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.
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