A spur of the moment detour has Jeff Davison exploring New Orleans’ French Quarter, its unique cemeteries and the full length of the historic Natchez Trace.
The route was just obscure enough that there was not even a Welcome sign. But the Cajun accent that greeted me at a roadside stand serving shrimp and crawdads told me exactly where I was. Other clues were that a county was now a parish, a dentist’s office was in a house trailer and Linda Ronstadt’s “Blue Bayou” was playing in my head. It was not on my itinerary to explore Louisiana, but as I traversed its northern width, a siren song began calling my V-strom 650 south toward New Orleans. The conversation between the voices, murmuring into each ear from my shoulders, went like this:
“It’s a four-hour ride one way on the bike.”
“Yeah, but it’s a four-hour ride one way on the bike.”
And that settled it. Highway 71 led through small towns like Montgomery and Colfax, as well as through the congestion of Baton Rouge. Approaching “Nawlins,” I began to see moss hanging from every tree and the highways became long, low bridges that skimmed above the spillways and bayous below. I checked into India House Hostel, where I found a comfortable bed and, even more important, air conditioning. In the humidity of the Deep South, that alone was worth the $20. But first, I paid a visit to the French Quarter, where I enjoyed historic Jackson Square and the bustling nightlife of Bourbon Street. Even on a weeknight, the clubs were jumping and the buskers were hustling, and an ambitious speaker of Creole convinced me that my boots needed shining. In the downtown core, I rode past a small tent city of homeless people taking shelter under a tangle of overpasses, then past the sports dome where thousands had taken shelter during Hurricane Katrina.
Ahead of the Storm
The cemetery is an old one, but the defining feature of most cemeteries in the Big Easy is that loved ones are “buried” in crypts aboveground. This is due to the very high water table (the city is largely below sea level) and buried caskets used to find their way to the surface – not exactly the hoped-for resurrection. A stroll through the cemetery was like wandering narrow streets between tiny stone apartment buildings.
Following River Road north, I crossed straight canals that were dredged and named like city streets leading out into the swamps, and I passed an airboat or two docked on the banks. The sight of Oak Alley Plantation stopped me in my tracks. Twenty-eight massive Virginia live oaks in two columns stretched from the mansion to the Mississippi River. Established as a sugar cane plantation in 1830, Oak Alley once enslaved more than 220 African-Americans. A tour of the Big House, followed by the slave quarters, gave a glimpse into the injustices that occurred on these grounds.
Beyond the towns of New Roads and False River, I rode through thousands of hectares of sugar cane, giving way gradually to corn and soybeans. Often the road ran along the top of the 12-metre-high levee, so that on my left I had an overview of the crops growing in the rich delta soil and, on my right the mighty Mississippi heavy with laden barges.
A Deep South History Lesson
Natchez Trace, the trail they followed, had been an old Native American trading route. Later used to deliver the U.S. mail, it also served as a military road for moving troops during the War of 1812. For many years, Kaintuck farmers floated their crops downriver to markets in New Orleans, then had to walk the Trace up to 800 km to return home. It was a dangerous journey, braving heat, mosquitoes, poor food and sucking swamps. Not to mention thieves who were well aware that these travellers carried their entire year’s earnings with them.
Today, the National Park Service administers the Natchez Trace Parkway, which approximates the path of the original Trace through a protected corridor of forest and field. Had I not carried maps, I would have been unaware of civilization nearby. The road is a narrow two-laner with no shoulder and a relaxed 70 km speed limit. The pavement was almost always in perfect condition, and what it lacks in curves, it makes up for in historic stops every few kilometres. It was lightly travelled – even on Memorial Day weekend – and the ratio of bikes to cars was better than average.
I stopped at Mount Locust, the only remaining of more than 50 inns once found along the Trace. At Route 552, I turned west and followed Rodney Road, a wonderfully winding back road through thick forest to see Windsor Ruins, an 1861 plantation mansion that survived the Civil War only to be destroyed by fire in 1890. All that remains are crumbling columns and rusting ironwork.
Enough For One Day
Light was beginning to fade as I pulled into Rocky Springs, one of three free but primitive campgrounds on the parkway. The night was so clear that even the half-moon cast shadows, and so many fireflies filled the oak and hickory trees that it looked like Christmas. Two owls asked each other “Who?” far into the night.
