Chapter 35 Signs, Signs everywhere are signs.

  I started taking photos of the tens of thousands of signs I passed along the trail. Some are funny, some thought provoking and some just plain strange.  Here is a gallery of signs I collected along the way.

Best pro-Trump sign I saw. 

Best anti-Trump sign I saw.

All we need is...

Variations on this home made sign was very popular everywhere.
Not sure if Martha Stewart or Ralph Lauren had anything to do with the idea.

This sign encouraging sin was directly across the street from

this sign.  The liquor store had more cars parked in front but it was not a Sunday.

I just thought it was creative.

Murphy's favorite.

The property was in such disrepair that the only thing worth
stealing would be the Smith and Wesson.

The owner told me it was for sale for $50.  No room in my trailer. 

These memorials were poignant reminders of
the dangers of the road.  They were all too frequent. 

From an exhibit on "Cats in Art" in Memphis Art Museum.

The food must be authentic given the owner's tenuous
 grasp of the english alphabet.

A handsome 40's memorial done in ceramic tile in Greenville, MS

Not sure if I had a derringer or something not listed it would be OK.

Low cost ownership signage change.

It was OK if you had no shirt or shoes.

Warehouse where the Mardis Gras Floats  are stored In New Orleans.

Tough Love in the delta.

I guess you would be dead.

Just a cool sign. 

Chapter 34 A Blow Out, A Tire Testimonial, The Small Stuff

The James Audubon Bridge crosses the river on the way to Baton Rouge.
An elegant structure with yellow clad cable stay.

The next day I am on the road again heading for Baton Rouge.  I am warned this is a lonely and remote stretch of the MRT, "bring water and food as the trail has no services" according to the guidebook.  About 25 miles out of town a storm is brewing on the horizon and I see rain squalls weeping sheets of water a couple miles away headed towards me.  I am hoping I can evade them.  That is when I hear a loud bang and my bike rumbles to a stop.  My rear tire has blown out the side wall.  It is beyond repair, I am screwed.  But not quite yet.  I have a weak cell signal.  I get through to my relatives.  I track down a tire from a bike shop in Natchez and John is soon on his way once again to rescue his Uncle.  He delivers a new tire, tube and patch kit (I am taking no chances) about half an hour later.  Just long enough for the rain squall to catch up with me as I am waiting.  As I watched the dirt field next to us slowly get pounded into mud by the advancing force of the rain it engulfs us. Murphy looks up at me at if he has done something wrong. I had to ask him if we are having fun yet. John asked me why I don't carry a spare.  I guess I have room for a spare dog but not for a spare tire.
Now would be a good time to provide a testimonial on tires.  I have now had some experience in tire performance.  I started my trip with 2 used tires both Continental Gatorskins.  Never had one flat until Kentucky.  My rear tire wore out in Iowa but in fairness was heavily worn when I started.  The replacement (Giant brand) wore out in just 3 1/2 weeks  and suffered one flat.  It was replaced by one in Memphis (SELA brand) which had the "Flat Protection System", it went flat 8 times before finally blowing out. My prior experience with Bontrager brand tires led me to avoid them to begin with.
So my flat free front tire has rolled over all the same crap and essentially "cleared a path" for my rear tire and it looks like it will outlast the trip.  You ask me, get Gatorskins.
It is interesting how little problems that beset us change with the circumstances.  In my prior life as an Architect a big problem is when my 25 million dollar project is going to miss its deadline because half the team just quit for greener pastures. Now I have been vexed by flats and a rear view mirror that keeps working loose and falling off. You really need a rear view mirror to keep an eye on upcoming traffic from behind. The mount was a custom deal I did myself  countersunk into my plastic grip handle.  I have spent more time trying different glues and  elegant solutions than I care to admit. Finally I have resorted to the handyman's ultimate solution known as duct tape.

I covered the duct tape with black
electrical tape so its acceptable.

 Being an architect this really sticks in my craw as it is ugly beyond words  but it works.
 Vanity has also entered the picture on my attire.  One horribly hot day a woman gave me a scarf like thing to wear that is filled with some super absorbent gel.  It holds a cooling amount of water that evaporates through the day and despite my initial skepticism it really works well.

Only confident men can wear these.

