Chapter 5: Southern Hospitality
The American South — deeper fall, unanticipated cold temperatures, kindness of strangers, roadside Americana, and cultural contrast.
After five days of rest and reconnection in Canton, Georgia, I rejoined the road by way of the Silver Comet Trail. A rail-to-trail greenway, the Comet offered a ribbon of smooth pavement and quiet woods—a reset for both legs and spirit. By evening, I was camped in Rockmart at a friendly RV park where freezing overnight lows left frost on the tent. It was the coldest morning of the journey so far—surprising for Georgia in early November.
The next day I continued west, crossing into Alabama via the Chief Ladiga Trail. These two trails together formed one of the longest continuous paved bike paths in the southeastern United States. It was a fluid ride of gentle gradients and late fall color, the kind of day that builds rhythm and renews clarity.
Leaving the trail system behind, I entered the heart of Alabama. The transition was immediate. Pavement roughened, traffic changed, and the scenery became rural, worn, and vivid. I camped on a hilltop one night, the silence deep and complete. The next, I pitched my tent on the periphery of Underwood, Alabama, surrounded by red-shouldered hawks and old memories inspired by the tall pines that surrounded my camp. A flood of images returned from my years at Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary in Florida—a reminder that past and present are always vying for the awareness of our minds.
Then came one of the hardest days of the tour, up to this point. I climbed unrelenting, unanticipated hills in central Alabama—some exceeding 18 percent grades—until I was finally released from the thrashing near Moundville. I was familiar with the mound-building Mississippian cultures but hadn’t known about this specific archaeological site. I came upon it serendipitously. It appeared suddenly, without planning, a gift from the road. I camped beneath towering trees just steps from the earthen mounds, their presence solemn and powerful. At dawn, I walked the grounds alone with coffee in hand, reverent before the scale, silence, and enduring spirit of the place.
From Moundville, I continued west, encountering southbound rivers and riding through small towns and remote backroads. I crossed the Black Warrior, the Tombigbee, and countless smaller waterways. Alabama surprised me: rugged and raw, yes—but also textured, historic, and filled with quiet resilience.
Entering Mississippi, I rolled along a narrow road beneath ancient southern oaks when a voice called out from a shaded porch. William Rutledge waved me over. He offered tea and snacks, and we talked for over an hour. When I left, I felt full—not just from the food, but from the rare warmth of spontaneous connection. “My heart’s full,” I wrote that night. “And I think I needed that.”
The ride through Mississippi bloomed with fall color—red, gold, copper. As I approached a remote, barricaded wooden bridge along a mineral-stained gravel road, a vivid memory surfaced, triggered by the sight of a similarly weathered span—recalling the Cannonball Bridge over the Wabash River, crossed years earlier in Indiana and Illinois. The dirt track here was cut through ancient deposits, red and yellow hues bleeding from the banks, framed by evergreen oaks.
Not long after arriving at the bridge and confronting the possibility of a long backtrack, I decided to circumvent the barricades. Out on the bridge, the river passed just below—an eerie but beautiful scene. At the far end, missing floorboards forced me to dismount and walk, balancing on a narrow beam with large gaps revealing the water below. I aligned my loaded bike on the opposite beam, guiding it carefully while I inched forward. The final move required grasping the bike by its front wheel, rolling it in reverse down a steep embankment, making one careful step to the right through briars and underbrush, past the last wooden barricade, then pulling the bike back up to the gravel road. It was a slow, uncomfortable, and uncertain crossing—one that tested both balance and resolve. Later that day, I stopped at a roadside store and was rewarded, against the odds, with perfect crawfish empanadas. The memory of that precarious bridge crossing, and the meal that followed, lingers as one of those strangely aligned moments the road sometimes delivers.
Before arriving at River View RV Park in Vidalia, I crossed the Mississippi River from Natchez in a light rain. I stopped first at a local grocery store, knowing I'd be camping a few miles away on the Louisiana side. Loaded heavy, I returned to the busy road and approached the towering steel bridge. With three lanes of fast-moving traffic, slick pavement, and the steady spray of water, it was a daunting crossing. I waited for a break in the trucks, then launched hard, pushing for a steady clip. About a third of the way across, a large dually, pick-up truck slowed behind me and held back the rest of the traffic, giving me safe passage in the first lane all the way to the opposite side. I waved in thanks—deeply moved by the gesture which I took time to absorb, to nurture gratitude, on the levee below the bridge, on the Louisiana side.
