Driving the Natchez Trace Parkway is an ethereal experience.  The Trace is an historic two lane roadway which runs for 444 miles from Nashville, TN to Natchez, MS. It is administered by the National Park Service. Originally a buffalo trail, it was used by native Indians. Then was tramped by early settlers who rafted their products on flat bottom boats all the way from the Ohio River basin to the Mississippi river and down to Natchez or New Orleans. The settlers, who did not want to beat upstream against the mighty “Miss,” sold their boats for lumber and walked back home. It sounds to me like a rough and tough way to return home. And after driving the Trace from northeastern MS all the way to Natchez I can appreciate the hardships of the trail. The land is all extremely flat but the waterways and wetlands are formidable.

     As I drive south I have Michelle Obama’s excellent book on my bluetooth.  The roadway has no wires, telephone poles, no signs or billboards.  Discreet brown wooden signs with small white letters announce the historic stops along the way.  It is a green parkland with little elevation. It runs through forests of light green spring leaves and agricultural fields covered with golden mustard weed.  I see signs for a hiking trail which covers much of the route but the Trace itself is a Mecca for bikers who are accorded the whole lane of the highway.   Bikers have the right of way and the speed limit is only 50 MPH for cars. No trucks allowed, although large RV’s are allowed.

     In my drive, I think about the fact that I have passed the place where Merriweather Lewis died. I have passed through the cities of Tupelo and Jackson without knowing I was in a city. I have bought coffee off the Trace in Kosciusko where Oprah Winfry was born. The road is so smooth it is a dream to drive.  I think about too, the fact that this is Choctow, Cherokee and Chickasaw country before the tribes were marched partway up the Trace in the Trail of Tears.

     

     I stop at the Mississippi Center for Crafts and of course fall for a handwoven basket of pine needles and birch bark. Then I indulge in a late lunch of gumbo made from chicken, shrimp and sausage as well as spices, vegetables and rice. It is so good I buy more to take along.  As I chow down on my gumbo the waitress, Kelly moseys over to chat. She is curious about me and where I am from.  She warns me that if I am caught speeding on the Trace it will garner me a ticket $300 more than a ticket in town.  Apparently the National Park Service takes speeding seriously. Back in the car I put on the cruise control to cap my speed, something I don’t normally do when I have a book on the bluetooth.  Most of the time I have the the entire road to myself with no one in either direction.

     I stop at a cypress and water tupelo swamp with access via a boardwalk.  I question my sanity because of fear of snakes but none drop from the trees. Back in my car I read that I might also have encountered an alligator or armadillo.  I look what a picture of a water tupelo looks like but can’t determine the difference between it and the cypress. Both type of trees seem to be able to survive with very wet feet.

     I take possession of the last available spot at the Jeff Busby Campground. All campgrounds are first come, first serve while some are only for bikers.  It is raining lightly so I crack every window for ventilation, happy that I have installed rain guards on the windows.  I sleep on the woods side of the car, so I leave the window privacy boards off.  As the rain eases I look out onto a fairy-like kingdom. The fireflies are out in force. They blink and wink with the brightest white. Off in the distance there are flashes of far away lightning.