 The problem is it's the color pink with a leopard print that when tied around my neck like a choker and makes me look like a real Ken doll. In New York City, I probably would fit in but in rural Mississippi it draws stares if I forget to remove it before I walk into the diner. Being 6'-5", 220 lbs no one has said what they are thinking.
Not only do well intentioned people give me stuff but I find stuff along the road as well.  Given I have to carry it it has to be pretty useful to make it on board.
For some reason, have passed hundreds of gloves along the roadside. Yet in 2,000 miles I have never passed a single pair of gloves, always useless singles. I even found a really nice Harley Davidson branded waterproof riding chap.  Well made, good quality. Really nice. Just one.
Back on the road I passed a complex of engineering projects and diversion dams that I learned are pretty important.

 The Mississippi likes to jump out of its track all the time and years ago it crossed into the path of the Atchafalaya river which drains in a different direction to the gulf.  In time, more water headed down that shorter easier route that the Mississippi was in danger of drying up. Baton Rouge and New Orleans are deepwater ports and were in danger of being cut off from the gulf.  The corps of engineers erected these massive structures to keep the old Miss on course.

Chapter 33 The House Sugar Cane Built, Homecoming, "Animal " House USS Kidd

Along my way to Baton Rouge I rode past several beautiful plantation homes set far back from the road, driveways lined with live oaks like a scene from Gone with the Wind.  I wondered about their history, who lives in them now.  I stopped at the end of a driveway to make some adjustments when a SUV pulls up.  It's the owner of one of these homes. "Would I like a cold drink?".  Always say yes.

Linell in her natural habitat.

Lynell Price is a trim woman about my age who is married to a successful sugar cane farmer. The place is surrounded by it and I have been passing cane fields for several hours now. Their home has been in the family for generations and is over 100 years old. I'm afraid I used my "Shucks, I am an architect" status  and wrangled an invitation inside as I really wanted to tour it.  She was gracious to do so despite her limited time.  The whole visit lasted only 20 minutes.  Inside was a sanctuary from the heat that was beyond my expectations.  They had worked with a well known architect who specialized in plantation homes to build an addition.  Heavy timber construction, polished plank floors, spaces that flowed from one to another. It was furnished exquisitely with a museum full of imposing cases, cabinets, collections of porcelain, etchings and keepsakes.  Each piece was a work of art in itself.  She was the repository for family heirlooms hence her home was entirely authentic.  I was supplied with the promised cold drinks and soon was on my way.  While a short but sweet visit but I do have a standing invite for a return visit some day.

The House that sugar cane built.

Approaching Baton Rouge means heavier traffic, more stuff to negotiate.  I had arranged a warm showers host on the south side of the city.  When I am in the city proper, I am engulfed by traffic and people, the sidewalks are jammed, traffic is stopped. I asked two passing girls why.  Its's homecoming for Southern Christian University.  The largest (or maybe oldest?) black university in the country. It is a zoo.  Jacked up cars, glittering chrome wheels are passing by or stuck in traffic each with its own body penetrating bass line of rap on roof top speakers.  Murphy and I finally give up riding and walk along passing a stream of folks who are partying and out to be seen.

Murphy working the owner of the rib BBQ stand for scraps

I encountered some make shift BBQ stands with black steel cookers burning flumes of wood smoke. I give up trying to make headway and decided to sit down for some really fine slow cooked ribs, beans and potato salad and just try to stay out of the way. Eventually I make my way through despite my google maps being inaccessible due to the overloaded cell phone network. Just went by instinct and that quaint historical item known as a paper map.
I am headed to the home of Samson,  a Louisiana State Student who is the only guy who said "Sure I got room in my backyard".  He texted he may not be home because of the game and may be too drunk to talk anyhow.  Enroute, I meet another cyclist named Max loaded with saddlebags too.  Even though we are 5 miles away it turns out he is headed to the same house. We finally arrive well after dark but shortly after we arrive, Samson rolls up on his bike to greet us.  He is pumped but still sober. His house is basically a crash pad.  Another cyclist is already there.  People are coming and going. We all end up in the living room watching the sole item in the house that is not second hand, a giant big screen TV.  The game starts and I learned just how rabid these LSU fans are.

Lets get this party started. Samson is the guy with glasses.  He is
a civil engineering student that is sure to finally give engineers
a bad reputation.

