May, 2017 | oldognewtrek

French Camp, Music to my Ears

“I discovered that my own little postage stamp of native soil was worth writing about and that I would never live long enough to exhaust it.”

William Faulkner

On April 21,2017 I traveled 80 miles from Tupelo to French Camp, Mississippi. Along the way I passed the Chickasaw Council Grounds, the old trace, a 1540 camp site of Hernando De Soto, the Tombigbee National Forest, the Bynum Indians Mounds, Pigeon Roost, the Black Belt, Jeff Busby Campground, and finally arrived at French Camp. Today’s trekking rolled slowly uphill from Tupelo (279′) in Lee County to French Camp (419′) in Choctaw County. The trace rode through the Black Prairie, over the Pontotoc Ridge through the Flatwood Region and on to the North Central Hills. The trace kept to the high ground between the swamps of the Big Black River to the West (pic below) and the Yockanookany River, a tributary of the Pearl River to the East.

The winds remained light and variable with partially cloudy skies (pic above). The afternoon temperature reached the high 80’s on this quiet road. Once again the Trace ( Old French tracier, to follow a course or trail, to make one’s way) was well maintained and lightly traveled by cars and campers. I ambled past miles of black, flat farmland and golden hay fields that had been round baled. After climbing the Pontotoc Ridge, an overlook ajoining the Natchez Trace (mile 253) provided a panorama of the Black Belt, the fertile land I had just bike across. In 1800 that black soil fueled settler’s dreams of cotton plantations, as state officials ignored previous treaties, and forced the Indian Nations west of the Mississippi in a “Trail of Tears.” The pic below shows a map and dates of the treaties. With the Indian Removal Act of 1830, President Jackson expelled the Chickasaw Nation to Oklahoma . I include a pic of Line Creek, the water boundary the Choctaw and Chickasaw Indians had observed for centuries.

On a lighter note, Van Morrison was playing on Spotify and it wasn’t long before I heard the song “Tupelo Honey.” Tupelo Honey the food has a light amber color, with a delicious and distinctive flavor. Tupelo Honey, unmixed with other honeys, will not granulate due to the high levulose content (44%) and low dextrose ratio (30%). Gnomeboy says, ” It’s a thick, slow-moving river of liquid sunshine” (pic below) born in the swamps.

The name “tupelo,” literally means “swamp tree” in the language of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation. In North America, there are several species of tupelo: black, black gum, swamp tupelo, water tupelo. Tupelo Honey is produced from the Nyssa ogeche, commonly referred to as Ogeechee tupelo, white tupelo, river lime, ogeechee lime tree, or sour gum. For three weeks every spring tupelo trees in the Southeastern swamps bloom with fine sunburst-shaped flowers. Beekeepers barge bee hives into swamps near groves of tupelo trees (pic above) and let the honeybees collect the golden nectar just like in the movie Ulee’s Gold.

Well, so much for my sweet rift about Tupelo Honey. I’m drifting down the Trace with Tupelo,Mississippi, the old trace (pic above), and Bynum Indian Mounds (pic below) miles behind me. By late afternoon I caught up with my Cincinnati gang at French Camp.

At five in the afternoon we ate dinner at the Academy’s restaurant. The students prepared and served smoked turkey sandwiches with homemade bread. They also prepared a delicious mushroom soup made from scratch. After dinner we sat on the front porch and watched the sunset (pics below). What a great day. I slept in the main log cabin with a modern bath and wifi. Pat and company occupied a two story log cabin. The following morning we had a delicious country breakfast before we said our goodbyes. They drove back to Cincinnati (pic below) after a line of storms had passed.

French Camp dates back to circa 1810, when Frenchman, Louis Le Fleur, established a trading post and inn. The Choctaw natives and others in the area called it the Frenchman’s Camp. Later it was shortened to French Camp. In 1818 the Presbyterians established a mission to educate the Choctaw Indians.

French Camp’s mission is to educate and provide direction for children from troubled Mississippi households. In addition to their studies, the children and young adults help manage the bed and breakfast, the Council House Cafe, the gift shop, the pottery shop, and the grounds. The academy created a sense of community, a direction, and purpose for these wandering souls. In the Mississippi boondocks the school keeps the students busy as bees And in the process the students discover the sweetest nectar… the golden rule. Just like Tupelo Honey, French Camp was music to my ears,

If that not nice I don’t know what is.

So on down the road i roll.

The Morning After

Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night.

William Blake

Old friends pass away, new friends appear. It is just like the days. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful: a meaningful friend – or a meaningful day.

Dalai Lama

I awoke in Heartbreak Hotel and was so pleased that bed bugs did not “find a new place to dwell.” The motel was rough, but clean enough for my one night stand in Red Bay, Alabama. I know that I keep quoting my grandson, Griffin but “I’m out of here.” I got dressed, looked cautiously both ways as I exited the motel room and quickly rolled on down the road. I had flashbacks to those early morning walks of shame while in college. I kept singing “I’m leaving town, baby. I’m leaving town for sure. That’s all Right, mama. Thats all right for you.”

