50 AMP VISION QUEST

Jacksonville’s Hanna City Park and St Augustine 

Adios to the Gulf Coast and Buenos Dias to the old Spanish Coast of Florida.  New adventures await Diane and me as we are venturing now into lands we have not yet experienced in our travels together.  We are bounding across the center of the North Florida peninsula bound for Jacksonville and St Augustine.  We particularly want to see the oldest settlement in America and to facilitate that I booked us into a city-owned park called Hanna on the beach in Jacksonville.  It would be a great base of operations for us as we could venture both north and south to take in the region’s geography and culture from there easily.  Once again, our dear friends, Wren and Nan, clued us into this spot. Every place that Wren and Nan have turned us onto has more than lived up to expectations. Hanna Park, it turned out, may be the best yet. 

Traversing the city of Jacksonville from the west to the east we blew by tall buildings and city neighborhoods until we jumped off the highway on a boulevard that runs parallel to the ocean about a mile inland.  It was a short drive north along that corridor until we reached the entrance to the park. 

“Boy, if the rest of the park is anything like the entrance we are in for a treat here,” I said to Diane. 

A carefully tended fountain surrounded by manicured greenery greets you as you enter this city park. Palm trees, taller than tall pines, seemingly endless fronds of fan-like palmettos, and massive Live Oaks festooned with Spanish Moss create a perfect southern-gothic setting.  The draping Spanish Moss nearly obliterates the coastal sunshine and allows brilliant shafts of directed sunbeams to accent and splash the jungle-like setting in dreamy fashion.  Diane commented that this park may be in the top 5 most beautiful spots we’ve ever camped.  I couldn’t agree more. 

The campsite proper is literally dripping with beauty.  The atmosphere is heavy-laden with humid, salty air.  The canopy of diverse trees and hanging moss give you a sense of being in a somehow sunlit cave stuffed with stalactites.  But, rather than a stony substrate the walls and passages of this elaborate cave are soft and flowing in the breeze, beckoning you to come inside and explore her living secrets.  Alive...yes, that’s the feeling of this place...totally and ultimately alive.  Little creeks sneak in, around, and throughout the park.  A few gator-guarded lakes with White Ibis, Herons, and Ospreys lounge about the trees waiting for any fool fish to surface.  We did see one Osprey nail a small fish and fly off with its prize to a secret tree in the jungle.  There must be fish aplenty in these lakes by the number of big birds roosting about.  Indeed, more than once we witnessed an osprey with a fish firmly in its talons flying overhead past us on its way to its nest. 

‘It’s probably bringing breakfast back to its nestlings,” I thought. 

Hanna Park serves campers as well as plenty of day use visitors who come in droves to the beach on the weekends.  The beach is so long, however, that it never gets really crowded.  There’s ample room here for everyone.  Somehow, even with all the folks enjoying the park, it remains pretty clean from litter and the spoils of civilization.  I imagine the locals really value this place and want to keep it nice.  A naval base and a Coast Guard base lie just to the north of the park along the St John’s River, a busy estuary of marine traffic both government and private.  Even Carnival Cruise lines departs from its deep port upstream in Jacksonville proper. One morning while out on the beach walking and taking in the whole beach experience we noticed porpoise very close to the beach bobbing along purposefully.  I chanced to look out to sea and saw what I thought was the conning tower of a submarine about a mile out, maybe two.  Grabbing our binoculars I saw, yes, it was a submarine alright.  A couple of fishing boats were following along nearby capitalizing on their proximity and checking out the sub.  That was a first!  We’ve never seen a sub in action before.  There it was cruising along, turning back on itself and heading first south, then north. I reveled in the sight.  I came to learn later that there is a submarine base just north of here in Georgia.  An old grade school buddy Stephen Kellar, a submariner himself, cruised out from that base.  He told me that the base does an excellent job raising giant gnats with near-human teeth, always willing to bite. 

One morning here at Hanna Diane and I ventured out on a hike through the jungle along one of the hiking paths gently carved through the hammocks. There are both hiking as well as biking trails here and you can spend a good deal of time on them getting a real feel for what this place was like pre-European influence and conquest. Birds were everywhere but we had trouble seeing any of them so thick is the canopy and the jungle itself.  We went over small bridges that gave access over small creeks.  These little creeks are forbidding in a way.  You just know that gators and cottonmouths are waiting, still without moving, in case someone decides to venture into them.  Duckweed lines the surface with its brilliant green sheen.  Vines and all manner of living what-not create tunnels surrounding the waterways.  Certainly, quick sand awaits, hidden.  One of my greatest childhood fears was falling into quicksand.  Nearly every movie I watched as a .Certainly, quick sand awaits, hidden.  One of my greatest childhood fears was falling into quicksand.  Nearly every movie I watched as a youngster had a bad guy falling victim to it.  I was convinced that if I left my neighborhood I would surely find pockets of the murky trap awaiting me.  Mosquitoes and gnats could be a problem here as they reign supreme in sheer numbers throughout the jungle.  We had lathered up with bug spray and we kept moving so as not to become targets for these minions of hell.  Though an easy 4 mile walk we had in and around the park on the trails that morning, it was one of the most enjoyable hikes I’ve ever taken and certainly one of the most unusual for us.  We felt so alive.  All our senses were on full alert.

One morning we drove the short distance over to St Augustine, Florida.  I’ve always wanted to see this town with its rich historical culture.  I specifically wanted to see the Cathedral Basilica of St Augustine and any of the historic and old structures from its Spanish past.  First constructed in 1797 it burned and was rebuilt in 1887, nearly 100 years after it was first laid out.  The church that stands now is that very church and Basilica.  The exterior of the church is moderately imposing yet beautifully inspired and constructed.  A single tower, the bell tower rises from the western side of the church perhaps 100 feet or so into the sun.  The style of the building is definitely Spanish, but I am not architecturally attuned to specific styles and motifs.  The inside of the Basilica is stunning, however.  A brilliant Cardinal Red ceiling invites your eyes upward where thick and dark wooden beams, some infused with patterned inlay, create a labyrinth of geometric angles. I thought for certain that one series of inlays appeared to be a Celtic Knot, the symbol of eternity.  The altar itself is a gleaming white marble with golden angels, ribbons, and statues in place.  The effect that the artist wanted to imbue may well have been that of a glimpse of the throne of Heaven.  If so, I say mission accomplished.  Shining silver pipes of the organ frame the altar left and right.  At the rear of the church is the choir loft and the entire back wall of the loft is painted with a mural of the founding of the city, replete with Conquistadors and natives being led by a parish priest in prayer.  Regardless of how you feel about European conquest and the like, you will have to agree after viewing this mural that it is a wondrous painting.  There is a positive sanctity in the Church and I was inclined to prayer.  Thankfulness and hope for the future of our children overcame me in that sweet moment. 

When we initially arrived in St Augustine I couldn’t help but notice twin red and white stone towers off in the distance some blocks away.  I assumed that those towers were the Basilica as they were the most prominent feature of the skyline.  Turns out they were the twin towers of Flagler University. Flagler University has one heck of a magnificent campus.  At one time we looked into Flagler for Eli, our son, but it was not to be.  Nonetheless, this college campus is the most beautiful campus I’ve ever seen.  Images of Hogwarts came to my mind, not that this campus is filled with wizards and witches mind you.  Well, maybe it is.  Regal and splendoriferous are the adjectives that come to mind.  Red stoned arches frame the covered passageways between buildings. Red stone filigree accent cornices and the various levels of the buildings. All this red ornate-ness is contrast against an ivory stone backdrop of the buildings’ construct proper.  Red clay tiles line the rooftops everywhere.  Spires just out this way and that.  In a phrase, I was blown away by the place.  What a setting to go to school! 

There is history aplenty on display in St Augustine.  The city fathers have done well to preserve so much of the now ancient history of the region and the city proper.  For me, a history buff, it is a buffet of visions hatched, gained, and lost by people and civilizations past, including of course, the native inhabitants...befriended, used, sold out, fought against, enslaved, and eliminated.  I must say though, that part of this oldest of all cities in the USA has been transformed into a caricature of itself.  By that, I mean that capitalism being what it is offers a fast buck to entrepreneurs who can fleece vacationers of their disposable income.  Wax museums offer glimpses of history’s great and villainous figures.  Most of the figures in the wax museum here have nothing to do with St Augustine, or Florida for that matter. 

Restaurants seemingly fill every other address in the old part of the city.  There is no excuse to leave St Augustine with any money left in your pocket.  Parking itself is an expensive proposition.  If you find a parking place for $10.00 consider yourself as having found a four-leaf clover.  There are 5 or 6 imitations of St Augustine’s sights to inspect and spend money in for every real sight available.  It reminds me of when Universal Studios in California created a fake Hollywood on their property.  Why go to Sunset Boulevard or Grauman’s Theater when you can buy cotton candy and a plastic Walk of Fame Star with your own name on it right there at the amusement park?  Why, it’s even prettier...and you don’t have to fight traffic.  Don’t misunderstand me, St Augustine was wonderful for us to visit.  I was fairly enthralled by it.  But just know if you go that a good 4/5ths of the old city have nothing to do with history or even St Augustine.  (Now, pardon me one second while I finish off this authentic 16th century Spanish donut with sprinkles and this Conquistador corn dog.)

Just to the north of Hanna Park you can take a ferry across the St John’s River along with your car or bike if you wish. As you motor across the river inlet your pilot may need to dodge an ocean-bound cruise ship, or even a US Naval Vessel or Coast Guard cutter.  Our own path intersected the wake of a huge container vessel making its way upriver to unload its foreign cargo.  I love ferries.  I recall the first real ferry I ever boarded.  It was the Tiptonville Ferry and it took cars and passengers across the wide Mississippi from near Portageville, MO to the Tennessee bank near Realfoot Lake.  It was 1960 and I was a wide-eyed Tom Sawyer of 8 years old with my mom and dad and little brother, Joe.  How I loved that bumpy ride over that roiling river.  To this day I will go out of my way to take a ferry ride. 

We took the St John’s ferry on a day trip to Amelia Island.  Once across St John’s River heading north you really have crossed the geographic line from Florida’s mostly straight forward and straight line beaches and coast to Georgia’s jigsaw puzzle coast of rivers, islands, inlets, and hideaways.  I imagine early explorers often got lost along here trying to find their way from point A to point B on the Georgia seacoast.  The horizon is flat with no hills or mountains as guideposts.  Brackish water slushes along with sea water, at times black as coffee and other times clear and crystalline.  Though modern civilization has made living here much easier and even exciting, living here in the past was definitely life-challenging.  Take, for instance, this description of the Georgia coast from a Jesuit pioneer priest, Father Antonio Sedeno, who landed here in 1568: 

“The most miserable thing ever discovered.” 

Or, ponder this quote from fellow Jesuit, Juan Baptiste de Segura: 

“A long pile of sand full of swamps and rivers and living things created to bite and eat you.” 

Amelia Island has fully been transformed into a haven of American Southern Civilization.  Much of the island has been preserved and is great to explore...beaches and trails through hammocks of palms, Spanish Moss draped Live Oaks, and Palmettos.  Diane and I stopped at a few of these state supported respites and really enjoyed our afternoon lounging around in the sand and sun.  The balance of the island has been reserved for the rich and those who like to vacation like the rich.  Gated entries into private clubs and neighborhoods segregate the compounds from the unwashed who merely want to glimpse the lives and cathedrals of the folks who like glitz and glamor mixed in equal parts with their beaches and cabanas by the sea. 

However, the town of Amelia City proper is very accessible.  It is a joy to explore with its southern small town beach architecture.  (I don’t know how else to describe it so apologies to those who can better illuminate what the town looks like)  The town has such a unique cultural vibe to it and the huge Live Oaks and Spanish Moss give it just that right amount of gothic-ness.  We found ourselves, as we have several times before when we were blown away by a place, wondering aloud to each other if we could live here...if we could afford to live here, and what it would be like to live here.  Of course, that’s one of the sports we engage in all the time since one day, not today, we will probably settle down somewhere.  Where, we do not know.  We know not the time nor the place and we are nowhere near ready to do so, but we often inspect the places we visit with that notion in the back of our minds. 