 Samson is like John Belushi clad in sparkling purple and gold satin shorts with purple and gold suspenders.  He sends someone out for more beer and brings out a huge bag of tangerine like fruit that came from someone's backyard tree.  Fortunately, LSU clobbers Ole Miss so the mood stays bright all night.  These are all twenty-somethings so I try my best to fit in.  I feel like a dinosaur.
The next morning, I head out to see the sights.  I decided to first visit the LSU campus to see the where all this took place last night.  It looked like a war zone.  Piles of drinking debris everywhere. Massive quantities of alcoholic beverages had been consumed. It's 9 am and I see no sign of student life. Finally after picking my way around for an hour I spot my first one. A Chinese exchange student who obviously was somehow in isolation last night.  Armies of clean up gangs descend on the place while I am there and the campus is soon respectable enough for visiting parents.

Navy Surplus USS Kidd.  It actually had a distnguished career.
Participated in several battles including Okinawa and was struck by
a kamikazee that put her out of the rest of WWII.  She was named
after Admiral Kidd who commanded the USS Arizona (and was
killed) when sunk in the Pearl harbor attack.

I wanted to see one thing in Baton Rouge.  They have on the waterfront a vintage Destroyer named the USS Kidd that has been restored to its WWII condition.  It's more authentically restored than any other in the world of which there are only four examples left.  To me the WWII junkie,  it was very interesting and you are allowed to crawl around on your own for as long as you like.  I asked how it came to Baton Rouge.  Apparently it had been set aside by the Navy as a possible Memorial ship.  Some  local backers for such a memorial bought it for $200,000 in the 80's.  They formed an association and have been restoring it ever since. I would rather have one of these babies for a couple hundred grand in my backyard than a lot of things I can think of.
I am now within eyesight of my end destination.  New Orleans is only 70 miles away. The River's End is another 70 miles south to the tip of the delta.  I have been talking to Sue daily as our plan is for her to start her retrieval mission, driving down from Minneapolis to overtake me before New Orleans. We will travel together, with Sue ranging ahead and taking on my gear and this pesky dog that has been following me for the last 2,000 miles.  Thus relieved of my load it will be a cakewalk the rest of the way.  I am looking forward to seeing Sue, It has been a long time.

Chapter 32 Natchez, 3D Virtual Reality, Melrose Plantation

John and Colleen Nixon in front of her Scion XA
with 280,000 miles on it.

It was late in the day when the Trace petered out at the outskirts of Natchez, MS.  I haven't had much to eat since early the day before as there is nothing on the trace.  I spotted my salvation, the red beacon of a Wendy's sign.  One triple Wendy's deluxe burger with cheese, a large fries and a large frosty and I am spared from certain death.   Natchez, MS is a town that has done an excellent job of preserving their history.  It once boasted more millionaires than any other town in America for its size.  The reason is cotton.  Cotton created many fortunes prior to the Civil war and those fortunes built many plantation mansions that were located in town not out in the countryside as is more familiar.  It is also near the home of Colleen Nixon (my niece) and her brother John who share a house across the river in the town of Ferriday.  I had given them fair warning several days earlier that they would be hosting their vagabond uncle David and his scruffy dog.  As I approached Ferriday another flat tire stopped me about a mile short so John came to my rescue in his pick up and hauled me the rest of the way.  Colleen describes Ferriday as a "S--thole" although its no worse than a lot of towns I have passed through. They live in a neighborhood of working class ramblers in various states of upkeep.  Their place is the family "hurricane home" that is when another hurricane bears down on my in-laws place in the delta they now have this house to retreat to.  They learned their lesson after Katrina when they fled just in time and lost everything except the pick up truck they drove to safety in. When we first entered the house Murphy is surrounded by her 2 small dogs, one an ancient croaking chihuahua and the other a Benji dog.  They bark non-stop in stereo at poor Murphy to tries to hide behind me to no avail. They stick like flies. Mercifully, Colleen herds them into the kitchen behind a plywood barrier where they remain frustrated the rest of our visit. Colleen works at the Natchez Visitor Center and has a second job as some sort of freelance store inventory checker at local stores.  John works in the supply business for equipment used in oil drilling although lately that work has dried up. He is also a video gamer of the highest order.