I skipped McDonalds one mile to the East and rode back to the Piggly Wiggly in Belmont because Elvis liked the brand name (pic below). I bought , chocolate milk, apples, bananas, cashews, yogurt, a Hersey’s chocolate bar and Gatorade for later in the day. I ate my breakfast, without a peanut butter and banana sandwich, on a shaded bench outside the store. Belmont was just waking up.

The morning temperature was perfect, accentuated by bright streaming sunlight, blue skies and no wind. After breakfast, I cruised over to the Belmont Hotel. At 8 am Pat, Steve and Renee were in street clothes (sorry about the pic below) and in no rush to get started. The last 20 miles yesterday had been challenging with the hills and the wind. They had the century icon on their Road ID’s and great smiles on their faces. They would start biking the Trace today at marker 287 some time after 10 am. We would rendezvous at the Pharr Mounds (mile marker 285). Herb would drive all three back to that marker. I started rollin’ on down to Tupelo and Elvis’s birthplace.

I took a short cut back to the Trace by cutting across Mississippi Rt 16. It was about ten miles shorter but would traverse Mississippi hillsides instead of riding on the ridge line (Rt 25). On this smaller road I would avoid the logging trucks. A few miles down Rt 16 I pepper sprayed two separate packs of farm dogs. They stopped in their tracks with just a whiff. As I raced away I sang, “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.…And you ain’t no friend of mine.” The whispering pines, the wandering streams and the penumbra shadows (pic below) helped create the fictional sensation of riding through Yoknapatawpha County.

About 3 miles from the Natchez Trace the asphalt on Rt. 16 morphed into dirt and loose gravel. The pic above I’m crossing Jourdan Creek. The loose gravel made trekking slower and at times somewhat treacherous up hills. I hummed to the uneven road. “Don’t be cruel. Baby, if I made you mad, For something I might have said, Don’t make me feel this way.”

Eventually I reached my juncture and lugged my bike up the grassy embankment to access the Trace from the underpass. The Natchez Trace, this ribbon of smooth asphalt stretching all the way to Tupelo never looked so inviting. I was back on my way to mile marker 287 and Parr Mounds. I crossed the Tennessee-Tom Waterway (pic below), a canal which connects the Tennessee River with the Gulf of Mexico by way of the Tombigbee River. Now, all my rockabilly thoughts gravitated like water towards Tupelo.

I arrived at the Pharr Mounds (pic below) with the red clover in full bloom. It is named for Pharr Flats, a wide gently rolling terrace overlooking the confluence of Little Brown and Mackey’s Creeks. There are eight burial mounds built about 200 B.C.

Around 10:30 Herb and Pat arrived at the mounds. The crew was 2 miles away. We rode to Tupelo and snacked at the Parkway Visitor Center. I made reservations at the Comfort Inn, one mile to the east of the Trace and about 5 miles from Elvis’s birthplace. They rode to the Bridges-Hall B&B about thirty miles away in Houston, Mississippi. I wanted a comfortable room, and a pool while I washed my clothes (pic below). We would met up tomorrow.

I hit the jackpot, “Viva La Vegas” with the Comfort Inn. The laundry room was next to the pool and beer was complimentary from 5 to 7. I text the above pic to Pat Mahoney to show the Promised Land.

I had Cajun pulled chicken at the Neon Pig, Mississippi’s best hamburger joint. I had tried to convince the troupe to eat lunch there, but they had Houston on their mind. We both had reservations for French Camp the following night (mile marker 180). It was a great biking day and I slept in Elvis’s home town. I’m reminded of the Neon Pig’s motto, “You don’t have to be great to start but you do have to start to be great.” There was no mourning after yesterday’s century ride after all “Elvis has left the building.”

So on down the road I roll.

If that’s not nice I don’t know what is.

Reality Check

Humankind cannot bear very much reality.

T. S. Eliot

“Reality is far more vicious than Russian roulette.

Nassim Nicholas Taleb

Once upon a yesterday, and a far away yesterday it was I had “a brush with Reality… well until my imagination ran amok. I can still see Reality and Gnomeboy digging around the roots of that Red Oak Tree as they unearthed milestones for Reality’s never ending story. It sounds crazy but that time and space under the tree were enchanted. I was spellbound. Reality had no beginning and has no end. Before he vanished like the Cheshire Cat he smiled, “Life is a ball. Roll further on up this road and we will meet again.” I cycled away with rings circling in my brain, and Gnomeboy in the front bag.

Gnomeboy and I crisscrossed America, biked high and low awaiting another brush with Reality in this lifelong game of hide and go seek. “Where are you hiding? Come out, come out where ever you are.” When I see Reality again there’re so many milestones I’d like him to map. Is sixty-six really the new 44? Can two live as cheaply as one? Can the 44th POTUS really be Trump?

Reality can be such a rogue prankster! He is stranger than his sidekick Fiction, because Fiction has to make sense. Gnomeboy and I hope to peek at Reality’s roadmap because we are trekking through a world we don’t understand. And I’m not talking about Mississippi.

