Pt 24 Wisteria, Wheels, Wildflowers: A Tripy Road Adventure
Missed Elvis, first drives, and the quirks of traveling America’s eerily quiet highway with a too vivid imagination.
It was bound to happen. A husband with a whimsical streak, and a co-pilot with a vivid imagination. What could go wrong? From wisteria’s villainous potential to a nerve-wracking first attempt at the wheel? Yes, this is this week’s RV adventure installment.
Need to catch up?
Pt 23 A Pyramid, a storm, and a 30-pound catfish: sleeping Under Memphis’s Iconic overpass
Or, Start from the beginning
We left the shimmering glass landmark of the Bass Pro Shops Pyramid, its mirrored facade catching the calm of the Mississippi river glistened in lazy ripples, while the sun reflected like a beacon as if it too was enjoying the stillness of a world on pause.
Joining the surreal trickle of Memphis’s new rush hour, a few scattered vehicles navigating the silence, we merged onto I-40 E, bound for I-22, and later I-20 E, with a lofty goal of Georgia… or three to four hours of Google Time, whichever came first.
The city behind us was eerily absent, as if someone had pressed mute on its usual hum. Beale Street, typically bursting with blues, barbecue, and tourists, was as quiet as a library after hours. Even the neon signs seemed dim, as if respecting the stillness.
With Memphis shrinking in the side mirrors because we don’t have a rearview mirror, unless we activate the backup camera, and even then, it just shows a distorted view of our towed car and the asphalt behind us, we pressed forward, carried by the open highway. It stretched out ahead of us like a ribbon of promise, whispering, freedom awaits, while our Garmin kept reminding us to stay on the current route or else.
I don’t know if it was because we were new to this RV adventure or if it was the pandemic mask-induced fog that dulled our sense of exploration, but we didn’t put much effort into finding things to do along the way. Back then, I hadn’t discovered Atlas Obscura, Roadside America, or those offbeat attraction apps that could have transformed our route into a quirky scavenger hunt. Honestly, if I had known about them, our trips might have taken twice as long, or at the very least, they’d open up a Pandora’s box of weird and wonderful detours into the heart of off-the-beaten-path America.
Take Tupelo, Mississippi, for example. Turns out, Elvis Presley’s birthplace and park are just a mere five minutes off the highway. Five minutes! We drove right past without a clue. The entire town is practically a shrine to the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, and there’s even a Birthplace Museum. After coughing up the visitors fee, visitors can stroll the Walk of Life, a circular concrete path engraved with milestones from Elvis’s life, all leading past his humble two-room home. Built by his father Vernon, grandfather, and uncle during tough times, the Presley family only lived there for a couple of years, but its legacy is immortalized in this small town with 12 total stops on the tour. Imagine standing where little Elvis once toddled, perhaps humming his first tune.
And then there’s PlayGarden Park in the revitalized downtown Fulton, Mississippi. Who knew?! It’s a whimsical little gem filled with the quirky creations of Tom Otterness, a world-renowned artist whose work is featured everywhere from New York City to Seoul. The park boasts a collection of anthropomorphic bronze sculptured pennies with arms and legs, and miniature houses wearing skirts, all caught mid-action as if they leapt straight out of a storybook and landed in reality. It’s the kind of place that would make you stop and smile, no matter how serious the world felt.
The centerpiece of the park is a larger sculpture of a penny and a house, arms locked together in a playful dance, forming the fountain at the heart of it all. According to Otterness, it’s a tongue-in-cheek nod to “the marriage of money and real estate.” Sure, the theme might go over your head at first glance, but who cares when you’re surrounded by these quirky, joyous creations? It’s one of those wonderfully strange places you don’t expect to find in a small Mississippi town.
Looking back, I can’t help but wonder how many treasures like these we’ve unknowingly passed by. Now, with those apps at the ready, I have no excuse. But back then, the road was a simpler place, a straight shot toward Georgia with nothing but the promise of freedom ahead. Next time, though, I’ll be ready to veer off-course for a little magic.
As we left the urban landscape behind, Interstate 22 unfurled before us, a ribbon of asphalt winding through a rolling tapestry of spring’s most vibrant colors. The shoulders of the highway were splashed with a mixture of Mother Nature’s flowers of happiness, blanketing the ditches, covering up discarded this-and-that, glowing against the clay soil as if someone had spilled buckets of sunshine along the roadside.
