Arise! and Shine

March 31

The storm lasted all day yesterday and well into the evening. When it finally broke, I headed outside to stretch my legs.  Birds were singing again. The air had a funny smell: a mix of pine tar, cat urine, with a sweet floral undertone. The ground was soaked; the sand and dirt drive a flooded mess.

I dodged pools of water, stepped through soaking grasses, made my way to the catfish ponds to see if the water level had risen visibly. It had. I read this morning that this storm system is vile. Tornadoes, hail storms with hail big enough to damage vehicles—or heads. Some people died. A roof collapsed, or was blown off, at a high school about thirty miles from here. Several teens died.

There’s a break right now so I’m going to hike while I can. The second wave is predicted to hit around 1:00 pm this afternoon, last a few days.

I dress for the weather. Head on out. Take a new path through Larry’s land, one which skirts the forest itself, then cuts into it.

The forest is dense here with brush and undergrowth.

Very few wildflowers are out and most of what are have been beaten to a pulp.  I do see several of these

I stumble upon the remains of this critter. Likely someone bigger’s dinner.

The smell changes the deeper I go into the forest. It’s wet, ripe, earthen. Not green. Dank.

Eventually, the trail I’m on becomes too much for me. I’d need a machete to hack through here. I turn back. Come upon a little used lane cutting through the trees. Follow it into a clearing, well mowed, where this still sits.

I believe I’ve come upon Larry’s moonshine kettle.

 I continue on through, end up back on a different trail which eventually takes me toward the catfish ponds. Larry’s dogs start barking and howling at me from across the way, startled at seeing a stranger strolling through their turf. I hear Larry shout, “Leave it!”

A few minutes later, a beautiful, young Springer Spaniel comes racing from behind me so fast and so quiet I let out a yelp of surprise.  She is friendly. Happy. This is her later, at my camp

 Behind her comes her companion, a rusty tan hound with the best blonde eyebrows I’ve ever seen on a dog. He is also friendly.

They accompany me awhile, then bound off to do whatever it is they’re usually do in this doggie paradise.

A few minutes later, I hear Larry fire up his 4 wheeler and sure enough, a minute or two after that, he appears. Only it isn’t his four-wheeler after all. It’s an ancient roll bar mower in excellent mechanical condition.

 “I saw yuh walking down that trail earlier and I han’t mowed it yet. Yuh must have got yer legs wet up to the knees.”

 I laugh. “It wasn’t that bad. As you can see, my hiking boots are pretty wet but they’ll dry. And so will these pants.”

 He turns off the engine and settles in for a chat.

  I learn that his family homesteaded this “whole area round here” in 1836.

“We cut it, we cleared it, created them ponds for fishin’, about everthin’ yuh can think of.”

  “Were you born here?” I ask.

  He snorts.

“Born here and will die here. We all was. I’m one of eight. My daddy was one of seventeen.  Two sets of twins, she bore. Three of ‘em died but she raised the rest. She lived to 93 though. Worked hard her whole life. I’m gonna be buried over yonder, on my own land, in our cemetery with the rest of my family.”

He adjusts his hat. This one says, Trump 2024.  He’s wearing a nice tan and blue flannel shirt, long sleeves buttoned against insects, grey canvas pants. Some kind of rubber shoe which looks a bit like a Birkenstock if Birks were industrial strength.

He launches into a story about how his family used to meet every year for a reunion, which he personally has never missed, but his brother chose to go to a football game this year instead of attending.

 “The young ‘uns ain’t interested anymore in that kind of thing. It’s a bad thing, the way things are changin’.”

I share how I used to be the one to organize our family reunions, but after my mom, then dad, died, I lost heart.

 “I told my sister she was going to have to organize the next one,” I say, “but I think we may have had our last.

 Somehow, we segue into a discussion about work ethics. How nobody wants to work anymore.

“All these young white men around here, they just want to collect welfare,” he says.

This surprises me, because a moment ago, his response to my telling him how my daughter had a lot of school debt accrued while studying to be a Physician’s Assistant, was “Yeah. She’s the wrong color. That’s what that is.”

I didn’t comment.

I tell him about my friend, Tenphel, a Tibetan who works very hard. About the business he works for, owned by Chinese Americans, who only hires Asians.

 “They all work very hard,” I say. “Twelve, fourteen-hour days.  I think if you want hard workers, you might want to hire immigrants. While we still have the chance. Before they’re all kicked out.”

I realize I’m treading on delicate ground here. Wait to see how he’ll respond.

 “Yeah. You probly right. Whites don’t wanna work no more. Blacks, neither. I ‘magine immigrants might be the way to go. Course ya gotta teach ‘em, and that takes time. And time means money. Nobody can afford that.”.

We move on to  talking about the Conecuh forest, which his property sits in the middle of.

 “Those ponds used to be fed by a spring. Gave out 5 gallons per minute. Clearest water you ever saw.  But after they logged all those trees, the spring gave out. We din’t know no better but we do now. Those ponds only get rainwater now.

 “And that forest is growing back. Course you caint shoot you a deer legal anymore, because now someone is feeding ‘em in they yard and they’s protected.  And we used to have us some good dove hunts. But you caint shoot them no more, neither, cuz someone’s got a feeder and is feedin’ em and they’s protected, too.

 “And I don’t care. It’s on my land, I’m gonna do what I want.  They got these drones now, flyin’ overhead. Checkin’ on everthing you doin’.  One day, my granddaughter was out in that grassy area I know you seen, and a buck come in, and I shot it. We et it. Don’t waste a bit. And this drone was flyin’ right above and yuh could hear it’s sound. I almost shot it.  I ain’t afraid to go to jail for shootin’ no drone.”

“Yeah, I don’t like those drones, either.” I say, by way of commiseration. “I think technology has become so advanced  we’re in for some not so positive changes.”

“Yuh got that right. Now they can even tell what yer thinkin. I was over t’Wing. We got us a group of old ‘uns that meet ever morning. Drink coffee. Chat the way old ‘uns do, y’ know.  And I was saying I needed a new propeller for my boat. Said I wasn’t sure if I should by a good, stainless steel one, spend the money, you know, or just buy a cheap aluminum one and replace it when it broke. And I didn’t have my cell phone on me, neither. And when I got home, I picked up my phone to make a call, and you know what?  They was ads for boat propellers poppin’ up on my Facebook feed all that day.

  “Now, we need us technology. They made sure of that. We caint live without it no more. Not really. But I do believe the absolute worst thing that happened to humanity is the creation of the television. Cuz that’s whut led to the computers. And they is worse.”

I smile. Share how I’d gone to a talk in Seattle about ten years ago when I was still working and the speaker was a woman who made millions by helping create the internet.

 “She told us that she won’t let her own children have cell phones,” I say, “because she knows they’re bad for us. She also said she traded in her own cell phone for an older flip phone with no wireless.”

 I laugh, drip some irony. “But here I am, using mine to take pictures, check out the weather.”

 “Good thing you checkin’ on that weather.  Cuz we got another brace of bad weather comin’ in this afternoon.”

  I tell him how I’d been counting the length of the thunder. He thinks that’s hilarious. Laughs heartily.

  “I’m from Oregon,” I defend myself good naturedly.  “We don’t often get thunder like this. It’s both beautiful and a bit overwhelming.”

  “Tell you what,” Larry says, a non sequiter, “ You like boiled shrimp?”

  “I do.”

 “Well, why’nt yuh come along for supper an I’ll fix yuh some boiled shrimp, some beans and rice. Maybe even fry up a catfish.”

 “Wow!” I say, “That sounds delicious. What can I bring? I have limited supplies but I have a lot of mandarin oranges I could contribute.”

 “Naw. You don’t bring nuthin. Just a good appetite.”

  “Well, I can do that,” I laugh. “By the way, what’s your wife’s name? I missed it yesterday.”

 “Marie.  But she don’t talk much. She’s got the dementia now. She may smile at yuh but don’t be put off iff’n she don’t speak up. She don’t even member her own kids anymore.  I got to keep a watch on ‘er.  Last night she put the ice cream in the cupboard. I found it all melted this mornin’.”

 “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I know that’s hard. You know, my once mother-in-law, she’s dead now, had dementia. She’d known me for twenty years. One day, she said to me, you look like someone I should know.  And I answered, I am. I’m Nyla, Eileen. She laughed, then said to me, Well there’s one good thing about losing my memory—and that’s that I forget who I’m mad at.”

Larry likes that. He smiles. “That’s a good thing to ‘preciate. Okay, yuh come on over about 11:30 or so. See that building way cross there, back behind my house?”

He points to his homestead area. Cookhouse is behind this barn.

“Yuh can jest see the roof.  That’s my cook house. Yuh come on there. We’ll have us a lunch.”

 He readjusts his hat, setting Trump straight, puts the mower in gear, heads off to mow the lane.

At 11:30 it’s raining pretty hard, following the early arrival of the thunder and lightning. I pack up a dozen ginger snaps I’ve been hoarding, slip them in the pocket of my rain jacket, put on hat, walk across the fields, skirting mud sinks and puddles.

  When I’m about a hundred yards from the cook house, my cell phone rings. It startles me because I didn’t think I had a signal. It’s Larry.

  “Whyn’t yuh drive that little car of yourn up the drive, park it in my barn. It’s raining purty hard.”

 I laugh. “Larry, I’m almost there. I’m walking.”

“Well, that yuh are. I can see yuh now. Come on in.”

The cookhouse is comfortable, well used. Well loved. Antique rifles hand upon the walls next to mounted deer heads. Three large Terrapin Turtle shells, polished to a glossy finish, are displayed on a table filled with this and that.  I notice one rifle standing upright with a lampshade on it.  Larry notices me notice it. I want to photograph everything in here, it’s a time capsule and it’s interesting. But I know that would be rude. So I don’t.

“That there is my Granddaddies ole Remington. I made a floor lamp out of it.”  He turns it on and off to prove it.

I notice Marie shaking her head. I smile, tell him it’s really unique.

The table is set with paper plates, paper towels, paper cups. A big stainless kettle sits in the center, filled with a gumbo he’s made using boiled shrimp, whole red potatoes, onions, black beans, some sausage they made from a hog they raised.  A pan of fried catfish, coated in cornmeal, sits next to it.  There’s a third pan. This one has hush puppies, fried zuchinni, corn coblets

.     The feast

  “Yuh want co-cola or sweet tea to drink?” he asks. Continues, “I make it not as sweet cuz I’m tryin to cut back on the sugar. I’ve had me two heart attacks, an aneurism, and I got six stints keepin my blood flowin. I’m 84 and I figger maybe cuttin’ down on the sugar might be a good thing.”

 “Maybe not so much fried food…”Marie says quietly.

  I smile.

 “Yeah, my cardiologist tells me to stop fryin’ things, but its whut I know how to do.  I’m healthy as a horse now.”

 And he does look surprisingly fit.

  I wondered how old he was but thought it rude to ask. I’d have guessed mid 70’s. He’s slim, his face is weathered from sun but doesn’t have a lot of wrinkles. His arms are tanned and about as age spotted as my own.  84 is impressive given how I’ve seen him riding a dirt bike at high speeds across the land and how spry he is.

  Marie, I find out, is five years younger.  Hard country life seems to agree with them. Except for that fried food/heart situation.

 “Shall we say grace?” Larry asks.

 He offers up a short, simple, prayer of thanks for the bounty before us and for the chance to share with new friends.  I am touched.

“Amen.” We all say together.  Then start dishing up our plates.

