***
The following events occured in Feb. 2009, and served as the genesis of my multi-month exile in Georgia.
Currently, I am traveling about in a different vehicle, a relatively modern Honda Civic.
The bad news: It's no Porsche
The good news: It's no Porsche
***
I hadn’t expected to write about this. I bought the wrong car. It broke. I became marooned in the Deep South. Unfortunate, but uneventful.
I was quite proud of my purchase, a 1979 Porsche 924. Although I could barely get it out of the dealership parking lot, it was a rush of excitement. The test drive was my first true experience with a manual transmission, other than some rough attempts with my uncle’s motorcycle. I took it the car to a mechanic for a pre-purchase inspection, and though it needed some attention, things seemed to be in serviceable condition. And then came the negotiation, the first time I had bargained for such a large purchase. I bought it for less than half of the sticker price. In fact, I had lowered my original offer after the first mechanical inspection. This was just after New Years, and I couldn’t have imagined many others interested in such a vehicle fishtailing over the snow.
I even found a mechanic in Janesville who’s worked with many old Porsches and had reasonable rates. The day I dropped my car off for repairs, in fact, there was a 60’s Porsche 911 being restored form a rusty demise.
The day I left town, the car recently fixed, I could not get it to start. It was 5 degrees F, cold even by Wisconsin averages. A jump start from a friend and a bit of idling got me rolling.
Along for the ride was a guy headed to Little Rock to visit family. He was a smoker, so I had him roll down the window on his side. And then one time, it became stuck. It was unusually cold that day, and it did not take long for the chill to creep in. And we subsequently discovered that my heater no longer worked. After a few hours of frozen travel, we stopped at an auto parts store to search for plastic, or at the very least cardboard, something to cover the window to provide a bit of relief.
On a whim, I smacked the driver’s side door. This must have pushed the electrical window contacts close enough, as the window rolled up with ease.
Curiously, the window did not malfunction at all for the next week around Memphis. In fact, I drove around town with no problem, and even had the occasion to take the removable top off, and cruise about. The streets of downtown Memphis are moderately hilly, and it seemed nearly each intersection sat on an incline. With other cars consistently tailing my ass, I quickly developed a finesse of clutch control.
The drive from Memphis to Georgia was quite smooth, and significantly more pleasant that the below freezing jaunt the week before. Since I left Memphis in the early evening, my planned day trip turned into an overnighter.
I was headed to Athens, GA for a few weeks to visit Justin, a friend from Madison who recently moved away. Since my goal was Florida, this was more or less along the way.
Somewhere in Alabama, the highway abruptly ends, and one is left with little indication on how to resume east. After re-treading the same few miles for twenty minutes, I leapt out of the car to relieve myself. The midnight air was a bit cool, but the joy of urination negated it.
With the sole shop in this random town closed, I had little sense of where to head, and drove straight onto a rural road, in the thick darkness. My headlights were of little use, beyond faintly hinting at the yellow dividing line of the road. Fortunately, I came across some highway signs and I found myself back on the path to Georgia
I pulled off to a few inconspicuous parking lots through the night, netting a cumulative four hours of sleep.
At sunrise, I rejoined the highway, groggy though I reasoned I'd be alert enough to drive. About forty miles outside of Atlanta, the car began to vibrate heavily. At first I attributed this to the quirks of a thirty-year old vehicle, but the noise intensified. The shifter was oscillating wildly in my hand, and I finally recognized the need to pull over.
As I straddled the shoulder of the road, the suspension amplifying each ridge of the shoulder, I heard a loud metallic clang and immediately lost all power from the engine. It was as if it disengaged from the rest of the vehicle.
It turns out that I threw a rod, which I learned is one of the worst things to happen to an engine. I had the car towed to a shop in Atlanta, and then needed to find a way to Athens, seventy miles away.
Not to mention finding some way of moving the contents of the car, which included a 100 watt Sunn guitar amp.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
The impromptu mountain climb
The first full day at Big Bend National Park, we embarked on the Window Trail, named for a view of a distant landscape nestled in between two mountain ranges, resulting in an inverted triangle 'window'.
