In the morning, as the sun rises into blue skies, the red door of my room blazes a fiery red, reminding me that we stayed the night in Redwater, Mississippi. Just a few minutes further, and we are on the Natchez Trace Parkway. I cannot help but travel north a short way to maximize our time on this historic road that slices a path through the forest. The National Park administers the more than 440 miles of the Trace and does so admirably. Caroline and I drove the length of the Trace in the year 2000, starting in Nashville, Tennessee, its terminus, and for the next two days, we crawled slowly south to Natchez, Mississippi.

Leaving the Trace, back then, was tragic as we had wound down and decompressed. Rejoining the speed of life highway-style was a rude transition back to modernity. Joining the Trace today, I’m filled with fond memories and the thrill of excitement. Back when Caroline and I were here, we had rain and gray, but still, it is one of the top scenic drives we have taken.

Although I could easily keep on with my travel north, I turned around after 11 miles to keep us close to our loosely defined schedule. It is a beautiful sunny day to take in the details, shadows, waters, life, and sense of history along this great American scenic byway.

The Trace commemorates an ancient trail originally established by Native American tribes, the Choctaw, Chickasaw, and others. From 1785 to 1820, it found its heaviest use as the Kaintuck boatmen (rough guys who plied the waters of the Mississippi) who had gone downriver on the Mississippi and the Ohio Rivers to markets in Natchez and New Orleans made their way north again to Nashville on this path. Walking the length of the trail the men who were flush with money from selling their boat and goods dealt with swamps, thickets, forests, wild animals, bandits, and little in the way of accommodations.

Today, the swamps reflect old cypress, moss, and an often wild landscape adjoining freshly manicured grasses straddling one of America’s best-kept roads. There are interpretive trails taking visitors on educationally informative walks. Wild animals of the predatory type are long gone, a few turkeys, deer, vultures, armadillos, raccoons, and squirrels can be seen by sharp eyes. Bandits and accommodations are kept well away from the Trace, as is commercial traffic.

The Trace has a top speed of 50 miles per hour. I find it difficult today to drive much above 30mph and wish that once in my lifetime, I could walk the length of this road. There are not a lot of cars here, and only a limited number of locations for them to join the Trace. You won’t find a restaurant here or a billboard. For 444 miles, you will find the natural side of America much the way it has looked since the Trace saw its first travelers back around 8000 B.C.

Historic sites are well-marked with large signs explaining what event or reason this particular area is being recognized. We stop at a few taking the time to familiarize ourselves with some of the roadside lore.

Trees tower over us, casting shadows from the east side of the road to the west. Some trees are bright green, while others have no fresh growth yet; we are still coming out of winter. Flowers dot the grasses and spread to the edge of the forests. Bright yellows, delicate whites, and tiny purple flowers are all making an early spring appearance.

The Pearl River makes a curve along a bend of the Trace, and we are pulled towards its shore. A lonesome boat floats quietly as its sole occupant fishes on calm waters. The tranquility of the river set in this Mississippi forest acts as a great host to us travelers. Our only wish is to linger a little longer than we do.

Nothing lends itself better to feeling like you are in a primitive landscape than when coming across a flooded cypress grove. Ancient trees send roots out of the brackish water while moss creeps up the trunk towards the tops of trees, reflecting their blue sky frames in the dark mirrored surface. The scene offers the senses a jolt that keeps our minds and imaginations busy. The water-swollen bases of the trees look more like elephant feet than tree trunks, lending to the curiosity stirred up while staring into these primordial forests.

More historic signs, more trees, and more blacktop, but the road is never dull. We cross small creeks, minor roads pass over the Trace, and the noonday sun illuminates the forest floor when trees aren’t busy blocking its light. A stop to look at wildflowers offers bees and bugs sharing flowers. Near the Choctaw boundary, another stop to inspect details, I look at fresh green leaves, old brown leaves, moss, bark, and a creek with two folks wandering its waters on their own exploration.

Soon after seeing our first example of a rustic split rail fence we encounter one of the few remaining original sections of the Sunken Trace. More than eight feet deep in places from the hundreds of thousands of shoes that tamped down this trail, we move towards its edge for Auntie and Grandpa to have a view. Trees grow precariously close to the rim near the steep drop-off to the trail below. Back on the pavement, we inch closer to the end of the road.

Mount Locust was, for many a traveler the first stop on their long walk north. A primitive stand, once one of many along the Trace, is now the lone survivor. Originally built in 1780, this oldest home in Mississippi changed owners until William Ferguson took over and added a small two-story inn, allowing travelers to grab a bunk for the night. Today the old house acts as an interpretive center telling the story of the Kaintuck’s journeys.

From Mount Locust, we took an unmarked road. Down this dirt path, I drive as I’m curious to see what might be at the end of the way. A good part of the road is an original section of the Trace. Not knowing where we were going was at first ok as the trail was yet again more rustic than the paved road we had been on. After a few turns, we seemed to be crawling deeper into a thicker and thicker forest.

