Man or Monkey? The Scopes Trial: Part I… The 10,000 Mile Bicycle Trek

August 17, 2016August 17, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 36 Comments

Monkey photo from the Scopes' Monkey Trial museum at the courthouse in Dayton, Tennessee.

Speaking into an old-fashioned microphone, a monkey reports on the Scopes 1925 trial on teaching evolution in Dayton, Tennessee. I found this photo in the museum of the courthouse where the trial took place.

My father once told me that the world was 6,000 years old and that evolution was “a bunch of hooey.” Those were his exact words. He hadn’t always thought this way, but he was in his mid-80’s and the Pearly Gates were beckoning. His occasional reading of the Bible had turned into a full-time passion. He didn’t acquire this viewpoint from the Bible, however. He got it direct— from a radio preacher, a man he regularly sent generous donations to from his meager social security income.

I thought of this as I bicycled up the steep ridges of the Cumberland Plateau and passed by rocks that dated back 500 million years. And I thought about it even more as I biked on toward the town of Dayton, Tennessee. Dayton was the site of the famous Scopes Trial where William Jennings Bryan and Clarence Darrow had gone toe to toe in 1925 over whether evolution could be taught in the public schools of Tennessee. The trial turned out to be a media circus, a first-rate dog and pony show, or, maybe I should say, a man and monkey show. Trained chimpanzees performed on the courthouse lawn.

The rocks along Tennessee Highway 30 as it climbs up on to the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee are 500 million years old, or 6,000 if you accept the Bible account.

I started this particular section of my journey through Tennessee at Old Stone Fort State Park near Manchester. It’s a delightful place perched between deep gorges carved out by the Duck and Little Duck Rivers. Indigenous people in the area took advantage of its location to build what archeologists think was a ceremonial center over 1500 years ago. In the early 1800s, Americans discovered that the quick flowing Duck River was ideal for running water-powered mills. A gun powder mill was operated at the location during the Civil War to supply Confederate armies, until Union Troops destroyed it.

Old Stone Fort Park outside of Manchester, Tennessee.

All that remains of the 1500 plus year old Native American ceremonial center at Old Stone Fort Park is this peaceful meadow.

Indigenous people built an earthen wall around their ceremonial center that came to be known as the Old Stone Fort State Park near Manchester, Tennessee.

An ancient earthen wall, seen on the left, surrounds the ceremonial center. Visitors are invited to stroll along this pleasant wooded path around Old Stone Fort.

Dugout canoe at Old Stone Fort State Park near Manchester, TN.

Peggy checks out a replica of a dugout canoe that Native Americans would have used in the region. Fire was used to hollow out these canoes.

All that remains of a water driven paper mill at Old Stone Fort. The mill supplied paper for a number of Southern Newspapers,

All that remains of a water-driven mill at Old Stone Fort. The mill supplied paper for a number of Southern newspapers.

The interesting history of the park is matched by its beauty. Multiple waterfalls are created as the rapidly descending Duck and Little Duck Rivers cascade over ledges made of limestone.

Waterfall on Duck River at Old Stone Fort State Park near Manchester, Tennessee.

One of several beautiful waterfalls found on the Duck River of Tennessee as it flows through Old Stone Fort State Park.

Old Stone Fort State Park waterfall on Duck River in Tennessee.

Another.

Waterfall flowing off of a limestone ledge at Old Stone State Park in Tennessee.

And another.

I was reluctant to leave, but the open road called. I followed Tennessee State Route 55 out of Manchester and on toward McMinnville. For those of you into music, Manchester is the site of the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival, which attracts tens of thousands of fans annually. It is like a modern-day Woodstock or, if you will, a musical Burning Man. Attendees camp out for four days on a 700-acre farm.

The ride into McMinnville was relative easy in terms of terrain. This was about to change. In McMinnville, I picked up Highway 30. A look at a map of eastern Tennessee will show that most roads in the region follow a north-south direction. There’s a reason. Fast flowing rivers running south off of the Cumberland Plateau have cut deep valleys, leaving behind high, steep ridges. It’s a lot easier to build roads following the river valleys than it is to scramble up and over the ridges.

McMinnville is an attractive town which includes, among other things, this striking Methodist Church built in the 1800s.

Steeple of Methodist Church found in McMinnville, Tennessee.

I was particularly impressed with the steeple. It would be fun to check out the view from the upper windows.

Street lamps decorate the main street of McMinnville, Tennessee.

These street lamps added a feel of authenticity to McMinnville’s Main Street running through the revitalized historic section of town.

Peggy and I found this shop in McMinnville and I had to post it: A music store that sells ice cream and guns!

Peggy and I found this shop in McMinnville and I had to post a photo: A music store that sells ice cream and guns! What can I say…

Highway 30 follows the scramble route; it runs east and west. I was about to climb on a roller coaster: 1000 feet up, 1000 feet down, 1000 feet up, 1000 feet down. And these were serious ups or downs, as I quickly discovered a few miles out of McMinnville when I started a switchback ascent to the small town of Spencer.

An old building along Highway 30 in Tennessee.