Staying at Hana Park was great for us. Diane and I both feel it’s one of the top campgrounds we have stayed in. It’s character is so wild yet so accommodating we found ourselves wanting to stay longer.  One thing to keep in mind about Hanna Park, though, is it is sandy...oh so sandy. It can also be muddy and dirty.  You can’t have wildness and a beach without getting into what it is that makes it so cool.  Our RV and Jeep were fast becoming beaches and jungles themselves about the time we left.  Just keep it in mind.  Embrace it.  It’s going to embrace you. 

Blythe Island Regional Park and the Golden Isles of Georgia 

Our transect of the southern coasts now makes a left and heads due north along the Atlantic coast of Georgia.  I should probably call it the Atlantic “coasts” of Georgia.  There are so many islands and inlets and rivers that intersect and intertwine here it’s as if there are dozens if not hundreds of coasts.  Our base of operations for the next while is Blythe Island Regional Park.  The state of Georgia promotes this area heavily and thus has renamed it the “Golden Isles”.  The Golden Isles includes most notably, Blythe Island, Jekyll Island, and St Simon Island, though many other small islets are scattered through the mix of brackish rivers and inlets.  T’would be a pirate’s lair for certain it is so labyrinthine here.  The heat of Summer has yet to lay hold of the area and the air is warm, humid, breezy, and sweet.  Our only nemesis are the sand gnats, which will devour you if the breeze ever settles down to stillness.  For such small critters they pack a powerful bite.  They are insidious and are surely the minions of Satan spawned here on earth to inure us suffering in such a pleasant setting.  In a word, I hate the buggers. 

Blythe Island Park is again a “regional park” and is run by Blythe County.  It is less a government owned refuge and more of a private campground, but in no way is it crowded and cramped as private camps usually are.  The two ladies who work in the front office who greet you are most efficacious in creating a sweet Georgian greeting. 

“ How was your trip in, honey? Bless your heart you must be tired and ready to relax, I’m sure.” 

The words and the drippingly sweet accent was not lost on me.  I was immediately assured I was in the right place. 

The park proper is carefully arranged in circular rows set into the jungle of tall, tall pines, stout palmettos and over-arching Live Oaks with the requisite Spanish Moss.  All the camp sites are full hookups and most are pull-throughs, a vagabond’s dream.  Three small lakes line one side of the camp while the South Brunswick River borders the southern edge of the park.  The South Brunswick here is wide and wild.  The ocean is not more than a mile or two away and fishing off the fishing pier will net you oceanic prizes such as Red Drum and Shark and Rays as well as some fresh water species.  The tide obeys the moon to the tune of 2-3 feet per session and as low tide ebbs crabs crawl about the damp floor of the river bed feeding on what not.  The county has built a superior boat launch into the river complete with a hoist for larger vessels.  They even sell bait at the fishing pier. A gentleman as salty as the river abides by your requests for bait with the most conservative approach to word usage I’ve seen in a long while.  A scant “Yep”, “Nope” is about all you get out of him.  He’s friendly, just not talkative. 

We could hang out at the pier for days and be perfectly happy.  It is that pleasant.  A constant breeze keeps the consarn gnats at bay.  We sat and fished here for a short time one evening catching mostly small Croakers. Another fisherman as he left gifted us two decent whitings that he didn’t feel like cleaning.  I cleaned them and cooked them up for dinner, pan-frying them with a Panko and Parmesan breading along with my secret seasoning.  Jump Back! They was goooooood! (Say it with a slow, southern drawl like Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry fame for effect) 

The main lake here, framed by some added palm trees, has a beach for swimming built into it.  The kiddies love it and splash endlessly there while their moms and dads read the season’s latest best sellers.  Apparently, the gators and Cottonmouths have been removed from this sanctuary.  Nonetheless, Diane admonished the dogs when we would walk them if they ventured too near the shore line. 

“Get back, Heidi, a gator will will jump out and get you!” 

Me, I was on the lookout for quicksand. 

I figured that the county, as part and parcel to their glorious and expensive promotion of the area (Golden Isles), has spent a bundle of money to make this park as nice as can possibly be.  They want you to stay for as long as you can and be happy.  They have rightly and righteously succeeded.

Using Blythe Island Regional Park as our base of operations we mapped out places we wanted to see and things we wanted to do while here.  There’s no short fall of opportunities for inspiration. 

Our first day of venturing out and off the Island we took in Jekyll Island, a short drive away.  A suitable blacktop road circles the island which I would estimate to be 3 or 4 miles long and about a half mile to a mile wide.  As you drive into the island itself you’re framed on both sides of the road by marshland miles wide.  Small streams perhaps ten feet wide or so snake throughout the marsh and are tidal in nature.  As we drove along low tide was in effect and the little streams were reduced to mud.  Ospreys and shore birds loop and dive and then perch on single strands of stout vegetation.  It’s slim pickins today. 

As you enter the developed part of the island you come across some rich enclaves and boutique hotels nestled into the landscape.  A few shops and restaurants crowd together on the available dry land dedicated to retail and commerce.  There are some homes here tucked away into small cul de sac groupings so there is a need for some support of them. A hardware store, a grocery store, and a few other essential retailers cater to the home owners.  Once you drive out of the little square of retail as it were you pleasantly cruise down a long boulevard that I mentioned earlier encircles the island.  A bike path runs beside it and disappears now and then into the thicket which gives the riders a break from bicycling next to cars and the road.  It seems to be a gorgeous bike ride and I wish I had taken the time to ride it. 

After a couple of miles north along the road we came to a small parking area with a path that led off to the ocean.  We stopped here and ventured out onto the beach.  Officially, the beach is called, Driftwood Beach for the stands of Live Oaks that survive in bare skeletal remains from the shifting of the sands allowing sea water to infiltrate their roots.  The island is moving.  That’s what barrier islands do over time.  They’re restless.  Driftwood Beach is such a unique place to explore.  Hundreds of standing and fallen dead trees jut out at odd and awkward angles right up to the ocean shore.  Walking among them is fanciful and folks find little alcoves of roots and fallen Oaks to picnic in while soaking up the Georgia sun. 

A little further along the road you find the ruins of one of the original inhabitants of the island.  Horton House presents itself as a skeletal remains, much like Driftwood Beach.  It’s what is called a “Tabby House”, meaning it is built of a slew of lime and shells and sand to approximately mirror concrete.  Most of the historic homes along this coast were built as Tabby Houses.  All that remains is the outside and interior walls of tabby.  The wood used as floors and interior walls having long been wasted away by salt and rot.  Yet, the tabby walls remain, all since the 1700’s.  Amazingly so! 

In 1735 William Horton was granted the land from the colony of Georgia.  A Spanish attack destroyed his first house and he rebuilt the structure still standing in 1743 with the help of indentured servants, they being more or less slaves from England and Scotland who owed money or back taxes.  Nearby Frederica settlement on neighboring St Simon Island grew from his labor and leadership and eventually he led the military garrisoned there at Fort Frederica.  Upon his death the property passed into the hands of the DuBignon family and they are actually buried here, the last of them having died in the mid-1800’s.  Hanging out here is so pleasant and restful. A small creek courses by the property separating it from a wide marsh.  On the day we were there a good, steady breeze blew in from the ocean and caused the Spanish Moss to flit and flitter as clothes hung out on a line in the springtime breezes.  It was downright hypnotic.  A hammock strung between the Oaks would have been so appropriate and so inviting.  Ah, maybe next time. 

On Jekyll Island there is also a sea turtle sanctuary and research facility that invites visitors.  We ran out of time as daylight dwindled.  It’s on our list to visit when we return and I’m certain one day we’ll be back here.  The vibe on this island is so relaxing and calm.  It’s a balm for the shattered psyche of too much big-city living and the nervous life.

The small city of Brunswick lies nearby our campground and we took time to explore its environs.  Much of this big town/small city is indistinguishable from any other American town.  However, Brunswick has its own historic downtown that is remarkable in its somewhat shabby preservation.  I mean, it’s a funky place yet amazingly offset by all the historic architecture.  It’s a smallish retail area that features heavily local trafficked restaurants and shops, funky, cool, hip, and alive.  County government buildings at least a hundred years old stately stand guard while monstrously huge Live Oaks frame the edifices.  Spanish Moss drips down nearly onto the grass carpet of the slightly manicured lawns.  Working boats and pleasure yachts share space at the wharf.  History is on display here yet the townsfolk work hard to carve out a living.  Poor neighborhoods outnumber rich 2 to 1. Brunswick could end up being the newest example of gentrified Georgia Sea Coast.  It contains all the ingredients needed.  But in the meantime there’s an awful lot of poor folks that need an opportunity to bring themselves up out of poverty.  An inclusive vision for this town’s future is needed badly even while the colonial past holds fast.  There is plenty here for everyone to be able to prosper. 

Diane and I wanted to visit plantations of the old south.  We wanted to learn more about them, about the slaves more immediately.  Even the rich owners, the land owners...what were they really like?  What is the true history of these places and these times in which the people lived.  Can we go and see beyond the books and movies with our own eyes what went on here?  Hofwyl-Broadfield Plantation gave us just that opportunity. 

The state of Georgia maintains this site and it is marvelously maintained and presented.  I imagine there are 50 or 60 acres of the original plantation left preserved out of hundreds of acres that it once sprawled over.  Georgia does as fantastic job of preservation and education here.  We came on a week day and the attendance was very slight which gave us a lot of freedom to ask questions of the tour presenter, a young ranger lady who had been amply steeped in information and historical, even rumored facts. 

The grounds are spacious and graced with the requisite Live Oaks festooned with billowing amounts of Spanish Moss.  Oak Alley in Louisiana is the perhaps one of the most photographed plantations with its broad avenue lined with Oaks.  But, this part of the country has outdone Louisiana for sheer southern gothic-ness in my opinion.  Good God A’mighty, it’s almost unbelievable to experience.  The property leading up to the Big House is so expansive that we let the dogs off their leashes to run free and clear amongst the trees on the lawn.  No one cared, shoot, there was almost no one else there. 

Remnants of rice levees, a dairy operation, and seven nineteenth century buildings hint at the impactful story of the place.  A rich culture of formerly enslaved and later freed African Americans and people of European descent still lives on here within the plantation as well as in the region in general.  This place was originally a rice plantation.  Among all the plantation types, the rice plantation was the most miserable to be a slave in.  This place was a marsh, alive with snakes, gators, and all manner of pest and pestilence.  It was difficult if not impossible to live very long here.  The heat and God-awful humidity bore down mercilessly.  The slaves had to convert this natural marsh into working rice fields.  The marsh had to be leveled and water entering the new fields had to be regulated tightly requiring all manner of dams and levees and irrigation ditches.  Then, you had to work the fields...wet, knee deep with mud in places and crawling with mosquitoes and biting gnats. 

How the hell could a human endure it?  Well, the Europeans couldn’t and wouldn’t.  They actually left the plantation in the summer months and moved inland or to breezy coastal environs leaving the slaves and their straw bosses to run the place.  Woe betied the straw boss or slave who didn’t do their job while Master and Missus were away.  How they thought the slaves could endure it here during the summer when they couldn’t themselves gives you everything you need to understand about a rice plantation and slavery.  Slavery...It’s a word. It’s real meaning cannot be understood unless you have been enslaved.  Still, we got a very good view of it on display here in Georgia.  It began to be palpable for us.

