October 13, 2021
bucolic bliss, mississippi's best fried chicken, too beautiful to burn
Day Five: Woodville to Port Gibson
I set my alarm for 6:30 in order to beat the heat and humidity, and managed to eat, slather sunscreen all over me, pack, and leave by 7:30, which might be a new record for me.
The sunrise was nice, and not something I see very often when on vacation.
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Highway 61 had no shoulder but there were two lanes and the drivers were friendly and respectful, pulling over into the left lane to pass instead of squeezing by.
It was coolish at first and, of course, the humidity was 100%. I was dripping within ten minutes. I put sunscreen on, but this is what it looks like when you’re sweating a lot. I’m not sure it was helping.
I love seeing cell towers. They usually indicate that I’m at the top of a hill and am about to start going downhill.
As I got closer to Natchez, around 11:00, there was more traffic, but a shoulder appeared in a timely manner.
Serendipitously, just as I was just about to turn onto the Natchez Trace Parkway, a couple was exiting it. The entrance and exit are in two different locations, and if either of us had been 30 seconds earlier or later we would’ve missed each other. David and Selenia Becker were just finishing their trip from Nashville and had a cornucopia of maps and information about which stops had water (apparently water is difficult to obtain on the Trace), where the detour is, where to camp, and the location of Mississippi’s best fried chicken, among other things. The information was really helpful and I felt fortunate running in to them.
Perry Templeton had described the Natchez Trace Parkway as “bucolic bliss.” When I first turned the corner and saw it, smooth, shaded, quiet, and free of cars, I almost started laughing out loud with joy. It looked perfect!
I had planned to eat lunch in Natchez but never really saw a place so after traversing a few miles I just pulled over on the side of the road to eat my nutella, peanut butter, and banana chip tortilla roll. I paired it with a Gatorade, the only nonwater drink I had.
There were some gradual ups and downs but nothing strenuous, and even at 1:30 in the afternoon ¾ of the road was covered with shade. This made a huge difference in the temperature - that and the fact that there isn’t a lot of concrete anywhere.
I stopped at Mount Locust, where there's a house turned into an inn built in the 1700s as people needed a place to stay during their travels.
Upon leaving, I headed toward The Old Country Store in Lorman, which hosted “Mississippi’s best fried chicken” according to more than one person I’d talked to. I was told they close early on the evenings when they don’t have very many customers, but if I get there before 4:00 it shouldn’t be a problem. The ride was just under 20 miles and I walked my bike up the handicap ramp at 3:40, hot, hungry, and thirsty, but in plenty of time. I stripped off my sunglasses and helmet, ready for the best fried chicken I’d ever tasted. There was another patron sitting outside on a bench, savoring the delicious bird. I asked how it was and he reiterated that it’s the best in the state. “Their pie is good, too,” he said, then went up to the door and pulled on the handle to order some but.... It didn’t open. It was at that point that a slow, sinking feeling began in my stomach. He tugged on the door again and called “hello?” as he peered inside. When he didn’t get a response he looked at me with a sympathetic shake of his head and walked towards his truck. In a stupor, I walked over to the door and gave it a tug. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t magically yield. I knocked on the glass part of the door until a young black man, missing several of his top front teeth, said, “We closed at 4:00.” My jaw slack, my face a mask of puzzlement, I pointed to my watch and said, “It’s 3:45.”
“We closed at 4:00,” he repeated.
Prior to riding here, I was moderately hungry. Now, it was as if this fried chicken was the only food source which could sustain my continued existence. “But it’s only 3:45!”
“We closed at 4:00.”
I put my hands in the praying position, looking pathetic and shrunken, but his cold, lipid-encrusted heart was unmoved. “...we … closed … at … four …” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.
Crushed, I turned away. The man who had initially knocked on the door tried to make me feel better about it. “Wow, that’s terrible. It ain’t even 4:00. That’s too bad you didn’t get any chicken because it’s REALLY good.”
(sigh) Yeah, encouraging words, indeed.
The man continued by pulling out some dry rub and handing me a sample. He makes and distributes it, and told me that I could add it to whatever I was eating that night and make it taste better. I wondered what, among the food items I packed, I could add it to since all I have are dehydrated meals, but it was a nice gesture so I took a bottle and strapped it to the back of my bike.
Lorman was a couple of miles off the Trace so I started pedaling back in the direction I came from, images of fried chicken swimming in my head.
As I was pedaling, I realized the song was bouncing around in my head. I say THE song, not A song. Before I continue, I should explain. You may know that some people get a song stuck in their head on occasion. The song is called an “earworm” and after a while the song goes away, perhaps to be replaced by a different song in a day or a week or so. In my case, I’m a cursed man… my earworm is Turkey in the Straw. Even worse, it’s not a London Philharmonic rendition, it’s the tinkling ice cream truck version. It’s just there, slowly turning my synapses into the cranial equivalent of melted ice cream. Once I realized it was there I asked Siri to play “Mark’s Playlist.” Of course, she misunderstood and started playing Mark Knofler's Punish the Monkey. I'd never heard that song before, but you can't go wrong with Knofler. Eventually one of his songs displaced Turkey, and I was good.... at least for about 15 minutes.
