Snow, rain and ice for the last three days in the Upstate. Escaping down I-26, a dark green Chevrolet van, close to the ground and covered with the detritus of sludge, salt and dirt from frozen Wisconsin sails past me on its way to the coast.
The Saluda and the Broad converge at the fall line in Columbia to make the wide Congaree. The Columbia Canal Walk and the River Walk through Cayce have been closed since the flooding in the fall.
It is 10:30 am and I am standing on the Gervais Street Bridge watching gulls careening over the rocks and three Canadian Geese dipping and diving in a quiet pool near the banks of the wide Congaree.
A voice beside me says, "Isn't it beautiful?"
A young man, bright blue eyes, white T-shirt and jeans asks me the name of the river. He wants to know if you can kayak there. He tells me his father saved the life of a girl who fell into a river from a kayak once.
He is from Syracuse, NY, but was born in Columbia.
As he walks away, he says, "The Holy Spirit will lead you."
The sky is a powder blue with milky soft clouds spun through it. The sun is shining again.
You Are My Sunshine
You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are gray
You'll never know dear,
How much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away.
The other night, dear,
When I was sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
When I awoke, dear,
I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.
You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are gray
You'll never know dear
How much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away.
* sung by the blogger at gatherings all around Rajasthan, India, a long time ago.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Monday, January 11, 2016
January 10, 2016 Belted Kingfisher Over the Wetlands
The Cottonwood Trail has mud puddles and big pot holes all along the way from the heavy rains that have pelted the region. Finally, the sky overhead is blue. Clouds drift slowly, puffy and white.
A Belted Kingfisher soars high over the boardwalk, screaming its rattling cry and alights on a limb of a bare tree. I can see its powder blue underside, its white neck band, its big head with shaggy crest and long thick bill.
I hear the chorus of frogs singing. This can't be. It is far too early. But it is.
They are singing the AIR by J.S. Bach from Orchestral Suite No. 3 as performed by Yoyo Ma and Bobby McFerrin.
HUSH Yoyo Ma and Bobby McFerrin recorded at Dreamland Recording Studios, Woodstock NY on August 22-25, 1991
A Belted Kingfisher soars high over the boardwalk, screaming its rattling cry and alights on a limb of a bare tree. I can see its powder blue underside, its white neck band, its big head with shaggy crest and long thick bill.
I hear the chorus of frogs singing. This can't be. It is far too early. But it is.
They are singing the AIR by J.S. Bach from Orchestral Suite No. 3 as performed by Yoyo Ma and Bobby McFerrin.
HUSH Yoyo Ma and Bobby McFerrin recorded at Dreamland Recording Studios, Woodstock NY on August 22-25, 1991
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
January 4, 2016 Hamilton Branch: A Washout and a Road Trip
Nine a.m. and driving down Hwy 56 with black cows in green fields, red horses lined up in a pasture, dark ancient cedars lining the country roads, flamingo colored flowering quince already in bloom. It is cold and we are expecting our first freeze tonight.
Past Belfast Plantation, a church sign reads:
"Tell someone you love them
While you have time"
I pass Persimmon Hill Golf Club with a sparkling pond and across from it in a field, a beautiful palomino, tossing its mane like a movie star.
I am in Edgefield County, the birthplace of Strom Thurmond, the embodiment of the southern contradictions of his time. There is Strom Thurmond High School, the Strom Thurmond Tech Center, surrounded by acres and acres of peach orchards.
In Edgefield, there is a pink and purple Japanese Magnolia with thousands of blossoms preening against the sky. The town square is shining with Christmas decorations on the lamp posts, a tall bejeweled Christmas tree in front of the county courthouse. A statue of Strom Thurmond reaches out toward it and behind him is the Confederate Memorial obelisk. On the sidewalk, a colorfully painted four foot tall turkey.
I stay on Hwy 23, bear right at the Westwide Volunteer Fire Deptment towards Modoc, into the Sumter Forest and over Stevens Creek. Suddenly Hwy 23 ends and in front of me is the Modoc Thrift Store, a place of all manner of dusty objects. The sleepy proprietor dressed in hunting attire tells me to turn right on Hwy 221 and Hamilton Branch State Park is two miles on the left.
So it is. The gate is locked. There is no way to get in but walk around it. I walk to the Ranger's house and he tells me that the park is closed indefinitely because it is flooded. The Army Corps of Engineers say that the Upcountry lakes of Hartwell, Jocasse and others are brim full and have yet to release more water downstream. I beg him to let me walk the trail, but he says it is ankle deep in water.