Things somehow went on this way successfully (for the Masters) for decades until the Civil War’s outcome changed the labor market.  Now, instead of free labor the land owners had to pay, even slight as it was, for labor. That brought in competition and cheaper priced rice from Louisiana and Arkansas.  Eventually, at the turn of the 19th century into the 20th, the rice plantations folded.  In the case of Hofwyl-Broadfield plantation they resolved to start a dairy farm rather than sell the property.  The fifth generation to own this plantation struggled mightily to make a dairy business out of the place and by and large, they succeeded, with the able help of a few African Americans who worked with them, descendants of the original slaves.  Gratz, Miriam, and Ophelia Dent kept the plantation running on the dairy’s back, not making any sizable fortune, but hanging on and enduring, nonetheless.  In 1973, Ophelia, the last surviving family member of the original owners passed away and left the plantation to the state of Georgia under the condition that it be kept up as an educational opportunity for the people of the state and the US in general.  The state is living up to its end of the bargain most assuredly as they hire interpreters, very knowledgeable, who lead tours through the Big House and answer your questions faithfully. 

Slave quarters, later servant’s and worker’s quarters, still remain in their most humble yet preserved condition. This was my first opportunity to see where and how slaves actually lived on a plantation.  It was humbling to say the least to experience.  The slave quarters were built as a duplex, two families sharing a structure.  The actual Big House stands with all the furniture and settings still in place as Ophelia kept and left it.  Our ranger-led tour took us through the rather humble house.  I say humble because this Plantation house does not fit the stereotypical vision of a plantation house as you might see in “Gone with the Wind”, for instance.  I’ve seen old farmhouses in Missouri and Iowa that would outclass this home in both size and architecture.  Nonetheless, at one time 350 slaves bore the burdens of this rice plantation.  A visit here brings you face to face with the realities, not the imagined lives, of exceedingly rich white people using slaves to do unimaginable work in ungodly conditions.  Romantic notions of the Old South be damned.  You can see the truth here, the pinnacle of 18th and 19th century agricultural achievement built on the foundation of the backs and sweating brows of enslaved and minimized people. 

St Simon Island is yet another of the Golden Isles in the jigsaw Georgia coast.  Diane and I crossed the bridge onto the island briefly one afternoon but we chose not to spend much time there.  First impressions left us with a a sense that this was a little too rich a mix for our carburetors to coin a phrase.  I’m sure there are sights and moments to be had here that are as exquisite as the other islands offer.  Given more time in the area I’m certain we would have returned for deeper exploration.  As it was we stopped only for oysters and a nice seafood meal on the patio of a restaurant in the bustling town square.  Spring break with families, not the bacchanal kind, was in full swing.  Families decked out in the latest up-fashion beachwear promenaded around shopping and buying all manner of fashionable gee gaws and jimmy jack while they licked their mountainous ice cream cones in rainbow colors.  Everyone seemed happy.  We enjoyed our meal a lot.  We meant to come back and explore and check out the beach, but we never made it back. Next time... 

I’m always interested in the history of a place. Here in Georgia along the coast history drips off the Spanish Moss like dew on a humid Spring morning.  As far back as anyone can tell the earliest known inhabitants were based into two groups, the Guale (pronounced “Wally”) and the Tacatacuru peoples.  They were probably linked linguistically and most probably had a shared background.  The land and sea produce an abundance of available food and if you can withstand the bugs, snakes, and gators you could carve out a pretty good life here I imagine.  Shell middens dot the area where these people would visit periodically to harvest oysters.  Some are very large which indicates that they came back time and again to harvest and perhaps celebrate in some way. 

Upon “discovery” of this area by the Spanish in the early 16th century missionaries followed, attempting to convert the natives to Christianity.  The Franciscans were somewhat successful as they converted the chiefs of the many villages and the villagers dutifully followed them.  They built their missions in and around the existing villages, usually right on the outskirts.  As European competition for exploitation of this new land grew over time the English had to have their go at it and eventually they also established themselves here building forts on the former mission sites.  Their aim was to keep the Spanish down in Florida. 

One such fort, though there are several around here, that survives in a preserved state is Fort King George State Historic Site in Darien, Georgia along the Altahama delta.  It was built in 1721 and was the English’ southernmost fort until 1727.  The English hoped to encourage settlement here to shore up their potential for the exploitation of the local resources and expansion of their kingdom.  The Spanish, French, and English all wanted in on the land.  The fort was a hardship for the soldiers garrisoned here, not from battle but from camp diseases, dysentery and malaria mainly.  England sent invalids and older military pensioners here.  IF you served long enough in the army you were given a pension of land.  In this case, land that needed bodies who might be expendable to hold things down so to speak…occupiers.  Britain sent 100 of these souls here.  They almost all died and are buried in and around here, some in marked graves, most with no indication of their resting places.  Suffering was caused mainly by the soldier’s own poor health.  Periodic river flooding, excessive alcoholism, indolence, starvation, and desertion plagued the fort.  Eventually 140 men perished here. Abandoned around 1728 or so it sat empty and useless until 1736 when James Oglethorpe brought Scottish colonists to set up a town.  If anyone could carve out a successful existence here besides the native peoples it would be the Scottish.  They stubbornly persevered.  Thus, Darien, still the town name, was founded. 

The State of Georgia has done an outstanding job of preserving and rebuilding the fort as it was during its heyday, basing the rebuilding on preserved documents of the era depicting its construction.  There is an unexpectedly high quality museum on the premises that focuses on the Guale habitation of the area, the Spanish mission that was built here, Santo Domingo Talaje, the fort itself, and the Scottish colonists.  We picked our way around the fort and spent a good deal of time in the museum, taking in the 15 minute video they offer, and talking with the interpreter who was on site answering questions and giving demonstrations.  Diane and I had a delightful time here and were so glad we stopped to spend a few hours.  We even inquired about the camp host job available here.  As far as I can tell there’s not a whole heck of a lot of work to be done as there is no campsite here.  Using the fort as a base for a couple of months while we enjoy the area might someday be a decent idea for us.  Gypsies like us keep our options open and we always look for opportunities. 

Down the road some 5 or 6 miles is the ferry to Sapelo Island.  Sapelo is a somewhat remote island with but one hotel.  You can’t take a car over on the ferry so if you want to get around on the island you need to know someone who will pick you up and drive you around.  A scant few souls cross over on the ferry to camp out there in the jungle or on a beach.  Another few cross over to stay at the hotel, truly getting away from it all.  We didn’t realize that the ferry only ran twice a day, once in the early morning and again in the evening.  The ferry runs mostly to take commuters on and off the island for work on the mainland.  We missed out, our timing being bad. 

The principal people who inhabit Sapelo are Gullah-Geechee.  These distinct people are direct descendants of West and Central Africans who were brought to the Georgia Sea Islands to be slaves on the rice, cotton, and indigo plantations.  Due to the remoteness of this area and the isolationist nature of the place until recent decades, these people lived and still remain mostly unto themselves.  Over the centuries they developed their own culture with a distinct language and set of customs.  Their language, for instance, is as mix of English and over 34 distinct African dialects.  They say that their language is the only distinct Creole language developed in the US. I’ve heard it spoken and I have to say I might recognize every third or fourth word. 

Up and down the Georgia, South Carolina, and northeastern Florida coast the Gullah-Geechee lived and remain, though in largely reduced numbers these days.  As we hung around the ferry landing a handful of gentlemen were waiting on the ferry.  They passed the time fishing in the channel.  They had finished their workday and wore the clothes of honest blue-collar tradesmen and laborers.  I walked over and tried to engage the guys in some friendly conversation about fishing and such.  They were friendly, but very untalkative, reticent to engage much.  I sensed they mistrusted me.  Who could blame them?  They have their own community out on the island.  They don’t need some well-intentioned but prying white guy bugging them.  I get it. 

When I was around 10 years old or so I began going to the library to borrow books and records.  I could find really unusual records there that weren’t for sale in the local record store, Mr Gleason’s Webster Records, where the hits were sold.  I listened to really offbeat folk records, sound effects albums, super-rare country stuff by The Carter Family, Bull fight orchestras, you name it...I ate it up.  In that myriad of finds for me was a record by the Georgia Sea Island Singers.  This was (they are still around) a group of singers who were preserving the old songs and customs of the Gullah-Geechee.  This album was from around the 1962-ish time frame.  I didn’t know anything about the Gullah-Geechee at the time and I don’t recall there being a lot in the album liner notes about it.  I just really got off on the songs and the singing. 

Long about 1975, Diane and I were honeymooning along the coast in Charleston.  This was in reality our second honeymoon.  Our actual first honeymoon was spent in my friend, Bob Breidenbach’s, clapboard shack on the Cuivre River.  We took this second honeymoon many months later when we had managed to save up some coin to go camping along the southeastern coast.  Driving north from Charleston along the coast on a two-laner we passed by several roadside shelters where women were selling these ornate and elegantly woven reed baskets.  Looking back I believe these women were Gullah-Geechee though I had no idea at the time.  The Gullah-Geechee are renowned basket makers and we saw some of their work exhibited in museums along the coast. 

Thinking back to that time I’ll give you a quick story. 

As I mentioned, Diane and I were on our honeymoon camping in a pup tent most everywhere we went.  We did save up some money to stay in a hotel in Charleston, though.  As we walked around the old city we asked people we would meet where a good place to stay was.  One fella told us of this old mansion on the bay that served as a bed and breakfast, though I don’t recall that B&B was a term back then.  Maybe it was, I just don’t recall it.  Anyway, we went over to that old manse and yeah, it was right on Charleston Bay, a large old antebellum mansion.  It had a good size lawn and we noticed some folks sitting on the veranda sipping Juleps, served as part of the deal in staying here.  We were told that you needed to “interview” with the two elderly sisters who owned this placed before they would allow you to stay there.  So, we dutifully inquired politely about accommodations and were led to a tea room where we sat down on overstuffed patterned chairs and had some light refreshments with the two sisters who were probably in their late 60’s or 70’s by the look of their styles. 

“Tell me young man, what state are you all from?” Asked one of the sisters. It was Question #1, right off the bat, the most important thing to the sisters. 

“Ma’am, we’re from Missourah. As you know, Missourah was a border state during the Civil War, “ I answered. I figured that these ladies were holdouts from the Old South and we really wanted to stay here for the night so I tried my best to anticipate manner of talk they would appreciate and the like. 

“Oh yes, Missourah if a fine state, yes it is. We’ve had many guests over the years from Missourah. Fine folks, yes, real fine folks they were.” 

Our talk went on for quite a while and we enjoyed some cookies and ice tea with the sisters.  We were given the green light, we could stay.  We were pretty delighted with the outcome of our little visit with the sisters.

As it turned out the home had been in the family for many generations and the two sisters could no longer afford to keep it up without the added income from guests.  What a great place to stay it turned out to be.  Our room upstairs was a bedroom, large by any standard.  The room’s outside wall was circular and featured windows all along the wall that faced Charleston Bay.  Amazingly, the glass windows were curved to fit the circular room. These were the original windows mind you, built into the walls when it was constructed lo these many years ago.  Not only that… On the opposite wall from the windows hung a painting of the battle of Fort Sumpter which initiated the Civil War.  The painting was done from this very room, looking out at the battle as it was being fought!  We looked at the painting, then we looked out the windows at Fort Sumpter.  We repeated this several times.  We couldn’t get over it.  We asked the sisters about the painting and yes, It really was...it was painted during the actual battle from the perspective that room provided.  I still can’t fathom it.  It was as if we were in some kind of time capsule transported back to the beginning of the Civil War.  1975 was a distant era somewhere in the hazy future. I often wonder what became of the sisters and their family home and treasures. That afternoon and evening on Charleston Bay at the sister’s home, the Civil War had just begun.  The outcome was never in doubt.  The South would win out over Northern Aggression...no matter how many years or centuries it would take. The sisters would make sure of that. 

