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When someone says the word, “Alabama,” what do you imagine? For most, the melody of “Sweet Home Alabama” pops into their head, or scenes from the movie by the same name. For me, most of what I pictured stemmed from the popular television show “Hart of Dixie," centered around a young doctor moving to the state in search of a mystery father – not exactly based on reality.

What I didn’t know until I moved into the next-door Florida Panhandle was that Alabama is an ecologically diverse, beautiful state, stretching from sugar-sand coastline to the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. During a five-day break from my usual work and graduate school schedule, my husband and I came up with an ambitious plan: visit all five of Alabama’s national park sites in a single week.

Alabama’s national park sites are equally diverse, from the steep cliffs and cave faces of Little Canyon National Preserve and Russell Cave National Monument, to the rich but troubling American history portrayed at the Tuskegee Airmen National Historic Site, the Tuskegee Institute National Historic Site, and Horseshoe Bend National Battlefield.

Little River Canyon National Preserve

Little River flowed about two-and-a-half hours from where we would spend nights at a family cabin in central Alabama, and we drove every minute in awe of the exploding flowers celebrating the arrival of spring with their multi-hued petals. Bright purple redbuds graced the sides of the highway, while white dogwood trees and native azaleas bloomed farther into the woods. Clouds covered the sky in a dense blanket of gray, but just as we arrived at the visitor center to pick up a map and a stamp, the first patches of blue began to break through.

Designated in 1992, the preserve was “established to protect and preserve the natural, scenic, recreational and cultural resources of the area and to provide for public enjoyment of those resources.” The canyon itself is the most dramatic element of the park unit, in some places falling nearly 500 feet to the edge of the river below; some even rock climb here, and the waterway is known for its fishing opportunities.

But we did not opt for climbing or fishing. Most start their explorations of the park at Little River Falls, and we proved no exception. The moment I shut the door to the car I could hear the rushing water pounding on the rocks below, the white froth of the falls itself peeking through the swathe of forest separating the parking area from the viewing platform.

Everyone loves waterfalls, but I have to pause here to explain why my husband Brian and I love waterfalls so much. Our current home state – Florida – is gorgeous, full of beaches and pine forests and palm trees and springs. But Florida is flat, so flat that ravines only a hundred feet deep are carefully protected within state parks or lauded for their “dramatic” topography. Do we have waterfalls? Yes, but nothing of the size and strength of Little River Falls. We watched the water for a long time, snapping photos to send to our friends and relatives.

But the hiking trails called, and we traced the edge of the canyon before picking our way down to the rock-lined river below. The boulders looked huge, sitting in giant piles like mini-mountains, oblong shapes and sizes adding to the complexity of the riverbed itself. The sun began to shine in earnest, and every time its rays escaped the prevailing cloud cover the water would turn a brilliant blue-green, perfectly clear and shimmering in the noon-time light.

My husband is an avid angler, obsessed really. I could tell he mentally kicked himself for not bringing a fly rod, and already began to talk of a return trip, of the flies he would cast towards the rare Redeye Bass. Luckily, from our vantage point we couldn’t see any silhouettes of swimming fish – even with our polarized sunglasses. I say "luckily" because I’m pretty sure if one swam into our field of vision Brian would have left me on the side of the river to keep scouting while he high-tailed it to the nearest fly shop for some equipment.

Originally we planned to drive the overlook road, stopping at different pull-offs to take in the river from above. However, in the end we couldn’t pull ourselves away from the edge of the rushing water, preferring to bask in the warmth of the rocks before eventually hiking back up to our car. I may see emerald hues in the Gulf of Mexico near my home, but I felt a special magic observing the color in a freshwater river, like faeries had dusted the streambed with an elixir.

Russell Cave National Monument

Russell Cave sat about an hour from Little River Canyon, the distance best traversed on twisting roads that led us through forest, farm fields, and past additional waterfalls. Established in 1961 as a monument by President Kennedy, the site is known for its archaeological importance.

