Leaving Little Rock was bittersweet.

I left the library in downtown Little Rock and began heading out of the vacinity of downtown, when I decided to doub check the directions Google had recommended for leaving Little Rock.  I asked a guy looking like he just left work on his lunch break, the fellows name was Troy Cook.  He recommended that I change a couple of things on Google directions for scenery and since I was also looking for food, I stop in the Little Rock River Market.  I took his advice and found a little shop that sold me the most delicious chickpea wrap, it was delicious, healthy and hit the spot while I was moving.  To leave I crossed an old railroad bridge that had been converted into a walk way, it crossed over the Arkansas River.

   Once I crossed the bridge I followed the river walkway for somewhere around 10 miles crossing paths with a mural, an old retired quarry, beautiful scenery and many bicyclists.  One part of the mural I really liked was this shiloette of a couple walking holding hands, it appears as those they are in the sun as the butterfly is shadowed by a near by tree.

 I progressed down the river walk which traversed through a golf coarse and boat launches till I decided to ask another person if he knew where these apparent directions, with a little extra feedback, were leading me.  Tom was his name and he recommended that I head back about a half mile and following a couple of various roads that should lead me to where I need to me.  I followed Tom's advice and found my way over to the Burns Park Visitor center about  30 minutes after they closed.  I meandered around to ask some people that were near by if they had any idea where I was heading from here and none of the them were able to help me.  This was all taking place as a wicked storm was developing over head.  I sat down under the over hang of the visitors center and began to make my dinner as the storm opened the heavens to rain fury down upon the lands.  I looked to the left of me and there was a section of information, with maps that almost seemed hidden in plain sight and sure enough it was exactly the information I needed.  As night crept up on the day a guy with a semi sour look and a little dog, grimly circled my location seeming unpleased that I would choose to sit under the overhang of the visitor's center, down playing the severity of the storm that just passed.  I had that feeling of being unwanted by a fellow human being that had no idea of me, my journey or seemingly the with the look I was given humanity itself.  This was not the only time I was vaguely harrassed in this location, though it has been the only time I have been harrassed on this journey.  As anyone who has done a long hike knows, you smell, look pretty rough and often stay or camp in places not suitable to most, with exception of maybe the homeless.  So ok I decided it was late enough and I wasn't going to be able to find a suitable location where camping was going to be acceptable, I laid out my sleeping bag and slept right there.  Around ten that evening a fellow coming stumbling on over beer in hand with his young son and little dog in tow, complaining of the hotels not allowing dogs.  Then telling me that at first he mistook me for homeless, I didn't take it as an insult, really I think my first thought was, well Jesus was homeless.  So the mistake I let pass, though that was the second, yet not final time I was harassed in this location.  The final time was actually by the paper guy, who through the paper at the same time I was packing my gear up, he said, "Who's down there?" To which I responded, "Uh, me?"  The he retortsm, "That paper isn't for you, it's for them."  And I say, "Uh, yeah."  Needless to say these moments were certainly not the kind of random acts that one actually encounters in life, more like moments of sour people pouring out their grief with the world on someone who has little to nothing to do with them, sigh, pray for them and their misunderstandings.  I left the park as the moon was still plenty bright lighting the westward direction before me, with the help of the map I had acquired from the helpful visitor center's information station.

Little Rock fell in the distance as I moved towards a little town that I breezed through with the help of a retired soldier named Tony.  He told me of the service that he had done for the country, that they no longer called him up for duty.  His last tour of duty left him with a mortal wound and his heart had stopped.  He shared the same wisdom that I knew I was blessed with, that I wasn't walking this journey alone, just as he had never been alone in his times of service, God maintained a vigilent eye upon both of us providing the safety we needed.  Tony dropped me off as I pressed onward towards Caadron Settlement Park.  It wasn't more than a couple of miles before Jeff gave me a lift as far as he would be going.  Jeff talked really fast, telling me of the times that when he was young and used to hitchhike and the one time that he was picked up at the age of 13 and had to jump out of the vehicle with a quickness for he feared the sanity of the guy giving him a ride.  Jeff dropped me off at his stop, his story still resting in my mind.  Before long a guy named Joe Greene offered me a ride and a hamburger if I was hungry, I obliged him on the offer of the lift, however being as hot as it is and early as it was still in the day I regrettfully declined the hamburger offer.  People have offered me food, money and rides all along the way, all from the kindness of their hearts; blessings and truth written in the reality of the very life I am living, proof of not only my faith, but the overall goodness of humanity.  Another lift was I offered and graciously accepted the second person I had ever met named Gaylon, who was from the town of Conway helped me find my way to Cadron Settlement Park, the place I had hoped to camp for the evening.  He dropped about two miles from the park and I was happy he had, after four lifts for the day on top of the estimated 12 miles I had hiked for the day I had moved pretty far and made it to my goal destination for the day.  Unfortunately that goal was maybe set a little premature, for this park had no water, with exception of the river that was not recommended to drink and no camping was allowed in the park.

