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?