Mississippi's North Country
- Jason Lykins
- Jun 27
- 10 min read
Kicking Off in Vicksburg: A Leap of Faith
Friday afternoons are for chasing adventures, and mine began with a late start toward Vicksburg, the historic gateway to my north Mississippi exploration. I’d booked a campsite along the Black River, a spot I was admittedly skeptical about. Would it be a muddy mess? A mosquito haven? But as I pulled into the property, my doubts melted away. Scott, the host, greeted me with a warm handshake and a wealth of knowledge about the land’s history and his passion for stewarding it. This wasn’t just a campsite—it was a slice of Mississippi magic.
A Night by the Cornfield: Fireflies and Cosmic Thoughts
I set up camp right beside a sprawling cornfield, the stalks whispering in the evening breeze. Before setting up the Jeep, I couldn’t resist exploring. A nearby pond, fringed with sycamores, hummed with the chorus of frogs, their croaks a lively soundtrack to the fading light. Venturing into the woods, I was met with a spectacle: fireflies flickering like nature’s string lights, turning the forest into a scene from a dream. It was pure enchantment.
Back at camp, I unloaded my Jeep, fired up the camp stove, and whipped up a simple dinner. As I settled into my chair, the stars blinked into view above the cornfield, painting the sky with cosmic brilliance. But, as the stalks rustled in the dark, my mind wandered to Signs—you know, that movie where cornfields hide extraterrestrial secrets. Suddenly, the vast Mississippi night felt very alive. “Time for bed,” I decided, retreating to the safety of my cabin in the Jeep. With the June heat softened by the hum of a battery-powered fan, I drifted off, dreaming of fireflies and open roads.
Morning on the Blues Highway
Dawn broke too soon, but the promise of adventure—and a strong cup of camp-brewed coffee—got me moving. I packed up, bid farewell to Scott’s riverside haven, and hit the road, pointing my Jeep north along the legendary Highway 61, the Blues Highway. The Delta unfolded before me, flatlands and cotton fields stretching to the horizon, each mile humming with the soul of Mississippi’s storied past. My journey into the heart of the north was just beginning.
Nitta Yuma: A Glimpse into the Past
My north Mississippi adventure rolled on as I pulled into Nitta Yuma, a tiny Delta town steeped in history and mystery. I’d been here before, drawn back by memories of a book gifted to me by a descendant of the 19th-century Cotton King empire, its pages filled with tales of this once-thriving place. The familiar sight of the old church, now under restoration, warmed my heart—a sign of care for this quiet hamlet. The vintage fire truck, a different one this time, still stood like a sentinel, and the post office hummed with its small but steady rhythm.
This visit brought new surprises. A building that looked like a bookstore or coffee shop caught my eye, its interior glowing with promise through locked windows. It wasn’t open, but I made a mental note to return and explore its secrets. Next door, I stumbled upon something straight out of a ghost story: a shop crammed wall-to-wall with dolls, their unblinking gazes staring into the void. My photographer’s heart ached to slip inside and capture that eerie scene, but the locked door kept it just out of reach. Further down, an old truck sat frozen in a garage, nestled in a weathered building, whispering tales of forgotten days. Nitta Yuma felt like a time capsule, blending revival and relics in equal measure. With the Delta sun climbing higher, I climbed back into my Jeep and pointed it north along Highway 61, the Blues Highway. The flatlands stretched endlessly, cotton fields and weathered barns blurring past, each mile humming with the soul of Mississippi’s storied past. I was chasing more hidden gems, ready to see what the road would reveal next.
Arcola’s Crumbling Past
Next, I rolled into Arcola, a quiet speck of a town along Highway 61, where time seems to have slowed to a whisper. I wandered toward a row of old businesses perched along a canal, their weathered fronts hinting at stories long past. As I got closer, I saw the decay: the buildings were collapsing, their floors vanished, sliding into the canal’s murky waters. It was like watching history dissolve, piece by piece, into the Delta’s muddy embrace.
On the far left, one building caught my eye. At first, I didn’t realize it was a bank—not until I spotted the old cannonball safe, sitting proud on a tall concrete foundation, untouched by the ruin around it. That safe, a relic of Arcola’s bygone days, stood like a silent guardian of forgotten wealth. I felt a tug of longing for the era when towns like this thrived, their streets alive with purpose. With my camera in hand, I tried to capture the scene, but it was the weight of those lost days that stayed with me. It was time to move on, so I climbed back into my Jeep and continued north along the Blues Highway, eager for what lay ahead.
