It was the right decision--staying in Hartwell overnight. My feet were much more rested. And, I had some real ambition for doing the very long walk straight to Anderson. I figured that it would take about seven hours to do the twenty four miles. It is an extreme distance anyway--at least for this non-athlete, forty seven year old who had already walked forty miles in the last two days. But I knew if I set my will to accomplish it, I could.
Pack up went quickly and I found a better way to get everything into Saggy. I hit the road when the stars and moon were still bright above me. Starting at this time of day was excellent in so many ways. I would get to Anderson before 3:00 p.m., and the air was so cold that I didn't even sweat. It was the ideal walking environment. Traffic was light.
I thought this was a perfect sized little house; something to keep in the back of my mind for future self sustaining projects...
After about three miles I got the the Hartwell Lake area. The land was different, clean, grassy and I could see the vast expanse of the lake behind the trees. I was looking forward to getting a good water view. This church was like my official greeting...
Directly ahead of me lay a long curving stretch that would lead me right by the water's edge. The high water level was just like Dakota had told me the day before...
Twenty seven geese--gotta be a song in there somewhere?
They were honking a pretty cool tune of there own.
Submerged.
The mists of Hartwell Lake.
Once a beach.
Just in case one is confused about the road one is on.
The Hartwell Dam was coming up in a mile. But check out this cruel and inaccurate sign. The milage to the dam was right but Anderson was actually twenty four miles further, not fourteen. I thought maybe Google was wrong, then I realized that would be impossible. Some sign maker had only one job... Ha!...
Frosty grass.
Nice shirt: An overly enthusiastic fan?
The dam bridged Georgia to South Carolina. It was a tremendous project. It turned the Savannah, Tugaloo, and Seneca Rivers into a massive 56,000 acre lake, but also employed four 66,000 Kw generators, producing enough electricity for the whole region. And, the bridge I'd be walking over was once awarded the "Most Beautiful Steel Bridge Award" in 1958...
Honestly, from my perspective, its beauty was a bit faded here in 2016. All the while, walking over it was momentous for me personally. Only on a couple occasions have I walked a bridge from state to state. The last time being my trek from Portland, Oregon to Vancouver, Washington...
I turned around to catch this sign, just before heading over the Louie Morris Memorial Bridge.
Ant Kilimanjaro, complete with frosty peak.
There is something special that excites the childlike part of myself when I stand in the very center of the bridge with one leg in one state and one leg in the other. And on this day, the mist rising up from the river and over the top of the bridge was truly a sight to behold...
The Hartwell Dam.
Looking east.
Right foot in Georgia, left foot in South Carolina.
Why, thank you!
Just over the bridge was a short stretch, and to my left I saw a small park by the lake. A good place to rest...
Saggy was tired enough to rest face down.
The author trying to put a good face on things.
After reading a plaque about this giant dam project and peeing on a tree like a good dog, it was time to press on...
These brightened up the gray morning.
I wanted to take this with me for the next time I ran into a cow field.
But, there just wasn't room. Sorry, little guy/girl.
Hope you can get mooooving again soon.
Ahhhh... South Carolina!
I was a-some-peckish and the tummy was rumbling. I was astounded, in the middle of nowhere to see a Marathon gas station appear out of the mists. It was perfect timing. I poured some time-thickened old luke warm coffee into a cup and looked around for other things to stuff inside myself.
The personable Indian gentleman behind the counter pointed me toward the fridge, where I found a cheeseburger. I also grabbed a pickled sausage, banana and an "Ugly Blueberry" pastry for later...
He offered the side porch to sit, rest and "...eat yourrr hot sandvich!" So I did, also taking advantage of the not-too nasty bathroom. On the mirror, he'd left a sign: "Please don't write on the walls. Thank you!" Of course that gave everyone who visited the idea of writing on the walls.
While eating my "breakfast", I also met another gentleman who'd stopped by on his way back to Georgia to take advantage of South Carolina's much better gas prices ($0.15 less per gallon!). We talked and he told me about how his son and son's girlfriend had hiked the Appalachian Trail a couple years before, ending up at the Maine terminus; always an amazing feat. Although, midway through, the son flew out to a wedding in the Midwest, then returned to finish the trail (kind of cheating--but who am I to judge). He said they wanted to do the Pacific Crest Trail next, and I mentioned that my friend Joe had conquered that sucker just in the last year. I gave him a business card. Maybe he will visit the blog?
Finally, it was time to push on...
It had been ten miles since I'd seen the incorrect sign for Anderson, when I came across this intersection and got the real story...