I awoke well rested to a choir of songbirds, complete with the percussion of a woodpecker. The unmistakable whistling of an elk rounded out the opus. In Port Gibson for my morning coffee and fuel, I found myself immersed in southern black culture. The matronly woman behind the counter said, “What you want, baby?” and “Yo change is 45 cints, baby.” And when three loitering older men began to flirt with the female customers (whom they all seemed to know), she said to me with a smirk, “Ah ’pologize fo’ de reg’lars.”
North of Jackson, dark clouds began to threaten, so I pulled over to button, zip and Velcro every opening in my gear. Almost immediately, however, my waterproof boots were filled to the ankles. At Jeff Busby Campground, the second free campground on the Trace, I called it a day. The tropical storm had caught up with me and I hunkered into my bivy to wait it out.
I awoke to a misty, overcast morning, concerned that the storm in the Gulf of Mexico may be following me north. But by 10 o’clock, the sun was shining and cotton puffs adorned a bright blue sky. I put on my walking shoes and strapped the wet boots on top of my luggage, tongues to the wind, and by afternoon they were completely dry.
A Rich Musical History
At Tupelo, I veered off the Trace to visit the boyhood home of Elvis Presley. A museum stands between the house and the (relocated) church where Elvis absorbed his first musical influences. I also dropped into Tupelo Hardware, which continues to operate much as it did in 1946 when his mother bought him his first guitar for $7.90.
Farther north, the Trace cuts through a corner of Alabama and I detoured again, this time to Tuscumbia, the birthplace of Helen Keller. It was inspiring to hear in detail how this amazing young woman overcame incredible disabilities and obstacles. Before I left town, I also had to visit the Alabama Music Hall of Fame. The list of talent is striking, from Emmylou Harris to Lionel Richie to Tommy Shaw of Styx. It was too late in the day to visit the famous studios in Muscle Shoals, but I began to hum the tunes of artists who recorded there, including the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, and, of course, Lynyrd Skynyrd.
When Opportunity Knocks
Nearing the end of the day, I stopped on the banks of the Tennessee River, where, in the early 1800s, a half-Chickasaw entrepreneur named George Colbert ran an inn, farmed and operated a ferry. Where travellers of the Trace had no alternative, Colbert saw opportunity, once charging Andrew Jackson $75,000 to ferry his Tennessee Army across the river.
Arriving at Meriwether Lewis Campground in Tennessee, the third and final free campground, I discovered a memorial to Lewis, the talented secretary to Thomas Jefferson and half of the Lewis and Clark duo that mapped a route to the Pacific. This was the location of Lewis’ mysterious death in 1809 at the age of 35. A light sprinkle kept me looking skyward as I unrolled my bivy and cooked dinner on my camp stove. I soon found myself in conversation with four neighbouring campers who between them had 74 years of trucking experience and, by their own description, were “as redneck as Tennessee makes ’em.” As we said our goodnights, one of the wives handed me her flashlight/billy club.
“Here. You should have this, travelling alone,” she said. Then taking my hand in both of hers, she added, “Be safe.”
Morning came early but it was clear and sunny. I was on the Trace before 7 o’clock and almost as quickly turned off the road. I had heard about Yoder’s Homestead Market, and I thought I’d get breakfast there. But when I pulled up, it was closed.
“I thought the Amish got up early,” I said to myself. “I saw Witness.”
Then I realized it was Sunday. Of course they were closed!
So I continued on to Leiper’s Fork, one of the oldest American villages on the Trace. It was a picturesque little gathering of shops, including Puckett’s Grocery, where I intended to stop for fuel and coffee. But when I smelled the biscuits and gravy, I had to settle into a booth and place an order. Several bikes were parked out front, and riders sat at the open-air tables enjoying the morning sunshine.
After riding through days of forests, centuries of history and little to remind me of modern civilization, I came at last to Mile Marker 447, the northern terminus of the Trace. That brought me to the city of Nashville with all its rush and glitter – which could be an adventure in itself. But as I turned my front wheel toward home, I knew I’d be thinking back longingly to the quiet nights and pensive days along forgotten paths.
