Author: Nyla Anne

Another campground with nobody in it.  Of the 48 sites, four are occupied by other campers, plus two sites by Camp Hosts, then me.  Jean, one of the Camp Hosts, tells me that they had a lot of cancellations. I’m not surprised.

I raced the storm front most of the day getting here. Arrived about four. Sat up. Took a walk through the darkening sky.  Ate some dinner, then sat in my campsite watching the severe weather cell roll in as the rain came and went.

Not a bird was heard singing in the sunset.

At 7:30 pm, the wind picked up. By 8:00, gusts were so strong they began blowing anything not tied down over.

At 10:00, the thunder rumbling began. Deep voiced, ominous.

At 11:30 pm, lightning cracking continuous blazes of white so bright it lit up the inside of my little trailer, which was rocking with the thunder.

Somewhere around 1:00 am, I heard the roaring whoosh of a tornado through the trees to the north of me. It targeted Coffeeville, 12 miles away.

The rain and hail struck in force around the same time.

At 7:30 this morning, all was still. Soaking wet but quiet. Birds began singing again.

This is me giving thanks for making it through the edges again.

At 10:00 am, work crew arrived to begin clean up. Two hours later, the chain saws and blowers are still going strong. They say the worst of it is over.

I’ve actually had to put on a sweater, the steaming temperature of the past several days has dropped that much.

As I was getting ready to walk down to the lake, a fellow camper stopped by and rolled down her window.

“I just love your little trailer,” she opened. “It’s very noteworthy. I told my husband when you rolled in last night that I saw that trailer down in Alabama. Right?”

“You’re right. I was in Pickensville. Left this morning.”

“Oh, we weren’t in Pickensville, but I know I saw you driving. It’s so distinctive.”

Distinctive Pearl in our North Graysport site. All level and everything.

She was not in a hurry, though she said she was heading home ahead of her husband and grandkids to ready the house.  Instead, she pulled into my space to visit.

Pauline shared that she was born in Gainesville, Florida but has lived here, a few miles from the park, for the past 30 years.  Before that, they were in Tuskalooska.

“We just bought a little used trailer, not as cute as yours, but big enough for the brood of us, and decided to come for a night to try it out. We didn’t know we was going to be getting such a storm.”

“Yeah, that was pretty amazing, wasn’t it?  I sat and watched the clouds rolling in until the rain started up.”

“How’d you hold up in there?”

“I was snug. But I did get rocked around by those blasts of thunder and lightning at 11:30.  And that rain and hail sounded like little bombs going off on the roof for quite awhile.”

She laughs, and at that moment a little blonde Pekinese pops its head up from her lap.

“Oh,” I exclaim, “I grew up with a blonde Pekinese. His name was Cha-Ling but we called him Charley. They still have those guard dog tendencies they were bred for by the Chinese, even though now they’re so small.”

“This one here is Sweetheart.

And she’s a thing.”

She pulls affectionately on the dog’s ear.

“She’s my baby.  That’s why she’s shivering. She’s cold and scared. This is the first time she’s been camping and that lightning just hit her like shit on a pole.”

We discuss dogs, cold and otherwise. No shit on poles.

Then she says something I ask her to repeat,

“Excuse me,” I say, “did you say monkeys?”

She giggles.

“I did. I have to go home to feed my monkeys. I’m a Monkey Mama. They haven’t been all night on their own before. I imagine they might have just gone bananas.”

She laughs heartily.

“What kind of monkeys do you have?”

I ask because it’s clear she wants to talk about them.

“Well, right now, I have two Spider Monkeys. (Spider Monkeys in the wild, where I personally believe they belong)

Both boys. But I’ve had me lots of Spiders, went through a spell with raising MaCaque’s, had some Marmosets and Capuchins.  I really love me my monkeys.”

I’m fascinated.

This woman, who looks to be in her early 60’s, well coiffed, driving a nice car, is into monkeys. And has a Pekinese.

“I think you must be a pretty interesting woman,” I tell her. Meaning it.

“Oh, honey. We’s all interesting, when you get down to it. But I guess I’ve got me some interesting angles.”

I ask more questions about the monkeys.

She shares that she doesn’t believe the government has the right to know everything about us, so she doesn’t register her monkeys anywhere.