A common misconception about Russell Cave that they try to expel? You can’t actually tour the cave itself. Still, the visitor center held a small museum of artifacts collected from the cave, included a boardwalk to the yawning cave mouth, and sported a hiking trail up the side of a nearby mountain. That all sounded good to us!

From the boardwalk I could see that spring had also sprung on the forest floor, pops of color contrasting with the brown leaf litter as violets, trillium, and more soaked up the sun. The river – with the same amazing colors and clarity of the canyon we had seen earlier in the day – actually flowed into the cave, disappearing into the darkness beyond our line of sight at the end of the trail.

The cave has been occupied on and off for 10,000 years, and I could see why. The tall ceiling provided shelter from the elements without cloistering the inhabitants into a small space; because the river flowed into instead of out of the cave, those at the mouth could safely use the water for cleaning or cooking without worrying if other cave dwellers had spoiled it first.

Despite excavations of the archeaological material within the cave, its true purpose for Native Americans remains a bit of a mystery. As they explain: “Since the first excavation here in 1953, it has been thought that the cave was used in winter by people who in warmer months moved to villages along the Tennessee River. But the evidence is not conclusive, and it seems likely that some groups used it as a permanent home, perhaps for years at a time. Others did use it as winter quarters, while for year-round nomads it was simply a convenient stopover.”

After staring into the dark abyss and imagining the people who could have lived there, Brian and I ventured up the hiking trail on the edge of Montague Mountain. Remember how I said Florida is an especially flat state? Since I’ve lived there for nearly four years, my hiking muscles have disintegrated into almost nothing. I can walk relatively even ground for miles and miles and miles, but just a few yards into our ascent I already felt the pull of my calf muscles, the eventual soreness of my quads.

Not Brian of course. He hunts in Alabama frequently and spends more time in the woods than I do – the benefits of a recent school schedule and now a new job doing wetlands management – so he easily sauntered up the trail while I mentally cursed him from behind. Being 6’5 with extra long legs doesn’t hurt either, compared to my 5’6 frame.

The trail was old school, what I estimated as a two-foot wide road-pavement strip steadily facing up and up and up. I doubt that new path management practices recommend a hard, impermeable surface in a steep ecosystem such as this one, but I also appreciated its firmness. Long ago moss had grown across the dark surface, once again reminding me of mythical creatures and fantasy movies. The park management staff had conveniently put a few wooden benches at the top of the steepest inclines, and I gratefully took a seat once or twice while waiting for my breathing to return to normal.

Few leaves had erupted from their buds in this mostly deciduous forest, so as we climbed higher we could look across the flat valley to the surrounding ridges. As I do in any place with long histories of habitation, with every wind gust I felt the lives that had once animated this area.

Tuskegee Institute National Historic Site

If you at all follow the ins and outs of modern agriculture, it’s nearly impossible not to know the name George Washington Carver. Born around the time the Civil War was ending, he lost his mother in Missouri when slave raiders literally stole her away. In fact, he had to be “bought back” with a race horse. Though it’s often noted that he was ill and frail as a kid, he developed an intense curiosity about the world around him. Carver eventually became one of the most famous scientists of the 20th century – known especially for his work developing products from peanuts. And yet, at the Tuskegee Institute National Historic Site I first learned that he was also an artist.

The national historic site centers around the George W. Carver Museum and its focus on Carver himself, but includes the entire historic part of the Tuskegee Institute campus. Founded in 1881 for African American students by Booker T. Washington, this private university educates young men and women on a wide range of subjects. Booker T. Washington's campus home still stands, open for tours Tuesday through Saturday.

I like museums. I always have. I like walking slowly from one exhibit to the next, reading most of the text if not every word, examining the photographs, touching any object offered to me. What I appreciated most about the displays at the George W. Carver Museum? They showcased a complete person, not just his professional visage. Driven towards higher education, he pursued a PhD, determined to create things that would help the people around them. Eventually working at the Institute for over 40 years, he developed hundreds of products, investigated soil depletion and ways to rectify it through crop rotation, and mentored students and farmers alike. All the while, he continued to paint, often with pigments he developed himself. Widely recognized across the country for his work, he both established the reputation of the Tuskegee Institute and opened doors for African American researchers coming behind him.