Dropping several thousand feet in elevation, down into an ancient magma chamber of a former volcano.
The hike started out as refreshing, partly since we were descending. A few miles in, we decide to take a snack break and climb onto a large boulder. It was about 12 feet high, and though hesitant at first, I eventually found my footing, along a diagonal path.
As we were sitting atop the boulder, Ryan stared at some scenery we'd just passed and said, he wanted to climb this mountain. He had previously scaled indoor walls at a climbing club, so I took this thought with a little trepidation. That he thought climbing would be fun, not that we were actually going to attempt it.
But no, actually, he was serious. Ryan felt a strong urge, felt compelled to do this. I had my doubts, since I'd never climbed anything before. Except for a 15-ft wall once, with fingerholds and a harness.
It was a long way to the top. A ~3,000 ft peak. Perhaps it was the rush of finally being out West, or a pulse of adrenaline from the hike thus far, but I became increasingly open to Ryan's idea.
In fact, it seemed like a wonderful idea. Aaron was similarly persuaded, and so we walked back towards the mountain.
The first few steps were easy, deceptively so. The mountain was situated at a 40-degree angle, though we had started out with large flat surfaces with decent grip.
A thousand or so feet up, we run into an unclimbable sheer drop above us, and have to climb up leftward to a more hospitable area.
The rocks got increasingly smaller the higher we climbed. What started out as steady 2-foot chunks progressed to 5-inch pieces and even pebbles.
With some frequency, the rocks underneath me would give way, sliding me down a foot or two and sending a fine cascade of pebbles in my wake. The three of us would stagger our positions, so as not to be along the trajectory of the inevitable debris.
Occasionally a strong jolt would free one of my limbs, leaving it dangling where rocks once were. Although I would keep a solid footing with my other arms and legs, it was still a bit jarring.
Every now and then, I would look behind to see the view below us and the increasingly shrinking trail. I wondered, just exactly how we might get down, but the general consensus was to figure that one out later.
I felt an intense euphoria, focusing only on the next rock and where to plant my feet. Any realistic concerns or fear of heights were strongly overpowered by the thrill of climbing a damn mountain.
I was immensely focused, and climbing felt like the right thing to do, the only thing to do in this moment.
The view was extraordinary, almost eclipsed by the thought of 'how the hell did I do this?'
One rock at a time.
Find one rock. Then another and another until the next one. Just one rock at a time.
Along the way, I had found a tree branch about shoulder-height and co-opted it as a walking stick. It gave me a bit more confidence and stability, and allowed me to probe in the vicinity for stable ground.
The stick would give way in measured chunks, finally ending its life as a foot-long twig, but it got me through some steep passes before we parted ways.
Finally reaching the summit invoked a sense of calm and serenity, despite my racing heart and aching knees.
This was not on the agenda at the start of the morning, but now this outcome felt entirely appropriate.
All I could do was stare. Stare at the mountain ranges that were now not so distant. Stare at the peaks of lesser mountains we passed on the way up. Stare at the tiny moving dots along the trail where we once were.
We had taken a detour, and were most decidedly off-trail.
So we climbed a mountain. Climbed a fucking mountain with just our hands and feet. Now the challenge was finding the way down, especially before sunset, or else this would become a chilly impromptu camp.
We took a different path down, through a partially wooded area.
I found a large circular rock, which I sat upon, using it like a skateboard. I surfed along a bed of small rocks for a good chunk of the descent, dodging prickly pears whenever possible. The cactus relative thrived in big bend, and there were just enough to prevent a straight path downslope.
I employed another walking stick to propel me and my rock, though it had an understandably brief lifespan.
Next was a wooded area, where the best discourse was to run briskly, avoiding an awkward and slow descent. In the worst case, a tree could break my fall.
I paused here and there amongst the trees, trying to regain my breath and formulate some sort of path through the dense growth.
I took into another heavily wooded downslope, and after a few minutes of running, found myself back on the trail. The transition was unexpected, but I was grateful to have finally found the end of the mountain.
I was covered in a multitude of small cuts, ones I hadn't noticed until after our little endeavor. Mostly my arms and lower legs, with a few ones precisely placed in the folds of my hands.