“I guess I’m kinda what you might call a black market monkey trader,” she laughs boisterously. “Hell, I’ve met people in campgrounds just like this to sell them a monkey. Only after I determine they’re going to be good monkey parents, though. I mean, it’s a life long commitment. It isn’t like getting a dog. These monkeys live as long as we do,” she tells me.

“Even the little ones?” I ask.

Then, before I can stop myself, add, “How much does a monkey cost?”

She enjoys my curiosity. Shows me a picture of one of her boys.

“How much you think a little guy like that costs?”

“I have no idea.”

And I really don’t, so I hazard a guess. “Maybe a thousand dollars.”

She laughs even harder.

“Oh, Honey!  They go for 18k when they’re babies.”

“Good grief!” I say. “You make 18 thousand dollars selling a monkey?”

“Sweetheart, I sell ’em for 11,000 cash on the spot. That’s a very good deal. That’s why I’m selling in campgrounds and parks.”

She laughs again.

She tells me how she was partners for awhile with another woman, splitting the costs of purchase, but explains she would do the actual raising.

“These Spider babies need lots of cuddling. For the first year, their own mamas wear them on the front. So, I wear them on the front to get them ready.  I diaper ’em and love em.  It’s like having a toddler that never grows up,” she says, emphatically, “They cuddle you, love you, then all of a sudden, they’ll bit you.  Not hard, not the Spiders. But that’s why I give up on the Capuchins. Those sons a bitches bite hard.     (Capuchin Monkey)

I had bites all up and down on my arm. I give it a year, decided uh, huh. Not for me. I give away at a loss the pair I had. Switched to Spiders. But I broke it off with that woman because she didn’t check out her buyers. She wanted me to just give up one of them I’d been raising to some man she only met on the phone. I was like, no. Not a chance. We’s done. I’ll pay you back your half of what we paid but I’m keeping the monkey.”

Pauline keeps cuddling her puppy. It’s clear she loves the animals.

She mentions something about when she had her open heart surgery.

“You had open heart surgery?” I ask, dumfounded.

I’m feeling pretty dumb, alright, with the way I keep repeating things she says.

“I did. Here,” and she throws opens her blouse to show me her scar. She’s not wearing a bra and she doesn’t seem the least bit modest. Just opens her shirt wide for me to see.

Her scar is the white of an older scar. It starts just below her collar bone and descends down below her breast. (Not Pauline, this is a file photo)

“I hear the recovery is hard,” I say.

Then tell her, “I may have to go through something similar. I had two valves fail due to Covid, then they discovered I have an ascending aortic aneurism. It may make sense for them to open me up, they hinted.”

She puts her hand out, touches my arm with compassion.

“Honey, it isn’t all that bad. The hardest part is this: you got to accept that you’re a heart patient. You can’t do the things you think you can the way you used to. It’s a big change. But I tell you this, it’s been ten years and I’m living my life doing what I love. Which is raising my monkeys.  And my niece’s drug affected babies.  That’s the two kids you probably seen last night running around before the storm. We adopted them legal to make sure they get to be with family.”

We discuss drug affected babies, OCD, schooling.  Up to now it’s been a happy conversation. But suddenly, Pauline becomes very serious,

“Now, I’m not a racist. But I do not see why they gotta put my kids in a classroom with all the black kids. They’re the only white kids in there. Just because they don’t learn easy. That just aint right.”

I offer, “Maybe they’ll get a better education this way. You know, kids in multi-cultural classrooms often do better in all kinds of ways.”

“Nah. I’m thinking of home schooling them.  That little girl is going to be 12. I do not want her coming home with some boyfriend from her class. I won’t have it.”

And with that, Pauline, sweet, compassionate, fun Pauline, loses some of her charm.

I choose a more neutral topic.

“I’m heading up to Hot Springs, Arkansas tomorrow if the roads are open. I read that a lot of the highways are closed due to flooding and sink holes. It’s terrible.”

“Well, if you can’t go there, you just come stay with us. We have electricity. We can hook you up. You can meet the monkeys.”

She asks for my phone number, which I give her. There’s no  cell signal at this campground but she tells me she’ll call me  and when I get in range, I’ll know the missed call is her.

Then, somehow, she’s going on about Kamala and Tampon Tim and how glad she is they didn’t win.

“They wouldn’t know how to handle national emergencies like the one we’re facing.”

“I think the system was working pretty good,” I counter.

