Camden to Jackson

March 25-26, 2009 Camden to Jackson

I knew it was too good to last: two days of beautiful spring weather with partly sunny skies and warm temperatures. But Tuesday night the storm clouds rolled in. Marcia, her mother, Josh, and I sat in The Catfish Place happily doing our part to support the local economy (channel catfish is the official state commercial fish). Using his ubiquitous Blackberry, Josh obtained the weather forecast: thunderstorms through the night, rain possibly continuing until noon on Wednesday. It was that word possibly that disturbed me. If it was seventy percent or more chance of rain, I could honorably end my riding for this trip and return to Nashville with Marcia and the rest. If it was only a slight chance of rain, I could continue my ride in confidence. But with an almost even chance, I’d either have to dig out my clunky rain poncho and prepare for a wet ride OR chicken out on the ride and maybe live to regret the wasted opportunity. In the end the words wasted opportunity disturbed me far more than the word possibly. So I bid the others farewell and secured a room for the night.

Why was I so worried about rain, anyway? Didn’t I start this ride in the rain last fall near Newport? Yes. And didn’t I thoroughly enjoy beginning this fabulous adventure, even in the rain? Yes. And were my soggy wet clothes really that uncomfortable? Yes. (Oh well, two out of three ain’t bad.) But rain is part of the fabric of Tennessee as surely as colorful leaves, historical sites, and tasty catfish. Indeed it plays a major part in the culture of agriculture so prominent in West Tennessee. Agriculture and Commerce—that is the Tennessee state motto. On this part of my ride I would experience the overlap of both as I rode through several small towns whose livelihood depends largely on the produce of the surrounding farms.

I took the luxury of sleeping in late Wednesday morning. Not only was I tired from two days of riding, but I also wanted to give the rain that had been falling all night a chance to dissipate. Loading up on a breakfast of bacon, eggs, biscuits, and gravy at the Best Western Inn in Camden, I prepared to meet the rain head-on about 9:00 a.m. To my utter amazement the clouds showed signs of breaking up as I started out. The rain had slowed to a mere mist. I donned the poncho, tying my backpack straps around my waist to keep the plastic from billowing up around me as I rode, and took off. My pedaling took me within three miles of the site of the plane crash that killed Patsy Cline. What a rich, expressive voice she had. It took my mind off the misty cool weather.

Bruceton was the first of numerous tiny towns I would traverse on my ride this particular day. It looked like a ghost town. I don’t recall seeing anyone there, just an occasional passing car. One of those temporary advertising signs in a parking lot in front of a boarded up building seemed to sum up the local mood: “Where the ____’s my bailout?” Maybe the next town would be a little more inviting. Hollow Rock. Yes, now I was definitely in Carroll County. Believe it or not, I had been to Hollow Rock before, actually knew a resident there. She was a fellow freshmen at the University of Tennessee at Martin back in 1972, a girl named Pat. My roommate John Claxton (fortunate enough to have wheels, a 1966 Chevy II) had given me, Pat from Hollow Rock, Debbie from MacKenzie, and Linda from somewhere, a ride to Nashville, where they attended a Christian conference and I attended to my (then) girlfriend Marcia, who was finishing high school that year. On the way back to campus Sunday evening, Pat talked John into swinging by her house for a few minutes, where we visited with her mother. Hence, my introduction to the town through which I was now pedaling. A cute little community, it didn’t appear to have changed much in thirty-seven years.

Soon the houses and businesses of a larger town came into view. Huntingdon was the last town I’d see before I began to pass the large open fields of West Tennessee. Huntingdon boasts about 4300 residents. John and I knew a UTM upper classman named Bobby Tucker from here. He called the city “the capital of Carroll County.” I guess it is—the county courthouse is located here. I stopped at a bank off the courthouse square looking for a familiar ATM that wouldn’t charge me a user fee. I was down to $8.00 cash, and small towns still run largely on cash, not plastic. A friendly teller informed me that my bank didn’t have a machine in the area. However, she was impressed with my bike ride and suggested nearby Mallard’s restaurant for lunch. Instead, I pedaled on out toward WalMart, where I could buy some cheap needed item with my debit card and get cash out for free. Stopping on the way at CB’s Barbecue, I enjoyed a pork plate, which left me a dollar to spare. A few minutes later I found WalMart, bought a cheap tire gauge, and obtained my needed cash.