We still had another mile or two left on the trail, so we took off for the 'window'. As we approached the trail's end, it began to rain. It was raining in the desert, and in a place with barely any annual precipitation. First there was the unusually chilly winter in the South; now the weird climate had shifted west. Chills in Florida. Rain in the desert.
The rain started out light but consistent.
We reached the 'window', after hiking through a shallow stream. The rocks were quite slick, further enhanced by the rainfall, but we were hardly deterred. Especially not after that mountain.
The stream and surrounding rocks got narrower, and water poured over a sheer drop. We got within a few paces of this end, at which point the rocks got a bit too slippery. We decided not to further tempt fate after surviving the mountain.
We now had to retrace our steps all the way back on the trail. On the walk back, the rain intensified to a downpour and the temperature quickly dropped. Our discomfort was dampened by the residual rush of that mountain and the unplanned workout.
As we passed the mountain we'd just scaled, I took another look up. 'That looks kind of dangerous', one of us quipped. Indeed.
I was soaked and shaking by the time we returned to the trailhead, but still in good spirits. We capped our day with a feast at the lodge diner. I had a chicken fried steak, and the suppressed hunger bounced out in a gluttonous burst.
We had arrived just before sunset, and watched the dimming sky from the warm confines of the diner.
At the lodge, a lady approached us and said she'd seen us climbing the mountain. She called us crazy, but admitted to some risky water rafting on her part.
More incredible than bumping into each other at the same time in the same place in a barren expanse, was that she actually recognized us at such a distance.
After staying in Terlingua for a few days, we spent a few more camping in Big Bend. We kept a good pace of hiking, though we didn't attempt the rigors of that first day.
We would become at a loss for things to do after sundown, since light was limited, and starting a campfire wasn't the most sensible thing in a brush landscape, so this lead to any early bedtime with the occasional interruption of slumber to view the stars.
We were in a region of the U.S. featuring the lowest amounts of light pollution, but due to a waxing crescent moon, needed to wait until the middle of the night for moonset. Still, the view was akin to the star theatre at a planetarium, and nothing short of beautiful.
Dropping several thousand feet in elevation, down into an ancient magma chamber of a former volcano.
The hike started out as refreshing, partly since we were descending. A few miles in, we decide to take a snack break and climb onto a large boulder. It was about 12 feet high, and though hesitant at first, I eventually found my footing, along a diagonal path.
As we were sitting atop the boulder, Ryan stared at some scenery we'd just passed and said, he wanted to climb this mountain. He had previously scaled indoor walls at a climbing club, so I took this thought with a little trepidation. That he thought climbing would be fun, not that we were actually going to attempt it.
But no, actually, he was serious. Ryan felt a strong urge, felt compelled to do this. I had my doubts, since I'd never climbed anything before. Except for a 15-ft wall once, with fingerholds and a harness.
It was a long way to the top. A ~3,000 ft peak. Perhaps it was the rush of finally being out West, or a pulse of adrenaline from the hike thus far, but I became increasingly open to Ryan's idea.
In fact, it seemed like a wonderful idea. Aaron was similarly persuaded, and so we walked back towards the mountain.
The first few steps were easy, deceptively so. The mountain was situated at a 40-degree angle, though we had started out with large flat surfaces with decent grip.
A thousand or so feet up, we run into an unclimbable sheer drop above us, and have to climb up leftward to a more hospitable area.
The rocks got increasingly smaller the higher we climbed. What started out as steady 2-foot chunks progressed to 5-inch pieces and even pebbles.
With some frequency, the rocks underneath me would give way, sliding me down a foot or two and sending a fine cascade of pebbles in my wake. The three of us would stagger our positions, so as not to be along the trajectory of the inevitable debris.
Occasionally a strong jolt would free one of my limbs, leaving it dangling where rocks once were. Although I would keep a solid footing with my other arms and legs, it was still a bit jarring.
Every now and then, I would look behind to see the view below us and the increasingly shrinking trail. I wondered, just exactly how we might get down, but the general consensus was to figure that one out later.
