June 3

A fine day.  Did almost 400 miles today, though did not intend it.

Pat convinced me to head southeast through Louisiana and pick up the Natchez Trace Parkway at its southern terminus in - are you ready? - Natchez.  A very important town in the early history of settlement along the Mississippi.  That means a very important town in the history of North America, since the Mississippi was the key to the continent.  I did not eat brekkus, but headed right on out.  About 106 miles later, I was crossing the Mississippi.  Stopped in the biggest, best staffed visitor center I have ever seen.  Got directions to the Parkway, then drove around Natchez looking at the old neighborhoods, and searching for a place to eat breakfast.  The inhabitants appear not to need food.  So I got on the Trace.  Wonderful!  A very well-maintained two lane road, limited access, very little traffic.  Lots of trees.  The last logging around the Trace was almost 100 years ago.  Lots of historical markers, very interesting and a great bike ride.  Temperature was in the upper 70s - everything perfect, except I'm starting to get hungry.  No problem, I can get off on one of the little Mississippi state routes and get something to eat.

Wrong.  The US Park Service (maintains the Trace) shows the state route names and names the towns but decided against giving mileage to them.  And you can't see any towns from the Trace.  Too many beautiful trees.  No problem, I think, the road passes by Jackson.  Sure to be all kinds of places a really hungry guy like me can grab a bite.

Wrong.  Too many exits for Jackson and too many damned beautiful trees.  No problem.  There is an exit for I 55.  Got to be eateries and gas stations right off 55.

Wrong.  I get off the Trace at I 55 and there is zip.  I head south and run into I 220, which as we can tell from the number is the I 20 ring around Jackson.  Has to be something where two bleeding interstates meet!

Wrong.  Apparently the people in Jackson share a trait with the people in Natchez.  They don't eat either.  I head up I 220 and spot an interstate "Services at Next Exit" sign.  One lousy gas station.  By this time, I figure I should head back for the Trace and all those beautiful damned trees before I can't find my way back.  I will find something.

And I did!  I stopped and grabbed some of Pat's nuts and berries from my bag, ate a few handfuls and was again one with the spirit of the Great Bear.  Then I hit the road.

Now, the reason bears like to raid campgrounds is because nuts and berries don't do it for them.  I was soon hungry again.  Hadn't eaten since 5:30 the day before and that was a salad and a bowl of chili.  And now, I needed to start looking for gas because I sure didn't want to save refueling for too late what with the damned beautiful trees not letting me see any gas stations.

I spotted a sign for a dock and campground.  Ha!  Bet someone has gas there.  There was, at over four bucks a gallon for mid-grade.  Filled up, went into the station figuring there would be snacks.  Healthiest, most palatable thing there was a Heath Bar.  Ate one.  Asked the attendant, the lone human in the whole area, if there was a restaurant or something at the next couple of places up the Trace.  Sure.  In ------------.  (This name starts with a 'K' and is Polish, and is the name of a guy who helped us in the Revolutionary War.  You know who I mean.)  Great, says moi, should be only 20 or 30 miles up the road, if that.  How far off the Trace is it?  The answer, and I could not make this up, is, "I don't know.  I've never been there."  At this point, I hear Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs starting to play 'Dueling Banjos' and I clear out before I run into some guy who looks like he wants to rape Ned Beatty.  Or is it 'Beattie?'

On the way back to the Trace, I realize I forgot to put my ear plugs back in.  I stop.  These are plugs connected by a plastic string.  I start to insert the first one and realize the second one is gone.  I unpack my leather jacket and get my emergency set out.  Inferior protection.  I must find a hardware store and get some good ones.

I blast on by the town that starts with a 'K.'

Now I am starving and the nearest place I know I can find something is Tupelo and I want to get there fast and get a place to stay and something to eat and some earplugs and if really don't give a tinker's damn about the beautiful trees.  The speed limit on the Trace is 50.  I treat this more as a suggestion than a rule.

Twenty-four hours after I last ate a meal that was not either bear-connected or pure sugar, I made it to Tupelo.  Found a place to stay and headed for a hardware store I noticed whilst looking for a motel. Parked right outside the store.  Walked in.  "Hello, sir, can we help you," say two guys almost at the same time."  "Sure can.  I need some earplugs."  They set me up with some earplugs.  I get two pairs. "Where you from?"  "Idaho."  "Idaho, whoa!"  And we commence chatting and I have two new friends. "Say, do you know what this store is?  It's more than a hardware store."  "Why, no, I don't.  Do tell."  "This is the store where Elvis got his first guitar!"  Whereupon, my two new friends call over a third guy who becomes my third new friend, and have him show me the very counter and display case where it happened.  Seems Elvis' mother, Gladys, took him into Tupelo Hardware when he was ten to get him a bike.  Elvis saw a .22 and wanted that.  Not only no, hell no, says Gladys, only she was more refined and phrased it differently.  Elvis pouts, sheds a few tears.  Friend of the family and the hardware store owner comes over, pulls a guitar out of the display case below the .22, and has Elvis take a look at it.  Gladys offers to get him the guitar instead and is that alright?  "Yes'm," and the rest is history.  So I bought, and Kat, you scored, a Tupelo Hardware store Elvis tee shirt.  And they still sell guitars, too.  And earplugs.

Then my three new friends gave me directions to Harvey's, a restaurant where they allowed I'd get the best steak in Tupelo.  So I had prime rib, and garlic mashed potatoes and four big glasses of water and a nice cab and, damnit!, bread pudding for dessert.

And thanks to the wonder of GPS and the interwebs, when I got back and called Pat, she knew I'd eaten at Harvey's.

I have pictures, but I am too tired and will post them tomorrow. 

P.S.

While driving through Louisiana, I saw a sign advertising a business owned by the unfortunately named Jack Fluck.  This made me think of Jack, a fun loving canine type beast owned by One of Scotty's Sisters.  This brought me in mind of the other One of Scotty's Sisters, which in turn made me think of her husband, Don.  Then the stream that is my consciousness thought of the name 'Jon' which of course is more often spelled 'John.'  This made me realize I'd probably screwed up.  Sorry, Dohn.

After a very long spell where nothing worthy presented itself, today we have co-winners.  I give you Anal Discovery and Anal Conquest.  I may stop playing this game.