Explorers, Pt. I

If I could travel back in time to take part in any historical event, I would choose the Corps of Discovery of 1804-1806 (better known today as the Lewis and Clark Expedition). Arguably, a peaceful military operation has never been more successful. They say the expedition only clashed once with Native Americans and lost only one member (apparently to appendicitis) over the entire journey. There was something romantic and bold, something quintessentially American, about that mission and what it accomplished. Can you imagine seeing an entire half of the continent that few white men had ever laid eyes upon? The Lewis and Clark Trail passes within about 20 miles of my hometown in Washington State. I have followed their path by pedal, sweat, and roadside marker for hundreds of miles to the mouth of the Columbia River. So when I came upon the grave of Meriwether Lewis two weeks ago—where he died of two mysterious, apparently self-inflicted gunshot wounds at an inn called Grinders Stand along the Natchez Trace in Tennessee—it felt like hallowed ground. I wrote in the guestbook, “I feel like I have an affinity for L & C.”

My own expedition got off to a rocky start in Nashville when my front shifter lever broke clean off within two blocks of the state capital building, and 15 minutes later, a pannier fell clean off as I crossed an urban overpass! It was a Sunday and my plan was to bicycle 450+ miles, unsupported, in time to catch a bus home by Friday. Expecting none of the shops to be open that afternoon, I was not about to stay in Nashville overnight for such a trivial emergency. So there was nothing much to do but strap on another bungee cord, turn a screw or two, get back on my bike, and keep pedaling. After some 15 miles or so working too hard in too low of gears, my ride took me past an impressive, castle-like high school in the southwestern outskirts of suburban Nashville. Built but a couple years ago, immaculate with its landscaped driveways of smooth, black asphalt, its huge reflective windows, neo-gothic turrets, and every imaginable sports facility in full splendor, the school made a startling impression upon me upon me after so recently reading Savage Inequalities. Then I finally got the idea to remove the front derailer altogether. At least I could choose which sprocket to put the chain on manually, rather than wrestle in mid-gear with a malfunctioning mechanism lacking its essential counter-tension. It would appear that sometimes, in an imperfect scenario, the best immediate solution to a difficult problem is to amputate the affected system altogether. My choice of gears remained slightly limited yet—never mind an annoying propensity for the chain to fall off at random intervals several times a day—perfectly functional for the remainder of the trip.

The Natchez Trace Parkway follows the route of the original Natchez Trace, a frontier road built by the U.S. Army, largely along existing animal and Native American trails, in order to connect the “southwest” settlement of Natchez, on the Mississippi River, to Nashville and the rest of the then-settled frontier lands. For a few decades in the early 1800’s, the road was an important link between the United States proper and the mouth of the Mississippi. It was traveled by many, most notably by “Kaintuck” boatmen from the Ohio Valley who, before the age of steamboats, had no way to travel upstream once they arrived at the end of the Mississippi. So they sold their boats for lumber and returned home overland—over hundreds and hundreds of miles, crossing mud, rivers, hills, swamps, and Indian lands, braving weather and wildlife, horse thieves and horseflies—by foot. One sign claimed an estimate of 10,000 Kaintucks traveled the Trace in its heyday—an astounding number for the time! My journey, while ambitious and unusual by the standards of my peers and colleagues, seems rather tame by comparison. There I was with my Gore-Tex rain gear, an ultra-light REI tent, and a bicycle rolling smoothly over a long, smooth ribbon of asphalt conveniently marked at every mile so as to never me wondering at my progress—and I was miserable!

Somewhere along the way, I met a traveler from Manchester, England. He was a funny bloke—the stereotypical aimless adventuring working-class Brittan abroad—chatty as hell. We had a somewhat one-sided conversation touching on whether the hostels in America are any good (apparently they are), whether “English Toffee” is really English or not (inconclusive), and how polite Americans are—except that drunk guy back into Memphis who called him a “f-gg-t,” whom he punched several times and ran over his toes with the rental car. “I’m not really the fighting type,” he grinned, “but there comes a time when you just got to get your punches in!” Somewhere in that conversation, along some slightly unnecessary turn-out atop a low bluff overlooking (yet more) lowlands of rural Mississippi, my red and white LED’s flashing to remind me how late and dark it had become and how many miles were left to go before camp that night, he made some passing self-deprecating remark about “retracing other people’s footsteps.” That phrase haunted me for days. Because it’s true, isn’t it? But what more is there?

I knew it would be difficult, but I was woefully out of shape. I had done this sort of thing before, and I knew, setting off, I was not conditioned for the exertion like I was before. But it was even more grueling than I expected. The hills of Tennessee punished me, and every full day ended well after sunset. The mileage was enormous for the kind of fitness I was in. Sometimes it felt like I was going to droop over my handlebars and actually fall asleep on my bicycle! The first night, a heavy dew got my sleeping bag damp even inside my tent, and the next morning, I got my top-heavy bicycle leaning the wrong way, fell over and bruised my knee. The next night, after a long day riding, I stupidly opened a restroom door in such a way that it swung into the side of my head, hard enough to draw blood. In short, it was hell, but I loved it.

At Witch Dance, I met a thin, effeminate version of Billy Bob Thornton returning from a visit with his mother. We had a brief midnight conversation outside the restroom facility, as he leaned against his car with arms hugged tightly across his chest. Describing my trip, I mentioned the irrational fear of the unknown that creeps into the mind while bicycling through darkness. With a sheepish grin of admission, he said at least I don’t get spooked inside my own house at night.

Friday morning—after a short rest the night before interrupted by the mischievous rummagings of a masked, camp-raiding raccoon trying to sneak into my packs—I set off so early, and it got so unmercifully cold and windy in those darkest hours before dawn, it brought me to my lowest point both mentally and physically for the entire trip. I got off my bicycle along a section of the “sunken” Trace (really little more than a deeply eroded gully) and it felt like a dagger of fear in the complete darkness, the isolation, the half-imagined wilderness. Much later that same day, on the bus ride back from Natchez, a brief cell phone conversation with a friend reminded me of previous resolutions to take a more leisurely pace. But I had come to realize along the way that the extremes, the suffering in fact, is part of what I enjoy about these solitary adventures. Perhaps it’s a spiritual cleansing of sorts.

The road has many stories, and only a few of them are told. Some are all but disparaged. The Native American mounds are described in the politically-dated language and patronizing tone of yesteryear, and the condition of many facilities are remarkably shabby—a sad commentary on the budget-impaired state of our National Park Service. Still there are some worthwhile sites, and I took the time to stop at nearly ever place of consequence and try to imagine the world gone by. Near Natchez itself is the second-largest Native mound in North America and a fascinating inn-cum-plantation restored with presumably historically accurate furnishings. In one museum-laid bedroom, I became fascinated by what appeared to be a reproduction of an actual Victorian-era board game called “The Game of Human Life,” which by act of Parliament, purported to build morals and character, presumably by causing one to aspire, by some roll of dice, to become the “Immortal Man” rather than the “Dissolute Youth.” One nearly idyllic day near the border of Mississippi with Alabama, I stopped to photograph the shapes of broken granite, dappled sunlight, miniature wildflowers, and a discarded bear can near the mouth of a now-polluted spring cave. When each day is consumed by the basic physical necessities of expending calories and fending off the elements, such moments are profound.