 

So I left the park and headed towards the little town of Menifee, where I met Officer Joe Kennemer.  Oddly enough this gentleman had previously been a Sheriff in the very county of my birth, I instantly feel a kinship with people when there is this kind of bizarre connection.  We had a good conversation of my future hikes on the way to the next town Plummerville, where he dropped me of to get a cold beverage.  Joe was really a heck of a nice guy, one of numerous police that I had crossed paths with who seemed happy I was doing something like this verses something more self destructive to my life and damaging to the world around me.  I went into the Country Store in Plummerville, which enable me to indulge in something I had been craving since I had quelled the BBQ craving, it was fried chicken that was talking to me this time.  The Country Store that was a very busy spot in the town of Plummerville, Arkansas seemed to be the hotspot with amazing fried chicken and delicious fried okra.  The fried chicken wasn't just good because I was craving it, it was flat out good!  Josh the owner of the Country Store had something else that I really like when I'm as active as I am right now, he had Arizona Tea Rx Energy Herbal Tonic.  I really love the stuff, I think I drank his entire supply.  Bret was a nice young guy that worked for Josh and seemed really interested in what I was doing and encouraged me to stay in town a second night that way I would be able to attend a Wednesday night church service.  I was hesitant, I had good motivation and a good hiking ryhthm, also I first need to secure my staying within the confines of the town.  I located Officer Alvey who turned out to be super helpful on numerous occasions, he had it okayed that I stay the night I arrived. After locating a suitable spot in the park I set my tent up and fell asleep.  The next day I arose and packed my gear up uncertain if I would be able to camp in town another evening, unlike the Appalachian Trail, people in these areas are uncertain of people hiking long distances and camping in this sort of fashion.  When it appeared Chief Hartman had arrived I went to see if I could get a second nights allocation in the town.  It was accepted, though the chief was concerned if I stayed to long the town would become upset, I understood and didn't want to become a vagrant park dweller.  The day was overcast, yet no rain seemed to fall, seemingly a perfect day for hiking a lot of miles.  Though the temptation was there, I stayed read and played guitar, making some progressions on a couple of songs I have been working on.  I wanted to attend church that evening.  Around six that evening it seemed a fellow was taking a walk in the park where I was reading, when he approached.  His name was Bill Griffith and he was actually the pastor for the Baptiit church I attended that evening.  A young man of middle school age approached us, knowing Bill, as we spoke.  He seemed dishoveled in many ways, notablely the way he spoke, it seemed fragmented and often confused,  though still good in heart.  When he left and Bill informed me of the childs broken family history, his needs and Bills hopes for his future.  We then left the park and went over to the church, where I had conversations with numerous people, Stephan would be the first.  A local who had recently swithced churches for his love of the Lord had drawn him to this church a different one than where his parents attended.  I then met Jamie, Bill's son, he seemed very curious about the journey I was taking and his heart seemed to be right with the Lord and this church.  I then met a few more peopel in the night congregation before the service, then I was asked to give an over view and answer a few questions on the Trail of Tears, I felt unprepared.  After the service and my consequential rambleings I had a good conversation with Sue Green, before I followed Bill down to the fellowship hall. I had been thinking about corndogs today and that's what Billy Jean offered me along with cheese puffs and lemonade.  I happily ate then spoke more with Bill and got to know James and Larry.  This was a blessed night indeed.  I returned to the park, through my tent back up and crashed for the early morning would arrive soon.  I woke to a still morning, a chill lingered in the damp air, remnants from the early mornings dew point.  The moon still bright and resting in the western sky.  As I moved nearer to the town of Morrilton and the sun began to rise, it was as if the moon was turned down by a dimmer switch, never moving positions, just fading into the light blue depths of the sky.

Morrilton, Arkansas had some apparent history and a museum that unfortunately was not open when I passed through, however I still took photos before I progressed towards the town of Atkins.  Now I'm leaving Atkins and I'll be trying to push on another 14 miles to the compiled 19 miles with the 2 mile assist of one very nice local, named Ruby.  Who by the way even gave me her freshly poured Coca-cola, southern hospitality at it's finest I have seen in Arkansas.  I think if I did indeed need a new shirt, someone probably would offer it to me, down right good people.  Off I go to Russellville and hopefully an actual campsite.

The Arkansas side of the Mississippi River

As I was dropped off in Arkansas I pressed onward towards highway 64, the main path that was once "The Old Sunken Road".  Highway 64 was six miles from my location, feeling the thick humid temperature that made the rice grow only slowed my progress.  Even a train, carrying I believe natural gas, tried to slow my forward progress.

The roads here were hot and the thing I first noticed near these rice fields were all the dried frogs, not a good sign for me, I'm on average drinking 5 liters of water a day.  As I approach what looks to be the beginings of a town I spot a water spigot and a paved path with a sliver of shade big enough for me to sit and no more.  I stop here for a breather, refill my recently vacated water reserves and let my feet breath.  There is a information board near by and it tells the story of the Sultana, the most disasturous boating accident in terms of the amount of life lost, even worse than the Titanic.

I moved further into this little town of Marion, Arkansas and quickly realize I have no idea which direction I am heading.  I step into the Marion City Hall and speak with a guy named Maxi Key who tells me te direction I need to go to continue on my journey.  This town, like so many I've seen along the way, has old buildings with great stone work that are easily 60-100 years old.  Since before Memphis I had been craving BBQ, waiting to find a place that really called me and I felt as though I had made a mile mark of worth on this journey and deserved some small treat, BBQ was to be it.  I passed a few places, but nothing called to my sense of smell and desire of hunger.  I stopped at a gas station on the outskirts of town to get a popsicle, which I had been adopting as a way of cooling my core.  A young lady who worked there, whose name I didn't acquire, had her son with her.  He was rambunctious and having a hard time sitting still, not too much unlike myself at that age.  I asked if I could by the child an ice cream as he looked on me enjoying one, giving me a sense of possible jealousy.  His mother agreed it would be ok, so I bought him one on a bargin that he would try to behave himself and listen to his mother, to which is readily agreed.  He calmly sat eating his ice cream sandwhich even as I left the comfort of the air conditioning to exit into the muggy heat.  As I followed the road onward I noticed a sign, similar in namesake to my journey.

 
I shuffled on down the road meeting many beautiful animals along the way, these horses looked like they lived in a painting by the highway.