I try to engage Marie now that she’s spoken

 “So Marie, how did you and Larry meet?

“Oh, that was a long time ago,” she deflects.

  Well done, Marie, I think.  I try another tactic.

 “Did you grow up around here?

 This sparks something in her.

 “No, I’m from Bretton. I grew up there.”

  Larry interjects.

  “Yuh grew up here. That’s how I met yuh. Yuh moved here in the sixth grade.”

  She looks at him a touch defiantly. “It was the seventh grade.”

  “Right yuh are. I member now. Yuh was ony 13.”

  I ask her, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

 She is very proud , “There’s four of us girls and four boys.”

  I smile. “Were your brothers nice or did they bully you? Brothers sometimes do, I know.”

 She defends her family.

“No. My brothers was allays nice to me. They din’t try to steal my toys or push me outta chairs nor none of that.”

“That’s wonderful,” I enthuse. Then switch to, “This food is really good. It’s so nice of you two to invite me to share a meal with you. Hot food! What a treat. And catfish from your own pond.”

I take a bite. “This is better than what I had at a restaurant in De Funiak Springs for lunch the other day before I crossed into Alabama.”

And it is. Not as muddy tasting. Not oily. Light and crispy.

Larry looks pleased.

We discuss his history some more because Marie seems to check out a bit. I imagine she’s heard this a hundred times but to me, its fascinating stuff.

He shares how hard they’ve tried to make a go of living off their land. They raised Black Angus until the cattle market went down. They built a motocross track and hosted races, which netted them pretty good money in entrance fees for a while.

I notice Marie frowning when he mentions the moto-cross.

“Not a fan?” I ask her.

“Too loud,” she says, emphatically. “Too many people.”

Larry laughs.

“Yeah, after that we got into raising Cockatoos. We made good money on that for three or four years. 60,000 a year and our costs was only about 23.”

When a corporation bought out the distributor they sold to, they moved onto raising soybeans. Then the market went out on soybeans. Raised horses. Caught him a wild stud from the forest and bred him to some Arabian mares he picked up at auction.

“I love horses.” He says. But they’s just too much work after awhile. And nobody wants to pay what’s they worth.

Marie nods.

“We raised catfish commercially for a lot of years. Made purty good money there,” Larry says, “until the restaurants started buying ‘em frozen from China for cheaper than local.  I finally had to open my own mill-I still got the saw an all-and logged me some of our land.  That kept us goin.  Now…..well, we git by. I do some mechanic stuff for folks around here. Fix some things. Rent out that space you in once in t’while. Heck, I had me some people stay for a month and they paid $450 cash.”

Marie stands up. Moves over to the sink. I see that mostly she’s  restless, there aren’t really any dishes to do. But she wipes down the counter. Sits back down.

I introduce the ginger snaps.

“I brought these ginger snaps thinking we might have them for dessert.” I say. Add, “You’ll either like them or hate them, I think. Some people don’t like the strong taste. I do.”

“What’s a ginger snap?” Larry asks.

It never occurred to me that anyone wouldn’t be familiar with a ginger snap. Now there’s a rural regional difference for you.

“It’s a cookie made with ginger and molasses. I didn’t make these, I’m sorry. I don’t have an oven in my little trailer.” I laugh.

Marie speaks up again.

“That’s a real cute little trailer. I like how it matches your car.”

I hand her a ginger snap. Notice it’s not very crispy anymore.

“Well, it seems my ginger snaps have lost their snap,” I joke. “This wet weather has had it way with them.”

Marie takes a bite.

“I like it,” she says.

Larry, reassured by her response, picks one up. Takes a bite.  Says to Marie,

“Yeah. This is purty good.”

Says to me, “I think I’m glad it don’t snap. I like it soft like this.”

And we finish up the twelve snaps between us, me only eating two.

Marie goes into the main house to get her a co-cola, she says.

Larry and I manage to discuss politics. He likes what Elon Musk is doing for our country.  He believes there’s too much waste in government spending.

“Folks like us, we don’t see none of that,” he says.

I tell him I don’t like Musk. Think he’s a criminal and maybe even dangerous.

He laughs.

I tell him that the fact that he’s getting paid we don’t know how much and never will because he’s on a contract that he doesn’t ever have to divulge is worrisome.

“There’s some of your government waste,” I say, peeling another shrimp and popping it in my mouth.

“I reckon all politics is corrupt,” Larry says.”I don’t think we’ve had a honorable one since Reagan.”

I try not to choke on my shrimp.

He switches to inviting me to use the toilet in their original cabin, which is a ways from my camp.

“If’n yuh don’t want to do that, yuh might wanna just have a look.  Marie decorated it real purty when she was able to do that sorta thing.”

And she did.

I wander over after our meal and see that while it’s rustic outside, it’s sweet, cozy, dry.Larry cut the trees, sawed the wood, built the cabin. I wonder why they don’t live in it. Frankly, its nicer than the one they’re in now.

Maybe because its smaller.

But it certainly is homey.

Then, I discover why it’s called Apple Hill. Marie has a thing for apples.

Meeting Marie and Larry  helps me understand the mindset of those who believe the Mega way is better. They are hard working, back to the land people for whom the government has not provided much.  They buy the line that liberal ideology is corrupt and costing them out of their own pocket.

Larry has no social security and no pension beyond what he’s earned and continues to earn.

They are proud people and believe you work for what you need. For some reason, they are of the belief that Trump will make life simpler and more fair for folks like them, and if he and his cronies get rich while doing it, well, to them, its just more of what’s always been happening.

While I don’t agree with them, seeing their life up close, the roots of such thinking begin to make sense

If we’re going to be successful in saving our democracy, we are going to have to find a way to connect with, then engage folks like Larry and Marie in ways they understand and will believe.

I found Larry willing to engage in dialogue, share his beliefs, and discuss the hard topics with me rationally. We even found enough in common for him to trust me, open his home and private spaces to me, tell me he enjoyed getting to know someone like me. He sounded sincere when he told me he  hoped I would return.

March 30

Thunder rumbling all around this morning.  Low, deep, grumbles echoing across the valley.  The skies are gray turning to soot. Rain will break soon.

Last night, it rained so hard I pulled Pearl’s windows down after drops pounding with the force of hazelnuts falling from trees into a shaker alarmed me. They were loud inside my snug little fiberglass cocoon. First, a gentle, almost caressing pit a pit a pit fell, which was rhythmic and soothing. Soon, those pitters escalated into plot plot plot plot. Then, sudden and strong, a surge of rat a tat tat tat, whamp whoomp whoomp.

This went on for hours, ebbing back in a gentle caressing somewhere near midnight. I was at last able to fall asleep.

This morning, five thirty on the dot, wide awake. After taking care of morning business, I made a strong cup of coffee, sat studying the landscape, still wet and shining, as the sun rose in the east. Birds began to awaken, one by one, chirruping, cherry cherry cherrying (Caroling Nuthatch), twee-weeing, gakking (crows), trilling, warbling (Hooded Warbler), tata tata tata-ing (rare Red Cockaded Woodpeckers, eager for rain driven insects, and nesting on Larry’s property as well as within the forest), grack-grackling (Common Grackle).

I decided to check out this land I’ve been permitted to camp upon.

Larry, my host, and his wife (whose name was not given) met me at the gate riding their old orange four-wheeler. Guided me into a partially cleared area of their 144 acres situated inside the 83,000 acre Conecuh National Forest. Larry was wearing a baseball cap stating, Trump for Me, a well-worn blue and green plaid shirt, tan canvas pants. His wife, no hat on her close-cut salt and pepper hair, was wearing a blue short sleeved blouse and darker blue canvas knee length shorts. They both sported sensible work boots.

“You can park ‘er right here,” he gestured toward a nice level graveled space not too far from his catfish ponds.

More about those in a moment.

“Thank you so much,” I began.  He cut me off,

“Don’t think nothing about it. We used to have us four or five folks at a time staying here. Some in they trailers, some in that old cabin yonder.”

He pointed to a rustic, plywood box with a sagging porch. “But we just don’t care for all that noise and mess no more. Yuh’ll do just fine.”

Larry shared how his granddaddy homesteaded this parcel “some time ago,” which is how it ended up being within what is now a designated national forest. “We builded this place up, they caint chase us out. We’re an inholding. And that’s that.”

About forty of the acres are under production, orchard, gardens, grass; the rest timber. “But we cut us out the lumber logs some time ago. Planed ‘em ourselves to build our house, barn and all that you see. We left us the seed trees, as you can see.”

There were stumps with about a three-foot diameter spaced throughout the clearing shared by the remaining tall, thin Pines and few lonely Hickory’s .  Off a few hundred yards to the north and south, the forest grew thicker.

His wife didn’t say a word.  She smiled a lot, though.

“Tell you what,” he said after we’d chatted about how I grew up also in a logging family, had worked in a mill myself once, “If ya wanna use our bathhouse to shower, yer welcome.”

He pointed out another rustic structure not too far away,

“It’s got a washer and dryer in there if you need to do a load.”

“Wow!” I enthused, “That is really kind. Oh Yes, I could use a for real shower. I’ve been camping in the Apalachicola. I stink.”

His wife laughed.

“And if you mean it about the laundry,” I burbled, “I’ve been handwashing things with my bucket but a real cleaning would be wonderful.”

“It’s heat as needed,” his wife finally spoke.

Larry added,  “Just push the button on t’back of the shower stall when yer ready to git in. Push it again when yer done. I ‘magine I don’t need to tell ya how to use a warsher?”  She smiled.

“No, Sir. You do not. I’ve raised two kids. I’ve done my share of laundry.”

The wife and I shared the knowing smile only mothers would know.

Their bathhouse, which I was definitely grateful to be invited to use.

“Alrighty, then,” Larry said, “I reckon that’s about everting. Less’n you need some help settin’ up?”

“No, I’m good,” I said, “I’m pretty low maintenance. It won’t take long.”

He looked relieved. Then brightened, asked, “You like fishin?”

“Gosh, I haven’t fished in years,” I told him. “I used to go fishing with my father a lot. We fished for trout mostly.”

“Well, see those ponds yonder?” He pointed across the way. One of the ponds

“Them’s my fishin’ ponds. I raise catfish in there. Good eatin.”

I laughed.

“I know. I had catfish for lunch today in some little café in Florida before I crossed into Alabama.”

He looked a bit disappointed.

 “Well, okay then. We’ll leave ya be. Make yerself at home. You wanna walk the land, feel free.”

And they drove off. A long term married couple who seem contented with what they have and with one another.

My little spot in Apple Hill (there are no apple trees to be seen)

So, this morning, while listening to thunder roil across the forest at regular intervals, closer and closer, I set out.

I walked to his fish ponds. Quite the enterprise. It looks like he dredged, then built those berms and banks into some kind of filtration design.

The angles are interesting.

This bit of pipe shows us that sometimes (or at one time, more likely) the water got deep. Clever way to drain the run off, which rolls downhill toward the orchard.

This was once a stream coming out of the forest. I imagine these ponds were both stream fed and spring fed. Though the water is pretty low now and it’s not yet April. I walked along the pond system but didn’t see any of his catfish.  Did spot this decoy.

Down low in that muddy water, I imagine. This is a fishing platform he’s built for what he calls, “Lazy fishin'”

 I made my way toward the forest. Fairly thin, these trees. Logged down, “managed,” as they like to say. I haven’t read up on the Conecuh yet so don’t have much background.

            As I was strolling along, I heard a strange grunting and low whistling. These two showed up. Small guys.