I am asked if I know where I am going; nope, no idea, but I am following this road we are on. The road forks, and we stay to the left. A home on the left, a home on the right, more homes, and I start to wonder just where we are. Two nervous passengers keep me alert, and I start to contemplate the idea of turning around. Having what I think is a good sense of where the paved road must be, I continue on.

Not long and we are on one of the tiny dirt road intersections that occasionally cross the Trace, now I know where those roads go. In just a few minutes, we are at the end of the Trace. It has taken us six hours to drive about 130 miles; someday, I will take twice as long.

Minutes later a historic marker brings our attention to the Jefferson Military College. A quick stop and we find out that this was Mississippi’s first educational institution of higher learning, which opened its doors on January 7, 1811. In 1818, a young ten-year-old Jefferson Davis attended the school, but in 1863, it closed its doors due to the Civil War. The college reopened in 1866 as a preparatory school until the time it permanently closed in 1964.

The entrance to the well-maintained grounds is free. Self-guided tours of the restored West Wing, the kitchen, and Prospere Hall, where interpretive exhibitions, a gift shop, and restrooms are all found. The T.J. Foster Nature Trail takes visitors through a wooded ravine, past St. Catherine’s Creek, over bridges, past Ellicott Springs, and a historic cemetery. Nice place.

Natchez, Mississippi, is one of America’s oldest cities. Founded before New Orleans, it was once the home of more millionaires than any other place on earth outside of New York City. The city is internationally known as being the home to some of the best examples of surviving antebellum homes. These are not them.

A visitor’s reception center sitting high above the banks of the Mississippi next to the bridge that takes people to and from Louisiana is a great first stop to learn about the local sights. Not only are maps available for self-guided tours to see these old historic homes but tours inside many of them are available.

If only this were a tailgate road trip with a portable cooking setup where we could have made our own boiled peanuts and cooked up some crawfish, we bought along the side of the road, this could have been so much more.

There will be no roadside cookouts doing it cajun style, but there will be dinner and a proper motel to take a rest from a busy day that, at times, I feel is more about me and my desires than the guests I’m ferrying across America’s southern states.

As is our routine, we have an early morning wake-up except that today the sky is blue, although we are surrounded by fog, heavy fog. North out of Lafayette to Opelousas and then right. Turning east on the 190 goes smoothly. After that, I blame poor signage in the American South for my morning repeat of the lost path, just as I’ve experienced the last couple of evenings.

The sign for Highway 105 is either too small to see or is non-existent. I have to drive for what seems like 10 miles before being able to make a U-turn and head back. There it is, a sign no bigger than a pack of matches where I turn right to drive north on the 105.

Driving next to the levy of the Atchafalaya River from Krotz Springs to Melville, we see more blue skies with only minor spots of fog. Oh no, not again, not another detour! Why couldn’t they print on the map that the ferry crossing the Atchafalaya runs between 5:00 and 8:00 a.m. and then again from 4:00 to 6:00 p.m.? Just why do we have to arrive when it’s not during those hours?

Should we go north or south? We could turn around and go back over the road we came on, or I choose the new road. I opt for new sights and drive the really long twisting detour north and then, in Simmesport, turn south to meet up with the road we should have been on.

An hour and twenty minutes of detour later, we got to where we needed to be. On the way, we took a slow drive through Simmesport, which Auntie swooned over as being a replica of her beloved Angola outside of Buffalo, New York. The family used to own a vacation cottage there next to the lake. Only my mom was missing from the picture; Auntie dearly wanted Mom to see how uncannily similar the two towns were to each other.

Ghost towns of the Southwest are not that different from ghost towns here in the South except for the mold and the way the plantlife devours things that people built. Wood is wet and rotting, concrete is now green, and rusty brown roofs fall into crumbling walls. The trash from people who have squatted in these broken homes litters the grounds with beer bottles, empty cans, and an occasional splash of graffiti scrawled on disintegrating interior walls. This is what was left of Lettsworth, Louisiana.

How long have these tattered curtains fluttered in the breeze as they seek disappearance? Whose hands sewed the once fresh, clean fabric that helped lend a sense of hominess to this dwelling that now lies empty? I try stopping at as many abandoned homes as time allows in my secret hopes of stumbling upon old memories forgotten and neglected along the road.

The town of New Roads is a nondescript, poor place on the way to the ferry taking us to St. Francisville. We are fourth in line, waiting to cross this river. The ferry is nearly visible out on the water, so we must have at least a few minutes out here. I get out to stretch my legs, scouting a location for a good photo.

It is a little too foggy again so I satisfy myself with a photo of some withered trees in the water.

Walking back to the car, the driver of a catfish delivery truck asks if I got a good photo. Not really, I tell him, though I’m unsure of exactly what I got. He says, too bad; I agree. I shared with him how amazing it was down at the water level seeing how fast the river was moving, to which he responded with: “Yep, that Mississippi gets a-moving.” Oh, I hadn’t realized that this was the Mississippi we were crossing. Well, that makes this ferry ride all the better, then.