Hushpuckena’s Unfinished Story
Next, I pulled into Hushpuckena, a whisper of a town along Highway 61 that feels like a dream that never fully took shape. I’d been here before, drawn to its quiet mystery—a place where a town began but never truly became. On either side of the crumbling businesses, houses stood, nearly swallowed by nature’s relentless embrace, vines and overgrowth claiming what was left. The businesses themselves were hollowed out, one with its doors long gone, leaving a brick shell that showed cracks and wear in its slow decay.
I lingered here, standing amid the ruins, my mind wandering to the hopes that once sparked this place and the silence that ended it. The air felt heavy with questions—how did Hushpuckena start, and why did it fade? The crumbling walls offered no answers, only echoes of a past just out of reach. With my camera ready, I tried to capture the scene, but it was the weight of those untold stories that stayed with me. Eventually, I returned to my Jeep, the Blues Highway calling me northward to the next forgotten corner of Mississippi.
Clarksdale’s Haunted School and the Crossroads
I rolled into Clarksdale, a city pulsing with history along Highway 61, a place I’d visited before but always felt drawn back to. The main draw this time was an old school, finally unboarded, its secrets laid bare. As I approached, I froze—a graveyard sprawled at the entrance, its weathered headstones staring back. One, dated 1857, stood out, an odd, grim welcome for students who once passed it daily. A macabre reminder of life’s fleeting nature, etched in stone.
Inside, the school was a familiar ruin: broken glass and debris littered the floors, with little left to hint at its past. I climbed to the second floor, curiosity pulling me forward. At the top, a door stood ajar, labeled “Bleachers.” Odd for a second floor. I pushed it open, and there it was—a sprawling basketball court, its exits stretching to the third floor. Incredible. I ventured up to the third floor and found a small theater stage, its shadows whispering of forgotten performances. Back on the second floor, I stepped onto the court, the silence broken by imagined echoes of bouncing balls and roaring fans, their cheers lingering from a ghostly past.
I headed downstairs, snapped shots of the crumbling exterior, and felt the weight of the place settle in. With Clarksdale’s history still buzzing in my mind, I climbed back into my Jeep, bound for the iconic Highway 49 and Highway 61 intersection—the legendary Crossroads, where blues legends and myths collide.
Chasing Relics from Memphis to Cockrum
I headed north along Highway 61, bound for Memphis, but my sights were set on a detour I’d been itching to explore—an abandoned drive-in theater I’d spotted on Google Maps ages ago. Tucked off the road, its faded glory called to me, but “No Trespassing” signs guarded the lot. Not one to push my luck on foot, I sent my drone up for aerial shots, hoping to capture the skeletal remains of the screen and lot. Mid-flight, the connection dropped—my heart sank. I had to slip past the signs to retrieve it, heart racing as I grabbed my drone, snapped a few quick ground shots of the crumbling relic, and got out of there before trouble found me.
Back on the road, before I crossed back into Mississippi, I pulled over at the Journey Motel Court, another gem I couldn’t resist. Its retro sign and weathered cabins screamed mid-century charm, but more posted signs kept me at bay. I stayed outside, snapping exterior shots of the motel’s faded facade, imagining the travelers who once stopped here. With the day slipping away, I set my sights on the next stop—the legendary Cockrum School, a place whispering stories of Mississippi’s past, waiting for me to uncover.
Sunset at Hernando Point and Beyond
As the sun dipped low, I needed a place to rest and steered toward Hernando Point, a campground I hoped would cap the day’s adventures. Backing into my spot, I noticed the lake was nearly dry, its waters a faint shimmer in the distance. Still, the view was scenic, the quiet beauty of the sparse landscape settling my soul. I unloaded my gear, prepped the Jeep’s cabin for sleep, and fired up the camp stove to cook some chili. With a cup of my favorite drink in hand, I aimed my chair at the setting sun, its golden rays painting the sky. The day’s explorations—abandoned theaters, motels, and schools—danced in my mind, and I slipped into sleep in the cocoon of the Jeep, satisfied and content.
Morning broke, and I woke rejuvenated, ready for more. I brewed a strong cup of coffee, packed up my gear, and took one last look at the tranquil, half-empty lake. With the Blues Highway still calling, I hit the road, unaware that my first stop would be an old convenience store, its coolers still stocked with soda, energy drinks, and beer, frozen in time like a relic of forgotten road trips.