Returning on Hwy 221, I can see Lake Thurmond (of course) is overflowing its banks. The park is on a peninsula. I pass Catfish Creek Peninsula and Dorman Creek Ramp and come to the town of Plum Branch. It has a yacht club. I have never passed this way before. It is an adventure, no hike, but an adventure still.
I am astonished to discover Eden Hall Plantation on my left, facing Long Cane Road, a two and a half story soaring brilliantly white house established in 1854. Nearby is Tranquil Church and later Hwy 10 shoots off to the left and it is called Promised Land.
How the early settlers dreamed of their new paradise.
The sky is cold, clear and blue. The year is full of promise. I am listening to Joe Diffie on the car radio:
"Prop me up beside the jukebox when I die
Lord, I want to go to heaven
but I don't want to go tonight.
Fill my boots with sand
Put a stiff drink in my hand
Prop me up beside the jukebox when I die
Just let my headstone be a neon sign
Just let it burn in memory of all my good times......
Prop me up beside the jukebox when I die..."
Past Belfast Plantation, a church sign reads:
"Tell someone you love them
While you have time"
I pass Persimmon Hill Golf Club with a sparkling pond and across from it in a field, a beautiful palomino, tossing its mane like a movie star.
I am in Edgefield County, the birthplace of Strom Thurmond, the embodiment of the southern contradictions of his time. There is Strom Thurmond High School, the Strom Thurmond Tech Center, surrounded by acres and acres of peach orchards.
In Edgefield, there is a pink and purple Japanese Magnolia with thousands of blossoms preening against the sky. The town square is shining with Christmas decorations on the lamp posts, a tall bejeweled Christmas tree in front of the county courthouse. A statue of Strom Thurmond reaches out toward it and behind him is the Confederate Memorial obelisk. On the sidewalk, a colorfully painted four foot tall turkey.
I stay on Hwy 23, bear right at the Westwide Volunteer Fire Deptment towards Modoc, into the Sumter Forest and over Stevens Creek. Suddenly Hwy 23 ends and in front of me is the Modoc Thrift Store, a place of all manner of dusty objects. The sleepy proprietor dressed in hunting attire tells me to turn right on Hwy 221 and Hamilton Branch State Park is two miles on the left.
So it is. The gate is locked. There is no way to get in but walk around it. I walk to the Ranger's house and he tells me that the park is closed indefinitely because it is flooded. The Army Corps of Engineers say that the Upcountry lakes of Hartwell, Jocasse and others are brim full and have yet to release more water downstream. I beg him to let me walk the trail, but he says it is ankle deep in water.
Returning on Hwy 221, I can see Lake Thurmond (of course) is overflowing its banks. The park is on a peninsula. I pass Catfish Creek Peninsula and Dorman Creek Ramp and come to the town of Plum Branch. It has a yacht club. I have never passed this way before. It is an adventure, no hike, but an adventure still.
I am astonished to discover Eden Hall Plantation on my left, facing Long Cane Road, a two and a half story soaring brilliantly white house established in 1854. Nearby is Tranquil Church and later Hwy 10 shoots off to the left and it is called Promised Land.
How the early settlers dreamed of their new paradise.
The sky is cold, clear and blue. The year is full of promise. I am listening to Joe Diffie on the car radio:
"Prop me up beside the jukebox when I die
Lord, I want to go to heaven
but I don't want to go tonight.
Fill my boots with sand
Put a stiff drink in my hand
Prop me up beside the jukebox when I die
Just let my headstone be a neon sign
Just let it burn in memory of all my good times......
Prop me up beside the jukebox when I die..."
Saturday, January 2, 2016
January 1, 2016 Rose Hill Plantation, First Day Hike
Driving into Union, SC on 176, I pass the dying mall. The Belk's sign is down and a banner proclaims "Gone Out of Business". Only the Fogata Mexican Restaurant remains.
It is eleven miles after turning right on Sardis Road to the Rose Hill Platation built by William Gist. It has finally stopped raining and tonight it is to turn cool, a normal cool for this time of year. It has been so warm and wet, the the hills and grassland pastures are bright green, the early forsythia is blooming its' yellow bells. Crab apples and even early cherries have pink blossoms. At one sheltered spot, daffodils are in bloom.