“Well, all I know is, Trump may be a liar and he may be getting rich off our backs, but he’s good on emergencies and national security. He’s not afraid to stand up to those other countries who’ve been taking advantage of us for so long.”

I see that she’s bought the whole tariff’s are good for us line of b.s..

“You know, Pauline,” I try, “I don’t think those tariffs are going to do anything but hurt people like you and me.  Trump and his whole gang are getting richer and richer with the stuff he’s getting away with.  I don’t know if I could guarantee that Kamala Harris and Tim Walt would have been perfect, but I do believe that they would have been  humane.  And I’m not afraid to say it, Kamala is at least decent.”

She laughs good naturally.

“Honey,” she says, ” All politicians are corrupt.  I don’t think any of ’em are decent.  We need a new system, we sure do.  In the meantime, as long as I feel safe, I’m happy.”

“The sad thing is,” I tell her, “a lot of people in our country don’t feel safe anymore.  And it has nothing to do with foreign countries. This new administration has put targets on the back of a lot of good people, people who may be gay or lesbian, or immigrants to our country. Or people who may identify as Transgender.  Heck, even just because they’re liberal.  I imagine by now you’ve figured out I’m not a Republican?”

She thinks this is hysterical.

“Darling, I could tell you weren’t a Republican when I saw your trailer. Even before you opened your mouth.  But guess what?  I still like you. You’re fun. And you’re still welcome to come stay with us if you can’t get to Arkansas. Even if you’re not a Republican.”

She laughs, continues,  “I mean that. We can argue us some politics over a cold drink. And I don’t mean no sweet tea.”

She pats me on the arm, puts her car in gear, and eases on out of the campground.

 

See that barge?

While it was still dark this morning, the Captain had a little problem with this three barge wide train. He ran it into the bank of that island or ran aground on the rocks lining it. Not sure which.  The end result was the same–that barge was stuck.

I watched for an hour as the Captain piloted the Tug back and forth between either end trying to push, then pull it.

I observed some tricky maneuvering through that narrow channel.

He finally sent these hands to uncouple the innermost line of barges,

which he then towed away, one by one. I believe he pulled them back to the lock upriver about a mile.

A couple of hours later, he pushed out the remaining two barge wide train then continued down river without retrieving the ones he’d uncoupled.

The name, ironically,  of the tugboat?

The Black Belt.

I packed up and left Pickensville, heading west, then south, toward North Graysport, Mississippi.

The sky was warning of storms to come but the clouds were still high when I spotted this diner in Carollton as I rolled through the tiny town. I enjoy supporting local businesses so decided to stop for breakfast.  I mean,  there’s been so few cafes open in the mornings on this trip I felt it was my duty to support one.

I drove around the block until I found a place to park in an empty lot by the courthouse.  Walked on back, waving at the Sheriff who sat in his cruiser eyeballing me.  He waved back.

I entered the diner in time to hear the cook shout out, “We outta grits. We outta biscuits. We outta cornbread and applesauce.  We still got bacon.”

There weren’t many people in the place but they all checked me out. I smiled. They smiled back. I was okay.

I sat down and the server said, “If’n you want coffee we only got one cup left in the pot.”

“I’ll take it,” I said. “I’m a one cup girl.”

She bustled off while I studied the menu.

Big on meat. Out of the stuff I might have ordered.

She came back with my coffee. “Do ya know what ya want?”

“I’ll just have scrambled eggs and toast. That’s plenty.”

“You want tots with that?  The breakfast special comes with taters.”

“Oh.  Well, yeah, I’ll have the tots. Thank you.”

She went away.  I tasted my coffee. Weak and bitter. Worst coffee I’ve had in a long, long  time. Maybe ever.

A couple of men in camo-fatigues came in. Hunters. They knew what they wanted, called it out to the cook before they even sat down.

A young couple in front of me asked the server over. Seems that there was something wrong with his pancakes. The server apologized, took his plate, told him she’d be back and they’d get it right this time.

I checked my emails to fill time.  The server brought the hunters their meals.  She brought the right pancakes back to the man. I smiled. Drank my water. Looked hopeful.

A second server I hadn’t realized was a server (she was sitting on a stool chatting with one of the customers), asked the first server, “What happened to that woman’s breakfast?”

“I think I got it,” one of the hunters said. “I ordered the omelet but got scrambled with tots. I was so hungry I just started eatin’ it.”