Living in another world

Tonight I am in for my first experience with 3D virtual reality video gaming. I was pretty sure they just wanted to humiliate their uncle. To lower their expectations, I warned him that the last video game I played was "Pong" so I was about to take a 40 year leap in video gaming technology.  He had just acquired what was termed the latest and first commercially available 3D virtual reality headset by Sony played on a PlayStation 4. I am fitted with this helmet like device and hold these wands in each hand that are bristling with triggers and controls.  The game starts.  I find myself in the dripping basement of a London tenement confronted by some bald headed, thick necked brute wearing a bloodied wife beater shirt.  He is really pissed off at me and growls and rants in a heavy brogue while playing with a revolver.  Apparently I have botched a jewelry heist and I am about to find out why.  Fade to black. The next scene involves a desperate shoot out that leaves me sweaty. Yikes!
As a first exposure to this technology I am blown away.  It is very real.  You are totally immersed, you can almost smell the guy's bad breath.  It is like having a personal Omnitheater around your head except it is better.  The hand wands allow you to pick up objects, open doors, light a cigar and of course load and fire weapons using a pair of disembodied gloves that float on the screen above you.  Surprisingly, it is very intuitive and easy to learn.  John can follow the action on a separate screen and gives me lots of tips as I progress through the game.  Once in a while, Murphy nudges me with his wet nose reminding me I am actually just sitting on a couch in a living room not in some other world.  I tried a couple other adventures including an amazing deep sea dive in a shark cage.  Inevitably, a huge shark manages to tear the door off the cage leaving me feeling very vulnerable.  I am rescued just in time.  So for just $500 for the headset and another $100 for the software you too can escape your miserable, boring life and be terrified by London thugs and sharks.  A good stocking stuffer idea for my wife Sue.
The next day Colleen takes me on a tour of Natchez.  She says Natchez is controlled by the "blue haired mafia" the garden club ladies who have seen to it that the place is preserved as is. I told her that is probably a good thing as it drives the tourist economy.  I don't think hipsters from Manhattan will be enticed to come down here to go zip lining and hang out at the tea shop unless it somehow becomes "hip".  First stop is the Visitor Center where she works in the gift shop.  I asked her colleague who their typical customer is.  Without hesitation "Old people and whatever they buy for their grandchildren".  The best seller are these little porcelain keepsake boxes decorated with flowers that look expensive but are only $1.97.  We drove around town following a driving tour to view the several mansions.

Melrose Plantation in Natchez, MS

 The National Park Service recently acquired and offers one of  Melrose Plantation that we decide to spring for a tour of.  It is massive and succeeds in it's goal of impressing your shorts off.  The man who built it had amassed a fortune from a series of far flung cotton plantations in three states.   Our guide is a park ranger who comes across as a drill Sargent in his demeanor with a crisp uniform and military bearing.  He fairly barks out the pertinent facts at our rag tag band of retirees who shuffle along the tour. We are marched around to see the place but he tells a story at the end of the tour that makes it memorable.
It is after the civil War. The slaves have been freed, the owner asks two of his most faithful slaves to remain in his pay.  One is a woman in her forties who has always managed his household. The widowed owner suddenly dies leaving the entire estate and properties to his only son who is but 7 years old. The boy and the woman make a pact to never leave each other. It is a promise they both keep. She raised him as a son and effectively runs the estate until he is old enough to take over.  She lives until she is 105 years old and stays under his roof as the only mother he ever knew.  The man dies first at age 65 and his wife continues his pact.  In the end they are all buried next to each other.  By the time our guide finishes the tale he voice is almost a whisper and most of us have tears welling in our eyes.

Chapter 31 Greenville, MS, An Arrowhead Hunter, Rebecca

A Mississippi River towboat.

I am now 1300 miles from the headwaters of the Mississippi. The total distance is about 2100 miles to the gulf by bicycle.  Since St. Louis, I actually see the river very little.  The floodplain of the river keeps the roads and towns away from the river. The only time I see now it is when I make crossings. Still I can feel its presence.  I know it's out there over my shoulder somewhere beyond the levee.
The next town of of consequence is Greenville, MS where I had planned to layover for couple days.

A abandoned smokestack in Greenville.