I was fighting the heat of the day and pushing towards Wynne, Arkansas.  I felt like I was going to far north and stopped by a place called, Angeletti Animal Acres, to speak with Vince Angeletti.  He confirmed I was infact heading the correct direction by the best of his knowledge and recomended I stop in the next town a short five miles away to get some food and stay for the evening.  The powers that by  offered me another option.  As I began to walk towards the upcoming city to set up for the night a very intersting person by the name of Joe Townsend offered me a lift.  I told him of my plans to stay in the near town, my journey and the near by Village Creek State Park, which I looked forward to staying at for a couple of days for rest and recouperation time.  He made me a offere that I rather liked and agreed might be a good idea, it was to go about 60miles north from my curent location, almost doubling my distance from where I was going to be heading to the Little Red River.  He said the area was cooler in temperature, there would be far less mosquitos and the water was icey cold, which the trout loved.  He was a very kind man, who had given me recomendations on different parts of the state for camping, made calls for information on the Trail of Tears in Arkansas, gave me some insight as far as possible job opportunities I hadn't ever thought of that might help me to continue school and even helped me get that BBQ I was craving so much.  The most unusual thing about this fellow, was his voice almost sounded like former President Bill Clinton, which I felt was very suiting for the state of Arkansas.  He was one of those people that you meet and you really are happy you met him, the impact I often hope to have in people's lives.  Joe dropped me off at the John F. Kennedy campground at the Little Red River in just enough time to set up my camp before a huge thunder head open the heavens to fall upon my little tent.

 The next morning you would never had know that of the previous nights calamitous showers, as people finshed for those coveted trout through the day.  I watched a took photos as of them and their competition while my legs stayed submerged in the almost painfully cool waters.

The competition

Next to my camp was a lovely family from Little Rock.  It consisted of Toni Turchi (aka Wonderwoman), Pat Golden (who's super powers are still unknown), Linda Hall (aka Catwoman), Matthew, Ken and a few others I didn't catch the names of.  These folks were super nice and I was able to have a lovely chat with them in the morning over coffee and donuts.  The super hero names are an inside joke that most readers of this story won't get and for that I offer my appologies.  I stayed, relaxed and soaked my achy bones in the river's cool waters. till the following morning when I was able to attend my first church service since this journey began.  The church service was open to the air in a pavillion in the park, the music rang through the trees and the spirit through the hearts of the faithful.  The sermon was given on forgiveness and the words touched my soul as the pastor spoke of the number of operations his wife had to endure before her passing.  I left the park thinking of Pslams 51.  I moved through the town of Huber Springs, a lake oriented town.  I restocked food and picked up a set of cheap headphones at another Walmart.  I progressed through town as people stared at me oddly, as if I had a giraffe on my shoulders.  I stopped at a Burger King on the way out of town for a burger and a .50cent ice cream cone, even though I try to avoid to much dairy.  The ice cream was worth it, the burger disagreed with me.  As I confusingly progressed out of town a I heard a honk, it was a guy named Michael whom offered me a lift this time.  He interstingly enough studied music in the town where I grew up, Bloomington, Indiana the whom of I.U.  I hope that doesn't burn me with the Arkansas and Tennessee fans that I have met along the way.  Either way, another ride in the heat of the day is a blessing indeed.  Michael told me of his hopes and dreams of getting married in the future, playing music for his church and getting his masters in music.  He dropped me at highway 5 which would lead me back south to Little Rock and the Trail of Tears.  I wished Michael well on all of his pursuits and hoped for his future to be a happy and bright one.  I drifted down the road, feeling as though I was moving with the comfortable breeze that was bringing another storm into the region.  Then something odd happened, I was offered a ride by a Loree Garriott, it was odd because it was a lady.  More than once people have said they don't pick up people walking on the side of the road, but they felt compelled to give me a ride, a couple of times people stated God interviened and told them to turn around and pick me up.  This time this very sweet lady saiid she picked me up because I wasn't just sitting there, but it actually looked like I was trying to make progress and I was.  Loree brought me into the town of Rosebud, I stopped here for a short while, just long enough to get a cold soda, but it was too early for me to make camp for the day.  I wanted to make some more miles, I want to get to Little Rock and get back to the Trail of Tears.  The road narrowed and the cars moved fast, flying past me with a sense of urgency, whether there was urgency or not. 

I had been feeling the miles in my recently softened feet, the aches seeped back into my bones and joints.  Somwhere around eight miles from rosebud I encountered the little town of Romance and Bethesda Church.  On the porch sat Pastor Ken Wood and Robert Gray.  I asked Pastor Wood if I might be able to camp someplace near by and me motioned to some bushes and small trees near by, stating there would be no problem with me camping right there.  I was glad to find a place ot rest for the night.  He said they would be having a service if I cared to join and I could play a little guitar if I'd like; I opted for both of the opportunities.  In the service were brothers and sisters Kenneth and June Wood, Andy and Karen Little, Marie Golley, Jim and Mindy and Robert Gray.  It was a lovely service with gave me a good insight into a recent error I had made, I laughed at an off color joke.  It is true that they are often funny, however it is also true that this could be considered "musing the fire" of sin within ourselves.  It was a good lesson taken to heart.  The congregation felt compelled to give me a donation from their hearts, I was overwhelmed and accepted though this kind of generousity feels as though it is too much since.  I always try to remember that a blessing is a two-fold measure, for me to accept a blessing from another is to allow them to be blessed as well.  I am thankful for this days struggles and fortune indeed and the true humor in irony was found when Pastor Wood brought me a piece of cake, bringing a smile to my heart not just my mouth.  In the morning Andy and Karen Little had a doctors appointment in Little Rock for Karen's pancreas and offered me a ride to town, I graciously accepted.  They dropped me at the library here in Little Rock with fresh coffee in my system, which is where I have spent the last four hours or so, peeling as many details out of my brain as possible.  I hope all went well for the Littles in their visit to the doctor today.  God Bless.  Time to head out of Little Rock and on to the next location.