I heard the cook say to the server, “Well, now I got this omelet. Comin’ right up. What I sposed to do with it?”

I spoke up, “I’ll take it. That’s fine. I don’t want you to waste any food.”

“You sure, honey?”

“I’m sure. Yeah, it’s fine. I’m hungry. I’m easy. I’ll eat it.”

The hunter said, “I’m real sorry, Ma’am.  I probly should have told her, but I just dug in without thinking.”

“Well, we can consider ourselves switched breakfast friends,” I said.

Studied my food.

The plate she placed before me held a thin egg wafer with filling, floating in grease. Next to it sat two, limp, equally greasy pieces of bacon. I pulled a piece of egg off with my fork. Inside, chunks of ham and bacon.  Nothing else.

I continued to pull the egg away from the filling, ate most of it. Left what ended up being a very generous pile of cooked pig on my plate.

The woman half of the couple with the wrong pancake met my eyes. Smiled big. I smiled back. She was young, pretty, with bright red lips.

I stood up. Went to the counter to pay.

The cook showed up, handed me my check. Items were priced separately.  Eggs. Tots. Coffee. Toast.

“I never got the tots or toast,” I said, politely as I could.

“Oh, that’s right. You had the omelet.”

“I only ate the egg from the omelet. I didn’t really want the meat.”

“But you had the omelet…”she began.

The hunter said, “I’ll pay for the omelet. That’s alright. I’m the one ordered it.”

“I should have given you all that meat,” I said to him. “I hate to see it go to waste.”

“That’ll be $6.63,” interrupted the cook, sour.

I handed her a ten.

“You guys duck hunting?” I asked the hunters.

“Turkey,” said the man who ate my breakfast. “But you might call us compassionate hunters.”

His friend laughed, “Yeah. We so compassionate, we just watch with kind hearts as they get away from us.”

I laughed, “Well, it’s really just about the experience, right?”

“It is, Ma’am. It surely is.”

Which is precisely what I think about my breakfast at the Carrollton Town Square Diner.

Confluence of

Aliceville Lake and Tombighbee River, Alabama

The first thought I had as I pulled into this Army Corp of Engineer’s campground was, “Where is everybody?”  Of the 162 available sites, eleven, counting me, are occupied.

Of course, there is the fact of the “severe weather” raging all around us: flooding, tornadoes, giant hailstorms, heavy rain. But I’d called the ranger station before heading toward this confluence of the Black Warrior and Tombighbee Rivers feeding into Aliceville Lake. Wren, the young ranger I’d spoken to told me the river level was a couple feet below flooding and the weather was looking to clear. She suggested I’d be fine.

So, I towed my way through the rolling countryside of Alabama, past pockets of such poverty it hurt my heart, past plantations which still boast the word plantation in their titles: great rolling spreads of thousands of acres of fertile soil boasting cattle, oak savannahs, private lakes and big white house’s sporting colonial pillars out front, straight out of a film set.

Somewhere outside of Aliceville, I came across this display in an expanse of field. It was sudden, unexpected, and delightful.  That woodman must be forty feet tall. The dragon a good thirty feet long, and those buggy creatures are giant bales of hay. 

I’d love to meet the owner and creator of this whimsical roadside attraction. The house was set far, far off in the trees, hidden from view

so I snapped a quickie of this rooster and said, “adieu.”

Coming into Aliceville was interesting. I spied an actual café and it was open. Creole Cooking, the sign said. I wasn’t hungry so didn’t stop, but I spied a man walking purposefully toward the front door.

Aliceville, I read, was the site of the largest WWII German prisoner of war camp in the United States. 6000 captives were brought here and kept until the end of the war.

I imagine they were barged in, the waterway is a constant source, even today, of barge traffic heading on up into Mississippi or down to the Gulf for loading onto ships.

Coal is a big export. As are petroleum products. Grain. Construction materials (ie, the lumber being constantly cut out of the forests). Sand and gravel also make their way here and there.

Apparently, this year the river is unusually low (at least before this flooding series of storms), which slowed barge traffic down to one third of its usual frequency. Massive towboats push barge “trains” of twenty to forty barges through the 29 locks and dams of the Mississippi and her major tributaries, such as the Tombighbee. The average wage of a Towboat Captain down here is around $87,000 per year. The deck hands average $20 per hour.

Back at Pickensville Campground, I found my way to my spot overlooking the fork between the two rivers.