On one of our last days on Blythe Island we ventured over to Cumberland Island National Seashore, perhaps 30 some odd miles south along the coast of Georgia. Cumberland Island is a National Seashore and as such it is preserved as it is, or as it was when it was gifted to the US from the Carnegie family.  Yes, THAT Carnegie family.  The only way to get onto the island legally is by ferry boat that runs 3 times per day at exact times.  It’s a really popular destination and getting a seat on this ride must usually be reserved well in advance.  I tried for over a week and I couldn’t gain a reservation.  I got word from a little bird at the ferry dock that at 8:30AM every morning they resell the seats not claimed by no shows.  We got up early on this day and made sure to get to the ferry dock in time to get our names on the list.  By divine grace or just plain good luck we were able to get passage.  Of course, I like ferry rides and this one was a 45 minute ride in and among islands and inlets out to the island.  It’s not very far, really, from land.  It’s another piece of the jigsaw that is the Georgia Coast. 

People have inhabited the island for seemingly 12,000 years.  The most recent indigenous inhabitants were the Timuacan people who used the island for fishing and oyster gathering.  Middens, piles of oyster shells, can still be found here and there on the island where the natives had small villages.  Traces of early Spanish missionaries and early English defenses are long gone.  In 1803 Catherine Greene, the widow of Nathaniel Greene the Revolutionary War hero, built a 4-story Tabby mansion on the southern part of the island.  A century later Thomas Carnegie, the Pittsburgh industrialist purchased a lot of land on the island and built a huge mansion complete with formal and informal gardens, outbuildings, and other supportive buildings for life on the island.  Just prior to the Carnegie’s arrival a group of African American freedmen bought some land on the northern side of the island.  The First African American Baptist Church is one of the settlements few surviving buildings. By 1959 the main mansion, called Dungenes, caught fire and burned out of control.  No one was living there at the time and so it burned extensively, though the skeletal structure remains to this day.  After that the island came into possession of the US National Parks Service who run it to this day. 

The island is so very interesting yet peaceful at the same time.  Since there are limited seats on the ferry the number of people at any one time on the island is few.  Perhaps between 30-50 at most.  As you walk around on the island contact with other people is pretty limited.  The entire island has grown back to near wilderness state. The ruins of Dungenes are striking and add a lot to the ambiance of the place as a “forgotten island”.  There are salt water canals that lace the interior of the island.  I did see one person on a kayak paddling along in one of them who must have paddled over from the mainland or perhaps another island.  He paddled ever so slowly as if he were trying to see how slow he could possibly travel.  Boardwalks have been built over the marshes so you can pause above them and search for critters below.  Rows of Live Oaks line some of the pathways making an enchanted passage across the middle of the island.  All sorts of birds call out all day long and the slight breeze took away the heat of the day, some 80+ degrees, and made it very comfortable if not perfect.  It’s a magical island.  Diane and I felt that way as we walked and talked. 

We walked around the ruins for a while.  Wild horses cavorted and lounged on the lawn.  Perhaps they were left here generations ago by the Carnegies.  Maybe the Spanish brought them here, or the African Americans on the north side of the island.  I’m unsure.  They are a sight, though.  Smallish by domestic horse standards. Some even showed rib bones they were so thin.  Here were the formal gardens where outdoor events were hosted by Madam Carnegie and attended by the East Coast’s grandest industrialists and their sidekicks and croanies.  Over there was the Greenhouse where vegetables for the food garden were started.  Dungenes was self-supporting, growing all its own food, beef, and poultry.  Afternoon oysters were standard fare.  The main house was massive and most of it, save anything wooden, still stands as an elegant skeleton of the Gilded Age stripped of all its finery.  An osprey has opportunistically built a nest in one of the chimney tops.  The thought of such a refined life playing out extravagantly in such a wild and far-flung place provoked our imaginations immensely and immersively.  We could “see” those bygone days with eidetic clarity in our mind’s eye.  We visualized the grand balls with all the pomp and circumstance attendant to them.  The boats arriving with illustrious millionaires bubbling with glittering gems and fine clothes packed dutifully away in large trunks by servants, carted up the long hill to Dungenes.  Champaign on the beach at sunset was almost certainly de rigueur here.  Such was the scene among the island glitteratti we felt.  Meanwhile, the African Americans on the other end of the island scoured the canals and the ocean proper for their daily meals.  Perhaps some of the residents even worked for the Carnegies.  Such contrast is everywhere on the island.  Natural world vs industrialist...Wealthy beyond measure vs hardscrabble living. 

I have to say that the beach here, perhaps a mile or so long, is the most pristine beach I’ve ever seen.  No litter, no trash cans, (everything brought to the island must be brought off the island), very few people, no umbrellas, no boom boxes with thundering bass lines.  We enjoyed a good 2 hours on the beach in wondrous solitude, off to an area by ourselves.  Cumberland Island is as I say, magical.  It must have seemed that way to people for millennia and good Lord willing, it will for a long time to come.  The National Park Service is trying valiantly to do just that.

We Scootaway to Skidaway 

We have been skirting the Gulf and now the Southeastern US Coasts for the past 6 weeks.  This is our last stop before we head northwest to the Smokies and the Blue Ridge for a couple of weeks followed by a camp hosting gig in Pilot Mountain State Park in NC.  We have never experienced Savannah and Skidaway Island gives us the perfect setting to explore both Savannah and the coastal areas.  Lately we’ve been island hopping but not by airplane or boat, by motor home.  Skidaway is our last hop for a while.  It’s a short shot north from Blythe, perhaps 60 milers or so. 

Once landed on Skidaway I stopped at the office to check in with the staff.  The campground office is very modern and well kept with good information about surrounding sites to check out.  As I was walking out of the office I was startled by a deep voice shouting my name authoritatively, as if I had violated a sacred law.  It took me by surprise and I shot around to see what was the matter.  Have I finally been caught?  Did the sheriff have a gun pulled on me?  Has my past finally caught up to me?  Should I run or put my hands up? 

A man and a woman walked towards me earnestly, yet smiling.  I couldn’t tell at first who they were. Lo and freakin’ behold it was Erik and Margaret Zimmer, friends whom we met four years ago at Molas Lake Park high in the southwestern Colorado mountains.  Since our last meeting they have retired from their teaching positions and have taken up part time camp hosting...but my last track of them was that they were working in the Florida Keys.  What a huge surprise this was!  What a joy to see them again.  As I’ve mentioned at least several times in these postings, the unforeseen great pleasure in doing what we are doing is making new friends with kindred spirits.  Here we were with good new friends again after four years.  Of course, over time we’ve kept up with each other via facebook, but now we got to enjoy each other’s company in person again.  Marvelous!  Margaret explained to me that she, by lucky chance, saw my name on the list of campers checking in today.  Had she not noticed we may not have ever seen each other here in the park and that would have been a terrible shame. Fate strikes again.  Our orbits crossed. 

Erik and Margaret are artists.  Margaret with the paint brush and pencil, Erik with the camera.  Their work, their art, is outstanding by the highest measure you can apply.  They see things in life others often miss and sitting around talking with them gives me an opportunity to gain new perspectives and appreciations.  Great folks, the Zimmers. 

Art runs in the family for sure.  Their son, Aaron, is a very accomplished guitarists and even better song writer. Erik turned me on to some of his music a few years back and I love it.  This serendipitous meeting gave me the chance to actually sit down and jam with the man as Erik arranged for a dinner at his campsite that Aaron, along with his wife and child, joined in on. 

Aaron is a solid man, a family man now.  He has the choice to pursue music full time, which would really compromise his family time.  He’s chosen to be a full time dad and husband, teaching students at a Savannah school.  He performs part time now.  I admire that.  It is so difficult to be on the road playing music AND trying to help raise a family.  I know of so many instances where it has ended disastrously, usually in divorce.  I went through a similar decision way back when.  I’ve always been so very thankful to Diane and the God that I made the decision I did.  To consider my life without Diane and my children is nightmarish to me and that is what would have resulted had I continued to pursue a music career on the road.  As it is, I still have my music and most importantly, I have my family, more precious to me than anything on Earth.  I can’t speak for Aaron, but I bet he feels the same as I do.  Meanwhile, his music is fresh, original, and top shelf in my opinion. 

The evening came when we gathered for dinner, sausages and peppers grilled outside with marvelous sides topped off by cookies for dessert.  Food never tastes better than when it is cooked and eaten outside.  It’s a primal thing, I figure.  Fellow camp hosts from across the street joined us and their sparkling personalities added to the fun of the evening.  Soon, Aaron and I grabbed our guitars and we began sampling our song lists together.  I’d lead with a song and then Aaron would take a turn.  That’s how we proceeded for the next few hours.  Our styles are very different but we were easily able to accompany each other and synergize within the music.  Aaron’s voice and vocal style is full of personality and emotion, his original songs the same...story songs with lyrics that invite you in to thought provoking themes.  I really enjoyed adding guitar parts to them where I could. 

Time slipped away into full darkness and even with the bright campfire blazing I began to have trouble seeing my guitar neck.  It was getting close to official “Quiet Time” in the campground as well.  It was time to wrap things up, sadly.  We couldn’t get Erik and Margaret kicked out for too much noise during their first week on the job here.  Well, I doubt that would really happen, but nonetheless Aaron had to get going and it really was time to wrap things up.  We bid our fond adieus and were off, me floating off downstream on a music high.  The next morning we were heading north to upland South Carolina to the foothills of the Smokies.  We urgently hoped to meet up again in the near future.  I sometimes think that we all move in these circles through our lives and now and then they intersect with each other for a time.  This was one of those moments, one of those blessed meetings that creates lasting warm memories which sustain us. 

With only three days planned at this stop we had to prioritize what we wanted to see and do.  We felt like we wanted to hang out on an island beach one last time this season so we drove over to Tybee Island a short 40 minute drive away.  It did not disappoint, though it was very different than the other islands in Georgia’s chain of beaches.  Tybee is Savannah’s beach, and, as being so it is fully developed.  The island is a small city unto itself with all the hubbub and hustle that comes with that designation.  I imagine that the beach itself gets very busy in the summer months being so close to the big city.  During our visit it was only moderately busy.  Then again, it was a cool day with a breeze.  It was warm enough to sunbathe but way too cool for me to get in the ocean.  That coolness didn’t stop the kids at the beach, though.  They all jumped and frolicked and screamed in childhood wonder in the waves. 

On the north end of Tybee beach there is a splendid lighthouse that watches over the shallows.  You can climb its hundreds of steps to the top and walk out on a platform that encircles the thing.  Some folks made the climb and were peering down over the railing while others were scanning the ocean, perhaps for dolphins or sharks. We enjoyed lunch at a busy cafe on the edge of the beach in the lighthouse’s shadow.  It was good enough eating, not great, but good enough.  The atmosphere more than made up for any shortcomings in the food prep.  The place is a gold mine for whomever owns it. Built in crowds nearly all Spring and Summer for sure. On an historic note, this beach was once the focus of a civil rights issue when African Americans “invaded” the then “whites only” beach back in the very early 60’s.  The demonstrating swimmers were all arrested and thrown in jail for their disobedience.  They actually have some small monuments with pictures of the times as you enter the beach area.  On this day there was no such violence and consternation.  Diversity was in full flower out on the sand and in the cafe. 

A nice beach, this Tybee is, well worth coming over to hang out for a while.  As an aside, I notice the price of gas was beginning to come down just a bit.  Whereas we have been paying around $4.00 a gallon lately, local prices were in the $3.80 range now.  Any relief is welcome.  I welcome the day when it’s all electric or hydrogen or anything but gasoline and diesel.  It can’t come soon enough. 

The original idea for coming this way was to experience Savannah.  Neither of us have ever been here before and the idea of strolling around town here was captivating to us.  Savannah did not disappoint.  Savannah to date has not been Disneyfied as so many other American historic locales have been.  I didn’t notice any wax museums or the 2 gajillion souvenir shops hawking cedar plaques with goofball sayings on them.  Savannah is a thing unto itself, unique in every aspect. 