Tuskegee Airmen National Historic Site

Just down the road from the institute sits the Tuskegee Airmen National Historic Site, linked to the institute during World War II when cadets stayed on the college campus while training to be pilots at Moton Field.

Brian and I parked and walked to a grassy overlook. Beneath us sat two hangars and a handful of restored buildings – once essential components of Moton Field. Surrounded by forest, the historic landing site is now adjacent to a working air strip, and the planes taking off and landing filled the sky with similar sounds and silhouettes from what cadets, mechanics, civilians, and more saw during WWII training.

Before the onset of the second World War, African American men were not allowed to serve in the armed forces. Civil Rights advocates on the domestic front fought for the right of African Americans to serve, and “The Tuskegee Airmen (Airmen) sprang from an experiment conducted by the US Army Air Corps (Army Air Forces) to see if Negroes (primarily African-Americans) had the mental and physical capabilities to lead, fly military aircraft, and the courage to fight in war.”

Yep, Americans doubted the ability of their fellow Americans to fight for their country. If it makes you angry, it should. It made us angry as we walked downhill to enter the hangars, and made the courage of the first class of Tuskegee Airmen and support staff that much more impressive.

The first hangar contained two full-size training planes, bright yellow, blue, and shiny beneath the lights. Speakers in the ceiling pumped sounds the cadets might have heard as they milled about the hangar, waiting for their training flights. Situated along the walls sat rotary telephones; when I picked one up, I could hear voices of real Tuskegee Airmen, recorded at the turn of the 21st century to protect their memories for posterity.

Structurally, the planes feel impossibly fragile. In fact, I learned that fabric was used to create the wings, strengthened using a strange substance into a plastic-like hardness. Now I really thought early pilots were brave.

The second hangar included a large museum, one plane hanging from the ceiling. Videos with interviews and images from the Tuskegee Airmen deployments, training on the home front, and domestic Civil Rights efforts ran in tandem with the surrounding information and artifacts. Importantly, both hangars included information on the women who also worked at Morton Field, including nurses, food vendors, and parachute riggers.

Though we visited on a Friday during the day, about a dozen people milled about, reading and thinking. Perhaps it sounds dumb to say, but there is a lot of history out there. So much of what happens in large, multi-generational experiences like world wars or disasters is eventually subsumed into one general narrative or specific stories used to highlight the experience of all. How many of us know about the game of Christmas football played among countries at the height of World War I? Or can conjur up images of the D-Day beaches?

By preserving these hangars and planes, opening up museums, and providing ranger-led tours and talks to the public, the National Park Service and its supporters are making sure the Tuskegee Airmen and all who worked with them are kept front and center in the story of WWII, as they deserve to be. When I think of their service, I don’t remember a paragraph in a textbook; thanks to the historic site, I picture their faces, their equipment, their surroundings; I can hear their voices, touch the wool uniforms they once wore. Through the Tuskegee Institute and Tuskegee Airmen National Historic Site, the past lives for me, and I won’t forget.

Horseshoe Bend National Military Park

Our last stop on the Alabama tour of national park sites was Horseshoe Bend National Military Park, which happened to be commemorating the 205th anniversary of the fight between Red Stick Creek Native Americans and forces led by Andrew Jackson before his stint as president.

Arriving just past noon, Brian and I looked over a bright green lawn to the various tents and display areas that had been set up to teach kids and adults alike about life during the early 1800s, when the battle took place. At first, it felt odd to celebrate the date of a battle that wiped out nearly 1,000 Creek Native Americans and sold another 350 women and children into slavery. Taking advantage of a civil war between factions of the Creeks (who by the way, called themselves a different name), American troops intervened when they saw the possibility of taking over more land, despite earlier treaties that promised this area to the Native Americans. When Andrew Jackson’s troops won – and his forces included a fair number of Creek Native Americans loyal to the Americans – the Creeks effectively scattered, some remaining in Alabama, others moving west, still others seeking refuge in Florida with the Seminoles. The battlefield commemorates just one more drop on one of the darkest stains of American history, the near-annihilation of all who lived here before European settlers arrived.