I felt an intense euphoria, focusing only on the next rock and where to plant my feet. Any realistic concerns or fear of heights were strongly overpowered by the thrill of climbing a damn mountain.
I was immensely focused, and climbing felt like the right thing to do, the only thing to do in this moment.
The view was extraordinary, almost eclipsed by the thought of 'how the hell did I do this?'
One rock at a time.
Find one rock. Then another and another until the next one. Just one rock at a time.
Along the way, I had found a tree branch about shoulder-height and co-opted it as a walking stick. It gave me a bit more confidence and stability, and allowed me to probe in the vicinity for stable ground.
The stick would give way in measured chunks, finally ending its life as a foot-long twig, but it got me through some steep passes before we parted ways.
Finally reaching the summit invoked a sense of calm and serenity, despite my racing heart and aching knees.
This was not on the agenda at the start of the morning, but now this outcome felt entirely appropriate.
All I could do was stare. Stare at the mountain ranges that were now not so distant. Stare at the peaks of lesser mountains we passed on the way up. Stare at the tiny moving dots along the trail where we once were.
We had taken a detour, and were most decidedly off-trail.
So we climbed a mountain. Climbed a fucking mountain with just our hands and feet. Now the challenge was finding the way down, especially before sunset, or else this would become a chilly impromptu camp.
We took a different path down, through a partially wooded area.
I found a large circular rock, which I sat upon, using it like a skateboard. I surfed along a bed of small rocks for a good chunk of the descent, dodging prickly pears whenever possible. The cactus relative thrived in big bend, and there were just enough to prevent a straight path downslope.
I employed another walking stick to propel me and my rock, though it had an understandably brief lifespan.
Next was a wooded area, where the best discourse was to run briskly, avoiding an awkward and slow descent. In the worst case, a tree could break my fall.
I paused here and there amongst the trees, trying to regain my breath and formulate some sort of path through the dense growth.
I took into another heavily wooded downslope, and after a few minutes of running, found myself back on the trail. The transition was unexpected, but I was grateful to have finally found the end of the mountain.
I was covered in a multitude of small cuts, ones I hadn't noticed until after our little endeavor. Mostly my arms and lower legs, with a few ones precisely placed in the folds of my hands.
We still had another mile or two left on the trail, so we took off for the 'window'. As we approached the trail's end, it began to rain. It was raining in the desert, and in a place with barely any annual precipitation. First there was the unusually chilly winter in the South; now the weird climate had shifted west. Chills in Florida. Rain in the desert.
The rain started out light but consistent.
We reached the 'window', after hiking through a shallow stream. The rocks were quite slick, further enhanced by the rainfall, but we were hardly deterred. Especially not after that mountain.
The stream and surrounding rocks got narrower, and water poured over a sheer drop. We got within a few paces of this end, at which point the rocks got a bit too slippery. We decided not to further tempt fate after surviving the mountain.
We now had to retrace our steps all the way back on the trail. On the walk back, the rain intensified to a downpour and the temperature quickly dropped. Our discomfort was dampened by the residual rush of that mountain and the unplanned workout.
As we passed the mountain we'd just scaled, I took another look up. 'That looks kind of dangerous', one of us quipped. Indeed.
I was soaked and shaking by the time we returned to the trailhead, but still in good spirits. We capped our day with a feast at the lodge diner. I had a chicken fried steak, and the suppressed hunger bounced out in a gluttonous burst.
We had arrived just before sunset, and watched the dimming sky from the warm confines of the diner.
At the lodge, a lady approached us and said she'd seen us climbing the mountain. She called us crazy, but admitted to some risky water rafting on her part.
More incredible than bumping into each other at the same time in the same place in a barren expanse, was that she actually recognized us at such a distance.
After staying in Terlingua for a few days, we spent a few more camping in Big Bend. We kept a good pace of hiking, though we didn't attempt the rigors of that first day.
We would become at a loss for things to do after sundown, since light was limited, and starting a campfire wasn't the most sensible thing in a brush landscape, so this lead to any early bedtime with the occasional interruption of slumber to view the stars.