I hardly recognized anything in Huntingdon from my UTM days passing through here. However, I recalled another student, Debbie Cannon, who made her home in this town. She had survived the devastating tornado that ripped through the area in 1970. Debbie, who had a strong faith in the Lord, calmly went through the house opening windows (as experts suggested in those days) as the funnel cloud was approaching. The Lord spared her and her family’s house. Debbie once told me that the town was named for a carving a hunter left on a nearby tree, “Hunting done.”

Huntingdon brought me to another decision point: U.S. 70 splits into 70 going to Jackson and Brownsville and 70A going to Milan, Humboldt, Bells, then Brownsville. I wanted to explore both routes and see all the Tennessee I can. So I hit on a compromise: 70A to Humboldt, lodge there for the night, and then on back to Jackson on a different highway. Next time I could ride Jackson to Memphis on 70. Not exactly U.S. 70 all the way, but hey! it’s my ride, isn’t it? Oh, the freedom of starting out here and going somewhere before day’s end.

The rain was long gone by now. But everywhere I looked around me I could see the fruits of its labor: fields with lush green wheat (it turns golden-amber by June) or the remains of last year’s cotton or corn crops. When I was a young college student, West Tennessee had struck me as bland and unattractive. But bicycle speed improves one’s perspective. I was riding through some of the richest farm land in the country. And those open fields and big sky were frequently punctuated by patches of woods and the cute little houses of hard-working families who made their living off this land.

The highway itself was not the best I’ve ever pedaled over. The shoulder, when present at all, was composed of eight inches of rumble strip, designed to keep vehicles from straying off the road. Personally I resented this design by the same Department of Transportation I once worked for, which favored the safety of numerous cars and eighteen-wheelers on this route over the comfort of the occasional bicyclist like me. Where are their priorities? At least the motorists seemed to know how to drive around bicycles. The traffic was annoying at times but not frightening.

The road between Atwood and Milan revealed that the term agriculture takes in more than just crops. It also includes the raising of livestock. I saw a variety of animals in the fields along this stretch of highway, including goats, mules, donkeys, cattle, and horses. Rounding one bend, I came upon fifteen large black bulls lying in the grass next to the fence, barely ten feet off the road. Another bull was standing, facing them as if he were giving them a lecture on cleanliness or proper grazing etiquette. As I pulled up to snap a quick picture of this bovine conclave, I apparently spooked the principals involved, and the cattle conference dispersed. Further down the highway I passed a field full of spotted, speckled, and mottled goats. I wondered if they were descended from Jacob’s flock (see Genesis 30:25-43). And how does one differentiate between a donkey and a mule? I really don’t know, but if you take your best guess and identify them with confidence, probably no one will challenge you (they don’t know either).

Outside of Milan I made another one of those serendipitous discoveries: the West Tennessee Agricultural Museum on the site of the University of Tennessee’s Research and Education Center at Milan. The museum showcases the agricultural products of the area, including a variety of products made from cotton and cottonseed oil. There are also displays commemorating the hard life of early settlers in Tennessee as they cleared and cultivated the land. One display, however, revealed the more recent pioneering efforts on this very site by Tom McCutcheon relative to conservation tillage.

Tennessee is blessed with good, rich, fertile soils in many parts of the state. Unfortunately, these soils are often highly erodible, a major problem for farmers. But the tireless research efforts of McCutcheon and others developed the agricultural process called No-Till. This method allows planting in narrow slots or small drilled holes without extensive tilling of a field, both cutting down erosion by sixty percent and dramatically reducing production costs. No-Till is now the preferred method of tillage by most Tennessee farmers and is appearing in many other countries as well. Since 1981 Milan has hosted the bi-annual Milan No-Till Field Day to highlight the latest innovations in this agricultural method.

