NIMBY? Heggie’s Rock!

4 04 2024

NIMBY: Not In My Back Yard.  

This phrase is usually used to discourage the location of something undesirable in one’s neighborhood.  But in my case, I’m using it to remind myself that, yes indeed, sometimes the most interesting and desirable places are hidden in my own backyard.  I found this to be true of my recent exploration of Heggie’s Rock, not far from my Aiken, SC backyard. 

Named for Archibald Heggie, a Scot who acquired the land in the early 1800s, Heggie’s Rock Preserve  is now owned by the Nature Conservancy and is designated as a National Natural Landmark. This exposed granite outcrop covers some 130 acres and is a stunning example of how life survives in the harshest of conditions.  Facing periods of drought and oven-like temperatures, lichens and mosses eke out a living on the bare rock, which harbors rare plants and even a species of midge only found here. Beauty resides here too, especially in the vernal pools, called solution pits by those scientifically-inclined although I prefer the term “dish gardens.”

Yet as unusual and beautiful as this area is, few know about it and fewer still get to explore it.  And that is by design. This is a fragile ecosystem, one easily damaged by human activities.  All you need to do is check out the graffiti on the rocks at Forty Acre Rock to see what I mean.  Closed off to casual visitors, the only way to visit this extraordinary place is by taking a tour with a trained docent.*

So when I got an invitation from esteemed geologist Walt Kabilius to join Ruth Mead’s class of Master Naturalists that he would be guiding through Heggie’s Rock, I jumped at the chance.  And just by chance, the torrential rains of the day before had cleared the sky, leaving conditions perfect for our exploration.

Half of our day would be spent gaining insight about the geology of the area from Walt; the other half would be lessons in lichens, led by Malcolm Hodges, a biologist, zoologist, ornithologist, and lichenologist extraordinaire.

I was nerding out.

It all starts with the rocks, so before setting foot on Heggie’s Rock, Walt took us back to Geology 101 with a description of how this granite outcropping came to be. A bubble of magma rose through the crust and slowly solidified in the crust. This “pluton” of igneous rock containing quartz, potassium feldspar, and plagioclase feldspar gradually became unearthed due to erosion, creating this dome of granite exposed on the surface.

Walking out on the rock, we saw the dish gardens which were filled with water from yesterday’s storm.  Formed by the corrosive effects of acidic water, both from rain and leached from lichens, these shallow pools collect a thin layer of sediments that allow plants such as elf orpine, Diamorpha smallii, to take root. This tiny succulent member of the stonecrop family makes its own sunscreen with anthocyanins turning it a bright red, protecting it from sun damage by absorbing blue-green and ultraviolet light.

In pools a little deeper, we saw the threatened Gratiola amphiantha, otherwise known as pool sprite or (my favorite) snorklewort.  You gotta love a plant with a name like that! This plant is found mostly in Georgia, although some are in Alabama and South Carolina. Snorklewort sends a long stem from the basal rosette growing in the sediments, from which two leave form that float on the surface and hold a tiny flower in the air so that it can be pollinated by insects.

Mat-forming quillwort is unpretentious.  It doesn’t attract the eye with bold color like the elf orpine.  It doesn’t even have a weird name like snorklewort. But it does have the singular characteristic of being a truly endangered species protected under the Endangered Species Act. Isoetes tegetiformans was first described in 1978 from a specimen collected at Heggie’s Rock. There are only four remaining populations, all on granite outcrops, all in Georgia, and all on private property.  Related to club moss, this aquatic plant is threatened by habitat loss due to granite quarrying as well as by damage by hikers or off-road vehicles. Here’s a fun fact: According to one source, Georgia is the world’s largest granite producer. (And despite being called the Peach State, South Carolina actually produces more peaches.  Just saying.)

Malcolm Hodges points out the endangered mat-forming quillwort

Yet another rare plant is Puck’s orpine, Sedum pusillum.  Very similar to elf orpine, this sedum grows in drier parts of the granite outcrop under shade.  Only found in North Carolina, South Carolina, Alabama, and Georgia, this is a Federal Species of Concern.  Our group carefully tiptoed around these plants as we made our way across the rock.

Mosses were abundant on this rock outcrop.  Malcolm lifted up a large swath of moss, showing us how it lay on top of the rock like a rug.  Since it was spongy from the rain of the night before, it was unhurt by his stepping on it.

Walt pointed out some “hard” features about the rock under our feet.  He showed us xenoliths, rocks that became embedded in the magma while the magma was cooling. How gneiss!  He had us go on a dike hunt, explaining how a crack in the solidifying granite became filled with crystalized magma forming a narrow band of feldspar.  And Walt showed us the rim of cloudy rock at the edges of rain water streaming off the rock.  Amazingly, this is opal, formed by acidic weathering of the rock as rain water carried silica down the rock.   (I hope I got these facts straight—please don’t take my scant knowledge of geology for granite.)

Here’s another fun fact: this granite pluton is undergoing sheet exfoliation, also called onion skin weathering. One explanation for this is that rocks formed at great pressure, when brought to the surface, begin to slough off the outer layers as they expand slightly.  As our lichenologist guide Malcolm Hodges explained, this sheet stays a bit cooler than the surrounding rock, allowing peppered rock shield lichen, Xanthoparmelia conspersa, to proliferate.

Malcolm took us through the four major categories of lichen: crustose (thin like a crust), foliose (think foliage—leaves), fruticose (branchy like a fruit tree), and a new one for me, squamulose (small, often overlapping scales). Although I’d always liked the story of Amy Algae and Freddy Fungi taking a “lichen” to each other in a symbiotic relationship with the algae producing food through photosynthesis and the fungi providing the structure, Malcolm had a darker story.  In his alternate version, the fungi subjugates the algae, enslaving it to produce food.  As I peered through a strong hand lens, I could indeed see the dark threads of fungi spreading out over the algae.  And yet, a quick Internet search referred only to a symbiotic relationship.  So I’m not changing my story.

It was impossible to walk across Heggie’s Rock without stepping on lichens.  Practically the entire surface was black with tiny Piedmont cobblestone lichen, Acarospora piedmontensis, obviously a crustose variety.

Mounds of the common reindeer moss lichen covered large areas of the rock.  Although I was familiar with reindeer moss, I didn’t realize that there are two different species: Grey reindeer moss and the greener Southern reindeer moss. Mixed in with these lichens was the British soldier lichen, with the red tops producing spores but not carrying alga so they are unable to reproduce.  These lichens spread as pieces break off and are carried to a new location.  Bushy beard lichen with its wispy strands grew on an old twig. With their branchy structure, it’s easy to group all these as fruticose lichen.

Usually growing on tree bark, ruffle lichens have black hairs called cilia along the edges of their uplifted lobes but are often hard to tell apart. Malcolm used chemical testing to identify a ruffle lichen as a Perforated ruffle.  With its leaf-like lobes, it belongs with the foliose tribe.

A squamulose lichen, rock olive indeed had the shape and color of an olive.  So many lichens—I’m really lichen it.  Note to self, though: Don’t use lichen puns with a lichenologist.  He’s heard them ad nauseam and will not be pleased.  And if you want to learn more about lichens, go to the lichen portal at georgiabiodiversity.org .  You’ll find Malcolm Hodges’ name on just about every page!

Thanks to Ruth Mead, a Master of all Master Naturalists, for getting Walt and Malcolm out on Heggie’s Rock, we couldn’t have had more informative and interesting guides as we learned about this unusual area. And to think that this is tucked away not so very far from home!  Who knows what other natural wonders are waiting to be discovered, yes indeed, right here in our own backyards.