We were in a region of the U.S. featuring the lowest amounts of light pollution, but due to a waxing crescent moon, needed to wait until the middle of the night for moonset. Still, the view was akin to the star theatre at a planetarium, and nothing short of beautiful.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Thursday, April 15, 2010
2009: The compressed road trip: a search for Robert Johnson
***
The following events occured in May. 2009, bookending several months in the south.
With the Porsche in mothballs and the need to return to Madison for work, we enlisted a friend of a friend to drive us back north.
***
Wolff’s Buick had an impressive storage capacity, fitting three people’s worth of belongings, plus a 2x12 Sun Beta Lead guitar amp. Justin and I sat in the back seat, with a thick column of bags providing each our own nook.
We plotted a series of stops, somewhat against the agenda of Wolff. He had wanted a straight shot. The rest of us wanted insanity, and an attempt to compress the road trip that didn’t happen into the ensuing 36 hours.
At first, Wolff seemed okay with our plans. And then, as we neared the GA/MS border, he changed his mind. Instead of Memphis, he now wanted to travel the more direct route via Nashville.
So then, Wolff took an exit ramp, and headed right fucking back towards Atlanta. And for some reason, he turned onto some country roads, and we were then zigzagging, not headed in any useful direction.
A heated argument ensued between Aaron and Wolff.
Wolff claimed he was a dull person and had a dislike for adventure, not to mention fun. He didn’t come around until Aaron referenced a map, and explained that the miles were basically the same between our path and Wolff’s circuitous detour.
Our blood reduced to a simmer, and we headed back towards Alabama. We made it to Birmingham, refreshed ourselves, and I took over driving.
The ride through Alabama was smooth, and I had to glance at the speedometer to remember that we were doing 90.
We saw a foreboding cloud mass ahead, and within minutes, had crossed into a storm. What hit us seemed more like thin, heavy sheets, cascading over the hood and dispersing the headlights.
As the storm intensified, I could see little beyond the windshield wipers. And with our speed slowed to a crawl anyhow, I took the next exit.
We filled up at a gas station and stayed under a roof extending across the complex, while we watched the rain. I found it to be much more soothing, now that I was standing still on my feet, and my mind was free to wander.
One of the perks of a road trip is that one can generally drive long enough to escape inclement weather. Once the downpour lightened, we took to the road again and within an hour’s time passed the storm.
In our search for bluesman Robert Johnson’s grave, we decided to take the backroads, hoping for a more direct as well as scenic route. We found the location in the liner notes of a Robert Johnson boxset, so we found it on the road atlas and hoped for the best.
***
Nightfall came, which does tend to complicate the pursuit of an obscure cemetery in the deep country.
We went through several small towns, strung together like beads, along a continuum of about 25 mi.
We circled the last town along the string several times, taking a side road here and there, but always returning where we started.
Making one more pass, I spotted a house with its lights on, and urged Aaron to investigate. Since we had been unable to find the church on our own, I reasoned we could take advantage of some Southern hospitality.
After some additional urging, Aaron, Wolff, and Justin left the car to approach the house. I was to serve as getaway driver in case another Southern tradition - shotguns - came into play.
As they walked toward the porch, a dog barked intensely. A figure moved towards the screen door, flicked on another light, and grabbed the dog. Then, two elderly people stood at the porch.
Aaron asked for directions to the church, though after some deliberation between the couple, they did not know where it was. As Aaron got further along in conversation, he mentioned Robert Johnson. ‘Oh! Y’all looking for Robert Johnson?’ The elderly couple knew where that was! People apparently stop by quite often.
Back in the car, I watched for signs of trouble, but the nonverbal gestures I saw in the distance appeared cordial. And indeed, Aaron relayed the good news to me: take the road that had lead us into town, head back about two miles, and then take a sharp right at the yellow diamond diverging road sign. And then another 2 mi down a gravel road to a small pastel wooden church.
The sharp right on the road took us down a narrow road, which soon became a bed of gravel, flanked by thick trees.
We spotted a large dirt path with a pastel building looking over it. The air was still moist from the rain, and the fog hung low to the ground. The slight chill added to the ambience, and in the moment, felt appropriate.