By the way, while highlighting camping sites, I want to give a shout out to this collapsible  bucket with its phases of the moon handle.

It has been useful beyond my imagination (I get no rewards for this mention; just read;;your like the bucket).

x x

I’m in a very quiet part of this already quiet campground

as what few campers are here are clustered close to the bathhouse. I’m about a quarter mile away down this empty lane.

Here’s city center

The bathhouse has four toilets and two shower stalls. Most important, it has hot water!  And, I am happy to see they have a designated site

right next to it.

I enjoy a shower each evening before retiring. I walk in the morning when the temperatures hover in the high 70’s, hang close to Pearl in the afternoon when the temps reach for 90.  Walk again as it cools down to low 80s’. So, I’m pretty rank by the time I head for bed. The humidity here is 96% so every walk results in a soaking. A shower has become a necessity.

One of the trails here that I’ve grown fond of leads through a Cypress Grove.

It’s called Black Water Pond.

Black water is common down here. It turns black due to the tannic acid from leaf fall and Cyprus roots.

Those little nubs are new Cyprus Trees splitting off of the main trunk.

Frankly, the main river itself smells strongly of human feces.  I imagine the flooding has had something to do with that, though I fear they just dump the waste right into the river.

I watched a boat bearing three fishermen load up a bucket of waste from their site, dump it straight into the river before they hit the throttle and headed off for a day of sport fishing.

Alan, a Southerner from around here, is on his fifth month as Camp Host. He’s a stolid man, late forties to early fifties, thinning hair.  Fair complected. He tells me he’s been to Oregon. Once.

“I tried to order me some sweet tea out there but you Yankees don’t seem to know what that is.” Sweet Tea,

a basic of Southern living. Trust me, it’s sweet.

“Now, Alan,” I responded, “I’m not sure we’re actually Yankees out in Oregon. The Pacific Northwest is a different thing. In fact, Southern Oregon was settled by southerners who fled after the Civil War. You can still see many Confederate flags flying in the back country there. I bet you could get some sweet tea out there.”

“Mebbe,” he said. “I only saw Salem, where my sister retired. Purty little town. Y’know, she kind of reminds me of you. Wears her hair the same way.”

I’m wearing braids, which I do here most days. It’s so hot, I braid up my thick mane to get it off my neck.

I laugh, tell him I lived in Salem for three years before retiring.

“You know, around Salem they had the last active known chapter of the Ku Klux Klan in Oregon,” I mention.

Alan looks taken aback.

“Wall, I don’t know about that. My sister han’t mentioned that to me.”

He chats awhile longer as he makes his morning rounds. Lets me know I should check the road conditions tomorrow because those roads in Tennessee where I’m headed might have some problems.

It seems to be my good fortune to be right on the edge of this devasting storm system terrorizing the Southeastern part of the United State.

I mean, I did get two days of  heavy storm down in the Conucho before heading north, but so far here in Pickensville, it’s partly cloudy, humid, and breezy.

The campground does have a lot of blow down from the storm which hit right before my arrival. Branches and broken limbs everywhere.

This morning, the Conservation Corps sent out a crew to do some clean up.

They also took down a huge Long Leaf Pine, which looked healthy to me. I checked out the stump after they were gone. No rot or decay.  Just a big, towering Pine maybe two and a half feet across.

They kept that chain saw running while they made quick work of the tree, until it was all loaded up into a wagon, hauled away separately from the windfall and blow down.

x x

I had hoped for a rich birding experience here.

But actually, Larry’s property down in the Conecuh was much better. I don’t know how much this storm has set birds off course or if this waterway just has so much traffic that the birds have chosen a quieter route.

I do see from the many bird houses they’ve set up they’re used to some nesting.

 

This barge train went by last evening. It took me three photos to capture the length of it.

I’ve counted six or seven per day, most of them half that size.

It’s fun to watch them if you don’t think about the dredging and environmental toll it takes to keep that many barges on the water.

Oh, here’s a non-sequitur: It’s hard for me to get to sleep at night. At mid to high 70’s, Pearl stays warm, even with her fan blowing. My body thermostat was damaged during my traumatic head injury at twelve so I don’t cool down like “normal” people. As a result, I sleep fitfully and have active dreams.

The mornings are nice and sunset is when the most bird song breaks out.  But by and large, I’ll be fine with pulling out of here tomorrow morning. I just hope I don’t find myself heading into the heart of the storm.