Highway 30 outside of McMinnville going east provided a hint that I was entering the hilly terrain of the Cumberland Plateau. Here I was dropping into a creek canyon. I would soon be climbing toward Spencer.

An old barn along highway 30 outside of McMinnville, Tennessee.

An old barn I found along the highway.

Although this was from a recent election, I found it interesting. Long before billboards lined the highways of America, advertising was done on old barns.

Although this was from a recent political campaign, I found it interesting. Long before billboards lined the highways of America, advertising was done on buildings.

Spencer was named for one of the longhunters of the 1700’s who made their way from Virginia into the wilds of Kentucky and Tennessee. I used to think they were given the name for the long muskets they carried, guns that they were amazingly accurate with— as the British were to learn. (They also shot at the Red Coats from behind trees and rocks, which wasn’t considered fair in the European wars of the times. You were supposed to walk at each other in long lines wearing bright uniforms and be mowed down like real men.)

I later learned that they were named longhunters because they went on long hunts. Duh. Daniel Boone was one such fellow. He’d be away for months at a time, only to return home long enough to get his wife pregnant before taking off again. Poor Rebecca was left behind to tend the crops and kids. Pioneer women were tough. But they could also get lonely. Once, when Boone was captured by Indians and was away for a couple of years, he returned home to find Rebecca with another baby. It looked a lot like his brother. Legend has it that Daniel was heard to mutter, “Well, it’s best to keep it in the family.”

Burritt College in Spencer, Tennessee has been closed since 1939 but now has a Facebook Page.

The gateway to Burritt College in Spencer. Closed in 1939, the college now has a Facebook Page. Doesn’t everyone?

There had been a college in Spencer at one time, which surprised me. It’s a small town. The gateway still stands. I decided to do some research. Burritt College, it turns out, was founded in 1848 as one of the first co-educational colleges in the South. At the time, putting young men and women together created a bit of a firestorm. They weren’t to be trusted. Who knows what temptations the devil might send their way? To solve the problem, the college adopted a strict moral code. Members of the opposite sex could only communicate with each other during class and at supervised events.

The students weren’t supposed to cuss, gamble, smoke or drink either. The latter presented a bit of a problem. This was moonshine country. The guys couldn’t resist an occasional sip, or several. Out of frustration, the president of the college went to the sheriff and asked him to destroy all stills in the area. He learned a valuable lesson: You don’t get between a Tennessee moonshiner and his still. The President’s house was burned down.

I made it through Spencer without running into any irate moonshiners, but I was soon to have personal encounters with a big, ugly dog and a speeding 18-wheeler. Those are stories for my next blog, however. I’ll also report in greater detail on the Scopes Monkey Trial, as the renowned journalist, H.L. Mencken, dubbed it.

NOTE: I occasionally post this reminder since new people regularly check in on my blog. In 1989, I did a six month solo bicycle journey around North America. This past spring, my wife Peggy and I re-drove the route. Most photos on these blogs about the trip were taken this spring.

Roadkill A-la-Carte and the Mighty Mississippi… Travelling 10,000 miles by Bicycle

July 25, 2016July 25, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 52 Comments

The Natchez-Vidalia Bridge across the Mississippi River.

What was it with all of the dead Armadillos? This was the weighty question I found myself pondering as I bicycled down Louisiana Highway 71 south toward Alexandria.

Bicyclists develop a thick-skinned attitude toward road kill. The shoulder we ride on contains the flotsam and jetsam of two worlds, the highway and the land next to it. Broken car parts, discarded (often smoldering) cigarette butts, empty beer cans, fast-food trash, and dead animals come with the territory. Maintaining a sense of humor is important.

To keep myself amused, I would sometimes make up tombstone epitaphs for the animals. Here lies Spot, who was finally cured of chasing cars. Or how about this: Old Tom had been warned time and again about not chasing girl kitties on the other side of the road.

Those of you who have been hanging around my blog for a while know I like to develop weird cards. This is my vision of Old Tom’s tombstone.

A couple of friends of mine who operated the Lung Association Trek Program in Sacramento after I went off to Alaska, developed a different approach to roadside debris: a scavenger hunt. I’ve blogged about this before. On the last day of the Trek, participants would be given a list of different items they were supposed to collect— things like an empty pack of Camels, a Budweiser beer can, a McDs’ cup, plastic from a broken brake light, a sail cat, etc.

“A sail cat? What’s that?” you ask.

A sail cat, simply put, is a cat who has met its demise at the wrong end of a logging truck. Think of it as a pancake with legs. After a week or two of curing in the hot summer sun, you can pick it up and sail it like a Frisbee. Even your dog can join in the fun. It gives a whole new meaning to chasing cats. Of course, Fido may prefer to roll on it. Lucky you.

A particular scavenger hunt was described to me. One couple had actually found a sail cat and brought it into camp. Naturally they won, as they should have. But the story goes on. After dropping the unfortunate cat into a dumpster, the couple packed up and headed home. When they arrived and opened their trunk, there was kitty. Scary, huh. Turns out another couple had slipped the cat into the trunk. With friends like that, eh, who needs enemies. That should end the story, except it doesn’t. Both husbands worked for the State of California. A couple of days later the perpetrator of the prank received a large interoffice mail packet at work. He opened it. Out slid kitty. The end.

