Edisto River, South Carolina - 3 March 2006

We have an appointment with the President, Hypatia, on 3 July 2006, in Webb City, Missouri. We decide to start four months early and wander around a bit first. We expect to hit Las Vegas, the redwoods, Mt St Helens, the Scablands, Glacier and The Tetons on the way.

Our 4:30 AM Sunday departure from Florida is carefully planned to coincide exactly with the weekly activation of the automatic sprinkler system. I hear soft curses from my faithful companion who has decided to give one last hand-watering to her new flowers. She is standing in the pre-dawn darkness with her back to a sprinkler head when it goes off. I have to retrieve a key for the back gate from the top of another sprinkler head where I thoughtfully left it for the lawn people. We dry out before we hit the Georgia state line.

We camp in a run-down RV park in South Carolina. We stop early to read. I'm anxious to read the new Harry Turtledove Homeward Bound book and see what happens in book eight when the human 'big uglies' carry the war back to Tau Ceti. You need to read these in order, starting in 1942, when The Race interrupted WWII by taking on all sides. It is not much of a plot spoiler to let you know that Dr Henry Kissinger, chief negotiator, died in Cold Sleep on the 60 year trip.

We are just across the road from Colleton state park. It's on the Edisto River, one of the longest blackwater rivers in South Carolina. There is a 50-mile, 12-hour canoe float down river to here. There was once a ferry to Charleston that launched at this location. Charleston is 50 miles distant on the river in the other direction. There are alligators, water snakes, heron, egrets, live oaks, bald cypress and Spanish moss.

I Google South Carolina State Parks and realize that one could easily spend several months just exploring its dozens of parks.

A blackwater river is very acidic. Usually the water has very little dissolved minerals and they are nearly sterile. The dark water colour comes from dissolved tannins from decaying leaves. Visibility is often very good, nearly 30 feet. The water here has been compared to slightly contaminated distilled water. The water chemistry inhibits the proliferation of insect larvae so these types of southern rivers tend to be much less 'buggy'. This would be a good place to explore by SCUBA.

Wake Forest, North Carolina – 10 March, 2006

We've been here five days, visiting with the five grandchildren. We leave this morning, hoping for light traffic.

Friday, my faithful companion and I spent a few hours on the motorcycle driving the country roads and looking at new housing going up. This is a mandatory helmet law state, so we don our new helmets for the first time. She is pleasantly surprised by how much more comfortable she is with the new 'sissy bar' that supports her back. She's asking now about an intercom system to support her chatter habit.

Like everywhere we've been the last six months, the new houses are huge and expensive. We stop at an open house and ask the Mexican painters if we can go in. They nod and gesture toward the house. The master bedroom has an ornate ceiling type that I've only seen before in Italian museums. Five bedrooms, three baths, Jacuzzis, granite and marble abound.

People everywhere in the US are heavily investing in real estate. This reminds me of the dot-com bubble and other similarly irrational blooms, like the ostrich farming craze a few decades ago and the great tulip bulb frenzy of the pre-industrial age.

I centre the Microsoft Maps and Streets program crosshairs on Asheville, North Carolina, and search for campgrounds and Chinese restaurants within a 50 mile radius. There are 73 hits on campgrounds and I select one in the Blue Ridge National Park and mark it as the next stop on the route.

A small inverter plugged into the cigarette lighter provides AC power for the laptop. The GPS plugs into a USB port and is attached to the windshield with a suction cup. I take the laptop speakers off mute, to be able to receive spoken directions as we drive. 'Proceed to route' comes over the speakers.

Pisgah National Forest, North Carolina – March 12, 2006

Our location presently is 35.26145N, 82.72678 W, give or take ten feet. I remember my youth, raising a periscopic bubble sextant though an aircraft roof over the Pacific and hoping to get a location accurate to within 5 or 10 miles.

We are in the Pisgah National forest in western North Carolina just off the Blue Ridge Parkway. The Blue Ridge National Park campground that we had chosen for last night's destination proved to be closed for the winter so we diverted to this place.