We had one day set aside for the city, not a lot of time in retrospect.  We decided to do a trolley tour where you could jump on and off at 15 different stops around the old city area.  They hand you a map with various interesting points to check out all over the old city proper.  This town, this whole region is so steeped in history. It is virtually layered, period over period with the exploits and dreams of people settling a coast in America. Here in Savannah, it’s all still here, preserved almost entirely as it has been since it was laid out.  Victorian and Colonial districts exist side by side each with their own sensibilities of architecture as well as eccentricities. Warm breezes gently waft down the avenues and alleys with a hints of sea salt and botanicals. 

Savannah is a city of Squares, literal oasis punctuating the neighborhoods at almost even intervals in terms of city blocks.  Each one is more inviting than the next with benches and fountains and flowers aplenty.  Forsyth Park is a delightful city park several blocks square in old town that is a must visit for anyone and everyone. Locals flock here for respite.  A huge fountain spays water into the air and is a natural gathering place.  It’s a beautiful setting.  There is a feeling of youth that somehow blends so well with the staid homes, squares, and architecture of the old town.  An art college is located here that attracts the brightest young creatives from all over the country.  It lifts the spirit to see them happily filling the streets with their youth and artistic energy flowing at full tilt. 

We spent some reverent time in the Cathedral Basilica of St John the Baptist in the old city area.  The twin bell towers point ever upward in white painted heavenly praise, and bookend your entrance through the front doors. Once inside both the ceiling and the main altar immediately seize your attention.  The place has a Gothic feel to it, though not in the dark and cavernous way some Gothic Cathedrals do.  Light pours in through large, ornate stained glass windows, each telling a biblical story with unexpected detail in the pictured, stained glass. Your eyes are drawn heavenward where arches cross each other like some geometry of the cosmos, white throughout the center of the ceiling and brilliantly deep blue, not yet the cobalt of the early morning sky, with small patterned stars on either side of the ceiling. 

The main altar is a church unto itself with nine spires each reaching skyward.  Behind the altar a semi circle of twelve saints and angels have been painted, twice the size of a person, in illustrious detail.  Their cloaks and robes are mostly in tones of burnt sienna and brown with golden backdrops, painted.  The entire semi circle is a source of reflected light that enhances the sacredness of the altar.  I could not take my eyes from it.  A single priest busied himself with preparing the altar cloth of the front altar where he would face the congregation while performing the Mass.  Two ladies arranged flowers upon the main altar, lilies, white and pristine.  It was Thursday of Holy Week with Easter awaiting on Sunday. 

With perhaps a dozen or so persons in the church when we visited half were praying seriously while the rest spoke in hushed tones and snapped pictures.  I was in both camps. My prayers on this day were for peace in Ukraine. 

Appalachian bound...Oconee State Park in Upland South Carolina 

Deep in my veins courses Scotts-Irish blood.  I get it from my dad’s side of the family, the Jumps.  My dad never knew it but he was adopted.  My grandmother Laura Jump, nee Claspell, had her newborn baby die in childbirth in Sullivan, Missouri.  It was 1917.  She could not be consoled, she was overwhelmed completely with grief.  My grandfather, Theodore Jump, ran out into the night to the local orphanage and brought back..that very night... my newborn infant father to Laura, my grandmother.  She named him Vernon Thomas Jump. Throughout his entire life he apparently never knew he was adopted.  I say apparently because there are times when I consider the adoption I think back to little clues in my dad’s behavior, things he said at one time or another, that just might indicate he knew about it.  If he did, though, he never let on about it.  This story I got from relatives of my dad’s sister, Jane, well after my dad died.  It was some kind of family secret.  My mom didn’t even know. 

Why adoption was such a secretive and hushed act is odd to me. Two of my brothers and of course Diane and I have adopted children.  If anything, the joys of bringing people together through adoption should be celebrated.  I can think of absolutely no blessing greater in my life than being given Suni and Eli to raise up. Researching the Jump family along with my Grandmother’s I found the lines of descent all ran through Appalachia and eventually Missouri.  There was even a John Jump who was given a land grant from President John Quincy Adams to a parcel of land in what is now Clover Corners near Union, Missouri.  I wager it was from military service, perhaps the War of 1812, as land was something that was sometimes gifted to soldiers of that time, land on the periphery of civilization that needed settlement.  There was a breed of mountain people who never could adjust to crowding, to settlers moving in around them.  I know songs about these restless people. They kept moving west whenever they felt hemmed in.  John Jump of Clover Corners continued moving west even after being given the land grant. 

Coming to the Appalachians feels in a way feels like coming home to me.  It’s not just due to my family’s background here, I can feel it deeply.  I feel I belong here somehow.  It’s just in me.  I’ve come here many times, both with my family on vacation and with Diane at various times.  I’ve grown to love the West, but I think this area is something special for me.  Why did I love Bluegrass and fiddle music when I was so young?  No one played that music around the house.  When I heard it, it moved me, it stirred me.  It is bone deep in me. 

Our journey to Pilot Mountain State Park and our camp hosting stint there is nearing and we have turned northwest using the uplands of South Carolina as our entry point into the Appalachians, Oconee State Park specifically.  Up from the swampy coast of Georgia we drove along on two lane roads mostly.  Gradually, the ubiquitous Spanish Moss began to fade from view as more and more plant and tree diversity took control as we drove inland.  The roads soon turned to rolling hills, gaining altitude ever so slowly.  The sun shone brightly on us in dappled splashes as we cruised along around curves, up and over hills, and through small little towns.  An occasional Civil War memorial stood guard in the town squares, having not yet been replaced or removed. 

After some five hours we landed in Walhalla, SC, the closest town to Oconee State Park.  Scots-Irish settled this area before, during, and after the Revolutionary War.  The great German Migration of the 1830’s through the 1860’s brought an influx of immigrants here who made a town out of the place and gave it the name, “Walhalla”.  I think the name roughly translates to heavenly place or something like that. Oconee, the general name of reference for this area and county, acts as a gateway into the larger scale mountains of the southern Appalachians.  It is foothills country, though the mountains here are as large as the Ozarks of Missouri and Arkansas, with dark hollers and mountain springs and streams erupting seemingly everywhere.  Indeed, waterfalls are so prevalent in this area that they publish guides so that you don’t miss any of them.  Some you need to hike well into the mountains to see while others are nearly roadside on one of the two-laners in the county. 

We found Oconee State Park to be a wonderful base of operations for us.  There is even a trail here that leads to a striking waterfall 2.75 miles into the woods in a hidden slot canyon.  Appropriately, it’s called, Hidden Falls. Take the hike if you come here!  Oconee is a tad crowded in terms of the campground, but not overly so. However, it was a challenge to get Nell into the campsite with sharp angles and obstructions like trees in the way.  Two small lakes grace the property, nestled into the hillside with a large lawn on one end and a diverse selection of trees and flowering bushes on the opposite shoreline.  Spring was in full flower when we arrived as the Dogwoods were about halfway done blooming.  Bright Azaleas popped up nearly everywhere and grew in size like Volkswagens.  Rhododendrons lined pathways and hillsides and grew to enormous sizes though they were a week or two away from blooming.  Bouquets of wildflowers grew in small clusters here and there and were in species not usually found in other parts of the country.  At least I’ve never seen most of them before anywhere else but in Appalachia.  Mountain Laurel, pastel pink as in a bridesmaid’s dress, were all coming into bloom.  It was a downright awesome time to be in the foothills for sure. 

One morning we took a drive down the hills to an old railroad tunnel that was never finished.  They stopped working on it during the Civil War.  It leads back into the mountain some 1000 feet or so and as you walk deeper and deeper into the abyss carved through solid granite you begin to feel a little claustrophobic.  There is light at the end of the tunnel though as an air hole had been cut in from above to give the workers fresh air to breathe.  These guys who dug this tunnel through solid granite used mostly hand tools to do the work.  I can’t imagine how hard it was as they averaged only 20 feet cleared every 30 days.  Irish immigrants were brought in from the east coast to do the job. 

Less than a quarter mile from the mine entrance lies one more of the ubiquitous waterfalls of the area.  This one is perhaps 100 feet or so high and is as pretty a waterfall as you’ll ever see.  You can stand nearly on the edge of it and peer down as its vertical drop crashes into granite boulders below.  The local legend tells that a Cherokee Indian maiden hid behind the falls to elude capture by a raiding band of interloping Creeks.  Hence, the name, Issaquenna Falls.  Truly, you can to this day walk behind the falls if you care to adventure there, but don’t slip up...It’s a deadly fall if you do. 

Yet another falls we hiked to is called, Station Cove Falls.  This falls is a bonus attraction of the Oconee Station State Historic Site, an historic site well worth checking out if you’re a history buff as I am.  As I mentioned earlier, history is alive and well in this neck of the woods of the US. Geologic, Indigenous, European Explorers, Spanish, French, English, Scots-Irish, German, Revolutionary War, Civil War, Moonshine Wars...there is so much overlapping history packed into this region in such a relatively short time.

Oconee Station is a well preserved site that served as one of the forts in the area to protect white settlers from the deservedly war-pathing Creek Nation.  Scots-Irish immigrants, with absolutely no future hopes left alive in the British Isles, moved into these mountains with the very real dreams that land, actual land, could be had if they could only carve out a living there.  The general wilderness nature of the area and the native populations, the Creeks and the Cherokees, stood as the principal challenges to that new life in the New World.  The coastal areas of the Carolinas had more or less eradicated the Indian tribes, and land there was already claimed by the Tidewater elites and landowners.  The mountains, wild and dangerous, yet alluring in all the resources they offered, beckoned these disparate and desperate Scots-Irish.  The landed gentry back on the coast encouraged them.  I can imagine these landowners’ and developers’ thoughts as they considered what potential lay up in the forests of the mountains and beyond. 

“Why, certainly...you go ahead, take your family with you and go get you some prime land up there.  It’s yours for the taking.  You can make a great life for yourself up there.  I’ll be right behind you once you get rid of the wild animals and the Indians.  You go settle that violent land and I’ll snatch it right up through the courts.  We’ll even send some soldiers to help you.” 

Well, that’s my take on it, anyway.  The pioneers always take the arrows. 

Oconee Station was built around 1792.  Oconee Station was one of several forts strung along throughout the mountains garrisoned by state militia.  The walls of the main building are 20 inch thick local granite.  During its day there many little cabins spread around the place but the main “fort” is but one of two buildings yet standing. Once major conflicts in the area between whites and the Southeastern natives quieted down around 1799 a second stone building was erected by a man named Richards who made the place into a trading post. 

This is a fairly small state site yet it is manned daily by a Ranger.  As we walked around the buildings the Ranger, close to the end of his career of service for the State of South Carolina, ambled leisurely up to us and asked if we had any questions about the place.  I asked one question and that was all it took to set the obviously well-versed and educated Ranger off on a series of historical dissertations on the site and the region in general.  I was fairly mesmerized by his knowledge and perspectives and presently enthusiastically inhaled every bit of between the lines history he dished out to us.  I think the Ranger was glad to have someone, anyone, to talk to for we were the only ones there that weekend afternoon.  We were open and ready for all he had to offer. 

After we had exhausted each other’s ability to focus on conversing any further, a good hour or so, Diane and I traipsed off down the trail that led to Oconee Station Cove Falls.  A prettier walk in the woods you’ll never find. It was a delicious Spring afternoon and the 70 degree temperature was coaxing every flowering plant, tree, and bush to show off their Sunday’s finest dress.  A slight breeze brushed away any feelings of exertion and was welcomely refreshing.  Hints of the floral perfumes drifted by as we walked slowly and imprecisely through the wood and down the trail.  Soon enough a fresh creek appeared off the side of the trail that began to follow its weaving course.  A beaver dam, freshly constructed, flooded a low area.  One very ambitious beaver had precisely gnawed down a generations-old Ash causing it to fall between every other tree in the area and directly across the little creek.  A foundation for yet another dam had been laid by the little engineer. 