Bolivar, Tennessee over the river and through the woods to the Little Rock of Arkansas.

Bolivar, Tennessee was a town with a bit of a blur bound in blessings and truth be told so was the majority of west Tennessee.  I left the library heading towards the Walmart to get another food restock when a guy pulls saying, "Need a lift?"  My friend Katie would really love this guy and might have had as good a conversation as I have had.  When I looked at the fellow in his car I thought is that John Goodman, and as he talked I felt like I was talking to the "Dude" from the Big Labowski.  Regardless of these points which I didn't bring up in the conversation, Jim Zeigler is a heck of a nice guy who decided to give me a lift because he noticed my guitar.  A fellow music lover, he has a band called Casting Our Pearls, which can be found off my facebook page and based on our conversation I think it must have some raggae and rock'n roll roots.  The conversation Jim and I carried on lasted for at least thirty minutes of a five minute drive; he seemed genuinely happy to see a youth of today exploring the world and not accepting a role in life that didn't seem to fit, like that of clothes two sizes to small.  I left this great conversation feeling as though the constant watchful eye of the Lord would never fail to surprise or amaze me in my path.  I gathered my supplies in the Walmart, one important and helpful thing was a new bite valve for my water bladder, which fell off during my hike up to the Sparks farmstead.  I was packing all of the life sustaing food in my bag when a fellow I had met and spoke with briefly a the library, Doug Howell approached, introducing me to a guy he knew who was also a very good guitar player.  Unfortunately this young man about my age was also working security at the Walmart so our conversation was brief before he was called to the duty of his position.  Doug and I contnued talking about my goals in this hike and what I hoped to achieve as well as the many blessings I had recieved along the way, he bestowed up me yet another blessing.  He hand me a small pocket sized bible with five dollars inserted within, stating with a confident smile, "There is more value in there than just the $5."  I agreed to the truth in this sentiment as he also offered me a ride down the rode will the rain was pouring down in sheets that blanketed the roads and thickened the air.  I was dropped off at a BP gas station to hang out until the rain fully subsided.  I asked the clerk, Crystal, if I could hang out under the awning and play guitar while the rain fell.  I informed her I wasn't playing for money, just for the inspiration the rain bestowed and she agreed it was alright.  The rain stopped not even three songs later.  I lifted my backpack with it's recent food resupply, feeling it's heaviness brought on by the security my body would need in the upcoming week.  I wasn't a mile down the road when I was stopped by the local police, officer #103, he voiced his concerns for the area and it's recent tragedies, while offereing me his advice and blessings on my path.  Onward I moved feeling the rain would bare down upon me at any moment.  I heard a noise as I walked that came from the near by sources of water, it remined me of the aliens from Toy Story or the henchmen from Despicable Me.  It would start out singularly, then come into harmony, these frogs would sing their songs to the rain that kept hydrated and healthy.  They truly made me laugh out loud as I raced to a location I had been illuminated towards, a Mennonite group ahead, where I might be able to camp.  I noticed a cross next to a picnik table adjacent to a muffler shop, the thunder cracked as the sky began to open.  I hastly made my way over to this spot having given up on the search for the illusive Mennonites.  I made camp just in time.

I woke the next morning and began my march further towards Memphis, Tennessee.

As I progressed down the road the sun once again bore it's forceful rays upon my, adding pressure to my pack, heat to my core and a burn to my exterior.  I try to wave and ackknowledge the people in te tracffic as it passes, I get a number of responses.  There is the one finger point, the two finger peace, the three finger wave that still allows the steering wheel to be managed with a finger and the thumb, the four finger lift wave leaving the thumb in control of the vehicle and the full on wave.  After maybe an hour of waving I heard a honk, I try to always acknowledge everyone so I thought it was someone saying hello.  When I heard it a gain I turned to look and found Don in his big dually truck towing a giant metal drain for construction offering me a ride.  As I jumped in the truck I broke one of my headphones, even broken with the speaker falling out of the casing the stock Apple headphones kept doing their thing.  Don dropped me off right outside of Memphis, Tennessee with the statement, "You just wait till you get in Arkansas, it's so beautiful and the water is so pure you can drink it straight from almost any source."  I hopped out of the truck and as Don drove to make his delivery I retied my shoes, dumping small stones out and resituated my back so everything would travel well through Memphsis.  Don had also told me I might take my guitar, out my hat out, sit down on Beal Street and play, then stay at one of the missions in town when night fell.  I declined this offer, though tempting as the thought of busking maybe and as glorified as it is in my head, I don't honestly believe that I am good enough to survive on it.  I progressed inward towards Memphis or so I thought.  I had heard about a great number of tragedies occuring in this town with so much soul, it seem to be a great concern most all I had spoke with.  As I passed the India Cultural Center I was offered a ride by Rajagopanam.  A nice Indian man who was Hindu by faith.  We had a very philosphically deep and at times difficult to understand, given the man's accent and low volume, conversation.  He decided to drop me off on the other side of the Mississippi River in Arkansas, whether it was out of concern for my welfare in the city or simple misunderstanding as he thought I was trying to hitchhike not hike the Trail of Tears.

Arkansas rice fields

From Savannah, Tennessee my feet do fly to Bolivar, Tennessee

As I had just finished my town tasks when I shuffled on down to the Tennessee River Museum where, Jennifer Perryman who had been so welcoming to me had allowed me to leave my pack.  We said our farewells and I gathered up my backpack and began to cross the Tennessee River itself.  I was really quite majestic as I crossed over the bridge and gazed down upon the waters current, quick and deep enough it was not a river to be forded.  The road was hot, the pavement treating my legs like those of a rotisserie chicken, if I were more hungry I might try to eat their golden brown deliciousness myself.  Up ahead I noticed two things one, someone else walking, possibly another traveler or just someone down on their luck and two a giant cross that the road seemed to run directly into.  I tried to quicken my pace a little I saw the opportunity for a great shot, the heat backed highway, a person grimly walking looking so uncomfortable in doing so and a large cross in the distance.