 It was a town of about 35,000 and promises to have the services I need. Most importantly it has a bike shop with spare spokes. Just outside of town, I visited an archeological site named Winterville.  It is a complex of ceremonial mounds and had a small but interesting museum chronicling excavations that had been ongoing there over the years.  It is manned by a affable pony tailed guy whom I   learned was bonafide archeologist. It was a quiet day so I sat with him in his tiny office and learned his story.  He told me he got his degree in archeology first and then found out it was a marginal (but interesting) way to make a living later.   He had worked all over the U.S. for companies that contracted out their services to investigate sites prior to development to make sure they weren't about to bulldoze an ancient Indian burial ground.  An interesting guy, he is basically an itinerant arrowhead hunter of sorts.  He told me his most valuable find was at a pre-revolutionary war era site out east where he unearthed several Spanish silver reales (the coins that are cut up to create "pieces of eight").  Only once had he found gold.  Technically that is. He had turned in his day's find to the cleaning team including some animal teeth.  It turns out one was a human tooth with a gold filling. They told him he had found gold. The most interesting find was when it was not really his objective.  One day during a survey of the perimeter of a military base, looking for evidence of prehistoric occupation, he discovered a WWII
German buzz bomb half buried in the mud.  It was intact and looking inside he could see Nazi markings on the parts.  He later learned these were captured toward the end of the war and brought to the U.S. to try and reverse engineer them to create our own version. Afterward, they were junked in this boneyard.  When he brought it to the attention of his boss he was told to quit wasting time picking over that "Nazi scrap metal" and get back to looking for arrowheads. It is probably still there.
I arrived in Greenville late afternoon.  It was immediately evident that this was a once much larger city that had suffered hard times.  Many buildings and businesses were boarded up and probably a quarter of the homes were vacant or simply gone like missing teeth from those that remained. Even a fairly new "Extended Stay" motel was boarded up, weeds poking up in the parking lot. I spent the night tucked away in a remote no man's land along the river in the shadow of a petroleum tank farm.   The next morning the first citizen of Greenville I met was fortuitous.  Rebecca Goodman was working out in the early morning by running sprints up the side of the river levee.  She approached me as I walked up along the top of the levee.  After he heard my story she was determined to shine the best light on Greenville.  Who to talk to, what to see, where to go. A one woman hospitality committee.  As an afterthought, I asked where I might get a shower-maybe a YMCA? She thought for a while.  "Wait here and I will see what I can do".  Twenty minutes later she returned with a hot breakfast in a foam container and a room reserved for me at the Roadway Inn a few blocks down the street.  Gratis.
At first, I wasn't sure I was heard her right but she was simply that kind and generous.
Clean sheets, AC, all the comforts of home sure beat the  oil tank farm again that night. I followed up on as many of her suggestions as I could and saw a better side of Greenville than my first impression.
I visited the Visitors Center and the small history museum.  The museum was in a downtown commercial area that was once thriving but now very quiet. I asked the curator what happened to Greenville's population.  He said it was a city of 50,000 in the 60's and 70's with multiple corporate employers and manufacturing. When NAFTA was signed they started to move operations to Mexico for the lower labor costs. A unintended consequence that really has hurt this area. That said, Americans still want their products at Walmart rock bottom prices made possible in part by NAFTA.
I finally rode out of Greenville into the waning light and arrived at Warfield Park several miles out of town after dark. It was recommended as a good place to camp by the locals being right on the river.  It was also shut up as tight as a prison when I arrived.  Apparently it closed at sunset.

My beach campsite on the River near Warfield Park

I groped around in the dark by flashlight and discovered a trail off the access road through some woods that eventually ended at a "private" beach right on the river bank.  A perfect  place to spend the night and watch the river glide by.  That night I often heard the steady drone of towboats passing my beach with their searchlights stabbing out into the night feeling for the banks. They temporarily blind me as they flash over my tent.  About 3 am a different sounding craft approaches.  It is overnight excursion riverboat that is lit up like a wedding cake gliding through the night.  I think about the passengers comfortable in their cabins who will awaken in the morning in a new town somewhere up river. In the morning the gate is open and I get  chance to see what I missed. In the daylight it is plain I probably could have easily found a way inside had I tried but my private beach was better.
Some time  after I left Greenville, I received a message from "Bill" the fellow MRT cyclist whom I had met back on the trail.  He had crashed his bike outside of Vicksburg.  He was traveling that day with another guy he met when they were attacked by 2 dogs. They collided with each other in their attempt to evade.  Bill went down fatally breaking his carbon fiber frame but he was left with only road rash.  He was hoping to get back on the trail after he bought a used  replacement bike in Jackson.

The bridge outside Greenville to Arkansas.

Vicksburg, A Coincidence, The Natchez Trace

An oxbow lake is a remnant of what was once a loop in the Mississippi.
The river washes away the neck of the loop eventually bypassing the
loop altogether.  There are many along this stretch of the river.