Riding along the levee’s paved path, I arrived at River View RV Park, where I camped beside the river. I realized quickly this was the sort of place—peaceful, kind, restorative—where a second night and a full day of rest made sense. The kindness of one of the volunteers in particular, Lloyd, was a big part of that, but not the only one. For example, I had a handful of conversations with a sport fisherman and guide, who eventually convinced me to head next to Bunkie, Louisiana, and stay at the Gator Grounds RV Park. There, I had another heartwarming experience with the manager: she brought me cookies and meatballs from her kitchen, made special accommodations, and watched over me like an old friend. That night, an owl she hadn't seen in weeks visited me while I camped on the lawn outside the park's empty (off season) video arcade.
Returning to River View, it was a tremendous privilege to camp so close to the Mississippi River. I wandered to the levee, observed and photographed the bridge I’d crossed, lit up at night like the Eiffel Tower in high tourist season. The scene was epic—tugs, barges, and the Mississippi swallowing it all. Lloyd brought me a towel and hot food when I needed both. He joined me for coffee on the second morning, saw me off, and followed the tour all the way to Ushuaia.
Departing River View, I rolled along the top of the levees beside the Mississippi River, eventually linking into the vast network of levees and engineered waterways that define this region. Riding alongside such monumental infrastructure felt like a privilege. I recalled The Control of Nature by John McPhee and its depiction of the unrelenting tug-of-war between the Mississippi and Atchafalaya for access to the sea. One structure in particular gave me pause—set high above the Atchafalaya. I stopped there not in reverence of the Army Corps, though their work commands respect, but in quiet awe of the elemental, timeless dance between water, land, and erosion. Here, where the majority of North America’s drainage flows toward the Gulf, I felt the weight and wonder of that convergence.
From Bunkie, I continued west across a landscape both raw and recovering. At one point, I paused to take photos of a burned forest—the charred stumps still black against the earth, but with vibrant shoots of green and flashes of wildflowers already pushing through. There was resilience here, a reminder of cycles.
Between Bunkie and the Sabine River, I spent a night at Pine Grove Estates & RV Park, a modest property operated by a war veteran whose history was etched into every corner of his office. The walls were lined with military memorabilia—patches, framed photos, and what he confirmed, when I asked with caution, were authentic grenades. His demeanor was polite but measured, warm yet watchful. For ten dollars, I set up my tent beside a gazebo strung with glowing Christmas lights, a quiet invitation to rest. That evening, I rocked gently on a swinging bench in the cool air, listening to the low hum of traffic from downtown DeRidder and reflecting on the road ahead.
The next day I continued west, crossing into Alabama via the Chief Ladiga Trail. These two trails together formed one of the longest continuous paved bike paths in the southeastern United States. It was a fluid ride of gentle gradients and late fall color, the kind of day that builds rhythm and renews clarity.
Leaving the trail system behind, I entered the heart of Alabama. The transition was immediate. Pavement roughened, traffic changed, and the scenery became rural, worn, and vivid. I camped on a hilltop one night, the silence deep and complete. The next, I pitched my tent on the periphery of Underwood, Alabama, surrounded by red-shouldered hawks and old memories inspired by the tall pines that surrounded my camp. A flood of images returned from my years at Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary in Florida—a reminder that past and present are always vying for the awareness of our minds.
Then came one of the hardest days of the tour, up to this point. I climbed unrelenting, unanticipated hills in central Alabama—some exceeding 18 percent grades—until I was finally released from the thrashing near Moundville. I was familiar with the mound-building Mississippian cultures but hadn’t known about this specific archaeological site. I came upon it serendipitously. It appeared suddenly, without planning, a gift from the road. I camped beneath towering trees just steps from the earthen mounds, their presence solemn and powerful. At dawn, I walked the grounds alone with coffee in hand, reverent before the scale, silence, and enduring spirit of the place.
From Moundville, I continued west, encountering southbound rivers and riding through small towns and remote backroads. I crossed the Black Warrior, the Tombigbee, and countless smaller waterways. Alabama surprised me: rugged and raw, yes—but also textured, historic, and filled with quiet resilience.
Entering Mississippi, I rolled along a narrow road beneath ancient southern oaks when a voice called out from a shaded porch. William Rutledge waved me over. He offered tea and snacks, and we talked for over an hour. When I left, I felt full—not just from the food, but from the rare warmth of spontaneous connection. “My heart’s full,” I wrote that night. “And I think I needed that.”
