NIMBY? Heggie’s Rock!

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.

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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.)

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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.

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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.

A Magical Mistical Hike to a Shining Rock

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. 

Mountain ash and wood aster

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. 

Pink turtlehead

Bottle gentian

Gneiss the Gnome
chillin’ in a s’room pool

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

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. 

The Gorge

The Bridge

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.

Little Pinnacle

Big Pinnacle looking out at Mount Rogers

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.

The view from the top of the boulder

It was really hard to squeeze into this box!

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.

chanterelle

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 19^th 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.

A two-seater privvy, but oh, the flies!

the white blazes of the AT led right through this rock slot

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.

a “nursery” log, covered with moss, ferns, and saplings

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. 

the aptly named coral fungus

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. 

This old tree was loaded with apples

the Rock house

Bouldering done right

Split rock

The Overlook (the only place in the Park to get reliable cell service!)

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

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!

fireweed

Lesser burdock

Pink turtlehead

Viper’s-bugloss (filled with toxic chemicals and with parts resembling a snake’s head, it nonetheless has pretty flowers!)

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.

Having just watched the Netflix series “Alone” I knew that bunchberries were edible. So I ate them. I survived.

Comfortable campfire seating. Note the mossy seat cushion.

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.

Hubby’s trail map

Allegheny Mountain “trail”

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.

Pearl Crescent butterflies puddling for salts

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

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.

Meet Mario, my willing photographic subject

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!

Otis’s cell

Andy’s desk

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

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 36^th 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.

A Two-fer: Green and Great Blue

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

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. 

This New Ellenton youngster already has a two-handed backhand!

Summer camp at the Ruth Patrick Science Education Center–
rainy weather doesn’t stop the fun!

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

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!

Redring milkweed

Indian pink

White wild indigo

Wool sower gall wasp (looks like a toasted marshmallow!)

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!

King to Crowders on the Ridgeline: The Trail that Won’t Turn You Loose

Saturday, 3.11.23

Through three parks and two states, our hike on the Ridgeline Trail was supposed to be only about nine miles. The hardest part was finding our starting trailhead. The second hardest part was reaching the ending, which turned out to be some 14 ½ miles away.

Our usual gang of hiking gal pals spent Friday night in Elvis the Motor Coach at Kings Mountain State Park. The next morning, Dianne, Cathy, and I dropped off a car at the Sparrow Springs access in Crowders Mountain State Park and headed back to our Kings Mountain trailhead. 

Dianne had downloaded the Ridgeline Trail on the Avenza app, and we also picked up a map at the trailhead kiosk. You’d think with all that information, we’d be on the trail in no time. You’d be wrong.  Although the paper map said to take the Kings Mountain trail to the Ridgeline trail, the little blue dot on the Avenza map that showed our location was having none of it. We traipsed around off trail through the woods, around mountain laurel thickets, and down a hill to a stream before that little blue dot finally found us the trail. Even the paper map had it in for us, listing the Ridgeline Trail to Crowders Mountain State Park at only 5.8 miles.  

Off trail and searching…

Gnotty and Gneiss gnu the way!

The Ridgeline Trail is well-named since it follows a series of ridges from Kings Mountains, SC to Pinnacle and Crowders Mountains in North Carolina. These are monadnocks, isolated hills and ridges of erosion-resistant rock that rise above the rolling foothills of the Piedmont. Trivia Question: Which came first, Mount Monadnock in New Hampshire, or the term monadnock? If you said Mount Monadnock, you’d be correct.  From the Monadnock State Park website: “Monadnock, which comes originally from the Abnacki Native American word for mountain that stands alone, is now a standard geological term for any singular mountain that rises above the surrounding plain.“  And it’s pronounced Mo-nad-nock.

The first part of our trek was relatively monotonous, a term which here means boring.  We walked on mostly level ground surrounded by leafless hardwood trees. We had to search hard to find any evidence of spring. To amuse ourselves, we brainstormed limericks.  Dianne came up with this one:

Off on a hike Beth and Cathy did go,

Food and water were a Yes not a No.

But Cath found with a shriek

That her bottle had leaked.

And her backside was wet from the flow.

When at last we found some redbuds in bloom (I re-named them purplebuds), we stopped for a snack. I had just heard Amanda McNulty, of SCETV’s “Making It Grow” fame, extol the edibility of redbud blossoms. So we ate them. Not as tasty as Cheetos, but then we didn’t die either, so there’s that.