I was more worried about their Mom finding me. Florida’s wild hog problem is well known. They can be vicious. This close to Florida, it seems migration is in place.

 “I’m just passing by,” I said, soft and low. “You two are very good looking.”

They startled at the sound of my voice. Trotted a way off. Stopped, turned back to study me.

 “And smart,” I added. “I know how smart you are.”

  I went my way. They went theirs.

  The thunder’s rumbling continued, gaining force, low and ominous. But no rain yet. I looked at the sky. Figured I had another half hour or so. Of course, as fast as it broke last night, there’s no way my estimate held any water.  It might though, and very soon.

 I quickened my pace, took a well-worn cut off south. Watched in awe as a Scissor Tailed-Flycatcher zoomed overhead. Followed it through the trees until I came upon this cabin, sitting forlorn and empty.

Looks like someone lived there, began to do some improvements, changed their mind. It was locked up tight, though, so maybe they’ll be back.

I think it’s sitting on what is still Larry’s acreage, though. I may not have quite walked the 144 acres. Either that, or its also inside the national forest land, someone’s allotment.

 I decided to head back to camp, eat breakfast. It was pushing 11:00, which explains why my own stomach rumbling had joined the thunder.

   Made it back in time to watch the rain begin while I munched my way through Heritage Flakes with almost still fresh blueberries and mandarin oranges.

—

 It’s later. The thunder has grown much louder. Closer. Though so have the doves and other birds. So, I’m not sure what that means in terms of cloudburst. It’s drizzling right now. The air smells fresh, moist, alive.

 I took up Larry and his wife’s offer to use their wash house. The on-demand shower was heavenly.

I know they’re water wise so I lathered up. Turned it off. Scrubbed my scalp and hair. Turned it back on. Rinsed. Repeated while I conditioned my hair.

Dry dripping, I loaded my dirty clothes into the washer. Added some of my organic, biodegradable lavender soap sheets. Sighed with relief.

A bit later, I did a second load. A small one. Just my sheets and pillow cases.

 It will be nice to enter the next phase of the pilgrimage feeling clean again.

The thunder is really loud now. Almost overhead. There is a squawking and honking, as if of ducks, somewhere across the way.  I suspect that big cloudburst is going to erupt soon because the sky has turned very dark, indeed.

I still need to get my sheets out of the dryer and remake my bed. I may be waiting awhile because even as I type this, the rain drops are growing in frequency and volume.

While the rain pummels the ground (and one blast of thunder actually rocked me inside Pearl), I learn a bit about the Conecuh.

  It is second only to Florida in its rich biodiversity. A year and a half ago, the federal Land and Water Conservation Fund (LWCF), in partnership with the non-profit Conservation Fund, and the bequest of the late M.C. Davis,

a respected conservationist who made his fortune as a professional gambler, then spent it all on buying up privately owned inholdings (like the one I’m on) in order to protect them, purchased an additional 1000 acres of inholdings which had previously been gridlocked, but which boasted important long leaf pine and wathershed acrages, then deeded them to the national forest.

When first established in 1936, the Conecuh was just 54,177 acres of clear cut and burned over land. Thanks to the hard work of vigilant conservationists and dedicated forest service professionals (the kind Trump wants to get rid of), the forest is now over 83,000 acres of longleaf pine, dogwood, cypress and upland scrub oak

spread across rolling hills, hardwood swamps and pitcher plant bogs. The landscape is also cut by a labyrinth of winding creeks and cypress swamps/ponds.

All of this, plus its proximity to Florida, make the Conecuh National Forest one of Alabama’s finest birding locations.  430 documented birding species have been spotted. It is home to Blue Grosbeaks, Red-hooded Woodpeckers,

Common Ground Doves, Northern Parulas, Yellow-throated Warblers, Prothonotary Warblers, American Redstarts, Eastern Towhees, White-eyed Vireos, Common Yellowthroats, Wild Turkeys, and Northern Bobwhites and many rare and transients such as Bullock’s Oriole, Purple Gallinule,

and Scarlet Tanager’s make their way here on journeys across the country.

While most of the mammals were hunted out, white tailed deer, foxes,

some hogs, and other small game are common.  There are over 84 fresh water fish species, including pirate perch, speckled madtom, iron color shiner,

Gulf sturgeon, American eel, bowfin, blacktail redhorse, striped mullet, and a variety of darters.

Big oil and gas have begun actively lobbying Trump for oil and gas leases on the publicly owned forest. Though there seems to be support for refusing these leases by Alabama citizens, given the current administration’s commitment to business over environment, the forest’s future remains uncertain.

A loud crack of lightening followed immediately by a roar of thunder just shot across the sky right above me. There goes a second one.  This storm, while exciting, is conspiring to make my visit into the forest for the birdwatching for which I’d chosen this location, a non-event. Even the local birds have gone quiet, a sign that they are smarter than me.

Oh, my!  Another huge crack of lightening with massive thunder rolls just lit up the sky and rocked my trailer again. I’ve started timing the thunder. Average roll is 20-24 seconds. When lightening follows, it’s usually within 9 miles or closer. This is quite the storm.

Hiding out from the storm, inside Pearl,

I find out the next morning that a tornado tore the roof off a high school less than 20 miles from here, killing a couple of teenagers.

I had a cup of coffee and a banana at my campsite at Camel Lake at 7:00 am. Eager to get on the road for the long drive ahead, I figured I’d enjoy a hot breakfast when I got to Blountstown, Florida, which I’d been reading about in my book.

Blounstown is a town with a long history, a center of both logging and oyster commerce. It would be a good place to take a short break, see the place in person, I decided. I broke camp, packed everything away, took a few minutes to give thanks for a memorable stay.

Made my way safely back down the access road, though it took 30 minutes to drive the two miles.  Hit the main road, no traffic. Passed a happening yard sale. People were parked up and down both sides of the country road this early in the morning. Big doings in the community. Tempted to stop but held my temptation in check. Carried on.

Traffic was light. I made good time to Blountstown. Began looking for a nice little local café where I knew I’d find a homemade breakfast. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not a café or coffee shop to be seen on either of the two commercial streets in town. This is Blountstown today

I stopped at a gas station to fill up. Two women were sitting in lawn chairs at the side of the parking lot, sipping coffee. A big, yellow dog was panting beside them.  They smiled as I began gassing up. After I washed my windows, filthy from the dirt road into and out of Camel Lake, I walked over to them.

“Good morning. Are you two local?”

“We sure are,” a fifty-ish brunette with a short perm and coral striped pedal pushers said.  The dog jumped up, headed straight for my crotch.

“Dex, down!” her companion, clad in a floral house dress, yelled. “He won’t hurt ya. He’s just friendly.”

Dex smelled like a dog that needed a bath. I noticed this as I gave his still thrusting head a pat. I tried to gently push him aside.

“Can either of you tell me where I might find a nice breakfast? I’ve been camping out at Camel Lake and a good, hot breakfast is just what I need.” I chuckled.

They conferred for a few seconds.  Dex moved on to trying to knock me over, leaning into me with his full forty or fifty pounds.

“Well…” House Dress began, ”How far are you willing to drive? Panama City’s about an hour away. There’s a good place there.”

“I’m not headed that direction. I’m moving north into Alabama. I was hoping to eat here in Blountstown.”

 They conferred again. Dex shoved his big, stinking head under my hand, demanding another pat. I obliged.

Pedal Pusher said, “There isn’t anywhere here in town. Not for breakfast, anyway.”

“What about the Piggly Wiggly?” House Dress asked. “Don’t they still got that biscuits and gravy take out in the deli section?”

 “Oh, yeah. Yeah. If you pull outta here, take a left, follow this road down across the river to the end, you’ll find the Piggly Wiggly. You can get their biscuits and gravy. If you’re wanting to eat in, I think they got a couple of seats and a little table right there, too.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your help. Have a great Saturday.” I said, trying to mask my disappointment.

   I studied my map. Niceville, 70 miles west. No way was I going to have Piggly Wiggly’s biscuits and gravy. A nice breakfast in Niceville might be worth waiting for.

 Nothing in Niceville. Nothing in Clarksville (not even a last train). Nothing in Bruce. Nothing, in fact, in any of the little towns and townships along the panhandle highway 20. No cafes, no coffee shops, no restaurants open on a Saturday morning.

I passed through little hamlets with two or three churches each. I passed a string of Christian Ranches. Prosperous looking, too. That’s a nice scam, I thought. Avoid taxes and make a bundle, all in the name of the Lord.

There was almost zero traffic on the lesser highway I’d taken. Just me and a truck, who seemed content to follow me at my 55 miles per hour up and down the highway over the rolling sand hills.

 Two hours later, I arrived at Freeport. A big crossroad town. Several liquor stores but no restaurant opened for breakfast. It was closing in on lunchtime. I had my choice between a pizza joint, a Subway, and a McDonalds.

 I chose the car wash I spotted on the right instead.

 Both Durga and Pearl were filthy, covered in dust and mud. For $3.00, I pulled into one of those do it yourself spray wash bays and hosed them down. The satisfaction I felt at seeing the grime melt away replaced the disappointment I felt at not finding a good breakfast.

Spoiled by the wealth of choices in Portland, and on the entire west coast, I hadn’t considered the possibility that folks in the rural south didn’t go out for breakfast.

Back on the road, I passed a new housing development. The sign read, “Starting at $200,000.” It looked like a scene from the Stepford Wives.

Rows of ticky tacky and they all looked just the same.

Heading north toward Alabama, the highway turned into two lanes each way. Traffic was brisk and drivers purposeful. I held to my 55 in the right lane.

In De Funiak Springs, I stopped for gas. Remembered I needed a refill brush for my Sonic-Care and that this was going to be the largest town before I entered the Conecuh National Forest in Alabama, where I’d be spending the next three nights.

Got my groceries, my toothbrushes, and found a little restaurant in the bottom of a historic hotel which specialized in Southern food. -Postcard image

“Kind of ironic,” I thought, as I ordered the daily special, which turned out to be fried catfish, greens, beans and rice, and hushpuppies. I was hungry, it was good, I ate almost all of it.

Back on the road, heading out of town, I spied a Thai restaurant. “Damn, I wish I would have found that place first.” I said out loud.

An hour later, I crossed the border into Alabama. It felt like a huge accomplishment, getting out of Florida.  To celebrate, I stopped at an ice cream shop in Florala I noticed as I was cruising through the small town.  And they even had wi-fi!

I ordered my ice cream (fresh strawberry and chocolate, made by them), sat down, began to publish my posts written at Camel Lake.  The owner’s son, a handsome young fellow, watched awhile, realized I was writing something. Came over.

“Are you a reporter or something?” he asked.

Interesting assumption, I thought.

“Or something.” I smiled. “I’m writing a travel blog and I do report on where I’ve been, what I’m experiencing in it.”

“How do you set up your blog?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that.

“Well here, have a look.” I turned my laptop screen a bit so he could better see it. Found out that I needed a password for their wifi because my hot spot wasn’t getting enough connection.  He didn’t know it so called over a young woman, who I assumed was his sister. She was adept at getting me going.

 “This is my site. I’m not very tech savvy. So, I just write and weave in pictures I’ve taken, or images I’ve found which help illustrate my story.”

His sister re-joined us.

“She’s a writer,” he said. “Writing a travel blog.”

“Cool,” she said. “What are you working on?”

“Tell you guys what. I’ll write about you in my next entry. About how nice you were to me. How good the ice cream was.  Here, here’s my website name. You can look me up if you’re interested.”