A Great Horned Owl repeatedly asked me a question at 4 AM in a deep-throated voice, 'Whooo?' This is a very good question. Fortunately, I'm not a small furry thing and am unlikely to end up as an indigestible pellet of fur and bones.

The motorcycle has a dead battery from sitting in the garage for three months so I add water and charge it up. I notice a gasoline leak. I unbolt the seat again and then remove the big bolt that secures the gas tank and the four bolts securing the fuel pump and petcock plumbing to the gas tank. The dripping gas is coming from a hidden spot where a bar is welded to the tank for the big bolt. My guess is that a new tank will run about $400. I will try to buy some epoxy patching material at Wal-mart first.

I bolt the bike back together, assure my faithful companion that gas constantly dripping on the cylinder head is no big deal, and we go touring for the day. We pass by Slide Rock, which I have a faint memory of having visited before with our son. Then we see Looking Glass waterfall. At the waterfall, we encounter a cloud of what I think must be Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterflies. These appear to really like the mist from the falls and the warm sunshine. They are either mating in the springtime sun or just enjoying each others company very much.
Here are some butterfly pictures.

Pisgah Forest and Mountain are named for the mountain where Moses reportedly first saw the Promised Land. The forest was owned by George Vanderbilt. In 1912 he sold the logging rights to Louis Carr for $12 an acre. Carr built a 75-mile standard gauge railroad through the mountains and used Climax steam locomotives to haul out the timber. Vanderbilt was an early environmentalist and insisted on no cattle, forest fire prevention and suppression and cutting only the trees exceeding a 16 inch diameter. In 1914 Vanderbilt's widow, Edith, sold the land to the Forest Service for $5 an acre. She asked that the name, Pisgah Forest, be retained.

Natchez Trace State Park, Tennessee – 15 March, 2006

We settled into Natchez Trace State Park two nights ago. The Park is between Nashville and Memphis off I-40. It has 210 lake-front campsites, equestrian trails, hiking trails and an archery range.

The moon was full at 5 AM yesterday. I'm reminded that in 14.5 days, on March 29, the moon has a fixed noontime appointment to totally eclipse the sun. One researcher is now riding his mountain bike (named eddie) in a strange land. He is carrying a flask of liquid helium and other electronic and scientific gear and preparing to conduct a startling experiment involving, I believe, superstrings and bending rays of starlight.

His online name is newolder and his travels and experiments are posted in real time on his eclipse site. Drop him a word of encouragement and a wish for clear skies.

After our morning push-ups, sit-ups and jumping jacks, we fix turkey sandwiches and hike three miles to the Park's lodge and villas. To my dismay, we discover two unpublished tennis courts. We walk back, changed clothes and take the gas-dripping motorbike back to the courts so I can receive my usual 6-1, 6-0 drubbing.

They are serving all-you-can-eat Crazy Chicken in the lodge tonight for $6.95. I'm curious to see what it is, but we decide to pass and eat salmon salad again.

Natchez Trace is the name of a 440 mile trail that was used for commerce in the early 1800s. The trail ran from Nashville to Natchez on the Mississippi. Traders ran flat boats down the Cumberland, Tennessee and Mississippi rivers to Natchez then returned overland on the trail. The boats were floated down the Mississippi to New Orleans and sold for lumber due to the strong current. There is a Natchez Trace highway that roughly follows the path of the old trail. Merriwether Lewis committed suicide or was assassinated on the trail. The Park Service has so far refused to allow his exhumation to help confirm the assassination theorists.

Tomorrow we are driving 312 miles to Mountain Home, Arkansas, to see how Paul has progressed on his mansion-in-the-woods in the three months since we last saw him. He says he has some painting for me. Hope he's invested in an airless spray gun. I left mine home. I ask my faithful companion if we can have liver and onions for St Patrick's day and she replies that she is not Irish.

Pilgrimage To The Ozarks Archive

Phred

03.09.09 Front Page

23.03.06 Front Page

Back Issue Page