*Since Heggie’s Rock is closed to the casual visitor to protect this fragile ecosystem, contact: 404-873-6946 or tncgeorgia@tnc.org to make arrangements to see it.





Camping on Cumberland: A Backpacking Adventure in Mid-Winter

1 02 2024

Who goes backpacking for the first time in her life on a barrier island in the middle of January? That would be me, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. What to pack? A week before, temperatures had dipped into the low 20s.  I packed all my heaviest clothes and sleeping gear. Then the forecast showed warm temperatures for our stay, but a high percentage of rain. I repacked, replacing my cold weather gear with rain gear.  Fortunately, it neither rained or was cold. From a Thursday to Sunday, my friends Cathy and Dianne and I hiked, biked, toured, and relaxed on this magical treasure of an island.

Located off the Georgia mainland a stone’s throw from Florida, Cumberland Island has it all: pristine undeveloped beaches, wildlife, and a fascinating history from prehistoric up to present day.  The easiest way to get there is by ferry from the town of St. Mary’s, which is what we did.  A day before our trip, we decided to bring our bicycles, so these were loaded on the ferry as well. This turned out to be a great decision, allowing us to explore far more of this 17.5 mile long island.

There are five primitive campgrounds on Cumberland.  The first, Sea Camp, is the most popular as it is only a half mile from the dock and is the most developed. The farthest three are wilderness camps with no potable water with campfires not allowed.  Our “just right” site was Stafford Beach, 3 ½ miles from the dock. At Stafford there is no cell reception and no picnic tables, but there is a fire ring at each site along with a bear box (no bears, just really smart raccoons).  There are also flush toilets, potable water, and cold showers.  As far as real backpacking goes, this is Backpacking for Babies.  It was a good place for me to get my feet wet, both metaphorically and literally.

After disembarking at the Sea Camp dock, we stashed our backpacks at the Ranger Station and rode our bikes over to the Dungeness ruins for a bit of island history. The first occupants of Cumberland Island were the Timucuan people thousands of years ago, followed by Spanish explorers and missions. The island boasts a Who’s Who of famous Americans, including James Oglethorpe, Eli Whitney, General Nathanael Greene, William Bartram and General “Lighthorse” Harry Lee.

However, the most lasting legacy has been that of Thomas Carnegie (brother of steel magnate Andrew Carnegie) and his wife Lucy who bought land on Cumberland for a winter retreat for their family of nine children in the early 1880s. They built a new Dungeness mansion on the grounds of a burned-out and demolished mansion of the same name. Thomas died in 1886, leaving Lucy as the sole beneficiary of his estate. Lucy completed the building of this 59-room mansion and built other estates on the island for her children, eventually owning 90% of the island. Unoccupied, Dungeness was destroyed by fire in 1959 and in 1972 the ruins were acquired by the National Park Service as part of Cumberland Island National Seashore. The Dungeness ruins and the surrounding buildings make for an interesting walk through a by-gone era of opulence.

Walking our bikes out to the beach, we soon found evidence of a number of animals found on the island. Sightings of armadillos are common as these critters root around in the leaf litter. Apparently, these non-natives got here by swimming, something they can easily do by holding their breath for up to six minutes and gulping air to bloat their stomachs.  Fun fact: Be sure to fully cook an armadillo before eating to avoid getting Hansen’s Disease (formerly known as leprosy). 

Another invasive and less loved species is the feral pig.  We never saw one, but large areas of disturbed soil where they foraged and lots of pig tracks everywhere were evidence of their numbers. A feral hog hunt had just taken place on the north end of the island to try to control the population.

The most controversial feral animal, however, is the horse.  Some 150 or more of these horses survive on the island, an unmanaged population that is both destructive to the natural ecology of the island and beloved by its visitors. These notorious horses are the subject of a 2023 lawsuit that could result in their removal from the island.

While armadillos, hogs, and horses may be considered unwelcome, one apex predator has been thoughtfully reintroduced: the bobcat. In 1988, biologists began releasing bobcats, which found ample food sources in rabbits, rats, hogs, and deer, triggering a “trophic cascade” chain reaction that has helped to rejuvenate the island’s forests. Of course, we didn’t see any of these reclusive animals, although tracks in the sand may have been evidence of their presence.

Bobcat tracks?

A full moon blessed us that evening and we fell asleep to the sound of the surf.

Moonshine
Sunrise

The next morning a glorious sunrise foretold of more beauties to be seen that day. We decided to hike to Plum Orchard mansion, an eight-mile round trip through the maritime forest. I made quite the fashion statement with my pants tucked into my socks and gaiters against potential ticks and carrying my tote in Grandma Gatewood style. I’m glad to be the source of such merriment for my fellow hikers!

Maritime Forest Magnificence

We arrived at Plum Orchard in plenty of time for the 11:00 tour of the mansion.

Built around the turn of the century for Lucy and Thomas Carnegie’s son George and his new wife Margaret, this 22,000 square foot mansion was the epitome of hospitality. Guests could indulge in hunting in the morning, a game of squash in the afternoon, and a swim in the indoor pool before feasting on fine cuisine in the evening.

Hysterical door

The house itself was a marvel of engineering, with a huge coal-burning furnace, direct current electricity, and even a hydraulic elevator.  My favorite room was the inglenook tucked under the main staircase.  I could just picture myself curled up in a chair with a book near the cozy fire on a raw winter evening!

After a picnic lunch on the grounds of Plum Orchard, we headed across to the beach where we cooled our toes in the chilly Atlantic and scoured the sands for ocean treasures. The day remained foggy, casting an other-worldly appearance to the oceanscape.

Saturday morning we had intended to ride bikes to Brickhill Bluff, a 14-mile round trip.  After considering the impact this would have on our tushes, however, we changed plans and rode back toward Dungeness to the Ice House Museum. After a leisurely lunch and exploration of the Ice House Museum, we stretched out on the picnic tables and contemplated life through our eyelids for a while. 

Soon it was time for a ranger-led tour starting at the nearby dock.  The topic for the day was foraging and Pauline the Ranger did an amazing job, showing us the edible Chicken of the Woods fungus, describing multiple uses for acorns, and teaching us how to make Beautyberry jelly. At the end of the tour she even gave us homework:  go down to the mud flats by the creek and find pickleweed, which can be crushed and dried as a healthy alternative to salt. This we did and enjoyed tasting these salty little tidbits.

While in the Dungeness area, we had access to cell service.  I used the opportunity to call my husband, who advised me of the possibility of rain the following morning as we’d be packing up. 

That evening, we got our ducks in the proverbial row to make for a quick departure from our campsite. Fortunately, a brief shower in the early morning hours was all that ensued.  With time left before we needed to head to the ferry, I walked down to the beach for one last look and was rewarded with a scene of the horses grazing in the dunes and another spectacular sunrise.

Our ride back on the main road was graced by the sightings of more horses and even some deer, the heavy loads on our backs matched by the lump in our throats at leaving this fascinating and beautiful island.

Our stay on Cumberland Island couldn’t have been more perfect: warm days with no rain or bugs to speak of, interesting history, animal sightings, and gorgeous scenery.  My first backpacking experience left me eager for more, although I’m sure nothing could compare with this perfect island respite.

Additional Info

Ferry reservations: https://www.cumberlandislandferry.com/ Address: 113 St. Marys St W, St. Marys, GA 31558

National Park Pass required for entry: $15 (good for 7 days)

Camping reservations: https://www.recreation.gov/

There are over 50 miles of trails and roads as well as 18 miles of beach. There are no trash cans or concessions. Pack it in, pack it out!