I noticed their mother working behind the counter. Busy trying to put things in order because they were closing at 3:00, earlier than usual. She glanced over our way. I smiled at her.

“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “Why don’t I take a picture of all of you to put into the blog?”

The mother met my eyes briefly. Told the two to get a third person, a girl who had been behind the scenes.

I suggested they move behind the counter under a sign with their name. Noticed a cap on the countertop with the name of a cattle company on it.

“Is that your cattle company, too?” I asked.

“It is,” the mother said, pride in her voice.

“Well, I’m going to make sure to get that cap in the shot, too. If you guys could squeeze together just a little bit and maybe move a few inches to your right….” I took the photo. Tood another.  Took a third. “There we go, “ I said. “This one’s good.”

I showed the mother who looked it over. Nodded approvingly.  They all checked it out. Seemed excited to be part of this out of the ordinary experience.

“I’ll write about you in my next entry,” I promised. “Look for it.”

And here it is.

The temperature dropped so much during the night that I had to bring out my down blanket. After which, I was toasty and happy to go back to sleep.

At seven, as the sky pinked up from sunrise, I went on a longer hike, around the lake then down one of the trails which constitute the Scenic Florida Trail. Their version of the Pacific Crest. As I walked, I began to hear the loud baying of a pack of hounds, interspersed with the gobbling of turkeys. Yesterday, a woman I met on the trail told me her husband and she were traveling across the country, visiting prime turkey hunting habitats.

“He just loves to kill him some turkey,” she smiled.

I’d seen a few turkeys on my drive in and they were all pretty thin, scrawny looking things.  Wild Turkeys without a lush feeding environment.

“I saw a couple of turkeys yesterday, near here,” I said, “They didn’t look like there was much to eat on them.”

She looked sheepish. “Well, we don’t waste them. I make soup or whatever.”

Today’s hunt is somewhere farther inside the wilderness. I wonder if it is her husband. But sound carries across this flat, relatively open swampland. This hunt could be miles away. The hounds become frantic, their yelping growing louder, boisterous, blood frenzied. Yet I never hear the shotgun.  Turkey’s one, hunters none.

Back at the campground, I see that only two of the ten sites are now occupied. One is mine, the other, the family with the three children. Today is Friday. This must be the day to move on. The others are going wherever. I am leaving tomorrow. For Alabama. A three -night stay on some property abutting the Conecuh National Forest. No facilities. I get to try out the boondocking system I’ve put in place.

Today grows as hot as yesterday but today, I wade into the lake at noon. The water is cool, the bottom a bit sandy turning into sharp limestone rock.  I sit there in my nylon hiking pants, my solar protection long sleeved shirt, my Tilley hat. No one is around to see how ridiculous I look but I wouldn’t care if they were. It feels glorious.

While I’m sitting there, a bald eagle appears out of the pine forest. Swoops down at the water, misses. Lifts, curves around, takes another stab. Misses again. Flies off.

I remember the bald eagles who lived on our land at Wesley Chapel. A mated pair, they were excellent hunters. I was stunned the first time I saw one of them pluck a Merganser straight out of the river. A year later, I watched with amusement as the mother was teaching her fledglings to hunt the Coho in the river directly in front of the house. She based them all on the rock garden in the middle of the swift part of the river.

She was a stern teacher. She grabbed up a plump fish, brought it back to the rock, ate it in front of her young without sharing. It seemed she was saying, if you want some, you must get it yourself.

I later saw a Kestral, but it was only lazily scouting.

The Apalachicola Watershed is one of the most diverse ecosystems in North America. Renowned botanist Angus Ghoulso, Jr. regards the Apalachicola Bluffs (sand hills spreading across the basin) as a biblical Garden of Eden. He has collected and identified over 16,000 specimens of Apalachicola flora.

There are forty-seven species of trees in the floodplain, the most common of which grow in permanently saturated soils. These include Tupelo, Carolina Ash, and Cyprus.

World class Cyprus trees were plentiful before the clear cuts began.

A rare species of dwarf Cyprus, growing less that 7 feet tall, and over 1500 years old, were discovered in one remote area by loggers who had the sense to preserve some of them from the saw.

Torreya, also known as Gopher Tree, used to thrive here but is dying off due to a fungus no one can identify. Ghoulson believes pestisides and pollutants are to blaime. Gopher Tree, by the way,  is the tree Noah was supposedly ordered to build his Ark from.

Sixty-four identified species of reptiles reside in the basin; a new one was just discovered a couple of years ago. King Snakes, black snakes, gopher snakes, rattlesnakes, snakes galore.  Forty-four species of Amphibian, including the now highly endangered Barbour’s Map Turtle, box turtles, gopher turtles, and the 155 pound Alligator Snapping Turtle, the largest of its kind,  also critically endangered.

Black Bears are now few in number but used to thrive. White Tail Deer eke out their existence. And on St. George Island, at one time there were Ibex, Zebra, and other mammals which must have crossed over aeons ago, only to be eliminated by the timber barons.

In addition to the many, many birds native to the basin, including Great and Small Blue Heron, Bald Eagles, Kestral, rare woodpeckers indigenous to this area (I heard one this afternoon–it  sounded like someone knocking on the door) this area becomes rich in rare birds on their way north during annual spring flyover.  Exhausted after their long oceanic crossing, Apalachicola Wilderness is first land fall for them.  They rest, feed on the proliferation of insects, continue on their way.

This morning, I sat entranced lakeside by the song of some of the early arrivals. I hope to meet up with them in Pickensville in five days, a major bird center, to catch the spring bird flurry.

The Apalachicola is an amazing place. Weather patterns have been badly affected by clear cutting, dredging of rivers, building of dikes and dams across what was once swamp teeming with diversity, the commercial planting of Pine forests for rapid harvest in the re-configured landscape, the tons of waste dumped into the water beginning in Atlanta and continuing all the way to the bay. Environmental warriors are needed in much greater numbers than currently exist.

Angus Ghoulson, Jr. says, “We simply don’t have any land ethics here. Maybe once our food sources no longer are available, maybe then we’ll learn.”

March 26 I made it!  My first real test in the wild. Wildflower Pond was the warm up act.

I took scenic back roads all the way from Alachua, where a nice man named Troy added air to Pearl’s tires when I stopped at his tire shop to see if I might use his air compressor. I was willing to pay but he was a generous soul and did the work himself.

Drove north, then west, discovering Wakulla Springs, a prosperous community of large, southern estates flourishing in the midst of this hard scrabble, central northern Florida region. Drove across the national forest on the scenic highway after that until I found my way to the campground.

The road coming in is gnarly. That’s the only word for it. Not just washboard sand, but hard packed ruts filled with big, sharp edged rocks in washes, standing water in several areas created by rain run-off, then inevitably, the deep potholes I had to maneuver around.

I crept so slow I was barely moving at times, inching Pearl forward across the two miles of bad road, worrying about snapping her hitch. But we made it. And it was worth it.

The campground itself is a small, hidden gem. Only 10 sites, all very spacious, spread around the east side of Camel Lake. I reserved a lakefront site months ago, of which there are only four, and those in high demand.

There is a bathroom with running water in the center of the campground. Oooh, la la! Plus, each site has a faucet of “potable water” from a well, a rustic wooden picnic table, and a tall bear pole with two hooks for hanging food.

I was faced with my first back-in. It took nine tries, but I finally got her in, lined up properly.

I was feeling like a failure until I later watched a couple, working together, take four tries to get their honkin’ big trailer backed in. Still, I’ve got more work to do to master that solo backing process.

I put my outside rug down to keep the dirt under control, set my foldable table up next to Pearl’s external electrical outlet. This is where I will connect my little burner to cook up some of those beautiful eggs Tim gave me yesterday for breakfast.

Speaking of things to eat, I noticed a lot of cars in the parking lot of a funky looking restaurant called Savannah’s in the middle of nowhere.

Since it was almost two and I’d been driving for four hours, I decided to check it out.

It was packed, mostly with “locals,” according to my server, a round-faced blond with a thick southern accent and a big, toothy smile.  Local means fairly long distances out here, where people live back in the swamps. I noticed a prison ironically named Liberty Correctional Institute, a huge electric power plant, a sand dredge operation, and a rather ratty looking mill as I was driving through. The job market.

Anyway, Savannah’s big thing is their lunch buffet, Southern style. This means a complete salad bar which also boasted two different potato salads, two bean salads, and pickled peppers, black eyed peas, green beans, steamed greens, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, fried okra, mashed yams, fried chicken, pork ribs, roast beef, hamburger patties, peach cobbler, banana pudding, and yellow cake with white frosting.

I loaded up on salad and veggies, then had a piece of the lightest fried chicken I’ve ever had. I ordered tea, which was so sweet I couldn’t drink it, and tasted the banana pudding, which was pretty good. All of this for $14.00.

Studying my fellow diners, I noticed several working men in suspenders and jeans (the power plant?), some in crew neck shirts and dockers (the prison), and a couple in religious garb. Ministers. There are more churches in this part of the state than there are Starbucks. In fact, I haven’t seen a coffee company of any kind in days.

A few elderly couples. At this, I chuckle because these elders were probably my age. But they’d dressed up for a nice lunch buffet. Then, in walked one pair of hipster dudes who looked as out of place as I probably did. They loaded their plates with meat.

Three black couples came in. They sat in a different room. Given the thick southern accents everyone around here speaks with, plus the confederate flags I’ve noticed in several places, segregation may be alive and well in the backwoods of the Florida panhandle.

The book I’m reading, Voices of the Apalachicola, sheds a lot of light on this region.  Oral histories taken by people whose families have been here for centuries. Including a Creek Chief who became the local school superintendent.  His story told of how his people were sent on the forced Trail of Tears march to Oklahoma but since he is lighter skinned, he was taken in by a missionary family, while his mother and father and siblings were not.

The Creek Indians were the major tribe in this area, pre “Indian Removal Act,” though there are several branches of Creek, not all of them friendly with one another.  The Indian Removal Act forced them off their land so that first, logging interests, then mining, then tug boats and barges which carry all that timber inland, then finally, the fishing/oystering/shrimping commercial fleets, could rake in the dollars. For a select few. In other words, white southerners who were still smarting about the outcome of the Civil War.

The Apalachicola River’s headwaters begin all the way north of Atlanta. Turns out, it’s one of the largest waterways in the United States, or rather was, before drought and over-population and the construction of several big dams to drain and “manage” its flows. Apparently, Atlanta wants more and more of the water, which is destroying the fisheries and oyster beds. The locals don’t feel they have a voice or that their interests and knowledge of proper river flow matter.  Hence, the need for giant commercial dredge operations.

There are mountains, literally mountains, of sand hundreds and thousands of feet high pulled out of the river through dredging, then dumped on the sides of the river, which destroys fish habitat and blocks arterial creeks and smaller, feeder rivers. There has been a move in later years to take all that sand to these commercial quarries and gravel beds because so much of it can be used in beach restoration and road construction.

The Corps of Engineers built the numerous dams to try to control flow, but releases during flood years have caused even more environmental damage. The rivers are drying up. Two and three feet of depth is now common, fourteen in a flood year.

We helps to remember that this is swamp land. So, in addition to the mighty Apalachicola, there are multiple smaller rivers feeding into her (Suwanee, Okeechobee, Chatahoochie, Chipola, etc) and many meanders, which are actually the numerous veins of the once great river estuary and swamp land, struggling to find its way to the sea.