Occasionally, a break in the trees revealed glimpses of farmhouses and fields, their fences draped in cascades of wisteria. The dangling clusters of purple, violet, and white, clung to trees and trellises with an elegant stubbornness, like a whispered secret. It was stunning, undeniably, but my thoughts took a darker turn.
Remembering my vivid imagination from the Arkansas pod people incident. (If you missed that little gem, it involved ominous "No RV" signs, apocalyptic vibes, and my brain conjuring alien invasions.) And here was wisteria, equally beautiful and equally invasive. My mind couldn’t help but connect the dots: pod people, gooey transformations, and this vine that seemed born of the same malevolent creativity.
Sure, wisteria looks like something out of a fairy tale when in bloom, but it’s no innocent flower. The entire plant; leaves, fruit, and seeds are toxic. Once established, it becomes a botanical bully, forming dense thickets that smother native plants. Its vines wrap tightly around trees and shrubs like a boa constrictor, slowly strangling them to death and leaving behind a tangled mass of destruction. Pretty? Yes. Deadly? Absolutely. If wisteria were a character in one of my imagined apocalyptic movies, it would be the charismatic villain: charming, beautiful, and entirely untrustworthy.
As we cruised down the highway, I imagined the fragrance of the blooms wafting through the air, and the vine plotting its next conquest, vines creeping and twisting like silent assassins. Maybe the pod people hadn’t been defeated after all. Perhaps they’d simply evolved, spreading their influence through beautiful yet insidious plants like Chinese and Japanese wisteria.
Suddenly, the visual shifted in my mind. Forget elegant blooms; I saw ooey-gooey pods, thick with sticky transformation goo, spinning overnight like a spider’s web around its prey. The wisteria wrapped its victim tighter and tighter until…poof! Another pod person emerged. Cue the high-pitched screeching I was so sure I’d hear back in Arkansas.
Ernie glanced at me, probably wondering why I was smirking at the roadside greenery. “It’s just a flower,” he said when I mentioned the wisteria. I shot him a look that clearly said, Oh, it’s never just a flower. He shook his head, muttering something about me watching too many late-night sci-fi movies (guilty as charged, by the way). Maybe he had a point, but seriously, think about it. These non-native wisteria vines would make an excellent villain, don’t you think?
As we continued along I-22, I kept an eye on the wisteria-draped trees, half-expecting a vine to lash out and claim its next victim. Of course, nothing happened. It was just a gorgeous, invasive plant doing its thing killing the trees and leaving the surrounding landscape covered in thick death that not even people or animals could penetrate. Still, I couldn’t shake the uneasy thought that some of the most beautiful things in nature often hide their deadliest secrets.
At the end of the beautifully tangled mass of wisteria was the off-ramp to the Mississippi Welcome Center and Rest Area. Usually lively with travelers, it was eerily sparse and subdued, with only a handful of masked faces emerging from cars for a quick stretch or snack. These pit stops were no longer casual affairs. We watched as people carefully wiped the soles of their shoes with disinfectant wipes before tossing them (yes, the wipes, not the shoes) into the breeze. The wind carried them off, destined to join the growing heap of discarded masks and gloves scattered like abandoned plastic water bottles and fast-food trays in the aftermath of a road trip. The stillness was profound, broken only by the hum of engines and the occasional bird gliding lazily overhead.
After a good meal and a much-needed bathroom pit stop for us, it was time for the cats to have their turn. Like clockwork, they woke the moment the hum of the engine suddenly changed, stretching and blinking at us with that familiar Are we there yet? expression. A short walk on the grass later, yes, even cats need a little adventure, they were satisfied with fresh blades of grass in their bellies and ready to settle back into their cozy spots in the motorcoach.
With a quick safety walk-around complete and everything in order, we were ready to get back on the road.
Not long after, our Garmin alerted us: a state border was just two miles ahead. Cue the excitement—I fired up Lynyrd Skynyrd’s "Sweet Home Alabama" on the playlist. With the song's unmistakable opening chords echoing through the coach, we kept our eyes peeled for the big moment: the “Welcome to Sweet Home Alabama” sign.