Somewhere around a half hour after our start we came around a bend to a grand rushing sound of falling water.  Ah, the Falls!  The creek that creates the Falls emanates from springs atop Station Mountain.  Faults in this geographic area have created many dramatic bluffs in the native granite and thus with the generous rainfall the area receives you get waterfalls from the springs and creeks.  This one is a good ‘un, 60 feet high with a perfect little pool suitable for wading in the Summer when the air is heavy with heat and humidity.  With the air temperature about 70 and water around 60, I elected to forgo taking a dip and was delighted to simply bask in the light spray the falls spread our way.  It brought back memories of Costa Rica in 2017 and standing directly underneath a similar waterfall out in the jungle in a ravine while the falling water washed my cares away. Countless times during our 50 Amp Vision Quest I have stopped to thank God for granting us the time and pleasure of witnessing the glory of this planet.  I did so at the foot of this waterfall yet again. 

Often as we travel we find little cultural gems that we explore. A little diamond in the rough can be found in Valhalla in the guise of the Oconee Regional Museum.  The folks who put this museum together and maintain it have done a wonderful job showcasing the life patterns of the Europeans who settled and lived here throughout the last 250 years.  Little is mentioned of Creeks or Cherokees or African American Slaves, though. I guess that’s ok.  This little museum just has a narrow focus and for what they cover they do an admirable job. 

My main focus in visiting here was to see what I could learn about one Louis Redmond, the so-called King of the Bootleggers...sometimes referred to as the Prince of the Dark Corner. (the Dark Corner being a reference from by-gone days of this section of South Carolina.  Dark, I suppose, due to its wild nature, deep hollers and coves nearly always shaded, and the overall wild nature of the folks who lived here)  Law was a fluid thing here in the old days, not so much written down in books to observe as circumstantial in its nature.  Moon-shining...bootlegging, was and still is a matter of circumstantial law.  In Redmond’s day it was what was done out of necessity to put drink and money on the table. 

Redmond roamed the mountains of South and North Carolina making and selling Shine.  It is said his red whiskey was the best you could possibly make, far better than the legal trade available.  Revenewers, mostly thieves put to work by the government chasing down bootleggers for tax money chased Redmond incessantly from holler to cove, from springs to caverns.  They couldn’t catch him.  For a pretty good rendition of his bootleg life check out my song about him that I wrote on my website, johnjjump.com.  He was so elusive and made such good whiskey that the US government actually eventually hired him to run their own state-run distillery in Walhalla.  That seemed to work well for all concerned. 

Louis Redmond died here in Oconee country and since I was here and had written this music tome for him I was driven to find out more...and to share my song with the museum if they so wished.  The young lady in the museum who happened to be the curator was well aware of Redmond and gave me what literature she had on the man.  However, it was pretty scant.  I suppose that the county and the state don’t want to pay much heed to a man who was an outlaw bootlegger.  Perhaps they fear it will give others ideas they might pursue.  From what I hear and see the outlaw bootleg whiskey trade is alive and well in Oconee County, SC. Other illegal trade goes on as well.  In the mountains a person does what they can to get by.  It’s in the water, it’s in the genes. 

Also doing what they must to get by in these hills were a group of Maroons.  Maroon communities existed (and still do in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica) from Brazil to Canada.  These were communities of escaped slaves who sought out the places difficult to find where they could live out their lives together in community.  Often, as in the case here in the foothills of SC, they joined small Indian communities and added their talents and skills to the band and through their protection in numbers and concealment avoided recapture and enslavement.  The Creeks and Cherokees throughout this region had no reason to segregate themselves from African Americans. In fact, should you want to join their community and contribute in a positive way you could probably become accepted.  Many Europeans as well did join small bands of Indians forsaking their former lives in White communities. 

Legend has it that a Maroon community existed on or near the Chatooga River in steep upland Oconnee country.  A hike that Diane and I took along the Chatooga supposedly traverses areas where they lived and hid out.  I don’t know if that is true or rumor, but the hike we took left no doubt in my mind that one could easily get lost back up in the hollers and coves.  We crossed three small streams and clambored up and down numerous hills on this hike.  Poison Ivy thrived in parts of the hike right along the trail.  It was so prolific that it was hard not to tangle with it by simply treading along the middle of the pathway.  The entire trail traced along the course of the river on ridgelines up above.  We could hear the water anxiously diving in and out of the rocks and boulders strewn throughout the river, though most of the time the river’s view was obstructed by heavy forest and rhododendrons.  As I think about it, I recall that my old friend, now passed on, Brad Koberman, used to come down to this county to kayak from time to time.  Brad was fearless of waterfalls in his kayak.  He lived on the edge all the time every time.  That would describe his fiddle playing as well.  I miss Brad a lot.  I hear his music and see him on the rivers in my mind from time to time as touchstones emerge whilst we travel.  It was true once again today. Oh Brad, why did you have to end it all so early?

The Appalachians and the Blue Ridge 

I first came to the Appalachians when I was 12 or 13 years old.  My parents brought me and two of my brothers, Joe and Mike, up here from St Louis one summer.  Cumberland Gap, Cumberland Falls, Great Smoky Mountain National Park, Chimney Rock, these were the places that we visited while hustling through the area.  My dad was known for never sitting still long and trying to cram as much scenery into what time we had on vacation.  We didn’t go on too many grand vacations, meaning out of state, but he always took us somewhere even if it was for a two week visit to Fredricktown, Mo to stay with Father John Baker, a close family friend.  We would see the sights in the St Francois Mountains when we visited Father Baker.  I have a distinct memory of once visiting Father Baker when he lived in Portageville, MO.  The rectory was across the street from the jail house.  Prisoners were upstairs on the second floor facing the street and some of them were singing in sort of a chain gang manner.  Their wives and relatives were bringing them lunch in baskets and such because the jailer only fed them at breakfast and dinner. 

I’ve always been drawn back here to these ancient of ancient mountains called the Appalachians.  Diane and I have been through here several if not many times over the decades.  It’s good to be back.  We want to see the Biltmore Estate in Asheville so I found a great campground nearby in the Pisgah National Forest just outside Brevard, NC called, “Davidson River Campground”.  What a gem this is! 

As we left South Carolina and Oconee County in the rearview we climbed slowly heavenward up the two-lane that wound up, down, and around the increasingly higher mountains until we reached 64 highway that would take us northeasterly to Brevard.  Once across the border into North Carolina we began to see little side roads leading off into the coves with very fancy names and fancier homes.  This area is chock-a-block full of very, very rich people who have homes tucked into clusters of like-minded and financed folks.  A country club here and there serviced their leisure and social needs.  Elite retail shops dotted the clearings on flat landings.  Still, down other roads lay tired clapboard houses with sometimes failing front porches and steps, dogs laying about the several abandoned cars in the yard.  The distance between the contrasting lives in these mountains is scant in miles yet light years in lifestyle and entitlements.  Seldom will you see such evidence of a diminishing middle class.  Still, the drive was April luscious as the dogwoods dotted the mountainsides and the creeks ran clear and full of Spring’s promises.  The forest became ever-increasingly diverse with trees and wildflowers. Hemlocks shot up skyward.  Yellow Poplars tried to race the Hemlocks to the clouds.  Our Appalachian anticipation grew stronger, almost giddy as we pushed Nell along the challenging hills.  Such is 64 highway in North Carolina. 

Brevard, NC is a nice blend of old and new Appalachia.  It’s historic downtown is bristling with youth and energy while focusing on the mountain culture.  The past is very present, the present is alive and energetic while the future is studying at the local college and hiking around town with backpacks de rigueur.  It’s a nice town to hang around when you want to add a little town life to your mountain life.  I was fortunate to join a jam session at an old mansion in town one night and had a great time with fellow musicians playing mountain and Bluegrass music for a few hours.  Music is very essential to the culture here.

Davidson Campground lies just northeast of town and up 276 highway a scant three miles, 276 highway being a prototypical ribbon of a mountain road that leads to the Blue Ridge Parkway after a century’s worth of twists and turns.  The French Broad runs along the edge of the campground and along 276 highway nearly to the top of the Blue Ridge.  The French Broad at this juncture is but one of seemingly hundreds of rushing mountain streams that careen down the boulder strewn mountain sides.  Waterfalls are so abundant here.  Somehow, I don’t recall the multitude of waterfalls from past visits.  But, on this trip we are purposefully avoiding the major tourist sites and trying to explore more back country outposts.  Davidson River gives us the perfect base of operations to do that.  Our campsite was, I think, the best in the campground.  It was at the very far end of the place right along the riverside where there is a 14’ deep swimming hole.  The balance of the river averages perhaps 3’-4’ deep as it tumbles heck-a-leck over boulders and rocks steeply down hill from the mountains.  At night the river’s lullaby lulled us into sweet slumber. Ah…. 

Our first morning here I awoke before dawn and once the sun was peering over the horizon of the eastern Piedmont down below I took a walk along a trail that followed the river for perhaps a half mile before arching into the mountain that forms the western boundary of the campground.  Rhododendrons created tunnels over my head that I cautiously walked through, carefully watching for a bear.  They are plentiful here, though none seen on this day.  I felt the quiet rush of feeling nature down in my soul as so many wildflowers, in varieties I’m unfamiliar with, bloomed in abundance.  Later I returned with Diane and the dogs for an afternoon of hiking along the river bank. 

There are so many choices of places to see and things to do in this region you just can’t do them all in a 5 day sojourn.  One absolute, definite choice for us was to reconnect with dear friends from our past in Webster Groves, John and Ann Geers.  Ann is one of the world’s foremost authorities on hearing loss and auditory health. (I know I am mis-stating Ann’s expertise precisely, but Ann travels world-wide giving lectures on the the subject of hearing health!)  Ann’s list of accomplishments and research is amazing, matched only by her spirit of care and empathy for folks who have hearing loss.  John was the proprietor of the famed Webster Grill and Cafe in Old Orchard, Webster Groves. Bands I played in performed at the Grill for many years.  John hired many great local bands to perform there to augment the great food he served all day long.  It was THE place to go in Webster Groves for so many years.  The illustrious non-glitteratti of the day hung out there.  A lot of talented people worked there as well as dined there.  One such artist was the waiter who penned “The Crystal Palace” that was turned into a movie.  On one morning Paul Newman, who was visiting a friend performing at the Loretto-Hilton Theater up the street, had breakfast there.  It was the hip place in town. University City and the Washington University crowd had Joe Edwards’ Blueberry Hill.  Webster Groves had John Geers’ Webster Grill and Cafe. 

So, one Saturday Diane and I drove up into the Smokies to visit the Geers.  Perched high on a mountainside John and Ann built a dream home from the ground up.  Large picture windows look out onto the Smokies and the Blue Ridge.  Behind the home their mountain continues to rise up at very sharp and steep angles and grades while a gentle, spring-fed creek makes its way down the slope to join up with the other creeks and rivers down mountain.  The altitude there is somewhere around 3000’-4000’ so the bulk of the mountain’s wildflowers and flowering trees had not yet begun to put on their showy dress for the Spring Dance.  Diane and I were gobsmacked by the place.  What a job they have done creating this mountain oasis.  We had a wonderful afternoon of reconnecting and retelling stories from the Webster grill days and finding out about each other’s more recent lives.  John told me his oldest son is nearing 50 years old.  I about fell out onto the floor.  I can still see him floating down the St Francois River back in southeastern Missouri perched atop a cooler in a canoe.  It had been 21 years since I had last seen them.  The treadmill of time turns fast. 