It’s fascinating country. So foreign to an Oregon girl like me. The swamps host insect life in plenty. No See Um’s and Mosquitoes, various dragonfly things but much fiercer looking with beaks, those Palmetto bugs (cockroaches that fly), beetles, horseflies; basically, a host of insectivores adapted to life in a wet, hot, humid environment. And so many ants. Industrious, black warriors in the sand.

I wish I had a book to identify them all. Also, the trees. The big logging boom was Cypress and Pine, but also Tupelo trees. Oaks, which are plentiful, didn’t get logged out at first because they were too hard to get to. The other trees could be girdled, so the sap would stop rising which makes them lighter, then several months later, cut down into the water, where they would be tied in great rafts, similar to the ones we saw in the NW as our own beautiful forests were raped at high speed.

Old timers say it wasn’t uncommon to see eight to twelve rafts tied together with loggers actually living on top of these rafts as they floated them to market. They would dump dirt on top, build little huts, then ride the rafts all the way up into Georgia.

I saw a hand painted sign for Tupelo Honey for Sale on my way here. The road to it was more a dirt and grass track rising out of the swamp and I didn’t trust my ability to back out of it. But I read that it’s pure Tupelo Honey out here. Which is rare. Most honey labeled as Tupelo only contains about 18 percent, the rest various wild flower. There are many honey operations out in the swamp, in fact, one of them was at one time the largest in the world shipping the prized Tupelo Honey to Japan and the Mediterranean. I’m not sure why Tupelo honey is better, but Van Morrison wrote and sings about it, so it must be true.

I saw several Trump/Vance signs along the back roads. More than I’ve seen on the entire pilgrimage thus far. Churches in every shade of Baptist, with a few Jehovah’s Witnesses in the mix.

It also seems every county has a sizeable indentured work force, errrr “correctional institute.” And in fact, the prison work crews seem to do a lot of the visible road work besides whatever labor they’re put up to doing inside those swamps.

Babies are a big thing. Families that look like they can’t afford to feed one child often have three, four, five young ones being watched over by women who look older than they are. Many of the them are accompanied by young men who seem stricter than I want to consider. But by God, they all go to Church. I try not to dwell upon the fact that the largest percentage of child molesters, wife beaters, and child abusers identify as Christian.

One of the trailers in this campground, the afore mentioned behemoth I watched struggling to back in, unloaded four little kids, all under the age of six or seven. The mother decorated their site with strings of fairy lights to the delight of her children while the father set up camp.

March 27, late afternoon

Damn, this Florida heat is hard.  It’s 88 degrees at 4:23pm. That’s after cooling down some.

I hiked around the lake this morning, starting at 8:00 when it was only 75.

I’m good with that, though after the last half mile, I was thinking, it’s time to seek some shade. Unlike our Pacific Northwest forests, these do not provide much shade. They are open air roasting basins.

I did the wet my hat and pour water over my head thing, which helped for a while. I washed my clothes from yesterday, when it was also 90, mostly as an excuse to get wet.

90 in March. You start to smell pretty sour by the end of a day, so washing the clothes out is a good thing. As is letting your body remain damp after washing it.

The Florida Long Leaf Pine, which seems to be the dominant tree in this little Camel Lake ecosystem, is a scrawny thing. Of course, this is a third planting (or maybe even fourth) so we can make allowances. Nevertheless, it grows tall and bare until the very top, which is probably why they like it for lumber. Fast growing, hard wood. I read that the old growth would be as wide as four feet in circumference, with very tight rings, which contribute to its great strength. Now they measure them and count them lumber at 11 inches—under that they still cut them down, but use them for pulp.

They comprise most of the canopy. Below, the ground is thick with fan palms, which can get very tall.

Some scrub oak, a very few Maple of some kind, a few doomed Boston type ferns,

horse tail closer to the edge of the lake, a mess of Pitcher Plants.

And surprise, some Mycelium

On the south side of the lake, I also noticed some tall grasses, sharp blades one wouldn’t want to walk through without good leg protection. 

A few wildflowers which I don’t know the names of in purple, yellow, and white.

The bumble bees are those inch-and-a-half long, black and yellow beasts. This one hung around for about thirty minutes, checking me out when I was sitting at a picnic table I found in a hidden place.

They zoom around, the semi of the bee world, making quite a racket. That saw nosed dragon fly—I don’t really know its name, as I mentioned before, is black and aggressive.

But the horse flies? As big as marble shooters.  Big, mean, hungry things. Their bite hurts. Yet even worse than those horse flies, in my opinion, are these fast flying, small black and green flies that aim straight for your eyes, graze your eyelashes trying to get in there for the moisture of your eyeball. Or, they dart up your nostril, also seeking moisture, forcing you to blow them out.

An old timer tells of how one summer the flies and mosquitoes were so bad that an entire herd of white tail deer waded into the water up to their necks to escape. “They stayed in there until night fall. Hell, if I’d a been wantin’ venison, it was right there for the havin.”

As the sun rose in the sky, I followed the few spots of shade near the beach, where a very slight breeze was also blowing.

I’d move every five minutes or so as the shade shifted, but it helped.

While I was reading in a shady place, a mother, maybe mid-thirties, arrived with her seven children to swim in the lake. Twin eleven-year old boys, a couple of slightly younger ones, one girl about five, the other about four, and a three year old boy. Plus, she had a four-month old Chi-Weenie puppy. A busy woman.

The boys kept terrorizing that puppy, carrying it into the water, dropping it, making it swim back to shore. Mom finally put a stop to it after the puppy, shivering, ran off to hide under a palm fan bush and they had a hard time getting it to come out.

As with almost everyone who lives in this area, their accent was more reminiscent of Georgia than anywhere else. Since we are not that far from the border, I suppose it’s all relative. No pun intended.

She seemed a good mom, though.  Instead of whacking or shouting at the kids, she said, “Don’t make me put you on that bench to sit (wooden bench in the hot sun, no shade). We came here to swim, not bother the dog or throw dirt at one t’other.”

This after one of her middle boys began picking up mud from the lake at slinging it at the older twins who had been ignoring him, racing one another up and down the thin line of sand which constitutes a beach.  The girls seemed happy playing in the water with one another. But be careful!

Eventually, the westward movement of the sun caused my bit of shade to evaporate. I was forced to retreat to Pearl. I turned on the little electric ceiling fan, creating a cross vent with the windows, lasted about a half hour.

Moved back outside, this time to another covered picnic area, long unused, across the way.

Looking from the picnic table.  I held out here until the horse flies reclaimed their turf.

I remember finding the heat in Florida unbearable. But not in March. March was usually nice in Wesley Chapel. We could sit in our screened in Florida room and enjoy the day. Or dive into our pool. And I would ride Jessie, my chestnut mare, through the orchards and along the lake just before sunset. Times, and climate, have changed.

Our camp host, David, seems to have taken a fancy to me.

We met when I checked in last night. He is 73, physically fit, rides around on a mountain bike with big balloon tires that can handle the sand, lives alone in his camper.  He’s deaf in one ear and partially deaf in the other, has no hearing aids, so asks you to repeat everything all the time at a louder volume.

Originally from Kentucky, David shared quite a bit about his life with me last evening.

Today, he met me coming out of the woods after my hike around the lake, waylaid me with more stories.

To be fair, many of them were interesting. Such as the time he was camp hosting in North Carolina and an unexpected tornado blew through, blowing down trees, flooding the creeks and rivers. He chose not to go because “it was dark, the roads are rough, and in those days, I had insurance. I figured whatever happened, I’d benefit in some way or other.”

Meanwhile, one of the campers there got blown off the road while attempting to evacuate, blown straight down into a ravine, destroyed his rig, broke his collarbone. Emergency rescue had to be called, with David going out in his old Ford to guide them in.

David grew up ranching in Kentucky, so we talked horses awhile. I always enjoy that. I shared a story about meeting a man riding the most beautiful bay molly mule I’ve ever seen during one of my solo hikes up in the Eagle Cap Wilderness.

“Was she gated?” he asked.

Most people wouldn’t know to ask that.

“She sure was,” I said. “Missouri Fox Trotter cross. Moved beautifully. Had the daintiest hooves, like a dancer.”

He admires my adventurous spirit, he told me.

“So many women just want to stay at home and watch the tv when they get to our age.”

He added. “Me, I want to go out doing the things I love.”

Which reminded me of my own ex-husband, Peter. Also, a very fit mid-seventies man, also harder of hearing, also wanting to go out having a good time. Also, a garrulous individual with plenty of interesting stories to share.

I don’t want to invite much more of David’s attention, however. I also don’t want to be rude. But I have a few more days here and am just fine without him “checking in to make sure I don’t need nothing.”

It’s such a small campground staying out of sight might be a bit of a challenge.

And sure enough, around dusk, as I was busy filtering water for drinking (it may be potable but it doesn’t taste very good), David appeared, wondering if I’d like to join him for a walk.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, not pausing in my pumping, “but I’m needing to fill this gallon jug and this squeeze pump only handles a pint at a time.”

He looked crestfallen.

“Well, I let you get to it,” he said. Then headed toward the lake trail, which was becoming quite lovely as the sun set.

March 24. Day 21

I was feeling anxiety about towing Pearl today after yesterday’s adventure. I lay in bed last night trying to fall asleep, hearing the words of people who’d said I was foolish to do this trip alone running through my brain on a repeat loop.

I woke before the sun, went for a walk. It was beautiful.

“It’s too dangerous. It’s too much work for a woman your age. It’s too far. What if something bad happens?  What if….”

Well, something kind of bad did, indeed, happen yesterday. But I got through it. With the help of friends made in a matter of minutes. Or hours, in the case of Scott, the repairman. And while I had no intention of spending the night in a motel in Venice, it turned out to be fine.

I know other things will happen. I am choosing to trust that I’ll get through those, too.

I spent a full hour this morning meditating, giving thanks, visualizing a pilgrimage that will bring no harm to anyone else. Or me.  Then, I ate breakfast, did morning ablutions, braved the day.

The first thing I did after hooking up the chains and brakes, testing the system, and studying a map of the day’s route, was drive into an empty parking lot and practice backing up.  Over and over, until I’d like to say I felt confident.

But I’m going to need more practice.  It’s really a two- person job backing into tight spaces. One driver, one to give hand signals. I’ll keep at it, though, and in the meantime, be grateful for large enough areas to either pull through or cut a circle.

I took Highway 41 for about a half hour to gain some confidence. And make sure everything is working properly. This meant a lot of stop and start at lights and such. Which gave me a good sense of the weight I’m pulling and how to gauge time needed.

Finally, I hit i-75. As bad as I remembered. These south Florida roads are in terrible shape. If they’re still making repairs because of hurricanes, they are working mighty slow.

Ruts, pot holes, lanes ending abruptly, no shoulders, merging lanes coming together at high speeds. I stayed in the right lane. Kept my own speed to 58. Which did not win me any friends.

Even so, it was knuckle whitening all the way to Tampa. Busy, fast,

drivers switching without signaling—at 75-80 mph. Right before St. Pete, high winds came up, which created a sound behind me I hadn’t heard. I figured out it was the wind about the same moment a gust rocked me. I dropped down another 10 miles per hour, which solved the problem.

I needed a break. It had been one hour and I wanted to feel ready for the impending congestion of the Tampa Bay area.  I negotiated a smooth exit, went into a McDonalds to use their toilet, walked around the parking lot for ten minutes.

Back on the road, I did feel less neck tension, plus my grip relaxed. I made it through Tampa, drove another hour. Stopped at a rest stop. Parked with the big rigs. That was fun. The drivers were friendly and seemed to enjoy the sight of Pearl.