Redbuds are Cauliflory, a term which here means plants that flower from their main stems, something else I learned from Amanda McNulty.

Blackhaw blooms

Eastern tiger swallowtail

Halberd-leaved violets

We walked along the border of Kings Mountain National Military Park and soon crossed the border into North Carolina. Shortly after, we came to a spur trail of 0.2 miles that led to the Boulders Access Area atop a hill. Eager for a view of something other than leafless hardwoods, up we went. Yup,boulders. We climbed one or two just ‘cuz and then headed back to our trail.

About a mile further, we came to another out-cropping of boulders. For once, my desire to remain intact out-weighed my desire to climb to the top. Instead, we perched on some low-risers and ate our lunch.

From here on, it became very apparent that we were hiking along a ridge. Quartzite boulders lay strewn across the path, making it difficult even to tell where the path was. It wasn’t long after climbing one especially rocky and steep section that we reached the high point of our hike. Literally and figuratively.

The trail!

Huffing up…

…Climbing down

Another 0.2 spur trail led up to Pinnacle Mountain, at 1,705 feet above sea level the highest point in Gaston County, NC.

We were not the only ones treating the warning signs as challenges: this part of the trail was buzzing with people, dogs, and even babies. Once you clambered up the first set of rocks, the way was clear to a series of overlooks. The vertical rock wall reminded me of a castle’s turrets; directly below were the cliffs.  An Internet search tells me that this is the remnant of an ancient mountain peak from some 400-500 million years ago.  I enjoyed exploring the nooks and crannies of this area.  Others spread out blankets for a picnic lunch.  Several young guys hung out on some rocks talking, their speaker on the ground playing music for all to hear.  I saw a group of women sitting and admiring the views with flutes of champagne in hand.  I imagine this would be a popular place to view the sunset, although I’d hate to have to come back down in the dark.

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By the time Cathy and Dianne had pulled me down off the rocks, we were ready for this hike to be done. We walked on, thinking we only had one mile to go, but no.  It was one mile to an intersection of trails.  This sign indicated that both trails led back to the Visitors’ Center where our car was, but one was shorter than the other.  We decided to take the longer of the two since it seemed to be heading downhill instead of up like the other. Turnback Trail led to Fern Trail (which now had no ferns) and finally, finally back to the Visitors’ Center where our car was patiently waiting.

It had been a long hike, some five miles longer than we anticipated. But the weather was perfect and the trail did have its pleasures, among which was the company of my two wonderful gal pal hikers, who find fun and companionship wherever they hike!

Dianne’s final limerick masterpiece:

Beth laced up her shoes for a stroll,

To finish the trail was her goal.

The longer she strode,

The heavier her load.

“Keep going,” her friends did cajole.

A cozy campfire: the perfect ending to a day of hiking

Signs of the Times: Hiking Awendaw and Swamp Fox

Sometimes I struggle to find a focus for my blog post. Other times it stares me smack-dab in the face.  Sitting in the stall in the restroom at Buck Hall Recreation Area in Awendaw, SC, I knew what I’d be writing about. Sign, sign, everywhere a sign.

A lot of things have to come together for the three of us to have a hiking weekend. Cathy, Dianne, and I all have to have free weekends with no family or work obligations, no illnesses in ourselves or family, decent weather forecasts, and available campsites with little advance notice. It all finally meshed the weekend of February 17-19, 2023.

We arrived at Buck Hall Recreation Area at noon on Friday to snag one of the only two non-reservable tent sites. This small Forest Service campground is a popular place situated on the Intracoastal Waterway and is a terminus of the Palmetto Trail. We quickly set up camp and headed out to hike the Awendaw Passage before the rain started. 

Although I’ve been on this trail several times now, it never fails to impress. The views of the salt marsh bring a sense of peace, although I know it is teeming with life. I paused and caught the quiet sound of oysters spitting, their water-jets filtering impurities.  The occasional gronk of a heron deep in the spartina grass, a bevy of red-winged blackbirds chattering as they swoop through the marshland, and the skittering of fiddler crabs in the pluff mud: all signs of the vibrant community of life in this seemingly tranquil setting.   

It’s mid-February but I was soon wishing I had worn shorts.  I wasn’t the only one feeling the warmth of a coming Spring. We almost walked right past a black racer sunning on the side of the trail. We watched with respect as he raised his head and slid effortlessly away.