(Sorry the first picture you've seen of the 800+ I've taken and it's sideways, many apologies, I'll sort it out.)

....The story continues....

This traveler get picked up shortly after I snap these shots as I'm trying to hustle a little closer to get a better shot, no such luck me.  I keep walking towards Shiloh, Tennessee a place that had been recommended a number of times since I began, if nothing else for the historical significance of something so close, I'm truly glad and inspired that I was able to go.  I reach the town of Crump and take a hard left on 22 to head towards Shiloh and I have to say I am thinking that a ride would be nice for the short distance I have to go, not even a mile down 22 and Paul, though some refer to him as "Nashville", picks me up.  A quiet fellow with a steely demeanor, I could see him being a hard-nosed, yet fun-loving father of one of my friends.  He drops me at the park entrance and I begin the march into Shiloh. 

It is still as I meander down the road, memorial cannon balls, cannons, placards and stone monuments line the way, till about a mile in where I spy the visitor center.  I mosey on over to it feeling pretty wiped out for the day, as I approach a bright eyed and vibrant Mona, who informs me of the grim fact that the camping area is four miles away.  Uncertain that this is and hopefully may not be true I decide to wait for one of the park rangers.  When a very well mannered and helpful Park Ranger Heather Smedley confirms the truth of the camping being four miles away.  She says she's going to get a Coke-Cola and I tag along thinking it sounds nice with my burrito of peanut butter, granola bar and strawberry oatmeal, (really good by the way).  Heather was staying late to give a presentation on the Civilian Conservation Corps or CCC and said I could stay and watch it.  Most people don't know how much I admired the movement of the CCC and what it did for the country during the Great Depression.  I also believe that something similar to this, with a modern twist, may be the current and future economies saving grace and not bank bailouts.  So I decide to stay, when I meet Roy Kirk of Pocahontas, Tennessee and his two brothers.

Roy at 93 was part of the CCC and like so many people that were part of this legendary group of individuals that saved our country not once, but twice as many of these individuals went directly into WWII, it was a real honor to meet him.  For the feelings of fatigue that I had were long gone as I my day turned into a real eye opener from the presentation and the motivation that I received from this spry old timer, who looked at my backpack as if he was going to sling it over his back and go for a hike that very instant.  Heather was kind enough to take me down to the Shiloh Primitive Campground, where James, the kind owner with his daughter in tow floating around him like a butterfly, let me camp for free, I think because no one camps in the south in the summer time.   I woke early and left late to head back into Shiloh, this time to experience the park.  I walked in a back route that was shown to me and right into a bus groups tour they laughed and so did I, not the first time of being a spectacle in a state park.  I breeze through the course that I devised through the park over to the part that had native history, that of the South Appalachian Mississippian culture. 

I finished my tour of Shiloh State Park and head back up 22 towards 64, the road that covets the now paved history of the Trail of Tears.  Shortly after leaving the park I stumble upon my first artifact and souvenir for this journey, a broken arrowhead.  The arrowhead made my mind drifted towards when I stayed at Chet's in New Hampshire, oddly enough I also found a New Hampshire quarter shortly after the arrowhead.  I kept progressing down the road till I reach 64, I took the hard left to be back on coarse, when a fellow named Otis Henson, "The Bicycle Man", who has a variety store on 64 offered me a cold beverage.  How could I resist, I happily enjoyed a cold Mellow Yellow and he inquired about my guitar.  he said why don't you strum a little, I thought my first payment for playing guitar is a soda.  I accepted graciously and began to play a little.  I finished me soda and thanked Otis, both for the soda and the opportunity to play.  As I walk ever closer to Memphis the song, "Walking in Memphis" rings in my head.  A nice guy who seemed quite down on his luck and pushed around by life, John Poland offered me a ride into Adamsville. He told me of his service in the military, being robbed in Las Vegas and how it all became too much negative pressure for him to endure alone, being his family and friends were here in Tennessee he returned to sort things out.  Still unsure of his path, I prayed for him as he told me his story.  He helped me find someone in town I was looking for Officer "PeeWee" and Officer Daniel who would allow me to camp at the community center.  I was happy to have that figured out and quickly set up camp so I could make and early rise of the day.  I awoke early and trotted off hoping to stop at the library, though my luck of the day would have it closed, so I pressed on.  I would push hard on this day, I would clear 20 miles, my biggest day yet, with a two mile lift and some ice cold popsicle, from John.  I had hoped the library would be open in the town of Selmer, Tennessee, alas as John showed me it was not.  He dropped me at the McDonald's where they had wifi, but I improperly logged out of my accounts and was not able to log back in.  I pressed on to finish this day as I realized some five miles or so outside of town that I had lost my bite valve and with that my water.  I came upon the Full Gospel Baptist Church, standing there an unfinished work in progress, I was in need of water and this, a saving grace moment in my journey, I can only imagine what the house will be like when finished.  After filling up with water I pressed on and stopped at the farm of, Deanne and Dave Sparks. Deanne said with enthusiasm, "We farm!"  I was and still am quite happy they do, they keep the food on America's tables and often tables around the world.  I made camp in their cow pasture under a tree with good shade, I dropped like a rock and slept like the dead, I felt I must have been my own tombstone that day.  I woke up late, around midnight to eat the other half of the Subway I had purchased for lunch and abruptly passed out till around six in the morning.  I met Dave in the morning another quiet and good natured fellow along the way.  Dave reminded me of a mix between my college roommate Eric, only aged and softened by time and my high school mentor Greg.  We parted company and I moved on down the road, on to Bolivar, Tennessee.  The semi-trucks and dump trucks flew down the highway, pushing their engines like indy-cars, it brought me back to my days at the Indianapolis 500.  I pushed hard again this time, about 21 miles till I stopped at the Three Way Gas Station, where I met Tara Sipes.  She was a kind hearted girl from the south that life had made wise through it's processions.  She talked with me as I filled my water, got a cold beverage, treated myself to a sandwich and popsicle.  She wished me well and to stay safe as I exited and headed for the center of town.  Here I sit at the Bolivar library, with the help of Cheryl at the front desk as a storm thunders outside, making the lights and electricity unsure if they want to stay on.  On the Walmart where maybe I'll find a bite valve for my water bladder, and if I'm lucky I'll find a place to do laundry and take a shower as well, I think I need it.