The ride through Mississippi bloomed with fall color—red, gold, copper. As I approached a remote, barricaded wooden bridge along a mineral-stained gravel road, a vivid memory surfaced, triggered by the sight of a similarly weathered span—recalling the Cannonball Bridge over the Wabash River, crossed years earlier in Indiana and Illinois. The dirt track here was cut through ancient deposits, red and yellow hues bleeding from the banks, framed by evergreen oaks.
Not long after arriving at the bridge and confronting the possibility of a long backtrack, I decided to circumvent the barricades. Out on the bridge, the river passed just below—an eerie but beautiful scene. At the far end, missing floorboards forced me to dismount and walk, balancing on a narrow beam with large gaps revealing the water below. I aligned my loaded bike on the opposite beam, guiding it carefully while I inched forward. The final move required grasping the bike by its front wheel, rolling it in reverse down a steep embankment, making one careful step to the right through briars and underbrush, past the last wooden barricade, then pulling the bike back up to the gravel road. It was a slow, uncomfortable, and uncertain crossing—one that tested both balance and resolve. Later that day, I stopped at a roadside store and was rewarded, against the odds, with perfect crawfish empanadas. The memory of that precarious bridge crossing, and the meal that followed, lingers as one of those strangely aligned moments the road sometimes delivers.
Before arriving at River View RV Park in Vidalia, I crossed the Mississippi River from Natchez in a light rain. I stopped first at a local grocery store, knowing I'd be camping a few miles away on the Louisiana side. Loaded heavy, I returned to the busy road and approached the towering steel bridge. With three lanes of fast-moving traffic, slick pavement, and the steady spray of water, it was a daunting crossing. I waited for a break in the trucks, then launched hard, pushing for a steady clip. About a third of the way across, a large dually, pick-up truck slowed behind me and held back the rest of the traffic, giving me safe passage in the first lane all the way to the opposite side. I waved in thanks—deeply moved by the gesture which I took time to absorb, to nurture gratitude, on the levee below the bridge, on the Louisiana side.
Riding along the levee’s paved path, I arrived at River View RV Park, where I camped beside the river. I realized quickly this was the sort of place—peaceful, kind, restorative—where a second night and a full day of rest made sense. The kindness of one of the volunteers in particular, Lloyd, was a big part of that, but not the only one. For example, I had a handful of conversations with a sport fisherman and guide, who eventually convinced me to head next to Bunkie, Louisiana, and stay at the Gator Grounds RV Park. There, I had another heartwarming experience with the manager: she brought me cookies and meatballs from her kitchen, made special accommodations, and watched over me like an old friend. That night, an owl she hadn't seen in weeks visited me while I camped on the lawn outside the park's empty (off season) video arcade.
Returning to River View, it was a tremendous privilege to camp so close to the Mississippi River. I wandered to the levee, observed and photographed the bridge I’d crossed, lit up at night like the Eiffel Tower in high tourist season. The scene was epic—tugs, barges, and the Mississippi swallowing it all. Lloyd brought me a towel and hot food when I needed both. He joined me for coffee on the second morning, saw me off, and followed the tour all the way to Ushuaia.
Departing River View, I rolled along the top of the levees beside the Mississippi River, eventually linking into the vast network of levees and engineered waterways that define this region. Riding alongside such monumental infrastructure felt like a privilege. I recalled The Control of Nature by John McPhee and its depiction of the unrelenting tug-of-war between the Mississippi and Atchafalaya for access to the sea. One structure in particular gave me pause—set high above the Atchafalaya. I stopped there not in reverence of the Army Corps, though their work commands respect, but in quiet awe of the elemental, timeless dance between water, land, and erosion. Here, where the majority of North America’s drainage flows toward the Gulf, I felt the weight and wonder of that convergence.
From Bunkie, I continued west across a landscape both raw and recovering. At one point, I paused to take photos of a burned forest—the charred stumps still black against the earth, but with vibrant shoots of green and flashes of wildflowers already pushing through. There was resilience here, a reminder of cycles.
Between Bunkie and the Sabine River, I spent a night at Pine Grove Estates & RV Park, a modest property operated by a war veteran whose history was etched into every corner of his office. The walls were lined with military memorabilia—patches, framed photos, and what he confirmed, when I asked with caution, were authentic grenades. His demeanor was polite but measured, warm yet watchful. For ten dollars, I set up my tent beside a gazebo strung with glowing Christmas lights, a quiet invitation to rest. That evening, I rocked gently on a swinging bench in the cool air, listening to the low hum of traffic from downtown DeRidder and reflecting on the road ahead.