One person’s road kill is another person’s feast, right? Somewhere I have a newspaper picture of my brother Marshall chowing down on an armadillo when he was in Florida. I checked the Internet and there are a number of recipes, so I assume it is edible. Marsh said it was. And I saw a lot of happy buzzards along Highway 71.

I had never encountered as much roadkill as I did following this attractive highway into Alexandria on my bicycle in 1989.

None of this explains the sheer number of dead armadillos, however. After six or seven I began to lose my sense of humor. Were they migrating across the road in large numbers at night? Had the people whose job it was to remove roadkill gone on strike. I never did figure it out, but I am happy to report when Peggy and I drove the same road to Alexandria a couple of months ago, we didn’t see one dead armadillo.

I really hadn’t planned on going to Alexandria, in fact the jaunt added a hundred miles to my journey. Motels and bike repairs had reduced my cash to around $50, however, and this was still a time when ATMs didn’t grow on every corner. Alexandria was the nearest city that accepted my particular brand of plastic. The town, I quickly learned, was not bike friendly, at least at the time. Few cities were. And I had the misfortune of arriving at the height of rush hour and then immediately getting lost. My already low sense of humor dropped another notch.

Several map checks persuaded me that a narrow bridge making a steep climb up and over a small bayou provided a way out. A long line of commuters was struggling to get through the bottleneck, and, judging from the honking, not happy about the delay. Adding to my woes, there wasn’t enough room for two cars and me to co-exist side by side on the bridge. Steeling myself, I forced my way into the insanity and became leader of the pack, adding several more minutes to an already long day for the homeward bound. I swear there must have been 10,000 cars behind me. At least it felt that way. It was one hell of a parade. All I needed was a baton.

I have to hand it to the good folks of Alexandria, however. Not one of them honked at me. Several waved when I pulled off the road on the other side. A couple of young women even rolled down their window and whistled. Up went my sense of humor.

I found a motel that fit my budget that night and the ATM the next morning. Heading out of town I became lost again, of course, this time on an expressway where drivers were competing with each other to see how fast they could drive beyond the speed limit. My thoughts turned to the armadillos and their unfortunate end. The first exit found me departing the road at a speed that would have impressed Mario Andreotti.

A not very pretty picture of the expressway I ended up on and Highway 28 where I was supposed to be.

I pulled into the driveway of a mortuary to check my map again. Much to my surprise, the double doors opened and out popped the mortician, who made a beeline for me. My mind leapt back in time to an early Clint Eastwood Spaghetti Western where the mortician measured strangers who rode into town to see what size casket he should build. While laughing to myself, I still checked the mortician’s hands to see if he was carrying a tape measure. Turns out the mortician was a minister and the mortuary was a church. He invited me in for coffee, a morning snack and directions. As I left, he handed me his card. “If you have any problems between here and Mississippi,” he told me, “call and I’ll come out and give you a lift.”

Soon I was heading out of town on Highway 28 to rejoin Louisiana 84, my original route across the state. From there, I biked on to the mighty Mississippi River. The route from Alexandria proved to be quite varied. I biked past dark swamps, lakes, shacks, mansions and cotton fields that were once worked by slaves. Finally, I arrived at Vidalia and the imposing Vidalia-Natchez Bridge that would take me across the Mississippi and out of Louisiana. The historic town of Natchez and the Natchez Trace were waiting.

Intriguing swamps lined the highway. I spent a lot of time glancing down into them looking for snakes.

Intriguing swamps lined the highway. I spent a lot of time looking down for swamp life.

I should have spent more time looking up. These egrets reminded me of a Japanese print.

This was an interesting little store that Peggy and I found along the road. It sent me scurrying to the Internet to find out if there was anything on Root Hog or Die. I thought maybe the owner was an Arkansas Razorback fan. Turns out the phrase dates back to the early 1800s when hogs were turned loose in the woods to survive on their own. It came to mean self-reliance.

This lake was worth a photo. It made me wish that Peggy and I had brought our kayaks along.

The Frogmore Cotton Plantation near Vidalia provides an interesting overview what it would have been like to have been a slave working on a Southern Plantation. Peggy models the bag that picked cotton was put in out in the fields.

The Frogmore Cotton Plantation near Vidalia provides an interesting overview on what it would have been like to have been a slave working on a Southern Plantation. Peggy models a bag where the picked cotton would have been placed.

This mocking-bird wondered how bicycling compared to flying. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

A side view of the Visalia-Natchez Bridge across the Mississippi River with a barge passing under it.

A side view of the Vidalia-Natchez Bridge across the Mississippi River with a barge passing under it.

An interesting perspective of the bridge. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Natchez-Vidalia Bridge across the Mississippi River at night.

The bridge at night.

On our way into Natchez, Mississippi and the beginning of the Natchez Trace, which will be the subject of my next blog. The wide shoulder is appreciated; not so much the long drop into the Mississippi River.