April 2

Sam tells me, “My dream is to open my own dock dog diving business.”

Only, it sounds to me like, “Mah dream is ta open mah own duck dock diein’ bidness.”

For a moment, I am mystified. I smile, not sure how to proceed. Decide honesty is always the best policy.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t quite catch that. What kind of business?”

She speaks a bit slower.

“Dock dog diving.

Jen says, “Sam trains ‘em. She’s good. We’re following the competitions around right now. Trying to build a name.”

Jan and Sam are in their mid-twenties. They have that wide open, anything is possible aura of enthusiasm I remember with some nostalgia from the first flush of love Janice and I experienced. The magic of lesbian love.

Jen and Sam are clearly young lesbians, clearly in the first flush of love. I said hello to them when they came up from the river where they’d been fishing. It was my first glimpse of members of the Sisterhood, at least obvious ones, since I’ve been on the road.

I find out that they’ve been together for three months. They, and their eight (!) dogs, one cat, and two gerbils, are all of them traveling out of a 24-foot trailer with one pop-out towed by a monster of a Ford truck.

The dogs, I learn, include a Malinois/Shepherd cross, which is eight months old and which Sam has been training since it was weaned- their hoped for soon to be star diver, two German Shepherds, a pit bull/Australian Shepherd mix, a Lab/Shepherd mixes who is good at the hydro speed part of the competition, two Spaniels, and a mutt they rescued. They don’t talk about the cat or gerbils.

I ask about dock diving.

“I’ve never heard of dock diving. I’m from Oregon, which probably isn’t an excuse, but there you have it. What is it?”

Sam grows enthusiastic as she explains to me dock diving is basically what it sounds like. Except that there are three areas of competition.

Distance Jump is the most basic. Dogs race against a clock down a 40-foot dock, then jump into the water of a 41-foot pool. An elaborate point system exists which rates the dogs on style, strength, distance.

Next is Hydro Dash. The dog races into the water toward a bumper it must retrieve.  The timer starts when the last foot of the dog leaves the dog and stops when the dog swims past the 10 foot mark of the pool after retrieving the bumper.

In Air Retrieve, the dog leaps toward a toy suspended two feet above the water 6 feet from the end of the dock.

If the dog successfully grabs the toy, the distance grows and grows until they miss the toy or the owner decides their dog has had enough.  The Spaniels are in training for Air Retrieve, it seems.

“How are you guys doing?”

Jen says, “We probably should have socialized the Malinois more. He was confused. There was a big crowd, it was loud, lots of dogs. We were just going for the distance jump this time.”

Sam takes up the tale.

“He done so good in practice, I thought he was ready. S’my fault. He needs more ripenin’. He took off’n outta his crate full speed. Then just skidded to stop. The crowd gasped. Alla ‘em. It was embarrassin”

Jen laughs. Sam adds, “Then, he just took a big ole dump on the dock.”

They both fall into gales of laughter.  They are young, they are happy, they are in love. Anything is possible.

“So, you’re a trainer?” I ask.

“She is,” Jen asserts. “A good one.  This was just us forgetting that socializing takes more time. I’m a vet tech. Or, was. Now I’m going along with Sam.”

I notice Jen’s many tattoos, bracelets, rings. She is slight of frame, brunette, exudes a cheerful demeanor.

This is when Sam shares her dream to open her own business.

“They ain’t another one in these parts. Not in all of South Alabama.” She says. “I figger we can set ourselves up. I can train, Jen can vet ‘em.”

Sam is sturdier than Jen. She wears short, cropped hair covered by a ball cap sporting the logo of some dog business: a dog’s head in red on a black visor. Though Sam looks like “the butch,” I see in their relationship that Jen more often takes the lead.

The look adoringly at one another. Hoist up the buckets of catfish they were carrying when I said hello, lean toward each other in readiness for the next thing.

“I see you need to get going. I wish you nothing but big success. Maybe one day I’ll turn on my tv to see you both at the national dock diving competitions.”

“Yes, Ma’am. That would be awesome. I sure hope it comes to be.”

That’s Sam. She nods her goodbye.

And they are off. To manage their menagerie, their dreams, their love for one another in the South. Living together in these dangerous Maga times when earnest young women just like them are now living in jeopardy.

I offer up a sincere invocation for their safety and success.

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 gaited?” 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.