More walking. I grabbed an apple from my supplies to reward myself and boost my blood sugar.

South of Ocala I noticed blackening skies ahead. Sure enough, a few drops turned into a steady rain. Thunderstorms over Gainesville ahead of me. I wondered if I’d need to pull over even as the wind increased with the size of the drops.

I was saved by some kind of traffic event which stopped all three lanes.  I sent up a quick prayer for the safety of all involved.  We stopped, started, crept forward for the next half hour or so, by which time, the storm wore itself out.

As I turned off onto the exit to Alachua, it was blue sky again. Albeit, with wet roads and some minor flooding along the sides.  I was happy to be driving the next 20 miles to my destination, Wildflower Farm, along quiet county roads bordered by massive, moss draped Oaks fronting dense fields of Pine.

The last three miles were badly washboarded sand. The kind I remember from life in Wesley Chapel. The kind which forces you down to 5 miles per hour.

Pearl was bucking even at that speed, which worried me, so I slowed even more. I crept along at 3 miles per hour, keeping my windows open so I could smell the fresh air.  Several butterflies checked me out, which I would have missed at a higher speed. Look for the positives.

Wildflower Farm is a lovely 45-acre farm with a year-round pond, which I am set up beside. They put in electric for their family members to come, then decided to add a composting toilet and outside shower, then decided to list it on Hipcamp. Which is where I found it.

If there weren’t a house being built directly across the pond from me–screeching of saw, pounding of nails, loud, jolly Mexican music at full volume for the workers, it would be the peaceful place I was hoping to find.

I sent a text to the host, thanking them for the lovely space. I then added, “By the way, you forgot to mention the construction. Do you know what time they begin in the morning and when they might end in the evening?”

She said she didn’t know.  Was sorry. Would bring by a gift to try to make up for it.

An hour later, her father arrived on a 4 x 4. Tim.

Tim looks to be in his early fifties. Very fit farmer. Handsome, with sandy hair, blue eyes crinkled with smile lines.  He had a dozen fresh eggs for me. Blue Aruacana, brown something. Still covered with the bloom, which means they’ll hold up better without refrigeration.

He explained it was his sister’s house being built. The entire family is going to be living on this farm/compound to “weather the coming times,” he told me solemnly.

Tim was solicitous, expressed sympathy about my hitch adventure, said, “if you need anything at all, just shoot a text. I’ll take care of you.”

I laughed at the thoughts his words conjured.

As I write this, the humidity is dropping because so is the temperature.  But the mosquitoes began hatching out today, according to Tim.  And sure enough, after sitting outside reading, serving as buffet for an hour, I’ve retreated inside Pearl, where it’s cozy.  I have all the windows open (they’re screened) and the door (also screened) and the workers have packed up for the night.

I’m about to make some dinner, then read some more, serenaded by the birds who seem to be as pleased as me at the cessation of noise.

—

Morning came early.  A strange, sorrowful dream involving ghosts and starving cats, David as a little boy heartbroken. I came awake to the low call of mourning doves. Fitting.

I made my way to the tidy little composting outhouse Tim built. Very pleasant inside.

No smell at all. This quirky print is on the wall.

I decided to use the handy sink area to wash some underthings.   

I may take advantage of the outside shower even though the water is not heated. Tim explained that the well water had been tested and is potable. I brought along a filter so I’ll still filter it, but how nice to have the ability to refill my containers.

I made my coffee, ate some fresh fruit and a muffin, drank a glass of water.  Wandered the field awhile, looking for the wildflowers the place is named after.

I think it’s still a bit early in the season because these were the only ones in bloom.

But the trees are lovely.

This is the view from my camping area.

That pond there in the middle is actually kind of low.

This is the view of my camping area from across the pond.

I wanted to spend my first couple of nights in Pearl at a place where I can test my systems before heading off into the Apalachicola Wilderness tomorrow. So far so good. My wifi hot spot works, which I don’t think it will for the next week. Despite the construction, this seems a good choice.

The breeze is gentle, butterflies come and go, goats are singing across the way. Some wind chimes dance me into gratitude.

And sometimes, those angels have representatives on earth who drive Harley’s. 

I loaded up Pearl early this morning, then managed to hitch her up by myself. It required backing and stopping, backing and stopping, until I was within range of the coupler.  I removed the trailer chocks, jacked up the hitch, saw I had about two inches more to move backward. Plus, I was in need of a three-inch adjustment to port side.

Using my thighs and hips, I bumped and pushed Pearl the necessary three inches until the hitch was directly in line with the ball. Then, I got behind the wheel, backed very, very slowly, rear hatch open so I could see, until I was in position to lower the hitch onto the ball.

I cranked the jack up high enough to maneuver, then the hitch slid onto the ball. I juggled that sucker, pushed, it, finally deemed it firmly in place.

I attached the safety chains, plugged in the 7-pin brake controller.  Got into the driver’s seat, turned on the engine, flipped the right turn signal. Got out to check. Yep, it worked. Repeated with the left. Yes.  Brakes? Yes. All systems go

I eased out of the shell covered drive onto level concrete roadway. Got out, checked everything again. Still good.

I sent up a little prayer of thanks, wended my way down the small lanes of Rambler’s Rest to River Road. Stopped one more time before entering the flow of traffic. Attached my leveler to the rear middle, the second one to the passenger side upper right.  Checked the hitch one last time.

There was a pause in the traffic, for which I was grateful. I eased onto the roadway.  There’s a huge amount of construction on River Road, two lanes down to one, pot holes, cones on the side of the road closing off access to the shoulder. But it’s the only way to I-75 north, which is where I needed to be until I bypassed Tampa, at which point my plans involved taking back roads.

I kept to 35 mph due to the torn-up road, slowed down completely for the pot holes, stayed alert to the sounds of Pearl behind me. I offered up a prayer of thanks for smooth sailing and I kid you not, immediately after I finished that prayer, there was a huge bump, followed by a popping sound. Pearl’s hitch had come unmoored, the only thing connecting her was the brake cable and security chains. Not good.

A line of traffic had formed behind me by now, probably swearing at me. A hundred yards or so ahead I saw a place where I could dodge through some traffic diverter cones to get off the roadway.  Just as I almost made it through, the chains snapped. Pearl was now loose for real, her tongue grinding her to a halt, half in the road, half out.

Shaken, I pulled Durga the rest of the way onto the shoulder.

I walked the few yards back to my poor Helio, tried to lift the tongue off the ground so I could push her by hand. It was impossible without the wheel jack wheel in place.

Cars were going around me at pretty fast speeds but no one was honking, mercifully. I was shaking like a leaf, trying to stay focused.

I walked around the trailer, hoping for inspiration. I remembered I had a tire jack in the basement storage. I thought maybe I could jack up the wheel jack, then be able to push Pearl the rest of the way off the road.

As I considered this possibility, , a couple of Harley’s roared up. An older man and an Amazon of a woman, tall, blond, strong shouldered, got off their bikes and came toward me.

“Looks like you got a situation,” the older man said.

“Yeah. I don’t know how this happened. I checked everything before I left.”

The Amazon said, “It looks like your tow chain is under grade for one thing.”

She and the older man walked toward the tongue. He tried to lift it himself, but no go.

So, we all tried to lift the tongue together but it still wasn’t working.

Cars continued to zoom by. It was getting hot.

“I have a jack,” I offered, still shaking, feeling like an idiot.

“Go get it,” the Amazon said. “I think if we can jack up that tongue, we can lower the wheel jack, then use it to push her out of the road. You’re in a dangerous place.”

“I know,” I said. “God, I feel like such an idiot. I really thought everything was okay.”

“Just get the jack,” she ordered. “We’ll figure out next steps once we get out of the road.”

“I am so grateful for your help,” I said, unlocking the basement storage and pulling out the jack. “I guess I get to use this faster than I imagined” it was a lame joke. Nobody laughed.

The man tried to take over my jack but he wasn’t strong enough. The Amazon kindly, deftly, pulled the crankshaft out of his hands, smoothly cranked up the tongue. this is the type of jack used, not a photo of how we used it

I slipped the wheel jack down. The three of us pushed Pearl off the roadway.

By then, two more Harley’s had stopped. Traveling companions, they wanted to know what they could do.

They all agreed that my safety chains didn’t have enough load bearing strength. Simply too feeble for the job being asked of them. Someone suggested the ball slipped out of the hitch (likely I hadn’t dropped it down securely like I thought) when it hit a pothole, then the chains, which should have taken up the stress, just snapped.

This meant the brake cable was the only thing holding it together for those last few feet until that, too, snapped apart, shredding wide open.  I was lucky Pearl hadn’t smashed into Durga. Or worse, no one behind me had smashed into Pearl.  I was also incredibly lucky that this happened on the River Road before I hit the freeway. We all agreed upon that. Had it come apart at 55mph…..

People could have died.

They said this brake cable could be repaired by an electrician. But since it’s Sunday, no shops are open.

Rick, one of the bikers, fiftyish, neat beard, said, “Hell, I could fix that if I were at home or had my tools. But that’s not doing you any good right now.  Let’s get her hitched up.  I suggest you drive the 7 miles to the Harbor Freight and get yourself some decent safety chains. You’ll still be without the lights or brakes but you’ll be able to tow her somewhere to wait until tomorrow.”

“You think the ball and hitch will hold that long?”

I was feeling pretty anxious after what’d happened.

“Oh yeah. We’ll seat her in the socket properly and you just keep it down to 40. You’ll be okay.”

They got me connected. I thanked them over and over again for stopping to help.

“You know, we’re all in this together,” Rick said.

The Amazon added, “If something like this happened to me, I’d want someone to stop. We all need to look out for one another. There’s enough bad right now in this world. We just need to do good.”

And with that, they were gone.

I watched them roar off, nearly cried with gratitude.

I sat for a few minutes gathering my wits. I think I was feeling a mild case of shock. Googled the address for Harbor Freight. Took a few deep breaths. Then drove so carefully, so anxiously, the 7 miles, with no brakes, no lights, hoping cops would not see me.

I bought proper safety chains. These suckers are literally twice the thickness of the little chains that were on there.

Right is broken undersize chain. Left, new one

Climbed on my back under the trailer so I could look under the tongue to figure out how to hook into the frame. Checked out the electric cable while under there, hoping it might be a plug in so I could just replace the entire thing right then and there. No luck on either score.

I jury rigged a hook up for the chains which seemed secure enough for now. A kind man stopped to see what I was up to. Approved of my solution. Said it was solid.

I then called two mobile RV repair businesses to see if one of them might be free to do the brake cable repair. No answer with either. Left messages. Realized that I wasn’t going to be driving to Alachua today after all so set about finding a decent motel for the night. One with a safe place to park my rig.

Less than two miles away, the old Florida style Island Sun Inn had good yelp reviews. I called. The very nice, young Indian woman gave me a Triple A rate on a single room, which was a bit of luck because it’s still spring break here with in season rates. They had one room available.

Double door into my room from the courtyard. Actually quite nice.

Pleasant courtyard.

If I weren’t waiting for a repair person, I’d dive into that warm pool.

I’m in my room now, waiting for one of the mobile repair men who finally called a few minutes ago. He’ll be here before 5. In the meantime, I’m remembering the importance of letting go of expectations.

Go with the flow. Be grateful that this learning lesson happened in a way which carried minimal damage. Be even more thankful no one got hurt.