Hardwood trees are bare so that the big clumps of miseltoe are visible. Along the road are mobile homes, trailers , cows and goats in pastures eating the green grass. Here and there is a large newly built home down a long tree lined drive. On the left is O'Shield's Deer Processing and then Fast Al's Oil Change. Fast Al also has a sign advertising PIGS FOR SALE with a picture of a pink pig. Soon I am in Sumter National Forest with pristine woods of tall pines, crossing the Tyger River over flowing its banks far into the forest, then over an old narrow red bridge over Fairforest Creek, also overflowing far and wide, past a shooting range and a Wildfowl Area. It is still hunting season and small pickups are parked nose first on dirt roads.
Rose Hill is on the right, a beautiful yellow stucco framed colonial home with brick underneath. I park my car and get out wearing my orange vest so that the hunters will not think I am a deer. The ranger office is in the back of the old kitchen separate from the main house where according to the ranger, squirrels come in to try and eat the fake vegetables on the shelves. E. Moses signs us up, just me and 7 others and we take the trail behind the picnic shelter (there is a 2 mile trail which shoots down to the Tyger River which today is partially flooded). We walk to the constant sounds of gun shots from the shooting range two miles away. Ranger Moses will take visitors on three tours of the home in the afternoon, but for the trail, she tells us about the land, how the early American Natives were mostly nomadic at least 12,000 years ago or more. Later they cultivated very small gardens of berries and herbs. When the Europeans came, they planted cotton in this hilly space. They just plowed downhill and the water ran off the nutrients. Today, lydar, a kind of ground X-ray, is being used to find out more about the history of the land.
She tells us some spicey tales about the Gists and the Bobo family who had a similar mansion at Cross Keys on Highway 49. The brother in lawof William Gist, Samuel Rice, shot and killed one of the Bobo men just as he was sitting on the street in Union. Over a woman, they say. William gist was with him. Gist was in several duels one where he killed a man. Nothing was done about these killings. Of course, William Gist was the governor.
It was the Wild Upstate. Now and then, it still is. Today no one was shot by deer hunters.
It is eleven miles after turning right on Sardis Road to the Rose Hill Platation built by William Gist. It has finally stopped raining and tonight it is to turn cool, a normal cool for this time of year. It has been so warm and wet, the the hills and grassland pastures are bright green, the early forsythia is blooming its' yellow bells. Crab apples and even early cherries have pink blossoms. At one sheltered spot, daffodils are in bloom.
Hardwood trees are bare so that the big clumps of miseltoe are visible. Along the road are mobile homes, trailers , cows and goats in pastures eating the green grass. Here and there is a large newly built home down a long tree lined drive. On the left is O'Shield's Deer Processing and then Fast Al's Oil Change. Fast Al also has a sign advertising PIGS FOR SALE with a picture of a pink pig. Soon I am in Sumter National Forest with pristine woods of tall pines, crossing the Tyger River over flowing its banks far into the forest, then over an old narrow red bridge over Fairforest Creek, also overflowing far and wide, past a shooting range and a Wildfowl Area. It is still hunting season and small pickups are parked nose first on dirt roads.
Rose Hill is on the right, a beautiful yellow stucco framed colonial home with brick underneath. I park my car and get out wearing my orange vest so that the hunters will not think I am a deer. The ranger office is in the back of the old kitchen separate from the main house where according to the ranger, squirrels come in to try and eat the fake vegetables on the shelves. E. Moses signs us up, just me and 7 others and we take the trail behind the picnic shelter (there is a 2 mile trail which shoots down to the Tyger River which today is partially flooded). We walk to the constant sounds of gun shots from the shooting range two miles away. Ranger Moses will take visitors on three tours of the home in the afternoon, but for the trail, she tells us about the land, how the early American Natives were mostly nomadic at least 12,000 years ago or more. Later they cultivated very small gardens of berries and herbs. When the Europeans came, they planted cotton in this hilly space. They just plowed downhill and the water ran off the nutrients. Today, lydar, a kind of ground X-ray, is being used to find out more about the history of the land.
She tells us some spicey tales about the Gists and the Bobo family who had a similar mansion at Cross Keys on Highway 49. The brother in lawof William Gist, Samuel Rice, shot and killed one of the Bobo men just as he was sitting on the street in Union. Over a woman, they say. William gist was with him. Gist was in several duels one where he killed a man. Nothing was done about these killings. Of course, William Gist was the governor.
It was the Wild Upstate. Now and then, it still is. Today no one was shot by deer hunters.
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