Month: April 2025

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.