The next day John and Ann came to our little site at the campground and we went over to downtown Brevard for lunch.  After a great luncheon John drove us up-mountain to a place I believe was called DuPont Forest. This public reserve had three of the most beautiful waterfalls I’ve yet seen.  A hiking trail follows up the river and gives you dramatic views of each of the falls along the way.  If memory serves, and often it abandons me, they are called, Triple Falls, Bridal Veil Falls, and Hooker Falls.  Once you reach the top of the plateau above the third falls (or first if you count in reverse) you come to a covered bridge with open sides that gives you the perspective of looking out over the near edge of the falls as if you were floating down the river about to go over them.  The hike there is so very enjoyable.  John told us that the company, DuPont, owned the land and gave it to the state for this reserve.  Part of the area is cordoned off and you are not allowed to go there.  John posited that there may have been chemical treatment type activities in that area and there could be some danger in going there, or, that perhaps DuPont was still using that area for their work.  Either way, you can’t go in there.  If I were to advise a traveler to the area of one attraction they must see this would be it.  Don’t limit yourself to just one sight to see if you come here, though. 

On yet another day during our stay here at Davidson we jumped in old Tank, our Jeep, and took off up 276 Highway to see what we could discover.  Not 10 minutes up the mountain on the 276 is yet another of the area’s crystalline waterfalls.  This particular one you can park your car in a small parking lot and simply walk 100 feet to see it.  It’s a roadside attraction par excellence.  A steep stairway leads you down to the base of the falls where in the Summer a cooling mist will encircled you.  It’s a broad waterfall, much like Cumberland Falls in Kentucky and the immense power of it all engulfs you and fills you with wonder and awe.  I don’t care how many waterfalls you’ve seen, this one will power your senses.  Looking Glass Falls is its name.  That moniker is less for any sense of a mirror you might receive from the falls and more from the nearby granite Dome, Looking Glass Rock.  I meant to hike to Looking Glass Rock and gaze upon its grandeur but we ran out of time, this time.  Next time I will hike to it for certain. 

Just up the 276 a little further is the treasure, Sliding Rock.  At Sliding Rock you can hurl yourself down an all too slippery solid rock surface that acts as a very long slide, maybe a few hundred feet long, down into a pool of mountain spring water.  Sliding Rock acts just like a water slide, nature’s own, of course.  Before there were any water slides invented, in the sweltering June of 1975, Diane and I slid down its cascading slope in heavenly abandon.  There were maybe 25 or 30 people there at the time. It was free, it was natural, it was doggone exciting. (and our bones were rubber)  Today, you will find several hundred folks lined up in that same month of June, and, it will cost you to park and “do the slide”.  It has become a tourist attraction.  It wasn’t even “open” yet as we drove by, closed to all except those who were busily prepping the place for the Summer’s onslaught.  I imagine, still all in all, it’s worth taking a fast-gliding slide at Sliding Rock.  In my memories it holds a special place in that Summer so long ago when Diane and I had been married less than 4 months.  The world was our Sliding Rock...and it still is. 

Up and over the Blue Ridge on the western side of the range we encountered a tragic scene.  In 2019 a hurricane traveled up the coast and into the mountains, not so much blowing things down as the winds had died down considerably as drowning everything in its wake with torrential rainfall.  A smallish river ran beside the road for some 5 or 6 miles, its name I cannot recall.  All along the river lay destruction.  Cars piled into trees like logjams.  Buildings lay on their sides or half in the river having been washed off their foundations.  Fences littered the tree limbs where the high water mark of the flood had reached.  This sharp and deep valley was laid waste by a massive flood and everything and everybody that did not get out of the way was torn asunder.  I recall seeing this disaster on television at the time but until you see the vast and complete destruction in person that it caused it’s less real somehow.  We’d seen our share of floods back in old Missouri where Spring floods are the rule. The 1000 year flood of 1993 was the worst I’d seen.  But this one, though small in comparison, absolutely obliterated everything in the valley.

Roan Mountain State Park 

“In the beautiful hills, way back in Roan County...” so starts one of the most iconic mountain songs in three quarter time, a waltz that it is also a ballad. By mid song the mood has changed to, “...For some unknown reason, her brother Tom stabbed me. Just three months later I’d taken Tom’s life...” 

I think this song sums up my impressions of Roan County.  It is Roan County because of the profusion of Rhododendrons that cover every hillside, crag, and stream bank.  When they bloom in June the place takes on the the subdued beauty of a color just north of auburn, heading towards red.  The mountains here just nearly straight up making standing on their sides nearly impossible without a cane or walking stick.  Heading back into the mountains on two lane asphalt and dirt you’ll find the land that time forgot, as if a mountain god had placed a protective invisible shield around the area forbidding time to move forward, only backwards.  Some of the old homes, built well over 100 years ago, still stand, leaning away from the wind, refusing to fall.  Homes that are habituated do their level best to imitate days long gone, compact, utilitarian, prettied up with flower gardens around the front porches.

A few look like moonshiners work out of them with every manner of trash...possible useful stuff... placed haphazardly about the yard. Cars parked in the yard over time can be used as year markers, 

“ Well, let’s see now, I put the Chevy out there in 2015 and Jimmy was born the next year, so that makes Jimmy 6 years old.”  No U Store It companies needed here.  You couldn’t find enough level ground to build them on anyway. 

Our sights were set on Roan Mountain State Park, crammed into a holler right in the northern shadow of Roan Mountain itself.  Getting there was an adventure I did not anticipate.  Using Apple Maps on my I-phone 12 I followed the directions to the Park dutifully.  It was all good, nice and easy driving, until we left I-24 north. Forgetting that map apps will find you the most direct route versus the most practical we found ourselves climbing a two-laner up, down, and around nearly every single hill and valley. 

First, the road became more narrow. 

Then, the road became more rock than asphalt. 

Then, the road became one lane. 

Then, it began to rain. 

The I felt the motor home shudder as it skidded a few inches as the rocky path became loose in the rain. 

Then, the switchbacks became so dire I feared I couldn’t even get our 37’ motor home around them without tipping it over. 

This...was the most challenging 10 miles I’d ever driven old Nell, our motor home on.  If any vehicle had come down the road the other way... I kid you not, I was more than a little nervous.  I literally thanked God Almighty once we got through.  Whew! I was sweating, literally.  Diane, in the Jeep behind me, agreed.  Don’t do this road ever again in anything less or larger than a Jeep.  IF we had connected the Jeep to the motor home on this trip it would have ended very badly.  One anticipatory choice we made that was fortuitous. 

This state park is a pretty amazing place.  The Doe River runs through it and you can hike along its banks for a good bit.  The Doe is yet another of these mountain streams that careens down the rocky slopes of the mountains in North Carolina and Tennessee.  The Park has a huge water wheel installed by its Visitor Center that is fully operational and when you gaze at this 100+ year old machine still performing in perpetual motion with the river as its power source you are literally taken back in time to a much simpler place.  It sounds like a cliché to say it, but it really does take you back.  Several mountain trails emanate from the park.  They are very vertical and being in decent physical shape is a must.  When we were here the park camping area was full, but no one was on the trails which made for a great getaway for me one fine early morning. 

We were only here for two days so we decided to Jeep up and go exploring through the mountains to see what we could see.  No destination, just drive.  Up Roan Mountain itself we did travel.  As we gained altitude we couldn’t help but notice the change in season.  Down below in the State Park many more flowers and trees were budding out.  Up the mountain Spring had not sprung yet.  When we reached the very top we thought about hiking around up there but as we got out of the Jeep the wind was so fierce that we gave up on that idea. It was downright cold and we weren’t prepared for the wind at all. 

So, down the northern side of the mountain we glided like a slow-motion bobsled, down long straightaways, around and through tight turns.  Now we were back in North Carolina, the flowers and vegetation re emerging as we lost altitude.  All of a sudden I found we were on “Dell McCoury Highway”, though it was still just a two-lane asphalt road.  Dell is the reigning King of Bluegrass since Bill Monroe passed away.  Folks in these parts are double proud of their Bluegrass musicians.  Here most roads and all bridges, no matter how large or small, are named after local citizens.  You might cross a hanging foot bridge over a river, and yes, we saw two such suspension bridges just as you might see in pictures from Nepal, and it would sure enough be named after someone.  “The Clyde Monroe Memorial Bridge” for instance.  Police and military personnel get preferential treatment as it regards naming rights.  We spent the better part of the afternoon just driving the back roads of the area.  I don’t think a hell of a lot has changed back here for quite a long time.  Absolutely no gentrification has taken hold here yet as it has in other parts of the Appalachians with golf courses and reclusive gated communities of doctors and lawyers and senators and such. 

As we cruised along taking in the scenery we noticed a sign for Lamar Alexander Rocky Fork State Park and we thought we might check it out.  Maybe we could go on a short hike there and get off the road for a while. Rocky Fork is tucked away back in a holler way off the beaten track.  It’s not on most folks vacation planners. You can’t even camp there.  It’s designed for hiking and simply getting way back to nature.  This park was just built in 2012 and named in part for the then governor, Lamar Alexander.  Situated in the Blue Ridge section of the Appalachians, it’s on the Tennessee/North Carolina border.  The Rocky Fork and Indian Creeks run through the park and it’s bordered by the Cherokee National Forest and the Sampson Wilderness.  It was born of a wild nature and retains that today. 

The Park was not crowded at all, just a couple of fisherman in the creek looking for Brookies and a couple of hikers, retired, were the only folks we encountered.  We gathered up the dogs, Heidi and Dash and took off down the trail that runs along Rocky Fork.  This stream is purely paradise.  It’s almost a series of cascades with pools deep enough for a scant two people to jump in and cool off in the heat of the Summer.  Lovers would find these little hideaway pools so inviting.  I imagine they have indeed been adopted by nature-loving couples for centuries.  The forest canopy is dense and diverse with all manner of species fighting for the scarce sunlight.  I thought we might see a bear back up in there but we didn’t. 

After a mile or so up the trail we came to a clearing in the woods where the Rocky Fork and Flint Creeks merge.  A sign informs that this was the sight of a bloody battle between a militia led by John Sevier (see Sevier, TN) and the Native Americans camped here.  145 Native Americans were caught surprised by a sneak attack and wiped out.  Prior to the Revolutionary War, an agreed upon line existed between white settlers and the Natives of the area that ran over the ridge of the nearby mountains.  Colonists were not to cross the line. Well, of course, they did, that being the general history of Indians and Whites in America.  Battle and frequent skirmishes ensued with the forming of this militia being one result.  The battles between the Whites and the Chicamaugas (the name for the assembled Creek and Cherokee alliance of fighters) were numerous and this one ended in a rout.  Apparently, the dead Chicamaugas are buried here, probably in a mass common grave.  I wonder if women and children are among the massacred.  It stretches my imagination to consider that this very place, where the earth holds such secrets hidden, now a hiker’s paradise in near wilderness, could have been the scene of so bloody a morning with hatchets flailing and muskets roaring, with men yelling in total rage, with women and children crying in terror.  Nature will, in time, heal her wounds and place a blanket of new life over such scars, yet I wonder if on some certain early mornings the cries of the foregone can still be heard echoing. I listened yet I heard not a foregone sound, just the birds happily calling to each other.  Yet, I know the cries echo here still in on some early mornings.

Pondering the day’s drive and hike I couldn’t help but come back again to the lines in that old mountain ballad, “Roan County”.  “For some unknown reason her brother Tom stabbed me.  Just three months later I’d taken Tom’s life.”

I want to come back here to these mountains in Roan County again some day. There’s much more exploring to do. There are more trails to follow. For now, we’re glad we got to stay here on our way to camp hosting at Pilot Mountain State Park. 

New River State Park 

We bid fare thee well to Roan Mountain and I prayed I would not encounter another drive like the one I had coming into Roan Mountain. Don’t get me wrong on this, I love the remote drives through the mountains, but there is a limit to what Ol’ Nell can endure.  I’d much rather attempt those drives in a Jeep.  In the motor home I can’t take even a second to look at the scenery, I’m so focused on the road and the attitude and capabilities of the big rig.  I plotted the day’s drive to New River State Park in North Carolina and tried to figure out which drive would be the safest.  Though the actual mileage for today’s jaunt might only be 50-60 miles it will take 2+ hours to complete.  That’s the nature of Appalachian driving. 