We ended our hike just as the rain started.  Rather than hunkering down in our small tent, we decided to explore the area further. Dianne is a master at finding local attractions and soon we were at the Sewee Visitor and Environmental Educational Center, home to four endangered Red wolves. A fortuitous break in the rain gave us a chance to take the Nebo Trail out to the Red wolf enclosure, where we observed one of the wolves as he (she?) stretched, checked us out, then smoothly leapt onto the top of its den. Looking to my uneducated eyes like a large German shepherd, the Red wolf didn’t seem too imposing.  On the other hand, I didn’t much feel the need to scratch him behind the ears and call him “good boy.”  In size between a gray wolf and a coyote and with reddish coloring giving it its name, the Red wolf’s demise was caused by a combination of habitat loss and predator control programs. Although these four wolves are no longer used for breeding, they are part of a vital recovery effort for their species which is listed as “critically endangered” with less than 20 known in the wild. 

We awoke the next morning to much chillier weather.  Golden rays filtered into our tent, telling of clear blue skies and a gorgeous sunrise.  We pulled our chairs out to the edge of the Intracoastal Waterway and ate a leisurely breakfast in the warm sunshine.  Today we would hike on the Swamp Fox Passage.

We dropped off Dianne’s car on the side of Dog Swamp Road near Mile 14 and headed to our trailhead on Halfway Creek Road.  Our plan was to park at the Halfway Creek Primitive Campsite at Mile 6, but this area was closed off due to work being done to spruce it up a bit.  The last time I was here, it was a hot mess of discarded chairs, soggy clothes, and other miscellaneous bits of Inhumanity to Nature left behind by those my father would have said were “brought up in a barn.”  Luckily, just down the road was a smallish parking circle around a mud pit of depths unknown.  I said a little prayer that my catalytic converter would remain attached to my car and we headed off down the trail. 

We found ourselves surrounded by thick scaly brown poles festooned at the top with green spikey balls that glistened in the morning sun.  Fortunately, we found a sign identifying these monstrosities.  We spent the rest of our hike pointing out these “trees” to each other, self-satisfied in our newfound knowledge.

Many of these “trees,” further identified as longleaf pines, showed signs of habitation by the endangered Red-cockaded woodpecker.  Sap dripping from resin wells to discourage predators was a telltale sign of these birds, as were the two broad stripes painted around the base of these trees.

We couldn’t decide if this was a natural RCW cavity or an artificial one.

We were excited to come across an interpretive sign, eager as always to learn more about the inhabitants of this ecosystem.  We did learn quite a lot, although not what we expected.  Among our discoveries: a distaste for a 60’s rock band, various indications of reproductive prowess, and the presence of a matriarch named “UR.”  Signs of an advanced civilization, indeed!

Other signs told of a more organized intellect.  The Yellow-bellied sapsucker (my all-time favorite bird name) drills neat rows of shallow holes in tree trunks.  These sapwells provide both food and drink as these ingenious birds suck up the sugary sap along with any insects unfortunate enough to get caught there.

Holes made by Yellow-bellied sapsucker. Plastic made by humans.

My gnome friends were eager to point out more signs of life, including holes made by pileated woodpeckers and a fungus fruiting body with an uncanny resemblance to R2-D2.

Deer and raccoon left their easily-identifiable tracks in the mud.  Coyote and fox scat was also in abundance.  But this evidence of the ecosystem paled in comparison to the tracks left behind by a huge logging tractor.  Indeed, trees were being cut down but many were left standing.  Although it leaves a mess for a while, selective thinning of the pines is a much more sustainable forestry practice than clear-cutting and provides a financial incentive to maintain these forests. Plus, the ground was strewn with clusters of pine needles (called fascicles) with their blue catkins which we thought would make lovely and economical wedding bouquets.

Our hike was over.  My Strava app told me we had hiked a little over ten miles in four hours.  Dianne’s app clocked us at 9.1 miles.  And according to the Avenza map, the trail was only a little over eight miles.  Guess which one I’m going with!  We made it back to my car which seemed to have all its parts intact.

The day was still young.  Once again, Dianne came to the rescue with two other local attractions.  First up: the Sewee Shell Ring.  Just off Highway 17 on Salt Pond Road is an archeological mystery of prehistoric dimensions.  We took the one-mile trail through the woods to the shell ring which archeologists think was built about the time of the Egyptian pyramids, some 4,000 years ago. Not nearly as impressive as the pyramids, it is nonetheless a curiosity with its C-shaped walls believed to have been 10 feet high and composed mainly of oyster shells.