The festive mood of the commemoration initially clashed with my dark thoughts, so I made a bee-line for the tent with women dressed as settlers, spinning flax and wool and teaching others to do the same. I love knitting, and have always wanted to learn how to spin. I listened carefully as the demonstrator explained how to use a drop spindle before handing it over to me to try. Finished yarn is wound around the bottom, while the wool that needs to be spun is held overhead, in the hand. By spinning the spindle clockwise, the wool essentially winds itself, tension from my fingers more or less keeping the resulting yarn the right thickness. Before I even handed it back to her, I knew I would order my own.

Other tents displayed the pelts and foods settlers and Native Americans would have gathered or hunted from the nearby Alabama forest, while others showcased musical instruments. A volunteer started a game of stick ball with the younger children, and four or five men in full uniform held rifles and set off a giant cannon at pre-scheduled intervals throughout the day. 

A long nature trail follows the river and stops at important sites within the battlefield. Much of the fighting occured in a horseshoe created by the river's curves, which the Creeks thought could be a stronghold until attacked simultaneously from the other side of the waterway. As we walked, the noise from the festival fell away.

We weren’t alone on the trail, curving through beautiful mixed forest with views of the river, but few enough people opted to walk the whole thing that we had long spaces to ourselves. Though a driving road also connects visitors to the major sites within the park, I can’t recommend the nature trail enough. The solitude and beauty of the woods as we walked gave us time to talk about what we had just seen, to think about the tragedy of not only the Native Americans killed here, but also those forced to move later along the Trail of Tears.

One number I had learned in the small visitor center museum weighed on me. “What happened to the 350 women and children?” I asked. Brian had read the entire brochure, as well as additional information about the battle before we had even set foot at the park.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

I still don’t know, unable to find information at the park. Three-hundred-and-fifty women and children – who arguably were just trying to escape Americans pushing south and west – disappeared into history like a puff of smoke, their identities and futures shrouded in the vagaries of the past. In Sign My Name to Freedom, Betty Reid Soskin writes: “what gets remembered is a function of who is in the room doing the remembering.” The descendants of the women and children were probably too scattered to create such a collective memory.

It continued to bother me, but I also continued to appreciate the nature trail’s gentle dips and turns, the woodpeckers and chickadees I stopped to photograph, the flowers dotting the path’s edges. Historic and military parks often protected amazing habitat like this, an added benefit to preservation.

The trail stopped at overlooks explaining where the small village once stood, as well as where the Creek Native Americans erected a long wooden barricade to protect them from Andrew Jackson’s forces until they were simply overwhelmed by the gunfire. Stone memorials had been erected for a fallen U.S. soldier, for the terminus of an Andrew Jackson-related route, and one standing as a recognition of the work Jackson and his troops did to end the war with the Creeks at this very battle. The overly congratulatory tone of this stone marker – erected by the U.S. Congress, though probably a long time ago – is at odds with a modern understanding of history.

This part of the park needs an upgrade, a new monument dedicated to memorializing the Creek men, women, and children who also died here. Don’t get me wrong, there was violence on all sides, including raids by the Creeks that killed settlers. But the monuments as they stand seem strangely one-sided.

We spent about an hour-and-a-half on the nature trail loop, returning to the visitor center and commemoration activities just as the final demonstration of rifle fire was taking place. Like the Tuskegee sites the day before, Horseshoe Bend National Battlefield opened another door of history, reminding both my husband and me of those who had lived in these Alabama woods in the decades after the United States was born. Visits to national battlefields – especially with a renewed focus on all sides of the conflict, not just the people in American uniforms – create a deeper understanding of where we all come from, good and bad.

Three Days, Five Sites

And with that, Brian and I had visited all five national park sites in Alabama, coming away steeped in both the history and native ecosystems of the state. If you’re in the Southeast, looking for a way to become acquainted with Alabama, or if you’re a native Alabamian seeking to learn more about where you live and work, I highly recommend the one-week swoop.