Solitude and sweat at Merriweather Lewis

In a quiet corner of the campground at the Natchez Trace Parkway’s Merriweather Lewis unit, our only visitor came late at night. Fortunately, it was not the mostly naked man who loitered outside his camper in the tiniest blue shorts possible.

Had I bothered to lock up the cooler and picnic kit, our visitor might have skipped us altogether. The paw prints tell no lies, nor did the picnic kit crashing to the ground in the early a.m. An opportunistic raccoon scavenged for leftovers from our turkey dog roast. As I went outside he seemed as shocked as the crashing picnic set as we did. As soon as we crossed eyes, he darted into the dark, staying hidden until long after we packed our tent. 

I fretted about the camp’s first-come, first-serve policy – were we rolling the dice by heading up on a Saturday afternoon in deep summer Check any state park, Army Corps of Engineers property or public campground across the Southeast, and it likely had no vacancies. We decided to take a chance on Merriweather Lewis. My nature led me to expect we would arrive to a full campground. Who could resist the pull of a 30-spot free campground? Despite its location in a sparse area, I expected locals to claim all the spots. But I also tried not to sweat the chance we would be shut out.

Instead we pulled into a campground emptier than the one we found in April. The entire wing of the campground where we felt privileged to find a campsite was deserted save for one motor home. We picked a spot one away from our April choice, and paused for a picnic before setting up camp. As we assembled the tent a brief rainstorm rolled in and out. Afternoon’s still air was occasionally disrupted by ominous clouds but they disappeared by dusk, promising us a clear night. 

The 60-plus miles of scenic parkway breezed by, dumping us onto a less scenic detour in our shortest time ever. Despite the brutal temperatures and lack of cars, we even d a pair of young male deer, velvety bolts shooting up from their temples.

Even time we traverse the Trace, I’m amazed at the ignorance of its existence. I know lifelong Nashvillians who have never driven any section of the parkway. Tennessee doesn’t boast as much of the parkway as Mississippi (300 miles) or the scenic Tennessee River section in Alabama, but its section follows a ridgeline that draws visitors back to pioneer times.

Just a divide or two from the big city, we couldn’t feel farther away from Nashville when looking onto the Duck River or the massive farms that fill several valleys.

A lazy walk along the Old Trace does not illustrate the dangers of the old Southwest, the name for the region at the time it formed the western U.S. border. We only had to contend with the mostly naked man wandering around his camper. His outfit of tiny blue shorts and nothing else resembled Dancing Man, a one-off character on It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. At least he was easily ignored or avoided. We took the quick trip into Hohenwald for firewood then settled in. I spent close to an hour trying to ignite dampened firewood, a Firestarter of pine cones, needles and old editions of Texas Monthly finally bursting to a blaze worthy of hot dogs and S’mores.

Aside from the mostly naked man, no one occupied any of the campsites near our wing – no more than 10 of the 30 had occupants as twilight arrived. Silently we watched the light snare new color palettes through the trees, clouds producing a startling display to the west as the moon rose to our east. I walked to the bathroom house and upon emerging the world had emerged. Insects and possibly frogs chirped rhythmically, a pattern that would not cease until dawn broke. The rare lightning bug that crossed our path in the previous hour transformed into waves of them, thousands of bio-luminescent bugs pulsing for two hours past sundown. We watched the moon rise through the telescope Nancy just received as a gift.

In the morning, the woodpeckers that dominated the blooming trees of April finally made more than a passing appearance. Had they adjusted their schedule as the days grew longer and the Tennessee heat stagnated across their nesting grounds? It was a nice break in the morning, to see their red, black and white plumage through the thick, green canopy. As the heat accumulated early, we packed our gear and headed out, the mostly naked man still strutting around his camper.

East from the campsite, we took a rural, foothill route back to Nashville. A box turtle somehow lumbered across a narrow Lewis County road. We swerved to avoid it as its stubby claws reached the white line inches from the grass, its terrifying crawl successful. Not every turtle in Middle Tennessee survives so perilous a journey.