After a few minutes, the ferry blows its horn on the opposite bank and is on its way back over here. Maybe 20 vehicles are driven on, a few more minutes pass, and we are on our way. Last year, Caroline walked across the headwaters of the Mississippi and then stood knee-deep a quarter-mile downstream; today, Auntie, Grandpa, and I cross this mighty muddy river not far from its terminus, where it spills into the Gulf of Mexico.

Into the lap of luxury is the contrast from the last town with St. Francisville here basking in the sun. This small town is a vacationer’s dream. Beautiful historic buildings with well-maintained homes, churches, and a vibrant business area all come together, working to scream at me to bring my wife back here at the first opportunity.

This is the Rosedown Plantation State Historic Site. Pressed for time due to our detours, we can’t visit the home or the gardens, and for the small entry fee, it doesn’t make sense for us to pay for a 10-minute view of the grounds. Surprise of surprises, the kindly lady at the front booth must have sensed this and allowed us to pass for free. She directed us to drive to the second driveway, where we would be able to sneak a peek at the plantation’s main home.

What a beautiful sight it was. The grounds are maintained with a focus on perfection. Flowers were in bloom, and the trees were freshly green. The original entryway to the home is a fenced-off tree-lined and -covered pathway with the house centered at the path’s end. Auntie and I fawn over its majesty while Grandpa, more in touch with his manliness, remains in quiet respect.

Now in need of a shortcut to make up for the lost time, I turn left on Louisiana 19 toward Mississippi in the hopes of getting on the 24/48 to the 98, which all looks bigger and faster than the winding roads I am currently navigating. That’s right; it happens again. I am about to detour us so we can lose even more time because this is becoming the primary means of getting to our destinations.

Outside of Wilson and just before Norwood, where we could have taken a right, we come upon two dozen cars stopped with a policeman ahead blocking traffic. Considering the traffic we have seen on these roads, this is a humongous traffic jam for this neighborhood.

Trying to be patient, we use the time for lunch. I make us each a sandwich from the food we packed just to be able to picnic along the road. Sandwiches made and nearly gone, some people have turned around and have given up on waiting. We do the same. We turn back on Louisiana 10 towards Clinton, but before we get there, it’s road construction time again.

Not too bad, just a single narrow bumpy lane for a few miles, and then it’s on to Road 67 into Mississippi. Sadly, no neat “Welcome to Mississippi” sign is seen at this tiny crossing. The first town we come to is Liberty, how fitting as we are now free to make tracks at 65 miles per hour in a nearly straight line to Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

Just as we enter town, we turn right, following the 98 to the 49 South, where Camp Shelby is situated. As I was told on the phone prior to our visit, we are not supposed to enter through the north gate. Well, the sign said this way to the museum; maybe I misunderstood the lady speaking with a heavy Southern accent over the phone. I didn’t misunderstand: we were told to turn around and go down to the southern entrance.

Camp Shelby is where Grandpa did his basic training 63 years ago before shipping out for World War II. At the time, this camp in the forest was the world’s largest tent city. Grandpa was prepared to go fight the war and ultimately shipped off to New Guinea making his way to the Philippines before coming home.

Grandpa was with the 155^th Infantry Headquarters Company part of the DD (Dixie Division). He had originally come down for his first encounter with the South via a four-day train ride that delivered him here. Freshly married, my grandmother Hazel took leave of her job with Curtis Aircraft, where Grandpa also worked prior to his time in the Army, to join him until he shipped out.

The museum here houses a wonderful display of artifacts, equipment, and their environment that the soldiers back in those days would have been using. Not only World War II is featured but also how the camp contributed to World War I and its function in training troops for Korea, Vietnam, Somalia, Desert Storm, and the current War on Terrorism.

An Army baseball cap with Camp Shelby embroidered on it, along with a book about the history of this place was bought by Auntie and me to give to Grandpa as souvenirs from his trip back in time.

We need to make tracks, and without further ado, we are moving south again. Highway 90 brings us to dinner midway between Gulfport and Biloxi. Aunt Jenny’s “On the Beach” Catfish Restaurant serves up the same thing we had for dinner last night. We all love catfish, so a second time around is a natural fit. This all-you-can-eat catfish dinner might have been a bad idea because, after nine pieces, I’m feeling a bit weighed down.

We check into Days Inn after having missed the exit off the I-10, road construction, and an accident obscured the ramp so I HAVE TO DETOUR YET AGAIN!!! This tragedy is becoming a comedy of absurdity regarding how frequently it is happening to us. Why does this so rarely or maybe even never happen with Caroline as my navigator?

In the morning, we will pick up my daughter Jessica from the Corry Station Naval Training Area in Pensacola, Florida. I can’t wait for her to talk our heads off with her 195 miles per hour 140-decibel, indecipherable onslaught of mouth sounds she probably believes are words. Auntie will likely have to turn down the hearing aids while Grandpa ratchets down the pacemaker after being bombarded and adrenalized by my progeny.

One last item for the day is a big thanks going to Caroline “Onstar” Wise for the righteous restaurant, weather, and road help she is providing from her secret location in the Desert Southwest.