Driving the Natchez Trace: Suzuki Adventure, Day Eight

Equating the concept of “parks” with green space, as people naturally do, it’s difficult to picture a park that’s also a thoroughfare—but that is just what the Natchez Trace Parkway is. It’s a 444-mile road that’s also a national park. It goes from Natchez, Mississippi all the way to Nashville, Tennessee. It passes by Civil War memorial sites, prehistoric mounds, cemeteries and former plantation mansions. For historians professional or amateur, it is irresistible. 

We get on the road early the day we’re driving the Natchez Trace, because the whole point of driving it is to SEE it—therefore, all travel must be during the limited winter daylight hours. I fear that another storm will come along and render the daytime dark and foggy, but happily, we’re in a sweet spot between the New Years’ storms and another snow-showering miserable front that will shortly overtake the East Coast. It’s a crisp, clear, sunny day that promises great pictures and ideal driving conditions.

No commercial vehicles are allowed on the Natchez Trace Parkway; between this pleasant rule and the fact that it’s off-season, the Kizashi’s one of the only cars on the road. It is honestly a bit too eager of a car for the moderate speed limit—both the engine and I are hungry to gobble up the long smooth stretches of country road, which gently curve through miles of fields and forest.

There are plenty of opportunities to diverge from the Parkway, either in order to meet up with a main highway, or to cut away to an attraction or small town. Some of these tempting little sidetracks wind up being more of a time commitment and more of an adventure than the map indicates. In one memorable instance, we think we’re taking a 10-minute detour to a port on the shore of the Mississippi River, but instead wind up on an obscure loop that takes us to a Civil War museum, past a nuclear plant, through several tiny farmholdings, and into the deep woods where we discover the ruins of an old, formerly magnificent mansion. Along the way, we drive through Port Gibson and learn that it is not a port—just a tiny, poor town where everyone seems to be at Sunday church. At the ruins, we have a classic roadtrip conversation with another couple that’s also stumbled across the eerie, moss-covered structure.

Other Couple: Have you seen a ghost town anywhere around here?

Us: No. We’re looking for the Mississippi River.

Other Couple: We haven’t seen any river since we left Natchez. But the oldest ghost town in the South is supposed to be right around here…somewhere. We’ve passed lots of little roads named after it.

Us: We thought we were going to a port, but Port Gibson turned out to be a town. I don’t think it’s a ghost town, though. There are people living in it.

Other Couple: No, that’s not it.

Us: Here, let’s see if we can GPS it. [Foolishly pulling out the Blackberry, as though we’re at a lunch meeting back home.] Hmmm…. We don’t seem to have reception.

Other Couple [looking around at the dense forest that surrounds us on all directions, and the dirt road leading out of it] I wonder why.

We leave the other couple to their quest, and return to Port Gibson, where people are exiting church, the women wearing a stunning assortment of Sunday hats. Everyone gawks at the Kizashi like it’s an alien space ship. At this point, we’ve gotten hopelessly turned around and need to ask directions back to the Parkway. The people in the town grocery store have—frighteningly—never heard of it. Fortunately, we’d discussed local roads with the folks at the Civil War museum earlier, and remembered enough of this to get back on track.

The next couple hours of the trip are dedicated to scenic photography on the fly. There are so many historic and natural monuments slipping past us, it’s hard to know where to point the camera.  Even the hay bales are ready for their closeup. 

We reach Jackson, MS in time for a late lunch, and after five failed attempts to find a barbecue joint that’s open on Sundays, we finally locate a classic soul food cafeteria in the heart of town. My partner-in-drive opts for sausage and beans; I get fried chicken with extra barbecued ribs (how can you not?) in addition to the classic veggie “three sides.”

The sausage is smoky and juicy; the ribs fall off the bone with almost no prompting. When I’m finished with them, sticky-sweet barbecue sauce rims my mouth as though I were a kindergartener. The sole server on duty during the quiet late-afternoon Sunday shift must be hard pressed to conceal his amused grin. My boyfriend isn’t so polite.

“Get more napkins! You’ve got sauce all over your face.”

I don’t care. I’m too busy devouring the fried chicken, which is piping hot and the best I’ve ever had. The skin is crispy-spicy-crackly amazingness, and the meat is juicy and tender. I scarf two meals in 15 minutes. It’s not polite, but we’ve got a long way to go still.

Because daylight hours are waning, we jump back on the freeway for the rest of the drive, winding up at a non-glamorous Motel 6 in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Next up: the Great Smoky Mountains.