Shell Ring with coastal red cedar

A midden or not a midden: that is the question.  Middens are piles of refuse, but evidence suggests that this was purposely built within a short period of time.  Compounding the mystery is that this shell ring is one of a number of similarly-shaped rings along the coast from Florida to South Carolina.  Were these the sites of the first-known oyster roasts?  And if so, what brand of hot sauce did they use?

Heading back off the boardwalk, we saw a sign pointing to a Clam Mound.  We hesitated about whether we should take this path or not, but having just seen the oyster shell ring, we felt should also pay our respects to the clams.  We certainly didn’t want to be…shellfish. 

Turns out the Clam Mound was indeed a rubbish pile.  According to a sign, this midden was made over 600 years ago.  These people had a more complex culture and agricultural system than the builders of the Shell Ring.  But still no pyramids.  It seems like a missed opportunity, but I do appreciate their sustainable lifestyle.

Clam Mound

Still not done with our explorations, we headed back down Highway 17 to Tibwin Plantation.  The plantation, but not the house, dates back to 1705 when Captain John Collins received a land grant of 500 acres.  Right before the Civil War, some 105 slaves worked the land, growing mostly Sea Island cotton.

There being no signs to the contrary and with the front door wide open, we did our own self-guided tour of the house. 

Interesting wallpaper

Dare we?…yes!

I didn’t dare venture out onto the top porch

The current plantation house was built in 1803 as a story-and-a-half cottage.  About 20 years later, a storm necessitated its move further away from the water to its present location. Around the turn of the century a second story was added. Finally, in 1996 it was acquired by the U.S. Forest Service, the house was stabilized, and the roof that was blown off during Hurricane Hugo was replaced.  In my very unprofessional opinion, this was good money after bad.  A stiff wind might just tip the whole thing over.

And all these years, the daffodils and snowdrops keep popping up and blooming their little hearts away.

I was unable to ascertain the origin of the name “Tibwin.” Perhaps a better name would have been “Ozymandias.”

Sunday morning was overcast and downright cold. We briefly thought we might just skip today’s hike and head home, especially when the camp stove ran out of propane so we didn’t have any hot coffee to sustain us.  With no fast food restaurants nearby, once again Dianne came to the rescue: the Sewee Outpost had coffee and breakfast items.  We broke camp and headed that way.

The Sewee Outpost is Awendaw’s version of Buc-ee’s, with a bit of lowcountry love thrown in for good measure.  Here you have a choice of about a billion ball caps, fresh bait, and a freezer full of frozen local meats and other delicacies.  I was sorely tempted to buy a plastic Office Possum that was designed to hang just inside your trash basket.  I held off, instead buying a fresh homemade sausage biscuit and ham biscuit to go with my coffee.

Thus fortified, we dropped off Dianne’s car at Dog Swamp Road near Mile 14 and drove to Eccles Church near Mile 19 where I parked my car.  It being Sunday, there were a few other cars here, but nobody seemed to mind that we were heading outdoors for worship instead of indoors.

This section of the Swamp Fox passage lived up to its name.  In quite a few places, we had to skirt the trail to avoid the mud puddles.  But it was obvious that trail crews had been hard at work.  There were a number of brand new footbridges where previously there had only been the narrow bog bridges.  (I must say, I kind of missed balancing on the rotting bog bridges that tended to see-saw with your weight. Such fun!)

Guess where the trail is…

Bog bridge no more

Signs of Spring were everywhere.  Pineland daisies peppered the trail in spots, yellow jessamine and blueberries were already in bloom, and we even saw a patch of the endangered Hooded pitcher plant, which unfortunately was not yet in bloom. 

Pineland daisies

Yellow jessamine

Hooded pitcher plant

Turkey Creek campsite had signs of human kindness, trail magic in the form of coffee packets left behind for the next camper.  Yet I did find evidence of human thoughtlessness as well: an (un)Happy Birthday balloon littering the woods. 

Trail Magic: Good

Balloon: Bad

Throughout our weekend, we each found signs of human activity: Cathy found a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses on the trail, I found a set of (broken) ear buds near our tent, and Dianne won the prize for Best Find with a collapsible hunting stool in the weeds beside a dirt road.

In their 1970s hit song, Five Man Electrical Band sang:

Sign, sign
Everywhere a sign
Blockin’ out the scenery
Breakin’ my mind
Do this, don’t do that
Can’t you read the sign?

We had seen many signs on this trip, some funny, some informative, and many written in the ways of the woods.  But the best signs were the smiles on our faces as we reconnected with each other and satisfied our curiosity in our natural world.

End of the trail, and end of the sign