A few of the graves had notable depressions, and I wondered just how far down these people’s coffins were buried. Perhaps the wood rotted through. I joked that, perhaps, we’d see a hand reaching out from down under below.
There was a light laughter from the others, underlining the desolation of this spot ripe with folklore and wandering spirits.
Standing prominently was a grey obelisk with a picture of Robert Johnson, and inscriptions of his accomplishments and influence.
The church, a creaky wood structure, seemed worn but not in frequent use. A pastor, however, was listed and Sunday services advertised.
Now, to complement the experience, we sought out the Crossroads. As the legend goes, the site where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for musical prowess.
A few towns over, the area was so highly developed that we almost missed it. I had been expecting something spookier, in accordance with the graveyard.
Instead, the intersection was highly lit. And just next to the Crossroads was my salvation, a BBQ joint. Abe’s Barbecue. And its ‘open’ sign was lit!
With a gleam in my eye, we ran to the front door.
It was locked. Another BBQ denial. The only response I could muster? Fuck you, Abe.
After a few pictures, it was back on the road to Memphis. It was now past 2 am, and the hours of driving had worn on me. Aaron and Justin didn’t have driver’s licenses, and Wolff was catching some much-needed rest after his past day-and-a-half of driving.
An hour away from Memphis, my mind collapsed. My eyes became dry, I saw strange flashes of light, and I gently swerved from edge to edge of my lane.
I attempted to pull myself together and plow through the last miles to Memphis, even if I did drive a bit below the speed limit.
We soon learn it was the weekend of the annual bbq festival. After parking, we walk into a bar, and are briskly escorted out. It was about 4 am, and they just closed. A denial of denials in the larger scheme of bbq denial.
We had just missed it! An hour before, and we could have made it. If we didn’t get lost looking for Robert Johnson; If Wolff didn’t stubbornly take that one-hour wasted detour back toward Atlanta; If...well, a lot of small nuggets of time.
So we wandered on foot aimlessly around town until the faint blue hints of sunrise came about.
Wolff, sleeping throughout our sojourn, was now rested and took over driving to St. Louis. I took a long nap in my little luggage-packed cove of the car.
The following events occured in May. 2009, bookending several months in the south.
With the Porsche in mothballs and the need to return to Madison for work, we enlisted a friend of a friend to drive us back north.
***
Wolff’s Buick had an impressive storage capacity, fitting three people’s worth of belongings, plus a 2x12 Sun Beta Lead guitar amp. Justin and I sat in the back seat, with a thick column of bags providing each our own nook.
We plotted a series of stops, somewhat against the agenda of Wolff. He had wanted a straight shot. The rest of us wanted insanity, and an attempt to compress the road trip that didn’t happen into the ensuing 36 hours.
At first, Wolff seemed okay with our plans. And then, as we neared the GA/MS border, he changed his mind. Instead of Memphis, he now wanted to travel the more direct route via Nashville.
So then, Wolff took an exit ramp, and headed right fucking back towards Atlanta. And for some reason, he turned onto some country roads, and we were then zigzagging, not headed in any useful direction.
A heated argument ensued between Aaron and Wolff.
Wolff claimed he was a dull person and had a dislike for adventure, not to mention fun. He didn’t come around until Aaron referenced a map, and explained that the miles were basically the same between our path and Wolff’s circuitous detour.
Our blood reduced to a simmer, and we headed back towards Alabama. We made it to Birmingham, refreshed ourselves, and I took over driving.
The ride through Alabama was smooth, and I had to glance at the speedometer to remember that we were doing 90.
We saw a foreboding cloud mass ahead, and within minutes, had crossed into a storm. What hit us seemed more like thin, heavy sheets, cascading over the hood and dispersing the headlights.
As the storm intensified, I could see little beyond the windshield wipers. And with our speed slowed to a crawl anyhow, I took the next exit.
We filled up at a gas station and stayed under a roof extending across the complex, while we watched the rain. I found it to be much more soothing, now that I was standing still on my feet, and my mind was free to wander.