A Magical Mistical Hike to a Shining Rock

12 10 2023

9.9.23

When we plan a hike, we always keep our fingers crossed for good weather—not too hot, not too cold, clear blue skies—you get the picture. Sometimes that works out.  This was not one of those times.

The morning started out pretty enough.  The three of us, Dianne, Cathy, and I, wanted to be on the trail by 8:00, so we left our campsite at Davidson River Campground in Pisgah National Forest in the gray-gloom of the morning.  As we drove along the Blue Ridge Parkway, the sky gradually brightened.  Unable to resist, we pulled over to watch the day unfold over the mountains.  Knobby peaks rose out of the clouds, the sky a palette of pinks and blues.

An island in the sky
Looking East at dawn, we saw a cloud casting a shadow backwards on another cloud. How could this be?

We parked at the Black Balsam trailhead just off the Parkway. This was the Art Loeb trail that I’d heard so much about.  The entire trail stretches 30 miles; we were on Section 3, the most popular part of the trail known for its views.  We would see no views this morning.  Instead, we found ourselves enveloped by fog, the gray rocks of the trail dissolving into the thickened sky. Spikes of goldenrod punctuated the gray while splashes of red mountain ash berries excited our eyes. 

We climbed to the trail’s high point, Black Balsam Knob, and stared out into nothingness.  There were no panoramic views from Tennent Mountain, either.  Yet I felt no disappointment.  The magic of this mist was more than enough.

The trail descended into Ivestor Gap. A wayward glance, a misstep, and whoops: Dianne fell off the mountain.  Fortunately, thick shrubs cushioned her fall and her laughter let us know she was unhurt.  Cathy supplied a helping hand up, while I made sure to document the event.

The eroded trail narrowed and deepened as we went through walls of shrubs. Wild blueberries still clung to the stems: a tasty treat along the way. 

We headed into Shining Rock Wilderness, at 18,000 acres the largest Wilderness in North Carolina. These grassy “balds” and treeless vegetation were due to logging in the early 1900s as well as fires that ravaged the area in 1925 and 1942.

Up from the balds, we entered a conifer forest. Before long, huge impossibly white rocks told us we had arrived at the crest of Shining Rock Mountain.  The brilliant white of the quartz was an unusual sight, a true capstone experience. We climbed onto one outcropping of the shiny boulders just as the rain started. We would have liked explore the area more, but the rain had other ideas so back down we went.

I soon found that my poncho, while doing an admirable job of keeping my backpack and head dry, did little else.  The wind whipped it around and the narrowness of the trail meant my lower body and arms were soon drenched from the brush on either sides.  It wasn’t long before my feet were sharing my shoes with soggy socks.  It was chilly, but as long as I kept moving I wasn’t chilled. 

The rain continued in spurts but as we neared the end of our hike, the leaden sky broke apart and the fog lifted, giving us glimpses of sunshine and the surrounding mountains.  We finished our hike with smiles on our faces, our clothes slowly drying out. We had hiked 10.8 miles, some 1538 feet of elevation change.  Not bad for our first hike of the season.

Sure, our hope was to hike in clear blue cool weather, taking in the scenic beauty of the world spread out below us.  But the funny thing is, a month later I can barely remember the rain. What I remember most vividly is the way the mist transformed our surroundings as if by magic, giving it an otherworldly appearance.   There’s beauty in all kinds of weather and, sometimes, the most memorable journeys are not the cloudless ones.

Lesson learned: There’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong attitude.  (And as luck would have it, when I got home I found a like-new LL Bean rain jacket at a thrift store for only $16. Next time I hike, I’ll have the right attitude AND the right clothes.)

Another lesson left by a previous hiker…




Summer Vacay: Saving the Best for Last

5 10 2023

8/15/23-8/19/23

Grayson Highlands State Park in Virginia was only meant to be a midpoint on our way home.  It quickly became much more than that.

The drive to Grayson Highlands was only supposed to be five hours. It took us eleven. It all started with a sign:  Tunnel ahead, 9’9” clearance. Oops. We couldn’t remember exactly how high Elvis the Motor Coach was, but we knew it was more than 9 feet 9 inches. 

Cell service being spotty, I pulled out a paper map. That’s when I saw it:  New River Gorge National Park.  It didn’t look like much of a detour, so off we went.  We drove to the Canyon Rim Visitor Center—by the way, things look a lot closer on a map than they really are—and toured the Visitor Center and caught the views of the New River Gorge Bridge.  We really didn’t have time to do this National Park justice, but we did get a taste of it as well as a sense of awe at the ingenuity of the bridge builders.  The New River Gorge Bridge is the longest steel span in the western hemisphere and is the third highest bridge in the US.  Its construction turned a 40-minute drive into less than a minute.  But the biggest surprise for me was that it only took three years to build the thing. 

Moving on down the road, this time it was my husband suggesting that we stop in Beckley. His friend, a West Virginia native, had recommended the Beckley Exhibition Coal Mine tour. Although it put us arriving at our campground at 8:00 pm, I’m glad we made this stop. Unless you physically see the conditions that existed in a coal mine, you really don’t have any idea of the hardships.  Our guide, a retired coal miner, took us through this preserved coal mine in coal cars. He entertained us with the song “16 Tons” while explaining that the coal mining industry, just like the textile industry and the sharecropping system, had workers so tightly bound that they had no power to leave or better themselves, working body-crushing labor that only ended with injury, disease, or death.  Truly an eye-opening experience.

We set up camp at Grayson Highlands in the dark, reveling in the hookups for water and electricity. At $40 a night, this was our most expensive campground yet, but we didn’t begrudge the cost as sleeping in a warm tin can was not appealing.  However, next time I plan on saving some money by getting a site with no hookups. With the cool temps at this elevation, we didn’t need the A/C and could easily make do without water or lights.

Turk’s Cap Lilies outside the Country Store at GHSP

The next day we set about exploring Grayson Highlands State Park.  We joined the Twin Pinnacles ranger-led hike, a 1.6 mile loop trail to the two highest points in the park. Our ranger turned out to be a young woman in the AmeriCorps program.  As a volunteer, she received a small stipend and lodging.  In return, she got great work experience and a fantastic summer adventure. She led us up to Little Pinnacle through a boreal forest and then further up to Big Pinnacle with majestic vistas all around.  She pointed out Mount Rogers, the highest peak in Virginia far off in the distance. My interest was piqued at the thought of bagging another state’s highest peak.

Back at the Visitors’ Center parking lot, I was still in hiker mode. Luckily, the Listening Rock trailhead was right there, so off I went on this 1.4 loop rated as difficult. Having seen a bear raiding a garbage can on our drive up the day before, I found my fear of encountering a bear more difficult than the trail itself.  Making lots of noise disguised as singing, I tramped on.  Voices ahead—I stopped my “singing” and found three guys standing around a tree in the middle of the woods.  It turned out that they were from the Dept. of Conservation and Recreation and were in the process of inoculating the tree to protect it from some sort of fungal disease which I swore I’d remember but then didn’t.

I continued on, feeling safer now that there were more humans around. I came to the trail’s namesake, the rock overlooking the valley where farmers locate grazing cattle by listening for their bells. Heading back up the hill I came to the bouldering field, an area strewn with large boulders where the word “boulder” changes from a noun to a verb. Bouldering, a form of rock climbing done without ropes or harnesses and using crash pads for safety, is big in Grayson Highlands.  This trail especially was noted for the numerous boulders upon which one could boulder.  I came to one such boulder and decided to boulder it myself.  Although chalk marks delineated a path upward on the boulder’s face, I made my own path by walking up the other side which was at ground level. Why make life harder than it needs to be? I’m always proud of myself for achieving new obstacles!