The curator of the museum was quite helpful in explaining the displays and suggesting a place for lodging once I made Humboldt. She studied at UTM at the same time that I was there. I asked if she knew Debbie Cannon from Huntingdon. “Dr. Debbie Cannon,” she corrected me, had earned her doctorate in home economics and done quite well. I was not surprised.

Was West Tennessee not as flat as I remembered? Or were even mild upgrades wearing on me after nearly three days of pedaling? I don’t know which, but I was sure glad to see Humboldt come into view. I knew very little about the town. Another former UTM acquaintance, who went by the moniker Chickee, had called Humboldt home. And a sign on the outskirts informed visitors that Doug Atkins is a native son. Atkins played football for the University of Tennessee in the early 1950’s, was personally recruited by Coach General Robert Neyland, and went on to play pro for the Browns, the Bears, and the Saints. He was inducted into both the College Football and Pro Football Halls of Fame.

But despite those glowing recommendations, I still had some trepidation upon entering the city. One store clerk I had met a few miles back had warned me not to ride my bike through the city—one side of town was pretty rough. Not wanting to get shot this trip, I planned to lodge out on the bypass, then bypass the downtown on my way to Jackson the next morning. And, spying a decent-looking mom and pop motel, I opted for a second opinion on the lodging. At a major intersection a car full of twenty-somethings stopped at a red light. A young man yelled and pointed, asking what was that strange-looking stick protruding from my helmet. Taking optimum advantage of the quickly waning red light, I hastily replied, “My rear-view mirror. Do you know Humboldt? Where’s a good place to stay the night?” As the light greened up, he pointed across the highway and waved as the car sped on. Who could argue with such a sterling recommendation? I stayed the night there. It was clean. I think they’d even washed the sheets.

The next morning early I did a brave thing: ignoring the clerk’s warning, I pedaled on into downtown Humboldt—right through the rough part of town—and lived to tell about it. Actually, I’ve ridden my bike through worse areas. Why let one individual spook me? This was my opportunity to see Humboldt firsthand.

As I entered the quaint downtown area, my feet exerted their independent will and pedaled right past Highway U.S. 45 to Jackson. Their message soon reached my brain. Why not pedal on to Bells, then back to Jackson? Marcia would not be down from Nashville to pick me up till almost noon, I had plenty of time, and I’d never been to Bells. Oh, the joy of starting out here and pedaling somewhere.

What a morning for a ride. This was one of the prettiest stretches I’d seen in West Tennessee—mild hills, groves of trees, and of course open fields, similar to what I had ridden the day before but somehow more picturesque. The early morning sun threw my shadow off into the adjacent pasture as I pedaled by. A yellow halo encircled the shadow. I snapped a quick picture as I rode (in between passing eighteen wheelers) and continued on to Bells.

A charming little town of 2171 residents, Bells was founded by John and William Bell, who in the early 1800’s bought up land at a dollar an acre. Originally called Bells Depot and located in Haywood County, the name was changed to Bells and the town annexed into Crockett County in 1887. Bells sports a homey downtown with a diner, bank, scattered stores, attractive homes, and one of the largest frozen vegetable suppliers in the United States, the PictSweet Company, specializing in blackeyed peas, okra, sweet corn, carrots, and other local commodities. An annual highlight of this city is the West Tennessee Okra Festival, which features a horse show, beauty pageant, street carnival, and other activities. Everything in this end of the state seems tied to agriculture. A nearby state historical marker even informs that large-scale strawberry growing in Tennessee was brought into the state by David Brandenburg of Maryland in 1867.

I finally departed U.S. 70A for Highway 412 and the twelve miles back to Jackson, where I would link up once more with U.S. 70. The only noteworthy sight along that interstate-like route was the old house with a junked vehicle in the front yard—not the usual car or truck but a car-turned-helicopter. I have no idea the story behind that out-of-service rustbucket, but I wouldn't be surprised if it had something to do with agriculture.

Agriculture and Commerce—an appropriate motto for the state I’m pedaling through.