After my repair person finishes, it it isn’t too late, I’ll go for a swim. If it is, I’ll go for a walk. There seems to be a county jail or prison just down the road. Interesting. And the beach is three blocks west.

The motel is quiet, the clientele pretty straightforward. The young woman at the front desk assured me that it’s a crime free area. I wonder if the proximity to that lock up facility. Has anything to do with that. Smile

* *

It’s 5:30. Scott, the mobile repair guy, arrived a few minutes ago.

We looked it all over together. He said the bolt holding the chains had snapped off. He thought my emergency fix was good but not legal. He told me he’s going to go to Lowes, buy a proper size bolt, come back and set up the chains correctly. Then he’ll repair the 7-pin cable. I tell him I appreciate his help and his time on a Sunday. He shrugs it off, heads out.

Scott is the kind of blue color guy I dated when I was in high school. Smart, but not book smart. The kind of guy who can look at something broken, come up with a solution, make it work. He smokes, which is not surprising, likes to have a cigarette dangling out of his mouth while working. A kind of Fix It Man Clint Eastwood.  His tee shirt has some kind of warped American flag image on the back. He wears his baseball cap backward.  Works hard, clean.

I dated a blue collar biker once. He rode a chopper/Harley. He turned his garage into his bedroom so he could sleep in the same room with his bike, which he loved that much.  He worked on his marbled blue chopper in that room, slept i next to the bike, tried to fuck me in that room on a bed smelling of oil. A fan of meth and alcohol, he couldn’t get it up. His bike was a nice ride, though.

—-

I’m guessing this little adventure is going to put about $300 dollars onto my credit card. I hope it’s not more than that. Scott says he gets paid $150 per hour, plus parts. He’s driving, shopping, but given Florida traffic, that’s going to be an hour right there.  I suspect he’s pretty efficient with the actual repair work.

No matter, I’m fortunate to have someone competent show up on a late Sunday afternoon to help get me back in shape for an early morning departure.

—-

Scott has returned. I was close. It took 45 minutes.  He’s installed the bolt but the chain is too big for the exiting attachment holes. He’s now drilling the holes out, he says, so the S hook can fit. ,Oops,

it seems he doesn’t have the right size drill bit because he emptied out his tool box earlier today to clean it. He tells me he may need to go get one. Meanwhile, he’s working on the brake cable, which was the original issue. Paring away the rubber after clean cutting off the mangled bits. He’ll be splicing soon.

All of a sudden, a guy appears, riding up on a three-wheel bicycle. He looks to be late 40’s. Clean blue shirt, well-worn jeans. Kind of has the air of someone who might have been released from that facility across the way. Friendly.

“Man, that is sure a cute trailer,” he exclaims. ”I love that trailer! Two people could sleep inside that trailer real comfortable, couldn’t they?”

“Yes, they can.” I answer. I’m loathe to give any information about whether I’m traveling with a second person or not.

“Can I ask where you got that trailer? I see from that paper license plate on here that you got it today.” He gestures to the saran wrap thing I created this morning with a kind neighbor woman. She turned out to be a master furniture carpenter who sells online.

Funky temporary plate. Hope it satisfies the camouflaged, jack booted Florida state troopers I’ve seen. They look scary.

“Oh, I got it several days ago. I just put that up this morning so hopefully the cops won’t want to pull me over.”

“Oh, they’ll be nice to you. Someone with a trailer that cute.”  He studies is a moment. “Can I ask how much it cost? I don’t want to be rude but I’d sure love one like that.”

I think for a moment, decide there’s no harm in sharing, “13, 900,” I say. “Trust me, that’s a good price for this little trailer.”

Scott keeps on working. Doesn’t look up or acknowledge any of this.

Bicycle man says, “It is. I have a Jeep Cherokee. I don’t think I can pull a trailer with that.”

“This one only weighs 1150,” I say, “plus 200 for the hitch and all. I bet you could.”

“Yeah. You’re right. I think I could. I don’t have a hitch though. I’d have to get a hitch.”

I laugh. “Yep.  That’s what this kind fellow is working on right now. I had a little hitch challenge today.”

“Well, I hope it works out. You take care of yourself and that trailer.  And you have a safe trip. Man, I just love that trailer,” he mutters as he rides away.

I take a picture of Scott working on the splices. “For my blog,” I tell him. “No one understands what all such a fix entails. I’d like to share, if you don’t mind.”

“Have at it,” he says. “Do your thing.” Adds, “ I have to go back to Lowes. I need to exchange this O-ring for a smaller one to fit through the hole. That will be easier than drilling out the steel.”

My brain sees dollar signs adding up like what you see in a Scrooge McDuck comic.

“Oh, that’s a bummer,” I say, a touch mournfully.

“No problem. Hang tight. Almost there.”.

I see he’s color coded the two ends of the brake cable already.  He’s definitely making progress.

“Okay. Don’t worry, be happy, right?” I ask.

“That’s about right,” he says.

Gets back into his huge truck.  Spends a few minutes on the phone talking to someone.  Then roars away.

Back much faster this time, 30 minutes.  It takes him about a half hour to fine tune the chain fittings and the electrical wiring.

“Get in and start ‘er up,” he says. “I don’t want to do the final wrap on that cable until I know it works like it should.”

We go through the brakes, turn signals, lights. All function as before.  The chain set up is really secure this time, no doubt about that.

Now, I just have to make sure to get that ball into that hitch all the way, each and every time.

Two and a 3/4 hours from start time to finish. 75 minutes of that for driving. I ask for an adjustment to cover travel time.  Total bill, $357, parts and labor. Finished cable on top of tow bar, chains underneat.

I give him an extra  twenty as a tip.

Tomorrow, I repeat to myself, we roll.

I work in the mornings before the heat of the day. I find it enjoyable work, making my little Helio into a home on wheels. I’m happy I gave myself five days to do this because I find, as the days pass, adjustments need to be made.

Tuesday:  I finally get to pick her up. Drive half an hour to meet Allen, then do a walk around with him, familiarize myself with all systems. He helps me attach my trailer mirror system to the Rav only we discover they don’t actually fit, despite being reassured they would. I write the check to Allen (yes, people still do checks), head out. Find a nearby RV dealer, purchase mirror extenders that seem like they might work.

Drive her to the Myakka River Cottage, pull her into the front parking space.  Unhook from Durga. Park Durga across the lane in an empty lot I’ve sought approval from  in advance with the property management people.

Wednesday: Dig pretty Tuscan stick-on tiles out from storage boxes. Spend two hours carefully matching the pattern while affixing to Pearls’ wall. I create a small backsplash and put a bit of color into the walls of beige.

Dig out the roll of contact Velcro from my packed supply boxes. Cut and attach strips to mounting plates of two lightweight black wall spice racks. Attach racks- one to kitchen area, one to wall next to bed as a nighttime ledge for glasses, small flashlight, pepper spray, and the books I’m reading at bedtime.

Unscrew the table and legs from the floor. Place one table down between bench to create double bed. Store both legs in under carriage, or “basement,” as I discovered it’s called. Puzzle over what to do with the second table top. I finally wrap it in the spare fitted sheet I’ve brought along, then slide it at an angle under the bed. It barely fits.

I bring the memory foam mattress topper out of its box, lay it across bed. While it’s expanding, I pull the down mattress topper out of its box, shake the hell out of it, then lay it on top of the mattress topper.  Take a short break to drink water. Reflect.

Returning to work, I take the linen sheets out of storage, make up the bed. This becomes a bit of an operation, with me needing to lay down across the mattress to pull the sheets into place. The mattress fits right up against the wall on three sides so its tight. I located the Guatemalan woven cotton blanket inherited from Doug, which I washed, brought along for Pearl. Place it on the bed. Study it. After some adjustment to straighten the pattern, I’m satisfied. It’s pretty. Unlikely to be too hot or too cold, it leaves me room to add the down blanket I’ve brought as back up should I need it.

I put the pieces of a stainless-steel tension spring shower curtain rod together. Mount it above the bed area, hand cute little cloth storage bags for use for various things as needed.

Bring out the three bins of supplies for kitchen and maintenance from the cottage, fit them into the cupboards in the sink area. I attempt to create a system. The far left becomes the cookware and assorted supplies cupboard, which includes the water filter and portable water carrying bucket. The middle cupboard becomes dishware and utensils storage on the top shelf, small broom and dustpan to the side, first aid kit in the middle.  On the floor goes the electric skillet, which just fits. The right storage area is where I place a woven basket holding my linens: towels, washcloths, spare pillow case, and the personal hygiene biodegradable wipes for when I’m boondocking.  Underneath that shelf goes the porta potty with the biodegradable bags which go inside it.

Before

after

(you can see the backsplash no longer exists)

The last thing I do for the day is bring out the pale blue, non-slip rug I’d brought for the floor. It turns out it’s about four inches too wide, about six inches too long. I don’t want to cut this rug because it’s a good one with seamed edges.  I decide I’ll take it, and the mirrors (which cost too much and don’t fit) to a thrift store—someone should get use of them.

Thursday: I come out all happy in the morning at the amount I’ve accomplished to discover that the stick-on tiles have fallen off due to a combination of the marbled fiberglass walls and Florida’s humidity. Ditto the mounted spice shelves. Frustrated, I place them on top of the counter to take stock of the situation. I’ll figure something out.

The woman in the cottage just down from mine comes outside.  “You’ve certainly been a busy bee, working all day yesterday.”

She’s friendly, curious.  We chat awhile.  She owns her cottage, comes from Canada every year for the winter. Works as a consultant. I don’t ask ‘consultant in what’ because from the looks of her cottage, her clothing, and just general aura, I’m thinking she’s maybe just getting by.

I have a brainstorm. Ask if she’d like a pretty new rug. “It’s the first day of Spring,” I say, “consider it a spring gift from the Goddess.”  She laughs. Wonders if she might see the rug.

I bring it out to show her.

She is delighted.

“Oh, wow!  It’s so soft, so pretty,” she exclaims, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t fit.  I had the floor plan but I didn’t take into account the wheel wells. I’m glad you like it.”  I hand it to her.

“Oh, my gosh. This is so nice. I’ll replace that ratty one in front of my electric fireplace.”

Happy to have created a bit of equinox joy, I head out to run errands.  It takes forty minutes to drive 11 miles. Oh, how I hate Florida traffic.  And I take Highway 41, which is supposedly better than the freeway.

I’d researched online, discovered a cat rescue thrift store, so in memory of my beloved Rodney, I donate the mirror system. “It’s brand new,” I tell the woman who takes it from me, “Everything’s there. It just didn’t fit. It cost $149 new, if that helps.” I add.

I then hunt out the Sarasota Trader Joe’s.

I’ve decided to stock up on camping type foods and staples while in the area. Another 40 minutes of driving. I’m glad I’m not pulling the trailer for this excursion.

I find many good things: prepared dal, veggie tikka masala, cans of beans, unsweetened fruit cups, small cans of unsweetened pineapple juice and cans of seltzer water to make mocktails, prepared cilantro rice, cans of white tuna packed in water, dried wild blueberries, oats, a decent looking freeze dried powdered cream, small cartons of oat milk, bags of raw cashews and pepitas, a bag of dark chocolate/almond/raisin trail mix, box of mixed grain crackers, Swedish nut and whole grain flatbread, peanut butter filled pretzels, a carton of chicken broth. I’m going to eat like a queen.  I’ll buy fresh fruit and veggies, plus refrigerated things, in small quantities, local, each time I head into my longer stayover locations.