One of the many boulders upon which one could boulder.

Later that day we joined another program, The “Fun” in Fungus.  Although this AmeriCorps volunteer looked barely old enough to shave, he expertly guided us down a path, explaining how to tell the edible chanterelle from the poisonous jack-o-lantern mushrooms. I still abide by my rule that the only place to find edible mushrooms is in a grocery store.

The next day found me at the Massie Gap trailhead, prepared to hike to the top of Mount Rogers.  Looking back on this nine mile hike, I can’t help smiling!  It was glorious.  The weather, the scenery, the ponies—did I mention that in addition to bouldering, Grayson Highlands is known for its herds of wild ponies?  Monitored by the Wilburn Ridge Pony Association, they were first brought here in 1975 and are thought to be descended from the ponies of Assateague and Chincoteague. These ponies have a purpose: to control the growth of brush along the balds (mountain meadows) which were clear-cut by loggers in the late 19th century.  Hikers are warned not to feed them or get too close, but it’s evident from the ponies’ mooching behaviors that this rule is not followed.  I watched spell-bound as they grazed the meadow at Wilburn Ridge, the stallion keeping a close eye out for his herd.

A buzzing sound high above shook me out of my spell. Although clearly illegal in the State Park, a couple of young idiots were flying a drone above the ponies.  Circling and swooping, the drone zipped around the herd sounding like an angry hornet. I spotted the guys responsible for this invasion high up on a rocky knob and gave them my stern Teacher Look which I hope they captured on their camera.

The drone flyers are seen as tiny figures on the top of the rocky outcrop.

A good bit of the hike took me on the Appalachian Trail, marked with white blazes.  I encountered quite a few backpackers who were section-hiking the AT, as well as many other day hikers like myself.  Much of this trail was through open meadows with spectacular views, rocky outcrops serving as vantage points to see the vastness of the world below.

As I continued up the trail, I saw more ponies and even one long horned steer.  I was greeted by many hikers’ dogs with loving kisses and thumping tails.  Yet the most surprising trail companion I met was a cat named Finn.  His owners kept him on a leash and carried him over the most difficult spots, keeping a tally of the number of photos taken of him.  I was #10 that day.

There were many campsites along the path and several large metal bear boxes.  At the Thomas Knob Shelter, a sign explained that bears have learned how to retrieve food hung in trees!  I had to laugh at the privy near that AT shelter—it had a wheelchair ramp! I doubt there is a wheelchair capable of scrambling over and through the boulders and narrow passages on this trail.

Once past the AT shelter, it wasn’t long before I reached the Mount Roger Spur Trail.  In another half mile, I was at the highest point in Virginia. There was no view from the peak since it’s located in the Lewis Fork Wilderness area with no tree clearing allowed. Standing at the top of Mount Rogers at 5,729 feet, a little over a mile high, I was surrounded by the moist lushness of a temperate rain forest.  I found the two bronze survey markers and sat on a rock to enjoy the quiet as I ate my lunch.  Until the two idiots arrived.

I recognized them immediately and went into full Teacher Mode. Were you the ones flying the drone at Wilburn Ridge? Yes ma’am.  Is that allowed? Yes ma’am.

At that point I gave up, not having the rules right there with me.  And I know I shouldn’t call them idiots.  They seemed pleasant and polite enough.  I’m sure they were just looking to get some great shots to share on social media.  But they surely weren’t thinking of anyone or anything other than themselves. 

The hike back on this there-and-back trail was uneventful.  I stretched it out as long as I could, scrambling up each rocky knob to take in the fresh breezes and the view of the world spread out before me.  I didn’t want this hike to end.

On our last full day of vacation, I was like an addict hustling the streets in search of drugs.  In my case, I wanted to take in all that Grayson Highlands had to offer in the little time I had left.  Brian and I took the dogs on the Wilson Creek Trail, a loop trail of a little more than a mile.  The creek splashed over rocks and looked inviting, with several pools that begged dipping your toes in.  Even in August, it was a bit too cool for me. 

We drove to the Homestead Picnic Area and peered through the windows of the century-old log cabins and outbuildings. I walked the Rock House Ridge Trail, named for the huge boulder at the trailhead that created a lean-to like shelter. We drove to the park entrance and walked the Haw Flats trail, with me splintering off onto the Split Rock Trail.  Time ran out for me to experience all that Grayson Highlands had to offer. 

My heart was full, but even before I left I was yearning to return.

Lessons learned from this vacation:

  1. One doesn’t have to travel thousands of miles to experience the natural beauty of our country. Virginia and West Virginia are beautiful states to explore. 
  2. Boondocking doesn’t have to mean being uncomfortable, and it definitely saves money. Cool temps at higher elevations and lack of cell service is a refreshing change.
  3. Don’t count on cell service, even when on the road. Paper maps and trail books still have a place in this digital world of ours.
  4. No matter how long you stay at a place, there’s always more that could be experienced.




Summer Vacay: Another Knob and a Nook

2 10 2023

8/10/23-8/14/23

The skies were gray this morning as we got ready to leave and indeed it spit rain for most of the way up to Spruce Knob Lake Campground in West Virginia.  We were an hour from the nearest town and the last few miles were on a pock-marked gravel road that had Elvis shake, rattle, and rolling more than ever. Regardless, we were excited to be able to stay in one place for several days, and with temperatures at home reaching 100°, here we were donning our jackets in the chilly air with smiles on our faces!

I chatted for a while with the campground host, a 20ish girl named Lela who kept referring to her camping buddy May.  I finally realized that May was her dog, Lilly May.  Lela was on a solo adventure, living out of her A-frame camper and making a living by working as a campground host all around the country.  As it turned out, she was from Swansea, S.C., about 45 minutes from our home.  Small world!

To get our bearings, we put on our rain gear and took a walk. We were amazed that this isolated campground with no electricity, vault toilets, no cell service, and water with a boil advisory was soon to be filled to capacity. A woman sat hunched under an umbrella at her picnic table, the front of her Road Trek camp van pointed toward the sky with the back end sunk in a ditch. We offered her the comfort of our camper, but she replied that this was all part of the adventure. As it turned out, her insurance had sent a wreaker, but it went to her house in Florida instead of her current location!  Lela lent her a tent for the night, but it was a day and a half before her van was pulled out of the ditch.

In the spirit of boondocking, we cooked several meals over the campfire. Cleanup was not fun.

The rain finally stopped and the sky cleared. We walked down the road to Spruce Knob Lake, which at 3,840 feet was the highest lake in West Virginia. We hiked the one-mile loop around the lake, arriving at the dam just in time for the sunset.

The next day we subjected Elvis to the 6.5 miles of bone-jarring road up to the top of Spruce Knob, the highest point in West Virginia at 4,863 feet above sea level. When I had planned this trip, I had assumed that there would be hiking trails from the campground. Well, no. It seemed that we had to drive to get to any of the trailheads. The Knob itself was nice, with the Whispering Spruce Trail meandering around the top with different vistas, including an observation tower. I explored the Huckleberry Trail for a mile or so, passing many dispersed campsites with interesting seating arrangements. A father and his three young sons ran past, careening down the rock-strewn path as the boys laughed and the father shouted, “Focus on your footwork, sons!”  Youth.