I left Warfield Park and spent the rest of the day is spent pedaling steadily down the road pass a series of small towns. I have crossed the river back into southern Arkansas.  In the town of Eudora I stopped for dinner and read the headlines in the local paper someone left in the booth. The article describes a horrific triple murder in town.  The shooter was still on the loose.  For a town of 2500 that a serious crime.  Yet, as I leave the proprietor warns me about the next town down the road.  "Some advice- don't stop in Lake Providence"  I asked why.  "Its just too dangerous because of the gangs".  I am thinking to myself - I guess a1q triple triple homicide shouldn't be a concern.   I stop in Lake Providence the next morning anyhow for breakfast at a Sonic.  The place is perfectly normal from what I can tell.   Later I cross the state line and I am officially in Louisiana, the last state of my journey.

One of the first towns is interestingly called Transylvania.  It even has a giant bat painted on the water tower.  I decided it would be a good place to post my absentee ballot.  Good postmark.  Once again, I asked two women outside the Post Office how the town got its name. One didn't know but the other said it actually was not a tourist hook as I suspected but rather the name of the original plantation the town was platted on.  The plantation actually predated the  fictional Bram Stoker Dracula story.
After traveling a section of northern Louisiana, my destination is Vicksburg, MS.  To cross the river you have to make a "appointment" with the Vicksburg Bridge Commission if you are on a bicycle.
There are two bridges, one only safe for cars, the other is no longer used at all.  It can't handle the traffic weight.  I  had made my appointment in the morning and now waited to be ferried across.  There is a formidable gate, barriers, cameras and threatening signs around the entrance to prevent guys like me from getting resourceful.
At the appointed hour, an official pick up shows up, a young man in a uniform gets out, opens Fort Knox and loads us up.  I asked him how often they get requests for cyclists to do this crossing.  I am thinking a number per week.  "Oh not more than once every 3 months or so."  Evidentially this is not the most heavily traveled bike trail.
Since Memphis it has been dead level flat. That is until you get to Vickburg.  Suddenly it is really hilly.  The commanding elevation was the reason Vicksburg was chosen by the Confederates as a major strongpoint to control the Mississippi and was the last to fall in a major battle lasting several months. I will spare you the details but basically after several failed attempts by Grant to take the fortifications by force they laid seige to the town for 47 days.  The Confederates finally surrendered rather than starve and the south was effectively cut in half by Union control of the river hastening the end of the war.

The Minnesota Memorial

It is now commemorated by the Vicksburg National Military Park that lies outside of town and spreads across several square miles.  It is the tourism magnet that now supports the Vickburg economy.  I rode around the park for an entire day.  It is considered the world's largest Art Park as it has thousands of sculpted monuments commemorating the efforts of military units from each state that participated. It is quite moving and well maintained by the National Park Service.  I happened across an event being held at the only house that survived the battle.  The Shirley house was owned by Union sympathizers and ended up behind union lines thus was spared.  There were some
re-enactors staffing the restored home.  As I approached, a young woman dressed in period costume spots Murphy in his trailer and is immediately taken in by his handsome guiles, petting him as I tied him up outside.

Katie the "School Marm"

Vicksburg National Military 

 When I returned she was now giving him a belly rub telling me how much she would love a dog like this.  She is the "School Marm" in period character and is actually a local high school senior.  I talked to her at length about her role and later her plans to go to college at the University of Montana in Bozeman.  I am impressed with her refreshing ability to relate to adults despite her age and that she would take an interest in such an activity as a volunteer. Too many 17 years olds would loathe to  cheerfully converse with anyone as ancient as me. I was to later learn her name was Katie.  I moved on to see the remaining 500+ plaques and statues that awaited me.  The park also has an actual civil war iron clad gun boat in an well designed open air exhibit.

The Cairo ironclad

The 14 gun Cairo was sunk by an underwater mine during the siege.  It has the distinction of being the first vessel sunk by such means in history.  It sank in 12 minutes but all 251 men were rescued. It lay on the bottom  of the river forgotten for 100 years.  One day some investigators located it with a compass in a small boat and set in motion the discovery, raising operation,  restoration and exhibit of the boat as well as thousands of personal artifacts that were left behind. It all took decades.

