Many times would see cars pulled to the side of the road. People were crouched, filling bags with items picked from the ground. This time of year, pecans are falling from the trees in Mississippi and we joined the random assortment of people along the side of the road in picking up a couple pecans for ourselves.
The Mississippian Period Mound Builders perfected their art by 1250 AD when ancestors of the Natchez tribe began to sculpt a natural hill into the second largest Pre-Columbian earthwork in the country. Named after a 19th century plantation that surrounded the ancient earthworks, Emerald Mound's history represents what might as well have been another world. The mound's base stretches 770 by 435 feet. While the main portion of the mound is 35 feet high, two secondary mounds on top of the main body elevates it another 30 feet. Here was the cultural center of this region. Chieftain and cultural leaders lived in structures on the mound. Ceremonial rights were conducted here up until 1730s. The descendants of these Mound Builders, the Natchez, continued to use the mound until the late 1730s. By then, the Natchez had moved their ceremonial center 12 miles north to the Grand Village of the Natchez.
By modern terms, the Mount Locust Inn is a modest structure with four small rooms for guests and the resident family. But in the days of the "Kaintucks" traveling along the Natchez Trace, Mount Locust Inn offered some of the finest accommodations a traveler could hope for.
As late in the fall as it may have been, leaves the color of sunshine clung to the trees. The less tenacious littered the ground. This portion of the Natchez Trace is so worn by centuries of use that it is now a deep gully. We climbed down into the ancient footpath and looked up at the walls. They rose above our heads to flatten out at the natural ground level. This is a path so tied to tradition that to walk it literally blinds you to all other directions.
Today, we were waylaid by a gang of goats. After gaping at the limited remnants of Rocky Springs, we wandered to the Magnus Mound. Well we were headed in that way. We slowed to a stop while twenty unaccompanied goats blocked the road.
We turned on the radio this morning. It isn't something we often do. We mostly rely on podcasts and music. But for this rare excursion onto regional airwaves, we came across a Jackson station where the radio host was shoveling the burden of content creation onto his listeners: asking them to call in with their favorite places to visit near Jackson. Some called in to recommend restaurants. Others calling in about museums. But one caller caught the host's attention when they described the haunting remains of Rocky Springs Ghost Town. I giggled, "that's our next stop!"
When I was a wily ankle biter set loose in the school yard, I had little interest in the play set or sports games raging around me. Instead, I would race up and down the steep hills that flanked my school, much to the chagrin of liability minded school administrators. Some friends and I would dig in the dirt and ferry water from the drinking fountains to mini construction sites. We mixed dirt and water into mud and heaped it into mounds. I have no idea where the idea originated. We just preferred making things over playing games or waiting in line for the slide.
We all have our own white whales. Captain Ahab first lost his leg to one and then his life. Mary may not have risked so much, but at 94 (well, almost) her tenacity was still remarkable. She did not shy away from an adversary such as Mr. J.
Last night, we slept near a grave. The clouds lay thick over the night sky. Even the moon could not penetrate the blanket of mist. Leafless trees stretched skeletal limbs dimly etched against the night. A bitterly cold wind searched for any gap in our truck camper and the campground bathrooms were heated! We were camping at the Meriwether Lewis Monument.
We are suckers for overlooks. So, when we saw an overlook for the Duck Valley at milepost 404 of the Natchez Trace, we stopped to enjoy the moody, overcast vista. To me, it was like some scene from Wuthering Heights. I could imagine Heathcliff moodily stalking across the valley. We stalked across the hills, too. Well, at least we hiked along a ridge and into a small gorge to enjoy Jackson Falls.