hunt.

Later in the morning we strolled again. The Quebec convoy moved on, a group of middle-aged motorcyclists paraded off and only a few sites stayed occupied. As we started on breakfast, our neighbor stopped over.

The night before he stopped us while we walked around camp, asking if we came from Colorado - coincidentally we both wore shirts bearing the state’s flag. He came from Alabama, made homemade items for camping, aloe soaps and other items, then camped, hiked and climbed in his other time. When we arrived, we noted his camp chair made from two interlocking pieces of timber. He made that too.

Most of Saturday we saw him working on projects from fishing lures to leather belts. I didn’t want to raise his ire by disturbing a craftsman immersed in the creative process. We talked about outdoor adventuring, with him pointing us to several free campgrounds in Alabama on the Tennessee River and mentioning sites near Chattanooga where we might camp. We traded pleasantries as he walked off, tore his modest camp and drove off. Then came our turn for the same.

There’s an openness about camping I miss in daily life. By stepping into that campground, that little place never even considered by most people, we enter into a little fraternity of people whose only common bond is close proximity. We may never see any of them again, but people greet each other affably and few people refuse conversation. Out of cellphone range, nature takes over and it’s not as hostile as we might expect. Otherwise you will never know the trees thick with woodpeckers, glimpse the lives of campers you wouldn’t otherwise encounter or feel the warmth of an unfinished moon.