As it turned out the day’s events lacked the drama and daredevil feats I feared.  We arrived at New River in fine shape and delighted with the journey.  I must say, I never realized how many different denominations of Baptist congregations there are.  Whereas in St Louis there are Catholic churches in every neighborhood with all manner of saint names, in these mountains there are little Baptist churches in every holler.  The Free Will Baptist Church, The Sanctified Blood Of Jesus Christ Baptist Church, The New Order Baptist Church, The New River Congregation of Baptists Church, and so forth...not to mention 40 or 50 1st Baptist Churches.  Should the ages old saying be said, “Same church, different pew”, or should it be said, “Same pew different church”?  Is there one universal truth concerning God, the Creator, or do we as humans need to fit God into our own belief system... like we choose the color of our living room?  I suppose that’s one of the questions for the ages, more rhetorical than actual. 

New River is a great little State Park.  Like so many of the state and US parks in this part of the country it lies nestled deep in the mountains and gives visitors the opportunity to really commune with nature.  New River is a fine respite, a great place to find peace amidst these oldest of mountain ranges.  Twisty, turny blue highways weave their way here.  No Interstate roar interferes with the serenity.  Small farms, fast vanishing from America’s landscape, grace some of the valleys and the few flatter spots amongst the hills.  Now and then an ancient log cabin off on the side of a springtime hillside lies leaning towards its inevitable fall back to an earthen resting place.  The stories it must have stashed inside the grains of its wooden walls.  Creeks are alive with Spring’s rebirth and the trees have that very light green-yellow shade that comes with this season.  I notice a stately brick 1 ½ story bungalow with wide front porch and well manicured lawn and shrubs.  A couple sits comfortably on rocking chairs just watching the world drive by as every now and again a neighbor may cruise by.  A wave from the couple assures us that southern hospitality is not out of style. 

Three hundred yards away at the bottom of the small hill set by a creek is a shack of indescribable architecture, a hodge-podge, half falling down.  Dogs are running around the place and kids are out in their underwear playing amidst the insane collection of junk that lies all over the yard in front of the house.  Nothing has apparently ever been thrown away by this family.  Running out of room I suppose they store everything in the yard.  Maybe they are competing in a contest?  The family with the most junk wins a trip to the giant flea market in Raleigh...all expenses paid.  As we pass by and Nell down shifts to climb the next steep hill, a man in overalls, one strap over his shoulder and one dangling off to the side with no shirt on underneath stares dispassionately at us for the few seconds we are in his purview.  A large flag flutters in the breeze from what might be his front porch. Diane reads it aloud, 

“ F… Biden”. 

The Crosby, Stills, and Nash song comes to mind, “Teach Your Children Well”.

New River State Park, not to be confused with the newest National park of the same name, has only about 25 campsites.  That’s just about perfect for its size.  There are, however, 10 or 12 walk-in campsites along the river’s edge though.  The diversity of the trees and plants is Appalachian strong here.  Dogwoods and even Redbuds are blooming full tilt.  Once again we see wildflowers we’ve never seen before popping out along the hillsides where sun can penetrate through the trees.  There is a very nice, modern visitor center with interactive displays and loads of information to hand out regarding the opportunities for discovery and adventure for both adults as well as kids.  A lot of care and attention has gone into this park.  The campgrounds, river frontage, and the trails, are all very clean.  With such a fine river running through the park and the available camp sites being limited it is difficult to get a spot here towards the end of the week.  We luckily found the last one left on a chance lookup on line.  It was a challenge getting into the spot and getting set up as well but we managed to set up the motor home for a two day stay. 

During our first day we were able to explore the park and its features since we arrived around noon and had a good 8 hours of sunlight to goof around.  We took in the visitor center first.  We like doing that when we camp in government parks.  You get the lay of the land and you can learn about the area.  A little chit chat with the employees and rangers can give you skads of insights...where you can put in and take out on a float trip, for instance.  I enjoyed the display and interactive exhibit room here.  Most of the details in it enlighten about riparian habitats, those little pockets of wildness that front rivers and lakes where 90% of the animals live and hang out.  Turns out they have beavers on this river. I love those busy architects, perhaps because they were once just about wiped clean off the planet and they have persistently clawed their way back to decent populations.  Funny how fashion can dictate a species fate in this world.  I thought back to the times and places where I encountered the furry guys.  Cuivre River State Park in Missouri has a very strong population of them. The Cuivre River itself has a few but the large creek that feeds into the river in the park is loaded.  Once while hiking the Chubb Trail out in St Louis County as I was walking along the river’s edge there was an aggravated beaver who kept pounding his tail in the water making this loud ker-plush sound like a kid doing a cannonball into a swimming pool.  He followed me a good half mile trying to chase me off the trail.  I guess that she had babies close by.  Or, maybe it was a male with a maple tree hangover.  Too much of a good thing can do that to you. 

We took the dogs and walked along the river trail at New River, a mile and a half trail that eventually climbs 150-200 feet up a hillside after tracing the river’s edge.  An old, old log cabin with a spring house sits half way along the trail.  It was one of the original structures built here late 1800’s.  The spring house was intact and the little spring that emanated from the back of the house still pushed out cold water, good enough to keep milk fresh for a few days.  The river ran at a good clip but was a tad low and boulders poked up through the riffles here and there, scattered as they rolled down the mountain sides over the thousands if not millions of years it took the landscape to get to this point of refinement.  Refinement, that is, in terms of creating a wonderful floating stream.  Once again the wildflowers were blooming in abundance and the forest canopy was just beginning to leaf out in soft, yellow-green shades.  Dogwoods were just beginning to flower and the Redbuds, so striking, were in full, regal purple display.  Surely, man cannot possibly create a garden so grand as God’s hand. 

On day 2 we simply had to go floating here.  Calling around to several float trip operators I was able to find an outfit to pick us up at the end of our float and drive us back to the State Park.  We would put in at the Park’s access and float down to their location 10 miles downstream.  Now, that’s a little long for a single day’s float, but this river, at this time, was making good time with a 2 mile per hour current.  Calculating some time for goofing off on sand or rock bars I figured 5 ½ hours ought to get us there.  Perfect!  We lit out around 11:30 AM, waiting until the sun warmed things up some.  It was a chilly morning in the high 40’s and I’d guess around 60-65 degrees when we shoved off.  I planned on fishing some, but not intently, not so much as I might do on some kayak trips.  I really wanted to just relax and float downstream and take in the river’s personality and persuasions. 

As we drifted down into the mysteries around each bend that old familiar feeling of peace and joy came back to us once again.  Over the decades Diane and I have returned countless times to rivers and floating.  All those memories with each other and with dear friends came rushing back through my very soul.  The last time we floated with our best friends, Bob and Laura Breidenbach, we were on the Buffalo River in Arkansas.  That river, as this one along with the Current and Jack’s Fork Rivers in Missouri, carry the Federal protection of being designated National Scenic Rivers.  The Federal Government tries to secure the future of America’s best free-flowing rivers through protection programs. 

I fired my crawdad lure into likely spots here and there where I knew the fighting Smallmouth Bass hunted.  The river bottom was lined with chunk rock where there were holes deep enough for smallies to haunt, perfect habitat for them.  A ranger back at the put-in whom I collared offered that the river temps were still a little too cold for the Smallmouth to be active.  There is that temperature where when it warms to that degree the smallies become highly active, awakened from there winter’s doldrums with a biting vengeance, so hungry after so long a spell of slim pickens.  Mr Ranger was correct.  It was slow fishing, but, I still caught several that I quickly released.  I never keep Smallmouth Bass.  They are too special for to eat.  Pound for pound, they are among the top freshwater fighters in America and my favorite sport fish. 

The North Fork of the New River, which is the official name of this stream, is the perfect float stream.  There are no deep, currentless sections that you need to paddle through as you will find on the Gasconade in Missouri, for instance.  Here, you are constantly moving, being carried along by the current. In fact, the North Fork of the New River has some really sporting runs.  Not that you might overturn and drown in Class IV or V rapids, but very challenging runs through shallow, swift water.  You could easily overturn and lose your lunch box, but not your life or limb. It’s a lot of fun!  Diane got hung up sideways near the end of the trip between two large rocks just under the water where you couldn’t see them.  I paddled like the dickens upstream to try to shove her off the rock on the bow end of her kayak so she could right herself easily once freed.  I couldn’t quite get the job dome but Diane was able to free herself with an advanced hip shaking dance (Dunham Technique probably learned from her East St Louis dance lessons back in the day...HA!) 

Now, on this river we found a severe shortage of rock and sand bars to pull off the river onto.  We only found one during our entire 10 mile float.  It was scarcely 20 feet long.  We pulled onto it and ate a leisurely lunch while relaxing, stretching our legs and admiring the mountain on the opposite shore.  Once again memories flooded.  Oh, the laughs, the shenanigans, and the great times we had on sand bars past with each other and good friends.  So often we would put in on a river and float down until we felt we were far enough away from “civilization” to put up camp on a sandbar.  I thought of the time Bob Breidenbach and I took Eli and his friends on an overnight float trip down the upper Gasconade in Missouri. On one such sandbar camp we seined up a ginormous Snapping Turtle, his head rotating back and forth trying to latch onto any hand that ventured too close to his beak. 

“Be careful, don’t let him latch onto you.  He’ll not let loose until he hears the clap of thunder.”  Thus, Bob imparted some Illinois river wisdom taught him by his mom who grew up in the sloughs of southwestern Illinois. Bob could write a book on those old sayings he heard growing up among those veteran river folk.  Over in that neck of the woods they still Hog catfish old style.  Hoggin’, sometimes referred to as Noodlin’, is the ancient art of reaching waaaay back into holes in the muddy river bank under water where huge catfish, and God knows what else, hang out.  20, 30, 50 pound cats, Blue and Guijon are grabbed that way.  The old-time rivermen all knew how to do it, and to this day a few youngsters learn the art, but not many.  Me, there’s no way I’ll do it. I’ve seen videos and talked to guys who do it, and I think I could pull it off, but there’s no way on God’s green earth that I will stick my hands into a hole under water on a muddy river.  It’s a good way to lose a finger or a hand I wager. 

Bob’s dad told of a guy who lost his life doing it as the catfish pulled him under and wouldn’t let up.  Bob’s dad was almost one such tragedy as he broke Johnny Weismueller’s record of the day for length of time staying under water with one breath. Sure enough, a Flathead catfish had him by the hand in 8 feet of water. It was witnessed by Bob’s uncle Bernerd on Slough Creek near Prairie du Rocher, IL.  Such stories and wisdom, handed down by guys and gals who knew of such things, are not to be questioned.  If you violate such wisdom and centuries old folk lore you may just end up being that guy whose last words are famously, 

“Hey dude, watch this!” 

The old-timers will tell you countless stories of those unfortunates who would not listen, would not abide by the wisdom of the elders.  Nature’s hazards and the recipes for avoiding them are held within those on the Council of Elders. It’s their job to do so, I reckon, and ours to abide.  No danger of that on this river, though.  This stream is clear as crystal and not very deep, even in its deepest holes. 

Such a great time we had on this stream!  I must say, though, that one small disconcerting aspect of this stream is the fact that once outside the realm of the State Park boundary homes start to appear along the bank.  Invariably they are very nice, not the river pirate type of shack you might see elsewhere.  It would be more perfect had there not been any houses along the way, but the river retains its near pristine charm nonetheless. 

If you’re in the area and want to float the river, my recommendation is to check out Riverside Canoe.  There’s several to choose from but I can tell you that you will find these two ladies who run the outfit very accommodating and great to work with.  Avoid floating on the weekends if possible, especially in Summer. Tube floaters rule then. 

From this point, we drift on out of the high Appalachians to Pilot Mountain State Park, hovering over the Carolina Piedmont near Winston-Salem where we’ll camp host the month of May.  It should be a good gig and we’re looking forward to it.