The sun was rising higher now, and the air was getting a little warmer. For the entire hike to this point I had not been sweating at all. It was an absolutely ideal time to be walking. But the sweat was now beginning. The heels were really hurting. My collarbone was sore from Saggy's straps, and the base of the pack was chaffing each side on my back just above the waist. But there was no stopping, I really was determined to get to Andersson by 2:00 p.m...
Interesting. Apparently, the South Carolina Department of Transportation
sends a person out periodically to make sure signs are still doing what
they're supposed to be doing. A connection to July 30, 2008.
This was a long walk. Doing twelve miles is long enough, but after about fourteen previous miles, it was just a slog. There was a lot of psychological drifting. I no longer cared about being gawked at by every passing car. I didn't really see them anymore. I have found that of these long stretches, I actually begin to get a "third wind", a kind of narcotic feeling of well-being. Yes, all the pain and soreness is still there, but I just don't care.
The thought of stopping to rest was continuously shoved aside in favor of the delayed gratification and celebratory feeling I would get when I finally arrived at my destination. As I've spoken about in the past, sometimes the delay of the gratification is more intoxicating than the reaching of the goal. It must be what every athlete who pushes themselves to finish their marathon or sport must go through. I'm no athlete either, so to have felt what they feel was a treat.
Then, as with the day before, the fast food trash began to accumulated beside me. Seeing it on my side of the road meant people were littering while driving out of town. And, I saw what places would be available in Anderson.
Houses became more densely packed. Neighborhoods came and went. There was large stand of bamboo, which I hadn't seen since Athens...
There are always industrial buildings on the outskirts of mid-sized towns. I strained to see what the name of this business was. Ironically, it would end up being where my host, Jan works! I would learn about this very impressive and state of the art facility from her in the next few days. Truly interesting and I may get a chance to see it more closely. Apparently they have robotic (unmanned) forklifts. For a young company they are growing very quickly...
Getting closer into town, there were some of the usual but unfortunate sites a long distance walker gets used to...
The following was just symbolic, metaphoric, ironic, artful and had a realness that I couldn't avoid showing you...
Once a church. Now the most important sign is: KEEP OUT!
I came to a fork in the road where Route 29 split into 29 and Bus 29. In my eenie meenie miney way, I decided on Bus 29, figuring it would lead to most dense part of Anderson, which it did.
McDonald's appeared right at the corner of Bus 29 and Route 28. Big, modern, with outlets and good Wi-fi, I had found my oasis. I was almost ashamed that I'd predicted taking two days to get here and done it in only one. Whenever I achieve something better than what I'd planned, I feel like I've cheated somehow. My good friend Allyson (in Minnesota) and I used to joke about why people would or would not donate. The joke was that if readers think things are going well for me, they hold off their donations. She laughed and said, "Keep the credit card in your wallet Jimmy, he hasn't suffered enough yet!" Ha!
So, announcing success has (sometimes) meant less income. With the modest amounts I'd received from generous contributors in the last three days of this trek, I was able to survive, but now that the port in the storm had been reached, there was less chance of more.
It is the opposite to what an athlete might expect. They strive and struggle for the prize at the end. I get my prize along the way--if I'm fortunate, and then expect to have to beg at the end. This is not a complaint! Shit, getting anything at all is wonderful, and I genuinely appreciate it. Yet, the nature of what I do is not something that allows for predictability in any form.
Anderson is a bit of a quirky place. With friendly people, but not a huge amount of local prosperity, there is an interesting mix of lifestyles. I haven't seen extreme poverty, nor a lot of homelessness (though there is some), neither are there the "mansions of the Skyline Drive" phenomena either--a situation found in most towns or cities. I would describe it overall as being lower middle class, without out much vertical mobility. Still, that is good enough, and the people do the most they can with it. Some aspects of the town are just humorous...
On the McDonald's sign. Ha!
After announcing on Facebook that I had made my trip in only one day, and working to write as much as possible and process pictures, I decided that I wanted to celebrate with a beer. But, ha, ha, ha!! You never know what bizarre Southern alcohol laws there will be, from state to state, county to county, or even town to town. It turned out that - this being a Sunday, the "dayee of the Lard" - no alcohol could be sold all day at the convenience store/gas station beside McDonald's.
I asked the much older unsmiling, shrivel-lipped woman behind the counter why they still had a bunch of beer in an icy tub out in the open as if it were being promoted. She just said, "Cos' that's what wa deeoo." I joked that it seemed like a bit of a waste of ice. She just looked at me.