I notice a Target on my way back, remember that I need another basket for storage, a small wall mirror to mount with the contact strips (which seem to hold the hooks up successfully), a full- length broom, some trailer hitch grease, and as it turns out, a can of Slime, which is an emergency tire fix. I also go big and get myself a pair of cotton shorts, something I do not normally wear. I’m making peace with my body as I age and this heat is showing me that comfort is where it’s at.

I offer up deep thanks for being able to do this.  Then, I spot a sushi restaurant across the street.  Oh yes, please!  I’ve been eating salads, fruit, and today a tomato and cheese omelet, in my cottage. A blast of fish protein is just the thing.

J-Pan Sushi turns out to be a really nice place, with very fresh fish. They have a house salad dressing of tamari/sesame/ginger that I love. I sit at the sushi bar, watch the chefs slice, think how much Janice would enjoy this place. She’s the one who first turned me onto sushi; in Tampa, at her favorite neighborhood sushi bar, so much like this one.

Back at the cottage, I unload everything into the house. Climb back into Pearl, study the situation.  I decide to hang this rustic little watercolor of the Myakka River purchased from the artist today in support of a Grange  fundraiser. Since I collected Pearl, then outfitted her while staying along its shores, it seems a fitting reminder for the road.

It’s almost six so I decide to go for a walk, read, and call it a day.

Friday:  I had a brainstorm in my sleep. I’m going to use the contact strips which hold the hooks up (they’re supposed to hold up to five pounds) to remount those spice racks on the walls. I’ll use three of them per rack. I’ll also use some of the Velcro strips which weren’t strong enough for the racks to mount a red basket to the counter. This should stop it from sliding around while driving.  I’ll then use the rest of yesterday’s discarded Velcro strips to create a non-slip base for my plastic clothing dresser, which fits in the little space between bench and counter, right against the wall.

I hate plastic but load weight is a real concern. I have to make sure not to overload Pearl. One of those three drawer plastic dressers became my clothing storage solution. Actually, lighter than my suitcases.

The dresser  is under the salmon drape next to the counter. The new rugs work. The smaller one between the seats covers up the table post fitting, which left uncovered, was going to bite my toe eventually, I just knew it.

Feeling inspired by my successes, I use the Velcro tape for what I actually purchased it for, which is to hang my lightweight black privacy curtains. The strips just fit across the top of the window frames, creating a nice seal. The black ribbons sewed onto the curtains for tie ups work well, too. I’m happy with the way they look.

The windows are tinted but I realized that when I’m inside at night, with the lights on, anyone could peek inside. Now, with black out curtains unrolled, I can leave my windows open for ventilation but still have some privacy.

I place the bucket I picked up at Target into the spot under the front battery/propane storage cover where a propane tank would go. I’ve decided against propane, hoping my solar system will provide enough back-up electricity to run the few appliances I’m going to need.

Inside the bucket, I place the four tire chocks, my larger, easier to read tire gauge, a 50-to-30 amp electrical adapter for those times I may have hook up, the Slime tire repair, and the hitch grease. Space in the basement area is tight so this adaptation helps a lot.

Here’s the front with the cover closed.

Into the actual basement area, I now fit the utility strength extension cord, the tire jack, my axe, the trailer leveler’s crank rod, the case of ground levels, that full-length broom.

I move the food storage and water storage bins out of the cottage and into the back of Durga. I shift things around a bit, aiming for the best fit with the most accessibility. Weight is sthe primary factor in all of these decisions. I need to stay mindful of how I allocate and place things.

The Rav is rated for towing up to 2500 pounds but I prefer to keep it under 2000.  Pearl weighs 1150, her axle and battery another 200.  I figure I’ve put 3-400 max inside her and I want to keep it that way.  The heavier stuff, my 2000w solar battery, the 200w suitcase solar panels, my electric/battery powered cooler, my bins of food and my bin of water, the tool kit, will stay in the back of Durga.

I think this distribution system should work. It will be interesting to see how it affects both Rav performance and mileage when I’m towing.  I was averaging 36 mpg on the drive here, fully loaded. I have no idea what to expect, but I’ll be happy if I average 20-22 towing, with everything factored in.

After I finish up with today’s work, I make my lunch, put it and some water, along with my binoculars, into my day pack and head out for an afternoon tour of the Myakka River State Park. I’ve read about it and its natural beauty and want to experience it. Kind of a reward for being so productive and focused.

I have a wonderful afternoon which I will write about in a separate post.

When I get home, I charge up my 2000w battery for the road, make my dinner, write my blog entries, chat with a friendly neighbor who lives down the lane, go for a walk in the cooling evening. Tomorrow I’ll do laundry, go gas up Durga, check her tire pressure, do final loading, then pack everything except the refrigerated things, which I’ll put in the cooler Sunday morning before heading off.

After a busy early morning doing more Pearl preparation, I realized it was a cooler day than usual.  At 71 degrees, I can function happily so decided to take the afternoon off, drive the 30 odd miles to Myakka River State Park, eat my lunch on one of the many trails I’d read about.

You can’t seem to get anywhere in Florida without spending time on the freeway. Sure enough, I was treated to 11 miles (30 minutes) of dense traffic before making the turn off to Highway 72.

Highway 72 took me through some  pretty countryside.  The big old pastures full of moss draped Oaks along the wetland kind of scenery that still exists in Florida in small doses.

Small doses because the lack of ecological consciousness that accompanies the greed driven, high paced development of Florida is rendering it unrecognizable. But that’s for another post.

I passed the Sarasota National Cemetery,

which may not be a massive as Arlington, but carries enough gravitas to remind one that too many people die in wars that only benefit the rich.

When I arrived at Myakka State Park, there was a line of nine cars before me waiting to enter. Friday, 11:30, Spring Break?  I suppose it was to be expected.  I paid my $4.00, added one for the donation box, and entered.

Most of the cars seemed to stop at the same places, posted viewing spots along the road. I passed slowly by these spots, managed to find my way to the few smaller drives, side roads, and trail heads which exist.

Yes, there were a lot of people. Yet I managed to get away from the crowds some of the time to enjoy some lovely sights.

 

And Birds.

Not as many birds as I’d hoped, given it’s a huge waterway, but the variety was pretty great.

I caught a glimpse of a Red Shouldered Hawk with a snake dangling in its talons. It zoomed directly in front of me, taking its catch to feed its young, I imagine.  

This isn’t my photo-I wasn’t fast enough-sadly,  it didn’t have a phot credit name, but yeah. this is pretty much what I saw. Great capture.

Plenty of Ibis here and there, a half dozen Great Blue Herons I could see scattered throughout the entire park, several times standing right next to honkin’ huge alligators.

This guy is actually almost five feet tall and that is not a log next to him. Look closely.

Further afield, this bevy of beauties includes Anhinga’s cozying up to some alligators lazing away in the sun.

The Canopy Trail, which I’d really hoped to take, was closed. I didn’t find out why.  Here is the boardwalk through the canopy, It is raised 25 feet above the ground and travels 100 feet through an oak/palm canopy. Completed in 2000, it was the first public tree top trail in North America.  Our imagination will have to help us imagine the prarie/hammock interface it hovers above as well as the wildlife we might have seen if only….

Meandering happily long the riverside, I saw plenty of Grebes and Moorhens, then one Roseate Spoonbill. There might have been a few more off in the distance but I couldn’t zoom in close enough. It’s almost the end of season for them. They’ll be heading south in a few weeks.

I never got tired of seeing these guys. Most of them were snoozing but this one had a bit of something going on.

Another Great Blue. They are so majestic.  This one is hunting along the wetland at the edge of the upper lake which the river opens into on its way south

Also along the lake shore, these tules are in full bloom. They remind me of giant green onions.

Leaving the lake and moving further along the river, I spy a bunch of lazy bones enjoying the sun.

Even with all the water in this state park,  I notice many of the native palms are in drought. It’s no secret that Florida’s aquifers are being tapped beyond repair to fuel the endless golf course communities and tech industries sprouting up, you see signs of it even here when you pay attention.

But let us leave Myakka State Park holding onto beautiful memories

And finally, the  wetland prairie.

with air so sweet from the awakening prairie grass I felt connected to the Divine as I stood breathing it in.

Yes, we are all One. It helps me to be reminded of that.

Blessed Be.

 

Driving into Venice, Florida to pick up Pearl, my 2022 Helio O4, at 10:00 am I was as nervous as a young person getting ready for their first date.

After all, I’d driven 4157 miles to collect her, based on a phone call, an I Phone hand held live camera walk around, and my instinct that the people selling her are good people. Still, with all those miles behind me, I did find myself worrying.

What if there is something wrong that didn’t show up in the video tour or walk around?  What if, after seeing her in person, I have buyer’s remorse? What if I’m unable to hook her up myself, back her into place myself, handle her on the road?

All of those doubts melted as Allen led me to her. She is as pretty as I remember. As solid as advertised. And her red flame matches my red Rav Prime, which is just cool.

Yes, a bit silly that it matters, because it did happento be a coincidence, her color. It had nothing to do with my decision to buy her. But still, hooked up, what a sweet visual.

And the guy at the RV supply shop I went to first thing after driving her away (I needed to get mirror extenders; the expensive ones I brought all the way from Portland didn’t fit), said, “That sure is a real cute set up. I’ve never seen one of those Helio’s before.”

I proceeded to tell him about her molded fiberglass on aluminum frame with sealed seams, the solar/electric/propane power options, the fact she was built in Canada. He said, “Oh, if this cute little trailer was made in Canada, she’ll last.”

But back to her pick-up.

Allen walked me around the outside, explaining everything in detail. Then, opened the door and showed me around the inside. I’d done so much research online, including reading the owner’s manual last night, that none of what he explained was new, but it still is nice to see things in 3D.

He’d purchased a new closed seal battery for me, had everything lubed, greased, and oiled. Corrected the tire pressure right before I arrived. He even replaced the non-slip waterproof top to the step. Such a kind man.

I practiced hitching her up. One side of the chains turns out to be a tight fit– I wish it had just one more link. I’ll have to figure that out. We then tested the lights. Perfect. Turn signals? Yep. We tested my new blue tooth brake system. Perfect.

He then helped me assemble that portable side mirror system I’d brought along, which was a good thing. The instructions were confusing and it really did require two people.  But….not perfect. The stupid thing didn’t fit, though I’d been assured it would.

Turns out the bottom railing is just too narrow for my vehicle.

Damn. I’d have to drive with less-than-ideal visibility my first time on the road to find an RV service department.

Fortunately, there was one about seven miles away.  This is Florida. Smile. Though I could see pretty well along the sides, just not far enough back to feel completely comfortable.

I located the dealership. They had suction cup mirror extenders which fit my mirrors. They work pretty good.We hit the road,

Durga pulling Pearl on our maiden voyage. I drove quite carefully at first, testing my faithful Durga’s ability to handle the load. She is a champ. Easy acceleration, good braking, corners well. Minimal wind resistance until I hit the freeway and those big trucks go zooming by. Even then it’s not too bad, but you feel them. Still, I’ve also decided not to drive faster than 60 while towing. I think that’s wise. And once I can get off the freeways, I’ll stick to blue highways as much as possible, which I prefer anyway.

I brought her back to my little Myakka River retreat, unhooked her, came inside to eat some lunch at last.

This evening I’ll do a smudge ritual to cleanse and prepare her for her part of the pilgrimage.  Then, tomorrow morning, I’ll begin the first of two days of setting her up inside, creating my cozy home on the road.

Blessed Be.