Gravestones, Ghost Towns, and the Long Way Toward What Matters
Some road trips begin with wanderlust.
This one began with unfinished business.
On Alabama Road Trip #1, Dusty and I did what we thought was right at Bethlehem Cemetery—but “right” didn’t quite stick. Time, weather, and the quiet cruelty of neglect had already erased almost everything that marked where her ancestors rested. By the time we stood there, the only proof they were ever laid to rest was a single piece of rebar… and a wooden post with rusty nails spelling out Ma & Pa.
That didn’t sit right.
So we planned another trip—not for content, not for curiosity, but for care.
Alabama Road Trip #2 had a purpose before it ever had an itinerary.
First Stop: Newnansville Town Site
We left Orlando early and pointed the car north, letting the miles unwind toward Newnansville—a town that no longer exists except in memory, marker text, and the woods pressing quietly behind a fence.
At the town site, the historic marker does most of the talking now. Beyond it, the forest reclaims what once was streets and homes, erasing angles and straight lines with roots and time. It’s not dramatic. It’s subtle. The kind of place where history doesn’t announce itself—it waits.
But the real weight of Newnansville wasn’t in the woods.
Second Stop: The Cemetery – Where the Past Draws a Hard Line
The cemetery told a clearer story—and a harder one.
Newnansville’s burial ground is segregated, and even without a sign explaining it, the difference is impossible to miss.
The white section is orderly and pristine: polished marble and granite, uniform rows, long-term maintenance. The markers speak in clean lines and permanence.
The Black section tells a different story.
Here, the headstones are more economically made—older concrete, hand-crafted markers, splashes of color, creativity, personality. Love was poured into them, even when resources weren’t. But maintenance has not been equal. Grass grows taller. Stones lean. Time presses harder here.
Off to the side, there’s a small, separate section—isolated enough to raise questions we still don’t have answers for. Was it an earlier burial ground? A further division within an already divided space? History didn’t explain itself that day. It rarely does.
We spent over an hour walking slowly, reading names, noticing patterns, feeling the weight of what segregation looked like after life ended. It was quiet. Heavy. Necessary.
Third Stop: Lake Jackson Mounds Archaeological State Park
From Newnansville, we drove another couple of hours west to Tallahassee and stepped even further back in time at Lake Jackson Mounds.
This place humbles you quickly.
We climbed the steps to the top of the middle-sized mound, standing where people once gathered centuries before Florida had borders, highways, or fences. From up there, the world feels quieter—older somehow.
We wandered into the woods, hoping to find traces of the old mill rumored to be back there… but nature had other plans. It had rained recently, the bugs were relentless, and without bug spray we waved a strategic retreat. (Bug spray now lives permanently in the truck. Lessons were learned.)
The largest mound was roped off, its walkway damaged by Hurricanes Helene and Milton earlier that year. Disappointing? Absolutely. But preservation matters more than access, and some places ask for patience instead of footprints.
After about an hour, we headed back to the car—bitten, sweaty, and still grateful.
Dothan, Alabama — And an Unexpected Gift of Time
Another two-hour drive carried us into Alabama, where we checked into our hotel in Dothan at an hour that felt… suspicious.
2:00 PM.
On a road trip, that’s practically sunrise.
Instead of collapsing, we looked at each other and realized we’d been handed something rare: extra time. So we did exactly what we came to do.
That afternoon and evening, we went out to the cemeteries—not as travelers, not as storytellers, but as caretakers. We took care of the work that brought us back in the first place, making sure Dusty’s ancestors were marked in a way that would last longer than memory alone.
No cameras.
No itinerary bullets.
Just quiet responsibility.
And when we finally rested that night, something shifted.
The work was done.
The rest of the trip could belong to wonder.
Reflections from the Road
Day One didn’t sparkle—but it grounded us.
It reminded us that travel isn’t always about discovery. Sometimes it’s about returning, about fixing what time and neglect tried to erase. It’s about listening to the uncomfortable stories cemeteries tell, and honoring the people whose names history didn’t bother to preserve neatly.
And once that work is done?
Then—then—you wander.
Tomorrow, Alabama Road Trip #2 becomes something lighter. Stranger. More curious.
But Day One?
Day One mattered.
Ready to Walk the Long Way Around?
Use Roadtrippers to plan your route—
Then leave space for the places that weren’t on the list.
Build in time for detours.
For roadside signs that tug at your sleeve.
For cemeteries you didn’t expect to feel.
For towns that no longer exist… but still remember themselves.
Because the trips that matter most
aren’t rushed.
They’re intentional.
And they tend to follow you home.
Want to document your own journeys—
the strange ones, the sacred ones, and the ones that quietly change you?
Before You Hit the Road…
Dusty and I built something we wish we’d had years ago:
the Travel Made Personal Road Trip Companion.
Inside you’ll find:
- Thoughtful planning pages (with room for spontaneity)
- Packing checklists that don’t forget the weird stuff
- Space for notes, reflections, and unexpected stops
- Gentle prompts to help you remember how a place made you feel
Print it. Pack it. Let it get a little dusty.
Because the best travel stories aren’t just where you went—
they’re what stayed with you.
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