Davy Crockett State Park west towards Savannah, Tennessee

As I settled into a nice little campsite at Davy Crockett State Park, just outside of Lawrenceburg, Tennessee a car full of young bright eyed college girls arrived.  These girls had all the sweetness the world adorns so many with.  They worked on arranging their hammocks and mastering the art of getting in and out while we talked, a thud and giggles could be heard by all the near by campers.  With a sheepish smile I left to go hike the section of the Trail of Tears that was being preserved and revamped within the parks property, a nice 2+ miles, some of it is still under repair.  I spotted an old watering well no longer in use, but looking very familiar as old wells do and followed my line of sight to the trail.  I breezed down the trail without a pack and face first into more than one spider web, the feeling of a sticky uncertain creepiness.   Young deer in small herds jumped at the sound of me crushing little sticks and leaves underfoot.  Reaching the end of this section of trail at the road where a fence lined the border of a field with a clearing and a flock of wild turkeys stared me with a curious gaze. 

I fell into another conversation with one of the camp caretakers and his guests, we discussed at length the area around here and they convinced me that I should make a stop at Shiloh State Park.  I hurried back to my camp as the sun was chasing the horizon down.  When I arrived back to my campsite it appeared the girls had left, I assumed I had offended them in some way, (possible my hiker odor which can be powerful) or there was bad weather on the way.  I prepared a simple small dinner as my hunger still hasn't been heavy do to the heat.  Shortly there after the girls arrive back at camp, in a meddle of happy sounds as the gathered fire wood tumbled out the back of there SUV.  Stacey, Meghan, Lauren and Kaylee begin rehanging their hammocks as I assist them with starting a fire. I say I was helping them, maybe it was to help me really to help me, fires are always a hikers and campers moral builders and can often be like a television in the woods.  As the fire begins to burn, the girls circle their chairs and I asked if I could play the guitar they had brought, happiness roles over me as I clumsily play.  Great conversation with plenty of laughter is had as the fire begins to die down and slumber calls to all the eyes in attendance.

Morning comes around the girls bless me with prayer as I am leaving in the morning.  I leave the park and head on towards Waynesboro, TN.  Maybe three miles into my morning and two people pick me up, we'll just call them J & D.  J & D used to be affiliated with an old motorcycle club, they said they were actually a retired from the "X club".  Our conversation got into the depths of their lives quickly as the smell of "homegrown" filled the air.  J had spent half of his life in prison for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, when found innocent 20 years later he had serious medical problems and was unable to attain insurance to help cover some of the costs.  They told me how the younger members of the club were falling into some of the same rebellious follies they had and expressed their concerns before they dropped me off.  This weighed on me as I continued walking.  A trio of dogs aroused by my passing began to follow me with excitement, just before Bobby and Mike offered a ride into the town of Waynesboro, with a, "Howdy neighbor, need a ride into Waynesboro?"  I jumped into the back of the truck and we flew down the highway.  They stopped at a gas station and I hopped out with thank you.  Before I decided to hike on towards the next town, the town of Savannah, TN, I stop for a nice cold Coca-Cola, because it may not be the healthiest thing I could drink, but that doesn't stop it from tasting really good.  Onward I press in what feels like a blistering heat; parted by brief comedic rain clouds that seem to follow me, sprinkling light drizzles that feel nice and seemingly almost worthless at the same time.  I walk through a long area of road construction switching from one side of the road to the other, jumping over barriers with the skill of a turtle.  When it's hot like this and I'm on the pavement my mind can't help but to dream of a ride with a breeze faster than my 2mph my feet will give.  Then I noticed I am gaining on a vehicle, I think I better slow down before I pass it, I am passing this construction vehicle, surely the comedic effects of life are on overload today.  I awe of the fact that I am actually passing a vehicle with my turtle like athletic prowess, I am oblivious to the fact that a guy is yelling to be, "Need a lift?"  Chris yells a little louder and I am startled with a smile I graciously through my gear in the back of his truck and we're off flying down the road, pushing through the comedic rain fall past the beautiful countryside.  He's a carpenter that has been doing carpentry work for the folks of Waynesboro for almost all of his life.  He's said to be the best builder in Waynesboro and though I haven't seen his work, I believe this may be true off the sight of his character.  He kind of reminds me of me in a different life or maybe a brother, uncle or even a cousin I never met.  Chris tells me theirs no way he'll let me get out of him buying me some food, so we stop at a McDonalds for a quick bite before he drops me off at the Tennessee River Museum.  I walk in the doors and I'm greeted by Jennifer a super nice, sweet and caring individual, I can tell instantly I would be lucky to call her friend.  I probe her for information on the Trail of Tears as well as camping, restock, guitar stores and the area.  She tells me that I should walk through museum because they have an exhibit on the Trail of Tears.  I begin through the museum and find the exhibit, an old Vietnam veteran, who reminded me of my father, was there telling what he knew about the Sacred Fire or the "Eternal Flame".  It is believed by the Cherokee as long as the Scared Fire is burning the people will survive.  The Sacred Fire was originally brought with Cherokee on the Trail of Tears, then was returned to Cherokee, NC in the 80's.  This old veteran who's name I never received, pushed twenty dollars in my hands, with thanks that I would be doing something like this out of respect for the Cherokee.  I felt overwhelmed by his passion.  I hung out with Jennifer talking a bit more while the comedic rain showers caught me again, then left to go find a place to make camp in a park that sits along the Tennessee river.  It would turn out this would be the park that all the young kids would go make out at, come night fall.  Once I made my stealth camp and had figured this out I thought it would be better to take a walk to do my restock, than to hangout along and be the creepy guy.  As I walked to the store the young kids with cars raced up and down the strip, looking for all the hot spots where their friends my be hanging out.  On my walk back all I could see was the crescent moon dropping in the nights sky, the closer I got to the river the lower it got till it was sitting atop the bridge that crossed the Tennessee River.  Camp was tucked away in tall wet grass that grabbed at my shoes and pants binding my progress towards slumber.  I fought the onslaught of mosquitos that snuck into my tent, feeling like the Spartans at Thermopolis.  I realized in the morning the number of mosquitos I missed the night prior, they were slow and fat with my blood, I made sure they paid for the blood of mine they took.  I had a nice chat with a fellow named Jim just before breakfast, he expressed the kindness of the people in the town of Savannah to which I was inclined to agree.  I walked back into the town stopping at the Tennessee River Museum and dropping my backpack off before I ran some errands in town.  I walked over to Maxine's House of Music where Maxine and I had a lovely conversation on music, God, life and enduring hardships through fear.  She had some great guitars I wished I could have taken some of them with me, but alas one is enough.  Jeff the fellow that worked for her, was able to fix my tuning key, thankfully!  They charged me nothing for doing me such a great service, then Maxine wanted to put some icing on my day, she blessed me with an extra set of strings and dropped me off at the library to finish my errands.