And there it was, proudly announcing our crossing. As we rolled past, the music reached its triumphant chorus. Sure, it’s a little goofy, I own goofy! After all, who could see that sign and not have the song immediately stuck in their head? It’s practically a law of the road. By playing it, we outsmarted the inevitable earworm. We came, we saw, we conquered the ear worm with flair (I bet that song is stuck in your head now?) It’s the little crazy things like this that make these trips unforgettable
As I-22 carried us across the state line into Sweet ol’ Alabama, the landscape began to shift. The rolling hills became steeper, and the forests grew denser with oak, pine, and newly budding maples. Roadside ditches burst with Indian paintbrush, their fiery red blooms a striking contrast against the lush green backdrop.
Here, the sunlight softened, filtering through the trees and casting long, golden shadows on the pavement. Yellow flowers trailed along branches and fences, adding cheerful pops of color, and occasional batches of firepink—their vivid red hues glowing like embers—popped up in harmony with mountain laurel, its clusters of pale pink buds adding a dreamy touch to the scenery. Highway signs pointed toward towns like Jasper, but the interstate carried us past swiftly, our focus fixed on the beauty of the changing season and the road stretching ahead.
I have to admit, being the passenger has its perks. I can gaze longingly at the wildflowers dancing along the highways without risking a crash. If I could, I’d stop and snap a thousand photos—not so much of the flowers themselves, but of the happy feeling they radiate. Admittingly, we wouldn’t get far. There’s something magical about how these bursts of color can turn a mundane, distraction-filled drive into a moment of joy. Like little dots of cheer against the massive trees behind them, it’s as if they’re waving us on, saying, Welcome! May your days be filled with light and love.
Lost in the siren song of wildflowers, the monotony of wild trees would occasionally give way. Every so often, a distant farmhouse peeked out from behind a stand of pines, its fields freshly tilled for the growing season. Along the way, the rolling hills grew steeper, revealing vistas that stretched on forever beneath a pale blue sky.
Originally, Alabama was supposed to be more than a quick drive-through. We’d planned to stay longer, to visit friends we hadn’t seen in years. We’d lived in Mobile, Alabama, for a time, and the idea of catching up with old friends sounded wonderful. But neither of us wanted to impose during such uncertain times, and the thought of holding heartfelt conversations through masks was, frankly, unappealing. We reluctantly added this visit to our “next time” list.
There were also places I longed to see, like the Chickasaw Indian Mounds in Hamilton and Alabama’s Natural Bridge in Haleyville.
The Chickasaw Indian Mounds in Hamilton, the largest indigenous mound site in Marion County, date back to AD 1250–1500. These three mounds along the Buttahtchee River were believed to serve as ceremonial or residential buildings, as well as spiritual, governmental, and cultural centers for scattered populations throughout Alabama’s river valleys. Their significance lies in their connection to the indigenous peoples of Alabama, who were heavily influenced by the ideas and practices of the Mississippi Valley cultures. It would have been fascinating to stand where history, culture, and spirituality once converged.
And then there’s Alabama’s Natural Bridge, which proudly claims the title of the longest natural bridge east of the Rockies. This 148-foot sandstone marvel, formed over 200 million years, spans a small cave and rises 60 feet above a winding pathway. I can picture myself walking the two-mile trail, breathing in the earthy smells of spring and taking in the sounds of nature. This time of year would be perfect for spotting wildflowers and, perhaps, catching the sight of a small waterfall. Doesn’t that sound like a perfect picnic setting? I imagined sitting there, savoring the peace and perhaps tapping into the echoes of the Creek Indians, who once called the area home. Before leaving, I’d make sure to visit the Indian Face, a natural etching on the rock that locals claim looks hauntingly human. What an exhilarating adventure that would have been!
Instead, I filled my day fulfilling my onboard copilot duties—providing snacks to the hubby and cats when needed. When we had Wi-Fi, I caught up on work; when we didn’t, I researched every intriguing place marked by roadside signs. That’s how I stumbled across many of these destinations, like the Chickasaw Mounds and Natural Bridge. A marker for Birmingham, Alabama, caught my attention, and I mentally added it to my ever-growing list of “must-visit” places.
As a holistic practitioner, I’m always on the hunt for the latest research to share with my clients, and it’s amazing how many groundbreaking studies come out of Birmingham’s universities. But alas, that stop, too, would have to wait for another day.
With the sun dipping low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and lavender, our attention turned to finding a place to stay for the night. We decided on a fuel station. Now, before you start thinking, Wait a second, Karen, didn’t you say not to take spots from truckers?—I hear you. I’m right there with you. But Ernie, with his commercial driver’s license (CDL), had our golden ticket to a paid spot for the evening.