At the top of Spruce Knob and undeterred by my presence, this cedar waxwing was indubitably the highest nester in all of West Virginia!
View from the top of West Virginia

With no cell service to research hiking options, that night Brian borrowed a trail guide from a neighbor and mapped out a trail for me.  Again, Elvis complained at each pothole before we arrived at the trailhead.  The first two-thirds of this trail was miserable. This section of the Allegheny Mountain Trail was a sodden mess, deeply rutted with tractor tracks filled with water.  I found myself constantly sloshing from one muddy side to another.  To make matters worse, when I stepped off the path to relieve myself, my cell phone slipped out of my back pocket.  All I’m going to say is that, while not recommended, urea makes a great glass cleaner.  Chin up.

When I reached my turn off at Bear Hunter Trail, three horseback riders were resting. They proclaimed this a great trail, at which I grumbled that things must look different atop a horse.  I had hopes that Bear Hunter would be better, but again my hopes were dashed.  Heading steeply downhill on a single-wide path, it quickly became evident that horses had continued the work of tractors, churning up thick mud and making the footing treacherous.

I finally reached the bottom of the slope and turned onto Seneca Creek Trail.  All of a sudden, birds were singing, the creek babbled a happy little tune, and the clouds gathered around my head lifted. Backpackers were scouting out prime sites along the creek and cheerful families were chatting as they walked.  A deer sprang across the trail in front of me, then stopped to graze unafraid.  Up ahead, a man and two dogs transformed into my ever-loving husband with wagging pooches coming to meet me and walk the last mile or so together.  All was right with the world.

Next time I plan a trip, I’ll buy a trail guide for the area or at the very least, do a better job of researching trails ahead of time.

The following day we broke camp and headed to Gheny Nook Campground, an RV park I had selected since it had full hook-ups including wifi and sewer, an amenity we sorely needed after three days of boondocking. The camp host was both friendly and generous, giving us more than enough free firewood. The afternoon was warm with pesky gnats swarming and causing us to stay inside with our air conditioning on for the first and only time of our trip.

I scouted out nearby attractions online and settled on Beartown State Park.  Although an hour away, it did not disappoint.  Known for its unusual rock formations, a boardwalk meanders for half a mile through this small park.

We had the park to ourselves as we explored the crevices, cliffs, and boulders of sandstone formed on the shores of an ancient ocean. Gnotty and Gneiss, my two gnomey friends, were on cloud gnine as they tried out various gnooks and crannies that pitted the enormous stones.

On the way back to Gheny Nook, we stopped at the Greenbrier River, billed as the longest untamed river in the Eastern US. How does one tame a river, you ask?  Dammed if I know!  

We took a short hike on the Greenbrier River Trail, a rails-to-trails path running parallel to the river for some 80 miles.  Of course, I had to wade out into the river, following the example of our pup Pip. 

I would have liked to lollygag here all afternoon, but a storm was looming and we needed to get back on the road before it hit.

Tomorrow would be a travel day as we headed to our last stop, Grayson Highlands State Park in Virginia, where I would fall hopelessly in love.





Summer Vacay: Knob #1

1 10 2023

8/7/23-8/13/23

I have two criteria when deciding on a summer vacation. First, it should be somewhere cool, both in temperature and WOW factor. Second, it must keep my husband happy.  And my husband has his own criteria: it shouldn’t be too far away (due to rising gas prices and a motor home that only gets 10.5 miles to the gallon), we shouldn’t drive more than four hours each day, and we should spend several days at each location.

On the road, with Dog as our Co-pilot.

With this in mind, I searched the map until I found Spruce Knob in West Virginia. It checked my first box with an average August high of 70° and low of 50° and it was the highest peak in West Virginia with lots of trails nearby. More important, it would keep hubby happy since it was only a little over eight hours away, making it easy to travel to in two days. And to top it off, since it was a National Forest campground, it only cost $8 a night with my Senior Lifetime Pass! Spruce Knob became our final destination.

After “moochdocking” at our daughter’s house in Charlotte, we drove on to our first stop: Rocky Knob Campground on the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia. I was a little concerned because a) we didn’t have reservations, and b) it was our first attempt at boondocking. I shouldn’t have worried on either account.  Rocky Knob had over 100 campsites, but only about five were occupied when we arrived. We drove around a couple of times and finally chose Site T11. The campground host lit up when we told him our site number: apparently it was the most popular site in the campground (mostly because it was the only one with a little bit of cell service)! And we needn’t have worried about lack of amenities: we had a full tank of drinking water, a gas stove, and battery power for lights and charging our almost-useless cell phones. The campground even had flush toilets and a dump station. At $10 a night with my Parks Pass, we were sitting pretty.

Shhh…don’t tell everyone, but T11 is the best site at Rocky Knob!

And it was a beautiful place. I couldn’t wait to start exploring. The dogs, hubby, and I set off on a trail that took us through a hilly meadow inhabited by curious cows and to the Rocky Knob shelter and overlook on the Appalachian Trail.  I had a great time stretching my legs in this beautiful country; Brian not so much. He hobbled for days afterwards—bad knees and elevation changes don’t mix.

The next day we drove to Mount Airy, NC to visit my childhood friend Karen. Karen was the perfect hostess, showing us around their wooded acreage, feeding us a delicious lunch, and then touring us through the town of Mount Airy, home to Andy Griffith.  It was fun seeing all the “Mayberry” references, but I was most intrigued by The Rock, billed as the world’s largest open-faced granite quarry.  That is, I was intrigued until we were chased off by two employees who told us we were trespassing. (A sign at the entrance said otherwise, but we were in no position to argue.)  Our last stop and a must-stop for any visitor was at the Renfro Sock Outlet in downtown. This was a true outlet, with most of the socks selling for $2.  I ended up with almost 30 pairs and a good part of my Christmas shopping done!

The only shot I got of the quarry, taken just as we were being ousted.

Our last full day at Rocky Knob found me solo hiking the Rock Castle Gorge Trail. I was a bit skittish since this was my first long hike since I hurt my knee four months prior and there were numerous signs reminding me to be “Bear Aware”, but the hike went smoothly.  Named for the quartz crystals that were plentiful here during the time of European settlement that resembled the stone castles of England, Rock Castle Creek has cut a steep and narrow gorge into the Blue Ridge Escarpment.  Looking back on this hike, I’m not sure why I thought that this drop of 1500 feet would be a good test of my knee!

Down into the gorge and then back up, I took it slowly and carefully, singing lots of loud boisterous and off-key songs that kept all the bears away as well as any other hikers. 

The only critter track I found: elk? or maybe just cow.

I was rewarded for my courage/naivety/lunacy by two new-to-me types of fungi.  The bright yellow cluster of finger-like fungus had me scrambling to open my Seek app: Clavulinopsis fusiformis, aka golden spindles, spindle-shaped yellow coral, or spindle-shaped fairy club.

Not too far away, I found another species of fungus that needed no Seek validation: the aptly named Dead man’s fingers!  I had seen photos of this unusual fungus, but had never seen it “live.”   Apparently Xylaria polymorpha is edible if harvested when young, but no thanks.  It reminds me too vividly of the Sourtoe Cocktail of Yukon fame.

At the bottom of the gorge, I found myself on a dirt road that ran parallel to the creek.  At the end of the road, deep inside the Rock Castle Gorge Recreation Area, stood an old barn and a well-maintained two-story house.  No vehicles or evidence of anyone around—a mystery until later research uncovered the story.  This was a privately-owned section of the gorge acquired by the Conner family in the late 1880s.  The house was built in 1916 and then sold in 1954 to John Austin, hence the name: the Austin-Conner House.  Still privately owned, it occasionally is the gathering place for the family.  My guess is that is doesn’t get good cell reception.