More: 👉 https://www.lykinsfilms.com/sams
Revisiting Rust’s Timeless Ruins
Next, I rolled into Holly Springs to revisit the oldest African American school in Mississippi, Rust College’s historic campus, a place I’d photographed years ago. I was eager to see how time had treated this iconic site. The main buildings’ exteriors stood firm, their weathered facades holding fast against the years, but inside, the innards had largely surrendered—crumbled into heaps of decay. I documented what I could, stepping carefully through the ruins to stay safe, my camera capturing the ghosts of classrooms long silent.
I wandered toward what I guessed was the administrative building, and something strange hit me: after seven years, I remembered every hall, staircase, and office like I’d never left. Navigating the dim corridors felt as instinctive as moving through my own home in the dead of night. Some rooms were frozen in time, furnishings exactly where I’d last seen them, while darker, danker corners had given way to damp rot, their contents collapsing under the weight of neglect. Standing outside, I soaked in the school’s otherworldly charm, its fading grandeur whispering stories of resilience and loss. As I snapped final shots of the exterior, a question lingered: if I return in another seven years, will this place still stand?
A Sewing Store’s Forgotten Thread
On my way to the old Antioch School, a nondescript building caught my eye along the rural stretch of north Mississippi. Its unassuming facade gave nothing away, but curiosity pulled me inside. To my surprise, it was a forgotten store of sewing supplies—a first in my explorations. Spools of thread, neatly stacked patterns, and boxes of supplies lined the dusty shelves, remnants of a time when clothes and blankets weren’t just a trip to a big-box store away. In a place as remote as this, folks likely stitched their own lives together, thread by thread.
A scale sat on the counter, an odd piece that puzzled me. Was it for weighing fabric? Or did this place double as a market, serving the community’s broader needs? The mystery hung in the air, unanswered but intriguing. I wandered through, my camera capturing the quiet relics, each item a snapshot of a slower, self-reliant era. This little spot, tucked off the road, was a gem of a find, its faded charm adding another layer to my journey. With a few final shots, I stepped back into the sunlight, ready to continue toward Antioch School, the old highways still whispering its secrets.
More: 👉 https://www.lykinsfilms.com/sew
Antioch School’s Revival in Blue Mountain
On my way through the quiet stretches of north Mississippi, I stopped at the old Antioch School in Blue Mountain, a place I’d heard whispers about and was eager to photograph. This historic gem, tied to the Antioch Colored School established in the 1930s and rebuilt as a four-room schoolhouse in 1948, carries the weight of its past—a beacon of education for African American students in Tippah County. As I pulled up, I saw signs of life: the exterior, weathered but proud, was in the midst of remodeling, scaffolding and fresh materials hinting at a revival for this storied site.
I roamed the grounds, my camera capturing the school’s sturdy facade, its planks of wood still holding memories of decades past. The remodeling work suggested hope—a community effort to preserve this piece of history, perhaps tied to the nearby Antioch Missionary Baptist Church, which itself was rebuilt in 1964 after a fire sparked by civil rights tensions. As I packed up my gear, churchgoers from next door caught my eye, waving warmly as if thanking me for stopping by and shining a light on their little town. Their gestures felt like a quiet nod to Blue Mountain’s enduring spirit. With a wave back, I climbed into my Jeep, the Blues Highway calling me to the next adventure.
The Elusive Yellow Creek and the Road Home
With my north Mississippi adventure winding down, I had one last stop in mind: the Yellow Creek Nuclear site, an unfinished reactor that never came to life. Google reviews raved about it as a photographer’s paradise, and I was buzzing with excitement to capture its abandoned grandeur. Following the directions, I arrived at a locked gate, its chain unyielding. Undeterred, I scouted for another way in, only to hit another barricade. As I studied my map, searching for a workaround, a Homeland Security truck rolled up. The officer kindly but firmly told me the site was off-limits. I shared my disappointment, pointing to Google reviews claiming it was open to the public. Amused, he stepped out of his truck to see for himself, chuckling at my phone screen. “No way,” he laughed, shaking his head.
Deflated but respectful, I turned my vessel toward home, the entire length of Mississippi stretching before me. As the Mississippi Highway hummed beneath my tires, I reflected on the places I’d explored—crumbling schools, eerie stores, forgotten theaters—and felt a quiet satisfaction. My mind wandered to where I’d roam next. Maybe beyond Mississippi’s borders; it had been a while since I ventured to a neighboring state.
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