At 45 feet long, with a car in tow, we’re a bit too much for your standard car park spot, and the travel centers and rest areas would undoubtedly be overflowing with semi’s. So, this was it, a practical, unglamorous boondocking solution for the night.
As we waited for our spot to open up, Ernie, in a whimsical mood, asked if I wanted to take the wheel. Excited and terrified in equal measure, I decided to go for the thrill. Okay, well, it wasn’t exactly a long haul or a high-speed chase, no, it was more like a trial trickle.
I slid into the oversized captain’s chair, the cold leather pressing against my legs as I adjusted to the throne of this massive beast. My sweaty palms gripping the wooden steering wheel, which looked like it belonged on a city bus, I couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear. That’s my nervous-happy face, the kind I make when I know I’m about to do something slightly out of my comfort zone but thrilling all the same (while I talk myself into it on the inside).
Following Ernie’s instructions, I reached for the button on the side console, pressing D for drive, and then pushed in the air brake to release it. That’s when the coach roared to life and began creeping forward, despite my foot firmly planted on the brake pedal. Well, at least what I thought was firmly planted.
It turns out, braking a 45-foot motorcoach is not like stopping your average car. My foot felt like it was sinking into quicksand — a little fear quickly building —and no matter how hard I pushed that foot brake, the coach just kept inching forward. In that moment, I was officially freaking out in pure terror. I pressed harder, practically standing on the brake with all the force I could muster. Ernie, ever the calm instructor, watched patiently, keeping an eye on the parked trucks ahead as I flailed in panic.
Eventually, I found the magical amount of pressure to bring the coach to a stop. Relief washed over me like a wave. I sat there, breathless and amazed. “How does anyone stop this thing in an emergency?” I blurted out, already envisioning myself doing leg lifts in preparation for future drives. I imagined explaining to people, Oh, these thighs? They’re from training to stop a motorcoach.
The experience reminded me of a day when my son, Cooper, asked what it felt like to drive. We were in the empty parking lot of an Arizona state park after a hike. He was too young for a license but curious, especially with two older sisters already driving. It felt like the perfect moment to let him experience the basics. I had him shift into drive and focus on the brakes, just as his dad was now teaching me. Sitting at the helm of our motorcoach, I felt a kinship with Cooper, recalling him behind the wheel of our Toyota Highlander, both of us wide-eyed at the enormity of what we were attempting.
But Ernie wasn’t about to let me off easy. As a CDL driver trainer, he had me practice backing in too. My alignment was… well, let’s just say creative, but I was proud. I’d felt the power of the beast beneath me, and for the first time, I could imagine myself driving it someday. And you’d better believe I’m looking forward to more.
After our driving lesson, we whipped up a makeshift dinner from leftovers and got ready for bed. The day had been long, and my imagination was running wild, already dreaming of the day I’d confidently drive our motorcoach while those stomach butterflies kept turning wildly at the thought. I drifted off without even realizing it, lulled by the hypnotic hum of idling trucks on either side of us. For once, even the bright lights piercing through our blackout blinds didn’t stand a chance against my sleep needs.
Tomorrow would bring another day on the road as we inched closer to Florida, but for now, all I could do was dream of adventures yet to come.
If you have not subscribed yet, why not? If you are subscribed, you will be alerted as soon as the next story drops and it will come effortlessly into your inbox or an alert on the app every Wednesday morning. So, hit that blue button right there and subscribe now. Jaggies and Zazu and I Thank you!
Once you do that and are feeling all kinds of fuzzy feels, how about tipping the Tipsmobile?
If my adventures and stories are bringing a smile to your face, why not throw a little fuel in my tank to keep the wheels turning —literally! Even creativity needs a top-up now and then! Your support keeps me inspired, and rolling down the road. Thanks for being part of the journey!
Need to catch up?
Pt 23 A Pyramid, a storm, and a 30-pound catfish: sleeping Under
Or, start from the beginning
Thank you for tuning in and reading this. I super appreciate you.
~Karen
The wisteria sounded beautiful. And husbands just don't get flowers, among other things. At least ours accept cats 😻
Beautifully descriptive, I can only imagine what it was like to be travelling during that time, with the roads eerily empty…very much apocalyptic like for sure!