I knew I'd found the “real” rural Tennessee when I saw the dog.
There he was, a big-boned hound, sprawled lazily with his huge paws stretched out in front of him across the right third of the northbound lane of Tennessee Highway 127.
We spotted each other as I rounded the curve. He was taking the sun on the warm asphalt in front of the weather-beaten old gray barn and across the road from what must have been his master's house.
He made no move to get up. After all, this was his road and I was just passing through.
The dog watched with a look of detached unconcern as I swung into the left lane and flashed past his warm spot on the pavement.
My friend (now my wife) Maria and I were heading home on a road I'd discovered last February while a guest at the Tennessee Fitness Spa near Waynesboro, Tenn. We'd been to the 22nd Return to Shiloh Rally, put on the weekend of Oct. 4-6, 1996, by the BMW Riders Association of the Mid-South.
We'd begun the weekend early Friday morning with a rendezvous with Wayne Garrison at the Indianapolis southside Shoney's restaurant on U.S. 31 just south of I-465. Wayne was on his brand new red K1100RS. Close behind was his Detroit, Mich., friend Brett on his new blue R1100RT, Brett's girlfriend Kathy bundled against the chill morning air behind him.
We stopped in Franklin, Ind. to collect Wayne's friend, T.K., and her luggage and were on our way to breakfast at Columbus, Ind..Once fed, Wayne led the way onto I-65 and we droned south, struggling to stay awake through southern Indiana, across Kentucky and into Nashville, Tenn., where we picked up I-40 west. The ride was uneventful and we stopped at 100-mile intervals to top off the tanks and stretch.
With more than a little relief, we traded the superslab for two-lane twisties at the Tenn. 13 interchange and headed south , picking up Tenn. 128 at Linden and following its undulating course to Clifton and Tenn. 114 down to U.S. 64 and the run in to Savannah.
We paused in Savannah to buy libations for the evening at Murry's Disount (they forgot to put the “c” on the sign) Liquors, then followed Wayne the dozen miles south to the rally site at the Pickwick Dam Campgrounds.
Working quickly in the darkness – we's skipped lunch and were hungry – we set up our tents and rode to the nearby Pickwick Landing State Park Inn for dinner.
The buffet exceeded my expectations and, once again, I had to salute Wayne for ferreting out yet another spectacular dining experience. Friday night is catfish night, but the buffet also offered a large variety of choices, including shrimp and crab cakes as well as clam chowder, roast beef and other entrees. The bill came to a mere $21.20 for two people.
The combination of the 473-mile ride and no lunch left me with a kamikaze appetite and I stuffed myself stupid. I was more than ready for bed by the time we putted back to the campground.
Through the night, we were serenaded by the droning of the machinery of a paper mill on the far side of the river along with the occasional sound of the locks gates banging shut behind a barge.
Saturday morning dawned clear and cool and we crawled from our tents to discover we were camped in the midst of a pine forest. Trees with trunks as straight and true as a ship's mast loomed on all sides and supported a green canopy of shade.
We strolled over to the rally registration/vendor area where we paid our fees, collected our rally pins and packets and gave the vendor stuff a quick once-over before continuing on to the campground cafe for breakfast.
After breakfast, Maria and I decided we wanted a history lesson and saddled up for the 16-mile ride across the dam and north to the Shiloh National Military Park. Poking around in the museum, I was impressed anew with Maria's knowledge of textiles as she examined the flags and banners and uniforms on display there.
We emerged from the gift shop refreshment area to spy Wayne and T.K. and Brett and Karen headed our way. Maria had picked up a schedule of park events. A walking tour of an area of the fiercest fighting was set to start soon, so we decided to ride to the tour point.
We caught up to Ranger/Interpreter Don Todd and a group of other park visitors heading down a dusty dirt road.
In a nutshell, the Battle of Shiloh was a two-day affair April 6-7, 1862. Federal forces pushing south along the west bank of the Tennessee River were met by a Confederate force moving north.