The House in the Middle of Nowhere

Heading back up the gorge, I came upon an old chimney.  In my mind, I rebuilt the house around that chimney, adding smoke and the sound of chopping wood and squawk of chickens.  Here in this isolated hillside lived a family, eking out a living with a small plot of land.  Today, the chimney stands alone.

Remnants of an old apple orchard

After 12 miles of hiking, I had just enough energy to drive with my ever-patient husband down the Parkway to Mabry Mills, a popular attraction with exhibits describing life in rural Virginia.  This area looks much different than it did back when the mill was the focal point of the community.  That way of life is long gone.  I can only hope that the grit and determination and ingenuity of these folks is still alive today.

Tomorrow we’d head to our second “knob”: Spruce Knob in West Virginia.





A Midsummer Breather @ Coneross Campground

2 08 2023

July is hot. We had a trip planned to cooler environs in August, but nothing for July. And July, as previously mentioned, is hot. And so, using the occasion of our 36th wedding anniversary as a convenient excuse, I planned a short trip to what I hoped would be a respite from the heat and humidity of home.

Coneross Campground on Lake Hartwell in upstate S.C. was all that and more.

 First, a bit of history gleaned from Chenocetah’s Weblog on Cherokee names: the name “Coneross” is most likely derived from the extinct Cherokee dialect meaning “where the duck fell.” The story goes that a duck nested in a cave high above the water, so when she flew out she appeared to fall into the water. And those in the know pronounce it “Conna-ross.”

Coneross Campground is managed by the Corps of Engineers. Have I mentioned before how I much love COE sites? This campground was $32 a night, no minimum stay, and with my National Park Senior Pass was only $16 a night for a water/electric RV site on the lake with its own easily-accessible private beach. 

The majority of the 106 campsites at Coneross were lakeside and perfectly level. The sites were spacious, shaded, and well-maintained.  Elvis the Motor Coach was very happy. There were four bath houses, two dump stations, a boat ramp, four playgrounds, and two swimming beaches. Crowded? Not hardly. Although we were there from Monday to Wednesday in mid-July, there were yet many empty sites.

And to our way of thinking, one of the best parts was that we didn’t have constant traffic from golf carts or other ride-on devices: these were not permitted! Coneross was indeed a peaceful haven.

In two years of motor coach ownership, we still have not come up with an easy (that is, cheap) way to transport our kayaks. But I was determined that we would bring one on this trip. What good is a lake without a kayak? So, under the heading “If There’s a Will, There’s a Way,” my ever-loving husband and I ever-so-carefully finagled our ten-foot Wilderness Pungo kayak INTO our 24-foot RV.  Our dogs thought we were crazy.  I can’t say that they were wrong.

We somehow managed to get the kayak back out and down to our beach without any damage to Elvis or my language-sensitive ears.  I sincerely doubt we’ll try this again, but it was good to have it there.  Mornings and evenings found me gliding through the water, exploring the coastline of Lake Hartwell. 

Lake Hartwell is a man-made lake between South Carolina and Georgia fed by the Savannah, Tugaloo and Seneca Rivers. Named for Nancy Hart, a six-foot-tall red-headed mother of eight known as a fierce and fearless Patriot during the American Revolution, Lake Hartwell has no less than seven COE campgrounds ringing its red-clay-rimmed waters. Most of these are open only during the warm months, although Twin Lakes is year-round.  Oconee Point campground will be next on my places to camp, based on its proximity to a possibly haunted island.

Pulling up Google Maps on my phone, I saw Cemetery Island as not far across the lake from our campground, so I headed that way in my kayak. Darn these maps. What seemed like a hop-skip-and-a jump turned out to be a much longer distance than I dared take in the dusky evening with motor boats still zipping around.  But what an fascinating place it seemed:  Also known as Ghost Island, it is all that remains above water of the Harrisburg Plantation built in the late 1700s by John Harris, Jr. Quite the Man About Town as a judge, doctor, and sheriff all rolled into one, Harris was buried on the highest point on his property.  When the Lake Hartwell Dam project was completed in 1962, the family cemetery with some 59 graves became waterfront property accessible only by boat (a much easier paddle from the aforementioned Oconee Point). Locals tell of ghostly appearances but I imagine the only hauntings are by real flesh and blood on All Hallow’s Eve.   

Unable to kayak to this interesting spot, I contented myself with enjoying the sunset, made hazy by the millions of Canadian trees that had been transformed into tiny airborne bits and had traveled some 2,000 miles. Poor air quality aside, I was intrigued by the thought that I was surrounded by flying trees.

The next morning, fully rested having slept until the ungodly late hour of 7:30, I slipped back into the kayak for a quiet paddle before the motor boats woke up. A green heron hopscotched my kayak, flying ahead a ways before melting unseen into the bank until I neared again, and then repeating the process.  A great blue heron stood sentry on a jut of rock, statue-still until my presence became uncomfortable and it took off in an ungainly flight across the water, its long neck bobbing and legs dangling like spaghetti noodles.   A belted kingfisher patrolled the shoreline, its rattle call directing my eye to its swooping flight.  I saw a speck high in the sky: osprey!  I watched it circle the lake, wondering at the view of the world it had from those heights.  Over and over it splashed down and came up empty. My own stomach rumbled and I headed back for a breakfast of eggs and bacon.

The day was spent lazily.  We walked the dogs, read books, and pruned up in the cool lake water.  We were a short drive from mountain trails and waterfalls, but somehow and for once I didn’t feel the urge to be on the go.  This was enough.

All too soon it was time to head back to the land of heat and humidity called Home.  After 36 years of being happily married, no gifts needed to be exchanged; the presence gifted by this place was more than sufficient.





Pickled

21 07 2023

I am deep in the throes of a serious addiction. I find myself scheduling my time around this fixation, craving it more and more. My vocabulary has become filled with strange words: dinks, drives, bangers, and poaching. And the contact list on my phone is filled with fellow addicts, all with the last name Pickleball.

Yes, pickleball. 

Unless you live under a rock, you’ve probably heard of this funny-sounding sport that is taking the world by storm. Make fun of pickleball all you want. I do, with relish, and I’m not just gherkin your chain. Although the running gag is that pickleball is a sport for retired athletes, especially tennis players, some of the world’s best are still in their teens. Anna Leigh Waters is only 16 years old but is one of the top five players in the world, having turned pro at age 12. Top pickleball pros are pulling in some $200,000 a year. You can bet they are laughing all the way to the bank.

Pickleball has infiltrated Aiken in a big way. You can hardly turn a corner without running into a pickleball court. There are public outdoor courts at Eustis Park and Virginia Acres, with more on the way.  Several subdivisions have their own outdoor courts: Gem Lakes, Cedar Creek, Houndslake, The Reserve Club and Woodside. Too hot, cold, or rainy to play outdoors? There are indoor courts at Odell Weeks, Smith-Hazel, Riverview Park, and Gregg Park Recreation Centers, not to mention the courts in many church gyms around the area. Still don’t know where to play, or maybe you’re out of town and need a pickleball fix? There’s an app for that. Actually, about ten different apps will help you find a pickleball game no matter where you are.

Hot or cold, there’s always pickleball being played at the Virginia Acres courts.

If you’re new to pickleball in Aiken, you’ll want to check out www.aikenpickleball.com for a one-stop resource center for recreational play. There you’ll find beginner clinics, drop-in play information, and sign-up information to reserve courts. The Odell Weeks Recreation Center is ground central for the Palmetto Doubles Invitational Tournament; other local tournaments are highlighted on their website as well.