I started looking for a stealth campsite and at 5:00 I decided that I just need to pick a place - if I keep looking for the “perfect place” I’ll be pitching my tent in the dark.
Something I’ve noticed is that drivers never actually look along the side of the road, only straight ahead. That’s especially true on the inside of a curve, and at night a person camped even just a few yards off the road is simply invisible.
I eventually found a clearing about 50 yards off the road on an inside curve (so headlights are always pointing away). It was about twenty feet above the road.
After rolling my bike up the incline, I pulled out my lawn chair, had some water, and got comfortable. A few minutes later I pulled the bags off my bike and pulled my ground cloth and tent out. There was a dog continuously barking, and in the back of my mind I thought it was a little odd that way out here in the middle of nowhere would would be a dog.
It was at that point I noticed what appeared to be poison ivy. I say “appeared to be” because I was absolutely sure that the vine clinging to the tree I was staring at was poison ivy, but the ground had been recently mowed, making it more difficult to ascertain if that’s what it was. Is it or isn’t it? Now I felt like I was standing in a potential minefield. I thought back to what I’d touched so far, and what was potentially contaminated. The bottom of my bags were on the ground. My ground cloth. The bike’s tires. My chair. I wondered how long the oil remains on surfaces before it starts to denature. I realized that considering the recent mowing, there’s no real way of knowing whether it’s poison ivy or not. I could assume it was, or I could assume it wasn’t. If I assume it is and I’m wrong, no big deal. If I assume it isn’t and I’m wrong, well…. not so great. After a moment's thought, I decided to move to another campsite.
I was in a hurry to get out of there, so of course my bungee cord slipped down and got entangled in the the spokes and hub, and that took a few minutes to disengage.
Dusk was upon me so, as quickly as I could, I gathered up my gear, not even bothering to roll up my tent and put it into the bag - I just attached my panniers then draped it over the top and strapped it to the rack. I rode a few feet and heard a zzzzzzzz sound, only to find that a small part of the tent had slipped between the bars on my rack and was rubbing against the tire. I tucked it back out of the way and continued on. I realized that there was no way around it… if it’s poison ivy I’m most likely going to have it on my hands and forearms. I just hoped that I'm among that 15% of people who don’t react.
I’m using the Adventure Cycling Association maps, and I was at the very edge of the section so I couldn’t see what was ahead. I rode about half a mile and was surprised to find the town of Port Gibson (population ~1500), just around the corner from where I’d been. The dog I’d been hearing was still barking, and could be heard all over town.
On the first map, I had stopped in the very top left hand corner and had no idea I was so close to a town. Looking at the second picture, you can see how close I was to Port Gibson.
Looking at the map, the only “green” area (i.e. where I could pitch a tent) was a cemetery, so I started riding towards that. On the way I passed a nice city park which would serve my purpose just as well. Across the street from the park there was an older man sitting on a lawn chair in his driveway. I rolled my bike up to him and asked him if he thought it would be okay to pitch my tent across the street or in the cemetery, and which would be a better choice… the park or the cemetery. He answered without hesitation that the park across the street was the best choice. He was so confident in his answer I asked why. There was a slight pause before he followed up with a somber shake of his head and iterated, almost reverently, “I don’t like graveyards.” We chatted a few minutes and I learned his name is Eddie, a factory worker originally from Mississippi who moved to Indiana for work and retired a couple of years ago. I think he mostly sits in his lawn chair and watches the world go by from his driveway.
By now it was 6:00 and getting darker so I pitched my tent, sprayed myself for mosquitoes, and started preparing dinner. Since I was in the middle of the playground I cooked and ate my dinner at the top of a 30-foot slide. As I ate my sweet pork and rice dinner (850 calories), then some pudding (200 calories) for dessert, I surveyed the town from my rampart, listening to the dog's bark echo across the treetops. From my vantage point I noticed that just about every car that passed Eddie's house tapped on their horn, and he replied with a friendly wave.
Back in my tent, I talked to Heather, journaled, answered a few texts then, all of a sudden, it was 10:45.... time for bed.
Today is my longest day, and makes up for yesterday.
Trivia tidbit for the day: The motto of Port Gibson is “Too Beautiful to Burn.”
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83.5 miles
2602 feet climbed
5.9% grade
9:24:25 total tim
6:41:53 moving time
30.1 mph max speed
12.1 mph average moving speed
3696 calories
278.4 total miles
Today's ride: 84 miles (135 km)
Total: 279 miles (449 km)
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I meant to ask you before: How often have you stealth camped in cemeteries?
I've want to try it at least once, but I've never summoned the nerve
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