In my hand I have a detailed map of the Natchez Trace’s 442 road miles and historical sites (pic above). In bold print the map urged, “expand your Horizon… look for the signs (pic below)… there’s always more to explore on the parkway.” But how far south can I wander in a National Park only a hundred yards wide? Horace Greely never said, “Go south young man.” Today, from dawn until dark, I’m searching for Reality or his southern cousin. “I’m a-thinkin’ and a-wond’rin’ wallkin’ way down the road.” I’m hoping this trek will not unearth the ghost of the depressed Meriwether Lewis, or the Old Southern Realities that need to stay buried.

The Natchez Trace combined a warm climate and a safe road. On this trek I did not bike a preordained distance. My morning frame of mind determined the day’s distance. I let the day’s events dictate the journey. At midday I could cancel this game of tag and book lodging for the night. Usually I followed Gnomeboy’s lead. The Natchez Trace permitted my imagination to safely wander the back roads of the New South, in search of Reality’s Southern face.

That being said, each morning I believed that I could trek a hundred miles even with wind, rain, and hills confronting me. A biker calls that ride a century. By midmorning after averaging 8 miles an hour, Mr. CPA and his reality check appear. Enter a pudgy, thin lipped, and chinless auditor, “Dr. Sewell in three hours you have traversed 24 miles. The road pictures are pleasant, but you still have 76 miles unaccounted for. You need to travel…Blah, Blah, Blah. Is this audit, this reality check an asset to the day’s ride? What do reality checks have in common with Reality?

Every choice has ripples. My trouble, I have two good eyes but still can’t see. For example I wake up, walk into the bathroom, and every morning I am still surprised by my reflection in the mirror. “Whoa! Who is that old man? How did you get in here?” Is that early morning reality check an asset or a liability? Should I stare at a very harsh, florescent, truth or should I brush my teeth in dawn’s soft light?

Do I receive coins, cash, or a credit every time I pass a reality check… like collecting 200 dollar every time I pass Go? Or is every reality check actually a tax, a road toll, a bill, a debit, money down the drain? Is a reality check like listening to Fox TV, hours of gloom and doom or as Judy says, “waiting for the Rapture?” Do we really want a reality check if after all is said and done we either take the “fork in the road” or roll down to Natchez to see “Ol’ man River?”

As of today I am instituting a system of reality checks and reality balances. I’m saying we should not answer this CPA’s phone call because he’s a nasty telemarketer and a bully. We should brush our teeth in dawn’s early light.

Just after sunrise I peddled over to a McDonald’s big breakfast (pic above). Pat Mahoney and Renee Bill came in a few minutes later and introduced themselves. They were biking south on the Natchez Trace. They also rode from Nashville and spent the night at the Fall Hollow B&B. Renee’s husband Steve was also riding, while Steve’s parents Herb and Pat Bill drove the SAG wagon. An hour after breakfast we met up at the Meriwether Lewis Park, mile marker 385 (pics below). Only Steve knew we would all ride a century before the day was over. He is such a trickster.

Steve had a secret biking mission . He was going to ride a century “God willing and the Creek don’t rise.” He was carrying small mementos for the day’s ride. If the day went as planned Steve would present the Road ID mementos (pic below) at diner to his wife and Pat Mahoney.

The temperature started in the 60’s but reached 80 degrees by mid afternoon. We stopped for snacks at several junctions and had lunch at the Colbert Ferry Park,Alabama (326 mile marker) ajoining the Tennessee River (pics below).

Herb and Pat drove to Muscle Shoals,Alabama for Chick-filet sandwiches for all. We rested for one hour and then we were off again. We stopped on Mississippi Rt. 25 (mile marker 304). Herb left his wife at the Belmont Hotel so that all four of us could ride to Belmont, Mississippi in the Van. Steve and Renee were quite a distance behind so I opted to coast on in to Belmont and wait at the Mexican restaurant next door. Steve, Renee and Pat were tired, but Steve convinced all to ride on to the 285 milestone and complete a century ride. They completed those last 15 miles by dusk. Herb then drove them back to the Belmont Hotel. An hour before dusk I left Belmont and completed my century by riding the 10 miles to Red Bay, Alabama and my hotel for the night. This city is home to Tammy Wynette and Mac McAnally, of Coral Reefer fame and Country Musician of the Year 2010 thru 2015. I ate at the Fourth Street Grill. A simple but delicious chicken pasta with red sauce. A great meal to end the day. Steve, Renee and Pat also completed their century ride. Steve presented the mementos after a late Mexican dinner.

Health, personal independence, and the welfare of my family govern my Reality and pull my heart strings (pic above). In my mind I can visualize each milestone from this trinity as clearly as Tupelo,Mississippi. Day Two of the Natchez Trace has been sweet’r than Tennessee moonshine, hot’r than the Alabama sunshine, and bluer than Mississippi delta shine . This trek makes my shadow shine (pic below). That’s my reality check, life’s a ball.

So further on down the road I roll.

If that’s not nice I don’t know what is.