The next day I left Vickburg heading toward the Natchez Trace Parkway.  I was about an hour out when I realized I had forgotten one of my half gallon water bottles back at a gas station in Vickburg.  I had to back track to retrieve it.  Naturally I got another flat tire to add to my frustration and the ongoing 90 degree temperatures had returned making especially miserable. Things were not going my way. The delay meant I would not reach the parkway before dark.  Two and a half hours later I was back on track riding trying to make up time and after 5 miles further down the road I spotted a smart phone laying in the gravel alongside the pavement inches from the passing traffic.  This is the fourth phone I have found that was not already smashed to bits on this trip.  It was a nice Samsung model.  I pushed the "on" button and the screen flickered to life.  Let's see, contacts.  Scroll down, "DAD". Select.  Ringing.  "Hello".  Hi, my name is David Thorpe and I am on a country road south of Vicksburg and I have found a smart phone that must belong to your son or daughter.  "Oh that is great, she has been really upset since she lost it on Friday".  I made arrangements for him to meet me along the road.  I asked him if he could bring a large wrench as I had broke another spoke and needed to remove the rear gear spocket again to replace it.

Katie's Dad Curtis and friend Philip

Curtis shows up 25 minutes later in a pick up. He has on a Park Service volunteer shirt.  I mentioned my visit the day before. He asked me if I had visited the Shirley House. Did I see the re-enactors?
He was the union corporal.  I told him I did not remember the Corporal but I had a very nice conversation with the School Marm.  "Oh yeah, that would be my daughter Katie".  In an incredible coincidence I had found 20 miles away, the intact smart phone of the young lady I had just met yesterday.  Curtis was not able to track down a wrench but he immediately got on his phone, tracked down a friend with one who lived 15 miles further down the road.  I accepted his offer to take us there in his pick up and soon had the repair done. As we drove he half jokingly told me that the state of Mississippi was rated nationally dead last in everything that was good but in things that were bad they were first.  That said he still liked living there.  His friend Philip then ferried me the last 5 miles to a campground right on the Natchez Trace Parkway just at dark.  My miserable luck had changed and I bypassed 20 miles of hilly road that had no shoulder and heavy traffic.

The Natchez Parkway

In contrast, the Natchez Trace Parkway constituted the best 50 miles of the MRT I have ridden.   It was an early travelers pathway that evolved from original Indian trails. Somewhere further north Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark fame had met his fate on the trace.  He was found dead either of suicide or possibly murdered.  A mysterious end for a great explorer.  The trace is now preserved as a beautiful parkway that winds for 444 miles between Nashville and Natchez, Mississippi.  It was made a National Park service unit in 1938. I joined it for the last 50 miles to its southern terminus in Natchez. It is popular with bicyclists as it passes through a verdant bucolic swath lined with majestic southern pines and oaks dripping with spanish moss.  The road is smooth, very little traffic with commercial vehicles and trucks banned.  It even has almost no litter which is remarkable in Mississippi. It is a sweet ride.  It is also free of all commercial development  which means no place to eat for me.  I had to rely on my meager emergency rations.  I hated to see it end but my hunger was a powerful motivator to get to Natchez.

Our tent site along the Natchez Trace the last night

Chapter 30 Welcome to Mississippi, a Jerk, A Gentleman Farmer

I planned to cross the bridge to Mississippi the evening before but decided to wait until a quiet Sunday morning the next day.  It was one of those old long narrow ones that had no bike lane. It was a good strategy, traffic was light and the crossing went smoothly.  The first thing you see in Mississippi are the large casinos strategically placed to lured in residents of casino free Arkansas.  I had eaten sparingly the day before due to the overpriced festival food.  Fifteen bucks got me into the casino brunch buffet.  I started with a slice of pecan pie, moved on to a 3 egg omelette, a slab of ham, working my way through nearly every offering and finished with bread pudding.  It was a money losing proposition for the casino. Despite my late start, I was refueled and ready to go.  Today was indeed a rare alignment of several factors that led to the highest mileage day of the trip thus far.  A long awaited north wind had finally vanquished the 90 degree days.  It was to my back pushing me along, this has happened only 3 days since I started. The road was flat as a table and straight to the horizon. A nice wide shoulder and little Sunday traffic free of giant cotton hauling trucks. I clocked over 52 miles before sunset. About half way into my sprint, I have my first encounter that was less than cordial on this trip.  I had just fought off some guy's mongrel dog in a small town along the highway.  I was blocks down the road when his pick up comes roaring out of the driveway and pulls alongside me clearly upset that I had not allowed his dog to attach himself to my leg.  He was pretty much a human version of his scrawny mongrel himself except he had somehow taught himself to drive a pick up truck. While frothing at the mouth, he claimed I injured his dog (false), damaged his truck  (never saw it till now), that he was going to call the sheriff, that he was taking me  to court, that he had a witness etc.  He was going to "follow my ass" I guess all the way to the courthouse.   I ignored him and switched to the other shoulder forcing him to drive in the lane of oncoming traffic to keep up his tirade. He kept having to swerve out of the way.  After about 3 blocks he turned around and I never saw him again.  Welcome to Mississippi.

