Our secret campground

On a scenic parkway near Nashville, Nancy and I have a favorite retreat, a square of tough, rocky earth on bluff cut by a meandering creek. You can’t see the creek from the campground, but its influence is everywhere. The scenic parkways origins date millennia. The road evolved out of a ridgetop bison path, then into a pathway for Native American tribes who hunted them.

 An American pioneer was buried here, his death a mystery with no solution. The suicide or homicide debate can find no resolution. His final resting place is in a quiet pocket of Tennessee, a place in the country despite its roots in commerce. This was among the Southeast's first highways, when Kentucky boatmen took their goods downriver , sold their ships and walked back.

Deserted on Sunday morning

We don’t come here nearly enough. When we do, we found the campsite mostly deserted. On this trip, I counted all of five occupied site among the 30-plus sites. A free public campground deep in the Tennessee woodlands seems like a certain draw. If anything, the campground draws more gawkers than campers. Parades of parkway travelers and motorcycle columns parade through the campground's two loops.

First-come, first-serve presented many excellent options. We took a secluded spot, posted our tent and stocked our woodpile.

After setting up the tent, we adjourned to the Metal Ford of the Buffalo River, where evidence of the 19th century iron works sits feet away from swimmers playing in its cool waters. The stony bottom – the ford from wagon road days – looks almost black even on the brightest days. This swimming hole for locals never felt crowded, and the waters on the Buffalo felt refreshing on bare feet. When the sun scrolled lazily above us, the heat was intense.

By early evening the summer air lost its bite. Our campfire burned steadily thanks to a supply of dry wood. After visiting Metal Ford, we just unwound, reading our respective books in the tent’s shadow and swatting away bugs. Our evening fire had a head-start – whoever occupied our site the previous night let their fire burn down but a number of hot coals hid among the firepit’s dunes of ash. As the fire settled into a bed of coals, we roasted chicken sausages and enjoyed the day’s second picnic.

Metal Ford

Of course one full campsite was adjacent to ours, a secluded site we once took. Most of the party rumbled off. As twilight sifted through the trees, they returned for an encore, doing who knows what while wasting the last of daylight. Once they lost the light, they decided to pack up their camp. The next day we would see the result of disassembling tents and canopies in total darkness – a trash-strewn campsite.

The composition of the campsite changes after dark. Nobody lurked about once the late departures chugged away. Almost no one -someone pulled up in the middle of the night, set up a one-person tent in the darkness then departed in the early hours. Before we broke down our temporary home, I spotted the man in question folding the poles of his tiny tent then heading out.  

On Sunday morning, the barred owls beat the daylight, conversing across the spindly forest. So long as I live, I will never tire of the barred owl’s taut, confidence voice. Hearing “who cooks for you, who cooks for you all” from the forest reminds me that wild and fantastic fauna never dwell far away. No one can escape their sharp, predatory tones even as they chatter across a broad valley.

With rain edging into the region, we packed up and cleared out. Scattered showers settled into a steadier downpour as we took the less scenic route home. After three visits, we safely expect to find an open spot whenever the urge to escape the city scratches at us.

One more from Metal Ford