The first day was a Confederate victory, of sorts. There were heavy casualties on both sides and the Union troops were forced to fall back to positions near Pittsburg Landing on the west bank of the river. The Union forces prevailed the second day.
Speaking in soft southern accents, Ranger Todd gave us a minute-by-minute, blow-by-blow account of the action around the Hornet's Nest, a position stubborn Union troops held for six hours against 11 Confederate attacks.
Alternately, we stood on ground where Confederate soldiers charged through the woods again and again in the face of murderous canister shot (a shotgun-like charge of marble-sized lead pellets) from massed Union artillery and died by the hundreds.
It was a moving experience and, except for a few very young children, I think everyone present went away in awe of the bravery and sacrifice on both sides.
By this time, we were all having dinner thoughts and, after a quick stop at a souvenir shop, we settled on a barbecue restaurant in nearby Counce. We bought more evening libations and topped off the tanks in anticipation of the next morning's ride home.
It occurred to me that we were only a few miles from the Mississippi state line, so I suggested we take the long way back to the campground just to be able to say we'd ridden to Mississippi. In less than a half-hour the deed was done and we rode into the campground to the last glow of the setting sun.
Walking the campgrounds, we located Burg Müller where Greg Miller was holding forth with fellow Indy Club members Jerry Lomax, Terry King and Steve Howard. Earlier in the day, we had run across Chris “Cookie Monster” Biddlecombe. We passed an hour or so with them before crawling off to sleep.
As is usually the case, I woke up Sunday morning with an urgent need to break camp and get onto the road home. Maria once again proved herself an excellent packer and we rode out of the campground at 7:23 a.m.
We'd decided to ride home separately, rather than as a group. Brett and Karen fancied a side trip to Memphis before doubling back toward Indianapolis and Wayne and T.K. rolled out a few minutes after us.
We stopped at a restaurant on the south side of Savannah that featured such breakfast delicacies as fried pork brains and biscuits with chocolate gravy (only on weekends).
I plotted a course northeast toward Nashville, determined to have a fun morning ride before surrendering to I-65.
We followed U.S. 64 to Waynesboro, then took Tenn. 99 and Tenn. 48 north to the little "Swiss" village of Hohenwald. We were still weeks early for the fall colors, but the countryside fairly shone in the crisp morning air. Traffic continued light as we followed U.S. 412 east from Hohenwald and picked up the historic Natchez Trace Parkway.
The parkway follows an early Indian and pioneer trading route that linked Nashville with Natchez, Miss. Like the Blue Ridge Parkway, it has no services and is designed to be a pleasant low-speed corridor through the hills and fields and woods.
According to plan, we exited the parkway onto Tenn. 50 at Duck River, rode a few miles east and picked up Tenn. 127 – the road I've come to think of as the back door to Franklin, Tenn.
Highway 127 features one scenic view after another along with plenty of opportunities to work the sides of your tires. It was here that we met the dog in the road and, a short distance on, surprised a woolly llama grazing in a pasture near the highway.
Franklin is a classic old Tennessee town, complete with a centerpiece downtown obelisk honoring the town's Confederate dead. We stopped for refreshments and a brief walking tour of the exquisitely restored downtown area before riding a short distance east to I-65. The interstate was under reconstruction in Nashville and, a few miles north of town, we sweated out more than a half-hour of stop-and-crawl traffic, covering only two miles in that period. The cause of the jam, we discovered, was a construction site that pinched three lanes of traffic down to one lane.
We later learned Wayne and T.K. bypassed the delay by exiting onto U.S. 31 and rejoining the interstate farther north.
We crossed the Ohio River at sundown and stopped a few miles north of New Albany to bundle up against the evening chill for the rest of the ride home.
This was my first Shiloh rally. I was impressed with the camping facilities and reveled in the chance to get in one more ride through scenic country before the season winds down. I expect I'll Return to Shiloh next year.
Downtown Franklin, Tenn.
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