Where it begins for me.

Where it begins for me.

I suppose my trail began in Stone Mountain, Georgia this time, however the Trail of Tears for me began in Ft. Payne, Alabama.  Thanks to Ben at the gas station for a break from the heat, the guy who had been camping and who's name I've misplaced, gave me a lift up the road and bought me a smoothie, Officer Russel Reed for having a talk with God to turn around and give me a lift after a long shift through the night and offer this strange traveler a lift into Rome, Georgia, the librarians in Rome, Georgia for helping me locate more resources, the carpenter who's name I also misplaced who offered me a lift out of Rome, Georgia and Chuck for giving me a lift into Ft. Payne, Alabama and in doing so all of these peopled helped me get to the trail head.  

After many very curious and deliberating discussions that have still yet to be resolved, it was deciphered that the Trail of Tears John Benge route began here in Ft. Payne.  This is one of the major routes the Cherokee were taken down after being rounded up in the southeast and split into separate groups.  There were in fact numerous routes that the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek and Seminole were led on; my route on this journey will be a strange complex of two (the Benge and Bell routes) with a modern twist, the hitch.  My only rule with modern convenience is I cannot ask for a hitch unless I need some help; for example running out of water and dying of thirst or having broken my leg, etc.  Though my feet may regret this rule, I think it is important to try and stay as true to the spirit of the trail as possible.  It seems when I set my feet to a trail, grace shines down on my path, I do appreciate the blessings and hope to always have the opportunity to pay them forward. May the struggles of my journey have purpose for myself or others. 

I arrived in Ft. Payne, Alabama and began to find out many details of this little sleepy town.  It was originally the hosiery/sock capital of the world and (possibly more notably depending on who you ask) it was the home to a little band called Alabama.

I spent just enough time in Ft. Payne to to find out a little history on the the Trail of Tears here as well as some of the towns local history.  Libraries are always great sources of information so I dropped in and spoke with three people in the library who helped to guide down my path towards the Trail of Tears start in Ft. Payne, Mike a coach for a local high school football team, Alvin a coach for a local junior high basketball team and Lisa one of the resident librarians.  I meandered out of the library past a plaque commemorating one of the most well know Cherokee's, Sequoya, the creator of the written Cherokee language.

In my meandering I took a wrong turn and went down a street that led me to a dead end where I came across Jay and Princess Nayia.  I asked Jay where I would be heading to catch the Benge route of the Trail of Tears, unsure himself he placed a call to a friend and was able to help me find my bearings.  While he and I discussed the trails location, his daughter Princess Nayia, who informed me most certainly she was in fact a princess, took an interest in my guitar, so I strummed a little to see the child smile.  We parted company and as I trotted down the road the seeming trail head appear, here my first markers of true Trail of Tears, a confirmation found in aluminium.

Having seen these most affirmative markers the true beginnings of this journey emerged.  The days hike was blessed with sun, though the heat from it made me suffer, so I decided to stop at Jerry Neely's Garden Patch produce stand where I got the most delicious orange.  Jerry and I spoke for some time about his roots and his families history around the Trail of Tears.  At around three the sun was still warm and I still wanted to make some miles. I said good by to Jerry and shuffled on down the trail with the heat still bearing it's weight.  As the night began to creep up on me walking through the valley, I thought it best to begin looking for a camping spot.  As I turned the corner following the path there was the Church of Prophecy, for which Charlie was the caretaker.  I made camp quickly, soaked my self for a short while in a near by creek to cool off, made a quick pot of ramen and called it a night.  I knew the morning would be coming soon.

