Conecuh National Forest, Apple Hill, Wing, Alabama

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.