There’s nothing better than pickleball people. Amid the laughter and competition, pickleball players give back to their community. In addition to supporting each other through the trials of life, members of the pickleball community have sponsored canned food drives and raffles for Golden Harvest Food Bank and hold an annual event called Dink for Tots to provide gifts through the Toys for Tots program.

Red, White, & Pickleball: Over 300 cans of food donated to Golden Harvest Food Bank

Aiken has its share of pickleball power players.  Chris Powers is ranked #1 in the world in amateur pickleball for her age category in mixed doubles.  In addition to giving lessons, Powers has held clinics with Simone Jardin, a top-ranked pickleball professional. Another Aiken resident, Mo Garcia has started a youth league for several private schools and is the coach of the Tall Pines Charter School pickleball team.  He has been instrumental in growing the sport of pickleball in the region and has met with municipalities such as Barnwell to build pickleball courts. 

Simone Jardin at Chris Power’s pickleball clinic. 7/26/21

Ben Lacy, a major player in Aiken pickleball, is a professional coach certified by the Professional Pickleball Registry and is a qualified Level 2 USAP Referee and Referee Trainer. Lacy is the founder of the Southern Pickleball Academy, a 501(c)(3) public charity with the mission of “Growing Pickleball in Our Schools and Our Communities.”  

This volunteer-run organization is not even a year old but has already made a mark on pickleball in Aiken. The Academy has helped bring pickleball to two different summer camps with over 200 children introduced to the sport through 70 volunteer hours. New Ellenton is starting a pickleball program with the help of the Academy. 

However, the biggest impact of the Southern Pickleball Academy is in the form of a major fundraising effort to provide area middle and high schools with quality pickleball equipment. Twelve schools have indicated a desire to grow their pickleball program. The Academy has set up a sponsorship program for each school so that potential donors can fund all or part of that school’s pickleball equipment needs.  South Aiken and Aiken High Schools have now been fully funded; other schools are still in need of sponsors. The Academy is holding a Triathlon of golf, basketball, and pickleball on October 7 to help with this effort.

The Southern Pickleball Academy’s vision is to turn our fair city into a Southeastern pickleball hotspot. It won’t be long before the youth impacted by these efforts are leading the charge when pickleball becomes an Olympic sport in 2032. Check out the excitement at www.southernpickleballacademy.org. The Southern Pickleball Academy is standing on the cusp of a pickleball explosion! 

Call me a pickleball junkie if you will, but the thwack of pickleballs flying through the air gets my heart racing. I’m in better shape today than I’ve ever been, thanks to this sport. I’ve met more people and made more friends in the past few years playing pickleball than I have in a long time. The laughter, shouts, and camaraderie on the courts are truly addictive. Yes, I do have a pickleball problem and it’s a great problem to have.  But you better watch out: it’s highly contagious! One practice game and you too will become a pickleball fanatic. Pickleball: it’s a big dill in Aiken!





Hiking & History & Mountain Music

28 05 2023

We were welcomed by a trio of mallards, ourselves a trio of hiking friends. Soon after we set up, these bold birds waddled their way into our campsite at Mile Creek County Park in the upstate region of South Carolina. It was an auspicious start to what would probably be our last major hiking trip of the season.

Place names always intrigue me. We passed through the town of Six Mile on the way up here, and “number names” would pop up constantly: Mile Creek, Six and Twenty Creek, and Twelve Mile River (30 miles long).  According to the Six Mile town’s website,

The area now known as Six Mile once belonged to the Cherokee Nation. A popular legend says that Six Mile was named by the Indian maiden, Issaqueena, who rode her horse on a journey of ninety-six miles to warn her lover, an English trader named Francis Allen, of a coming Cherokee attack on the fort where he was staying called Star Fort. Issaqueena numbered the creeks she crossed until she reached the fort in the area she labeled Ninety Six. There is a town called Ninety Six, and many other “number names” on the path to it; these include Mile Creek, Six Mile, Twelve Mile River, and Six and Twenty Creek.

After a quick and delicious supper (we each planned and brought a meal to share), Cathy, Dianne, and I headed to Pumpkintown to hear a bluegrass picking at the Oolenoy Community Center. Pumpkintown dates back to the late 1700s and was named by a traveler impressed by numerous pumpkins growing in the valley. Easy enough, but “Oolenoy”? Chenocetah’s Weblog, a reference site for Cherokee names, says “its name derives from “u’lana’wa,” the Cherokee name of the spiny soft-shell turtle.” Alternately, a historical marker told of Chief Woolenoy, whose people lived in this area when the first white settlers moved here. Somewhere along the line, the “W” got lost.

But we didn’t.  We followed our GPS as it led us around winding mountain roads to the community center, where locals were already gathered for a social evening with bluegrass in the background.  A circle of musicians ranging in age from 8 to 80 played a variety of instruments including fiddles, banjos, guitars, dobros, and mandolins. This was no show played for tourists. These were friends and families who came together for a Friday night of fellowship and music. At times the conversations of the crowd in the old schoolhouse almost drowned out the music. It was heart-warming to see that places like this still exist.

The next morning we tackled the Eastatoe Passage of the Palmetto Trail.  (For the logophiles  out there: Eastatoe,  a tribe of the Cherokee and their name for the now extinct Carolina Parakeet.) Cathy and I had done this trail before, but it was new to Dianne and always a fun hike, especially over the two suspension bridges.

We reacquainted ourselves with mountain flora, stopping often to quiz each other or look up unfamiliar plants. We ended up on the Natural Bridge Trail leading into Keowee Toxaway State Park, although the new log bridge over the creek seemed superfluous to me.  (Keowee, from the Cherokee, meaning place of the mulberry, and Toxaway, meaning place of thunder or “ta ha wey” meaning land of the red bird). Edit from reader Cindy: ” That is not the Natural Bridge. Take the same trail, the other way around and you will walk over a very large rock that is the real Natural Bridge. I think they put that wooden one in because the rocks are often under water when the river is roaring.” Thanks, Cindy! Note to self: Always stay open to learning new things!

Next up:  Hagood Mill Historic Site . For years, I’ve been hearing about this place but never have had the opportunity to visit; this afternoon was that opportunity. And this being the third Saturday, a festival was going on, this one called the Mountain Roots Herb Festival.  For $10, we were able to participate in “Taste the Upcounty”  with samples served up of homemade Upcountry food such as pimento cheese, grits, venison chili, collard greens, and my favorite, cornbread pudding.  We made the rounds of the food tables, toured the 1845 grist mill, and explored the S.C. Petroglyph Site.

The Petroglyph Site is a museum that houses a large boulder containing 32 petroglyphs, most of which are believed to be some 6,000 years old since they were created with stone tools instead of metal. These petroglyphs had been hidden for years under a dirt road constructed in the 1820s and depict human figures and other images. Incredible.

After being awed by the petroglyphs, we headed over to the stage area, where Mac Arnold & Plate Full O’ Blues was performing. The lead singer was in his 80s, belting out his soulful blues as he played a gas can guitar. We watched enthralled for well over an hour before finally heading out.

After sitting for so long, we needed to stretch our legs. Fortunately, on the way home we had to pass through Nine Times Preserve, a Nature Conservancy site famed for its wildflowers. (Nine Times: during the days of the Cherokee and early settlers, towns were connected by a trail in which they had to ford a creek “Nine Times”.) We stopped at the Cedar Rock Mountain trailhead and hit the trail. The first part of the trail was steep and poorly maintained. Not a wildflower in sight. We hiked to the intersection of another trail and turned around to go back. I can’t say that we were impressed with this trail. Had we more time and energy, we might have gone further and seen some points of interest. Another time, maybe.