I woke up the next morning, broke camp, had breakfast, refilled on water and left before eight.  It was a good start to a day that was bound to be good hiking.  After hiking out of Ft. Payne, I was offered a lift by two guys with two guitars, Billy and J.R.  What can I say but it was good to play some music.  Billy has a heck of a good voice and can play the guitar like it's breathing.  Often when play guitar with someone I feel is better than me, I get recluse into my shell, but I also leave with some sort of musical osmosis.  Billy, J.R. and I hung out by the river side picking and playing for a good part of the day before they took me over the Tennessee River into Guntersville and provided me with a couple beverages.  As all hikers know or people that have spent lots of time in the sun and become dehydrated, my hunger is and has been down, but Billy and J.R. had me hang out with them until I cooled down enough to eat some food, which I happily enjoyed.  They dropped me off and I went on down the trail...road.


I was then given another lift by Tanya and Matt, a few more miles up and over the hills and on the the way towards Huntsville, Alabama.  I made camp about an hour before dark, which is good because a good storm rolled through last night.  When the storm was in it's full surge I thought my tent was going to blow over like the big bad wolf was knocking on my door.

I woke to wet grass and overcast skies, off I went towards Huntsville.  I was given two more lifts today, one by a gentle man named Jimmy Brisco, a good old fellow and the other, Mark, brought me right into Huntsville and gave me a cold water.  My time there was brief enough to take a couple of photos then hike out.  It was warm on my way out and the pavement made me feel like I had cooked myself to a medium well.  I took one break on the side of Pulaski Pike for about thirty minutes, just long enough for the passing traffic to provide me enough breeze to trick me into feeling cooled.  I slung my pack on and lifted my guitar and pressed forward, westward.  I took a right at State Road 53 which would take me into Pulaski, Tennessee my next stop.  On the way up 53 a very nice gentleman named Mike Hill swooped me up and just before the rain came pouring down.  He was nice enough to drop me off right in the town of Pulaski.

Pulaski has a history riddled with change, they were the former head of the Ku Klux Klan, this is no more.  It is a very diverse and beautiful town that anyone would be lucky to pass through, if not live.  Civil war battle history surrounds a lot of the area and two of the various Trails of Tears pass through here, the Benge and Bell trails.  I thought the Trail of Tears museum would be the ticket for information on my path; I need to switch trails and it would be the Bell trail that I would be following westward towards Oklahoma.  The museum was closed unfortunately, however I was fortunate to me a lovely and sweet dog named Songbird and her owner/friend, who's name I never got.



Having wasted enough time and still not sure of the next direction, I decided to stay another day in Pulaski doing a little intelligence gather on the Trail of Tears here, as well as recuperating from the recent heat.  I visited the chamber of commerce where Ann and Margret were super helpful in helping me sort out some of the disheveled history of the Trail of Tears.  They also directed me towards a quaint little dinner within the local pharmacy, Reeve's Pharmacy, where you could get a .05 cent soda, it was a very little soda.  There a nice couple, Mary Ellen and John Wall, decided to sit and have lunch with me, we had a great conversation over lunch.  The whole atmosphere of the town was one of a living person, that had been through the struggles of life, yet kept it's head up to see the sun rise anew daily.


I woke up this morning to the warm sun beaming through the mesh of my tent, saying very clearly get up or become the filling in a tent burrito.  I swished some green tea in my mouth from my Nalgene to wash the morning breath away.  A twist to the left and twist to the right and my back is relieved with a string of pops and cracks, refreshed and repaired.  A strong rustling in the brush not ten feet from me alerts me that I am not the only one the sun has woken, a young deer that's just lost it's spots leaps through the tall grass realizing all it's company has already set out.  I have another long standing stretch, pack my gear up, eat my strange breakfast burrito of a peanut butter and a nutragrain bar in a tortilla as I take another look over the little town of Pulaski, then I'm off.

Then sun begins to cook me once again as I trot down the pavement, my pack weight feels good, though it's like looking at yourself in the mirror, you always think you could loose a little more.  As I walked a dollar stood out beside the road, thinking it must be my lucky day, I found the dollar a home in a group of youths raising money for their baseball team.  I remember helping my brother raise money for his baseball teams, best dollar I may have spent so far.

About four miles after leaving Pulaski I see two officers checking people's speed, I'm a little worried knowing I'm setting a good pace.  I jokingly holler across to them, "I'm not going to fast am I?"

One replies says, "No, you're good with a smile."

I'm moving a little better than two miles an hour!  I stop after a little better than five miles to let my feet breath and before I can get my second shoe off, a gentleman named Bobby James, gives me a lift,  saying, " I hope you believe in God, cause he just told me to come back and pick you up!"


Bobby James dropped me off in the town of Lawrenceburg, the home of about ten thousand people, birth place of Davey Crockett.  I'll be staying at Davey Crockett State Park this evening.  John Huntley was kind enough to let me use his computer to post this first part of the blog and also make me drool over his guitars. John and I talked for a little while over a cold water and he told me I should head into center of Lawrenceburg to the local guitar shop and talk guitar with the old timers and hopefully get the side quest absolved, the quest of the broken tuning key.  Walking into the downtown area I see the heritage and history of the Trail of Tears placed where all can see, to remember the truth and never forget the past and the lessons that were painfully wrought from it.

I found the guitar shop and once again my mouth salivated over the encased musical potential wrapped in wood and strings that was displayed before me. I chatted with the old timers in the guitar store for some time before they found they didn't have the piece I need to fix my guitar.  One of the old fellows, Dalton Gully said he'd be happy to give me a lift over to the park and help me get situated.  He talked slow and softly with a gentleness, as if you might to a newborn infant, I think that is way of the south.  We pulled up to Davey Crockett State Park and to the park rangers office, they found me a site to camp for the night that was next to the creek.  Dalton dropped me off wishing me well on my journey.  As I set up camp I did wonder what could be next for me and my journey along this historical trail that has already shown so much human compassion that was so very sparse in 1838?