March 20-21, 2009 - We reluctantly tore ourselves away from the sparkling
waters and soft sands of the Emerald Coast and made our way north.
We could have stayed on that beach forever, but we had two problems in the
trailer that needed attention. From day one our stove had acted up: if you
cooked something for a long time, eventually the burner knob wouldn't turn
and you couldn't
adjust the flame. This
meant that it was just
about impossible to
shift a pot from a
rolling boil to a gentle
simmer.
Also, the sliding
pocket door that
separated the main
room from the
bedroom had fallen
off its track. Neither
of these repairs was
something that Mark wanted to tackle, especially since the trailer was still
under warranty. So we decided to make a trip to the NuWa factory in
Chanute, Kansas, where the experts were.
This change of plans
meant we would
retrace our steps
from last year,
traveling up through Alabama and Mississippi through Arkansas to the
southeast corner of Kansas. Poking around on the map we were happy
to see that this put the free campground at Rocky Springs on the
Natchez Trace right in our path.
The Natchez Trace is paradise for anyone that likes the simple pleasure
of going for a drive. It's a place to meander and ponder rather than a
route to get you somewhere. There aren't a lot of dazzling sights, but
there are endless miles of peaceful scenery with minimal traffic, clean
pavement and sweeping turns. It is ideal for bikes, motorcycles and cars
that aren't in a hurry.
We rolled out our bikes and took a leisurely ride out and back along 15 miles of the Trace south of the campground. The air was
fresh and clear, flowers sprinkled the edges of the road with vibrant colors, and we murmured to each other for the umpteen-
millionth time, "What a great life!"
The Trace is layered in history, from prehistoric peoples to more recent
Indian cultures to the early settlers to modern America. The ancestors of
the Natchez Indian tribe lived along the route, and evidence of their
unusual customs has been found in their ancient burial mounds. One
Indian mound in particular had caught my attention last year, and we took
the little side route off the Trace to see it once again.
There is not much to see but a small grassy hill topped with
informational plaques. However, their tales took my breath away.
Apparently the ancients had a radically different view of the sanctity
of human life than we do today. When a noble man died, his slaves
were strangled and buried with him. Far more shocking, when a
parent died, sometimes the surviving parent killed their children as a
sign of respect and grief.
It is easy from our viewpoint at this time in history to dismiss
those customs as barbaric, cruel, and unfair. However, in
their society it was somehow right and good and proper.
Where our society would have screamed "Murder!," theirs
might have been nodding solemnly, saying, "Yes, that was
the right thing to do."
This was all very heady stuff, stamped out in a few brief sentences on
rusting metal National Park Service plaques placed around the mound.
The violent acts of the early peoples were hard to fathom in such a
bucolic setting. In the distance, the cows were munching the grass, a
barn stood quietly against the treeline, and a split rail fence snaked its
way across the meadow.
All around us the spring flowers were bursting with color. Yellows,
pinks and pale blues filled the fields.
If you looked really closely, some of the tiniest little blooms were the
most elaborate, but as a group they formed a carpet of color.
Back at the campground, right outside the bathrooms, a single tulip was
opening up and greeting the day. How could that bulb have possibly
gotten there? There wasn't another tulip for miles around. It seemed
yet another mystery in this very mysterious place.
We said goodbye to the people we'd met at the campground, a young
woman riding her bike down the Trace for Spring Break and an older
grey bearded guy on a motorcycle going the other way. A little more
north off the Trace for us, and we would soon find ourselves in the