Sunday morning we headed to Nine Times Forest, managed by the Natureland Trust. How’s this for a descriptive place name: Big Rock Mountain?  Click on the link to see how very appropriate this name is! This area is a year-round climbing destination for those interested in that foolishness (foolishness being defined as any activity far beyond my skill or courage level). We saw no climbers on this day, but did see the hooks drilled into the rocks for the climbers to attach their ropes to. Although none of us are climbers, we did find ourselves having to squeeze, stretch, and slide just to navigate the trail.  Although the Doug Walker Loop Trail that takes you to the climbing area is rated Moderately Strenuous, I’d rate it NFW (Not For Wusses). I hummed the tune to Big Rock Candy Mountain to myself the entire hike. No candy involved, but it was a sweet hike!  

I told Cathy if this boulder fell, I wouldn’t be able to save her…
Can you see two faces in the big boulder, laying atop a serpent rock?

The afternoon stretched before us, so we headed down Clemson way to the South Carolina Botanical Garden.  Various SC habitats are managed here, from coastal shell rings to mountain bogs. There are also a number of different themed gardens, including a desert garden and a Jurassic garden. 

I was captivated by the cycads, the most common of which goes by the misnomer Sego Palm. To say that cycads are ancient doesn’t come close to explaining how old they are; they were here 30 million years before the dinosaurs! Cycads are thermogenic, meaning they generate heat to spread their odor and attract insect pollinators: the precursor to the plug-in air freshener!

Magnolias, too, are ancient, evolving some 90 million years ago before bees came on the scene.  As a result, they relied on beetles, attracted by the protein-rich pollen, to pollinate their flowers. Some magnolia species trick beetles with thermogenesis to attract them to the female phase of the flower that contains no pollen. And what I thought were petals are actually called tepals. The inner tepals close up at night, trapping the beetles and insuring that they are covered with pollen before letting them out in the morning.

I was geeking out!

As we were walking through the Piedmont Woodlands habitat, we noticed with amusement that the caretakers had left a fake snake in the ground cover by the walkway.  Ha, someone was trying to fool us!  Turns out, we were the fools.  As we watched, this “fake snake” blinked an eye, flicked out its tongue, and slowly disappeared into the underbrush.

After exploring the gardens, we headed back to the campground. Okay, we did stop for ice cream at the Clemson’s Hendrix Student Center first, but who could pass up ice cream made from the milk of Clemson cows? Those cows are out standing in their fields, as are Clemson grads. Ba da bum.

With a couple hours before dinnertime and energy to spare, we decided to stop at the Lake Issaqueena Recreation Area of the Clemson Experimental Forest for a quick hike. A beautiful kiosk showed a map of all the trails, but there was no indication of where the trailhead was. We finally flagged down a man with an excitable dog who gave us directions for a two-mile hike: “Go down this trail, taking the first fork to the right, then take a left…blah blah… At the wooden sign, turn left. But don’t go down Lawrence Trail because it goes on forever.”  We promptly forgot all his directions as soon as we headed down the trail.  Somehow, we managed to find our way, avoiding the dreaded Lawrence Trail.  We did see a sign telling us where Sasquatch was.   We never did see any test tubes or Bunsen burners, though.  I guess Clemson doesn’t really know how to run experiments.

We ended our three night stay at Mile Creek with a dip in the lake and roasted wieners and marshmallows over a campfire.  It had been a perfect long weekend of hikes, history, and mountain music.  But those mallards who welcomed us?  Turns out we were the lucky ducks!





To Jekyll We Go

19 05 2023

It’s been a while.  I don’t think we ever made it to the beach at all last year.  It’s not that I don’t like the beach.  I just don’t like the hot-sticky-buggy-crowded summer beach.   So this past April I started looking at campgrounds at the beach for May.  Nope, nope, and nope.  All the South Carolina beach state parks were fully booked.  All of May, even during the week.  (I know, I need to plan further ahead.)  And the base price was $70 a night with a two-night minimum.

So I jumped the border and landed on Jekyll Island in Georgia. $51 a night, no two-night minimum, and they had sites available.  Booked.  Then the fees crept in.  $10 to lock-in your site. $2 reservation fee.  $5.10 tax. And $4 each for our two dogs.  Oh, and $12 just to enter the island.  Still, it ended up being slightly less than a SC State Park, even if I could have reserved a spot.

May 15-17, 2023

For two days in the middle of May, we enjoyed Jekyll.  Cool breezes, warm temps, low humidity, sunshine, few bugs, and full hook-ups…who could ask for more?  Well, I do wish the campsites weren’t so crowded together.  And two bathhouses for 179 campsites seemed a bit sparse. 

But the campground was relatively quiet.  Instead of the noise of kids at play, boat-tailed grackles squealed and whistled as they competed with a scrum of squirrels for illegal bread crumbs thrown out by our neighbors. An umbrella of live oaks blocked the sun, Spanish moss shrouding the heavy limbs.  If I could have photo-shopped out about two-thirds of the campers, it would have been perfect.

Bikes and “Red Bugs”(golf carts) were available to rent, but we chose the cheapest form of transportation and one preferred by our dogs: walking.  We walked along the bike path to the ruins of the Horton House and the DuBignon Cemetery, learning about the early settlers and plantations on the island.  Later, we walked the half mile down to the aptly-named Driftwood Beach, where high tide swallowed the tree snags and left a thin beach.

The next morning we opted to unplug Elvis the Motor Coach and drive him over to the beach.  We planned to spend our morning on the beach and didn’t relish the thought of walking with all our gear.  We got out there early and snagged a primo spot shaded by several trees still holding on to their leaves.  

Gentle waves lapped on the wide beach at low tide, and shells were few and far between.   That’s why we were surprised to see a live blue crab just chilling on the beach.  The dogs were excited to see this strange creature but were smart enough to approach cautiously. Alas, the fun was over when Brian tossed the crab out into the water.

By noontime, we tired of relaxing and headed back to Elvis.  We drove to the south end of the island to St. Andrews Beach, where I had read of a UNESCO site called the Wanderer Memory Trail.  In 1858, the Wanderer became the last ship to bring an illegal cargo of enslaved Africans to Georgia.  More than 400 people were smuggled in and sold throughout the South.  The crew and its investors were prosecuted by the federal government but were not convicted.  The Wanderer Memory Trail is a multimedia trail that tells the story of the Wanderer and its cruel voyage.  Among the exhibits was a partial list of its survivors.  Two of the names jumped out at me: Lanham and Lamar.  Dr. Drew Lanham, a Clemson University professor, traces his lineage back to one of these survivors.  His father was my middle school science teacher.  Six of the enslaved survivors were given the last name Lamar, no doubt kept by the businessman who financed the Wanderer, Charles Lamar.  The Lamar name is well-known to me as old Aiken residents, although I don’t know if there is a direct line back to the infamous Charles.   Nevertheless, it is interesting to see how this singular event continues to touch lives in the South.

We never made it to the historic district of Jekyll Island.  There is much to explore on this barrier island and two days is not nearly enough.  Next time, maybe we’ll bike around and see a bit more. But in our short visit, we got a good taste of the beach without having to deal with summertime stickiness.   And in the process, we got a deeper understanding of the convoluted history of the South and indeed of our country as a whole.