A house in Friars point had the ultimate lawn ornament:
A Mark 5 Stuart tank. Early WWII.  The german tanks were
 vastly superior and the Stuart was replaced by the more familiar
Sherman Tank.

Cotton is king in the Delta

The country side I am now traveling through is indeed flat. It is truly the flood plain of the Mississippi Delta. The road is slightly higher than the dirt fields on each side.  The harvest here is finished and the ground turned over.  I can see across the fields to a line of trees 2 or 3 miles off on one side and the levee off the other side.  The trees along the Mississippi peek above beyond.  I admit its pretty boring here but the cycling is easy.  I stopped in a little town called Friar's Point.  It's claim to fame is as the birthplace of Conway Twitty.  I read all the plaques to fill in my blank slate on his life. 

  Hours after the mongrel episode exactly the opposite happened.   I was trying to get to Rosedale, MS a town big enough to scratch up something to eat before dark.  About 3 miles out of town a silver town car pulls alongside and the driver yells out to me if I am heading for Rosedale. I sure am.           " Where are you staying?"  I haven't got a clue.  "Hey, I am one of those 'warm baths' guys."  He gives me directions and 20 minutes later meets me at the edge of town to escort me to his house. Will Guerly is a gregarious, larger than life kind of guy.  His home is a comfortable brick rambler with a trio of noisy barking dogs that provide security.  The same kind I have to fend off each day.  Murphy is clearly uneasy about his new pack but Will keeps a lid on them and they leave him be after a thorough smell down.  I am soon set up in my own bedroom and start a most interesting evening of activities.  Will is determined to educate me about southern ways and life as he sees it.  We start with cold beer (Bud light what else) then he moves on to large ice filled glasses of bourbon.  Several.  Enough to lay me out had I joined him. He gets louder and more expressive with each glass.  Tonight happens to be the second presidential debate.  I am not surprised to learn he is a die hard Trump supporter.  Nearly everyone in the rural south is. Everytime Donald opens his mouth Will cheers and hollers his approval.  I am pretty sure he has no problem with the groping business and Trump could had landed a punch on Hillary's nose to his approval. 
Strangely, he quickly loses interest and we are off to find some chicken dinners.  It's dark and we pile into his car to drive to a thankfully close chicken outlet.  I figured we had an even chance of returning with chicken as ending up in the ditch.  He later tells me his wife left him 36 years ago.  I guess its no mystery why.  We spend the rest of the evening listening to his blues music collection while he sings along. I am suddenly exhausted and suggest an early bedtime for me.  Later that night I hear some seriously loud crashes and bumps.  I am wondering what I will find in the morning.


Will Guerly at home in his office

The next day he is bright and chipper and a different person.  We enjoy the morning together and he fills me in on local history and his personal travels and family.  He is a successful soybean farmer, owns 2000 acres and rents 500 more.  I asked him what he would do today.  He told me he was going to pay off his one million dollar crop planting loan from the sale of his harvested beans. That is a pretty sizable annual gamble.  He was expecting to reap a $200,000 profit.  Enough to last him a year. 

David and Juana

He calls his Mexican housekeeper, Juana in the morning who comes over and rustles up a fine breakfast to send me off.   I am probably 7 miles out of town when Will roars up in his white pick up.  He hands me some locally produced peanuts, he has a cooler of ice cold beer and peels off 4 for the road.  He gives me a final run down of what to look for in the next 30 miles. A memorable guy I won't soon forget.

Nearly all The small towns in Mississippi I pass are really
struggling to stay alive.  A more apt slogan might have been
"Hanging on by a thread" but that may have been too pessimistic.

The Gunnison elementary School.

The Gunnison Gas Station.