One of the perks of a road trip is that one can generally drive long enough to escape inclement weather. Once the downpour lightened, we took to the road again and within an hour’s time passed the storm.
In our search for bluesman Robert Johnson’s grave, we decided to take the backroads, hoping for a more direct as well as scenic route. We found the location in the liner notes of a Robert Johnson boxset, so we found it on the road atlas and hoped for the best.
Nightfall came, which does tend to complicate the pursuit of an obscure cemetery in the deep country.
We went through several small towns, strung together like beads, along a continuum of about 25 mi.
We circled the last town along the string several times, taking a side road here and there, but always returning where we started.
Making one more pass, I spotted a house with its lights on, and urged Aaron to investigate. Since we had been unable to find the church on our own, I reasoned we could take advantage of some Southern hospitality.
After some additional urging, Aaron, Wolff, and Justin left the car to approach the house. I was to serve as getaway driver in case another Southern tradition - shotguns - came into play.
As they walked toward the porch, a dog barked intensely. A figure moved towards the screen door, flicked on another light, and grabbed the dog. Then, two elderly people stood at the porch.
Aaron asked for directions to the church, though after some deliberation between the couple, they did not know where it was. As Aaron got further along in conversation, he mentioned Robert Johnson. ‘Oh! Y’all looking for Robert Johnson?’ The elderly couple knew where that was! People apparently stop by quite often.
Back in the car, I watched for signs of trouble, but the nonverbal gestures I saw in the distance appeared cordial. And indeed, Aaron relayed the good news to me: take the road that had lead us into town, head back about two miles, and then take a sharp right at the yellow diamond diverging road sign. And then another 2 mi down a gravel road to a small pastel wooden church.
The sharp right on the road took us down a narrow road, which soon became a bed of gravel, flanked by thick trees.
We spotted a large dirt path with a pastel building looking over it. The air was still moist from the rain, and the fog hung low to the ground. The slight chill added to the ambience, and in the moment, felt appropriate.
A few of the graves had notable depressions, and I wondered just how far down these people’s coffins were buried. Perhaps the wood rotted through. I joked that, perhaps, we’d see a hand reaching out from down under below.
There was a light laughter from the others, underlining the desolation of this spot ripe with folklore and wandering spirits.
Standing prominently was a grey obelisk with a picture of Robert Johnson, and inscriptions of his accomplishments and influence.
The church, a creaky wood structure, seemed worn but not in frequent use. A pastor, however, was listed and Sunday services advertised.
Now, to complement the experience, we sought out the Crossroads. As the legend goes, the site where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for musical prowess.
A few towns over, the area was so highly developed that we almost missed it. I had been expecting something spookier, in accordance with the graveyard.
Instead, the intersection was highly lit. And just next to the Crossroads was my salvation, a BBQ joint. Abe’s Barbecue. And its ‘open’ sign was lit!
With a gleam in my eye, we ran to the front door.
It was locked. Another BBQ denial. The only response I could muster? Fuck you, Abe.
After a few pictures, it was back on the road to Memphis. It was now past 2 am, and the hours of driving had worn on me. Aaron and Justin didn’t have driver’s licenses, and Wolff was catching some much-needed rest after his past day-and-a-half of driving.
An hour away from Memphis, my mind collapsed. My eyes became dry, I saw strange flashes of light, and I gently swerved from edge to edge of my lane.
I attempted to pull myself together and plow through the last miles to Memphis, even if I did drive a bit below the speed limit.
We soon learn it was the weekend of the annual bbq festival. After parking, we walk into a bar, and are briskly escorted out. It was about 4 am, and they just closed. A denial of denials in the larger scheme of bbq denial.
We had just missed it! An hour before, and we could have made it. If we didn’t get lost looking for Robert Johnson; If Wolff didn’t stubbornly take that one-hour wasted detour back toward Atlanta; If...well, a lot of small nuggets of time.
So we wandered on foot aimlessly around town until the faint blue hints of sunrise came about.
Wolff, sleeping throughout our sojourn, was now rested and took over driving to St. Louis. I took a long nap in my little luggage-packed cove of the car.
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