So, figuring this might be like Conway, Arkansas where they were restricted at stores on Sunday, but could still sell at restaurants. I walked over to a "Bar and Grill" Mexican family place. The nice young woman at the counter there asked if I wanted a table. I told her I'd love one, and would like to get an appetizer and a beer. She winced. "Sorra sir. We don't serve beer on Sundays."
I just had to laugh at that point. She thought it was ridiculous too. Then came the strangest and most twisted rule of all. I asked if this was a town or county regulation? She told me she didn't know, but because they were located right on the border of Anderson, I could go in town and get a drink at a restaurant there. I thought to myself: So, let me get this straight... All in the same county (of Anderson), a gas station can sell beer, but not on Sundays, restaurants too are prohibited from selling beer on Sundays outside the borders of the town that their own county is named after. But, if one travels in town one can drink to one's heart's delight, as long as it is at a restaurant. I felt my eyes crossing and rolling at the same time.
I thanked the woman for her valuable information, and gave up on the idea of getting a beer. I'd traveled way too far that day, and now that darkness had fallen, I just wanted to find a sleep spot and wake up on a nice normal Monday.
Here is where things got even weirder...
My plan was to find a spot directly across the street from this Mexican place. There was a commercial real estate sign, with plenty of woods. I crossed the very busy street (no crosswalks) and did the pretend-to-check-my-watch thing, until there was just enough of a break in traffic to dart into an old overgrown driveway-like spot. That quickly turned into a series of very well-used dirt foot trails. Not a good sign. I figured that people must use them as a shortcut across the woods. Something didn't feel right about the area. The Spark was sending ambiguous signals, none of which were positive.
A short way into the woods I saw a dark structure, maybe a rusted corrugated building? And there were car fenders and other junk around. Was this someone's shanty? I half-heartedly looked for a path to get into the adjacent woods, but the way in every direction was blocked with severe pricker bushes and thorn trees. Wasn't gonna happen. I didn't really feel like learning more. There was land further down the busy street, and all I wanted to do was get the hell out of this particular place. I did, and ventured into the field located right next to the above area, along which were tall leafless oaks and a leaf-covered clearing, about a half acre in size.
There were spots around that were relatively level, but they also were punctuated by prickers. Finally, I practically tripped over a barbed wire fence that was so old it actually ran through the middle of a four foot diameter oak tree. After passing over it I found one spot that was not too bad.
I set Saggy down and removed the little blue hiking tarp, wrapping it around my right hand for protection, and pulled out the only prickers on the ground there. Once that was done, I set down the new green tarp, folded--as I had done the last three nights, and then assembled the tent, with it's tarp/fly staked down to the ground on top of the tarp.
I still felt a bit uncomfortable about the area. It happened that I'd come very close to the first spot (with the rusty building and the junk around), but considered that the pricker bushes that had prevented me from going across into this part of the property would likewise prevent wandering townies to do the same. Eventually, I crawled into the tent, and slid into the sleeping bag. I was completely exhausted. I pulled out the bag of clothes that I use as a pillow and as soon as my head touched it I was out like a light.
Every now and then I woke to hear angry shouting from across the street. A woman's voice and then a man's. I'm not certain, and am perhaps stereotyping, but the man sounded "white" and the woman sounded "black". Again, I have no idea if they really fit these descriptions, but anyway...
I woke suddenly at 8:16 p.m. The voices were very near my spot now. I sat up and listened intensely. Their drawl was so strong that I had difficulty understanding what they were fighting about. Whatever it was, it was exceedingly vicious. There was something about him being sick of her lying, and her saying that her friend was lying. But, the rest was lost in my attempt to interpret it all.
There were flashes from their outside direction around the inside of the tent. Despite being completely opaque from the outside, from the inside quite a lot of light can be seen. The flashes were from a flashlight right at the spot I had been earlier; maybe forty feet away from my present location.
It got even worse. She was really screaming at him--losing her voice in the process. I got the impression she was up in his face. The woods made for a sheltered fighting ring, but maybe also a place where something bad could happen and no one around would know--except perhaps the bum camping secretly in the shadows beyond...
Finally, at the height of the battle, he got quiet, and she screamed out one more thing. Then, all was silent. I heard a "thump". As if someone had kicked or fallen onto the car fender I'd seen earlier. The flashlight still moved all around, then receded out in the direction away from me.
Now, having had some major fights with ex-girlfriends in the past, I know that typically they either go on for many hours and are resolved somehow, or one person walks away, leaving the other to sulk. This was neither. I couldn't get involved, and for many reasons needed to stay concealed.
The relative quiescence of the simple flow of traffic fell over the area again. I got sleepy and laid back down. At 10:26 pm I was awoken again, this time by a hammering noise. Clunk, clunk, clunk... I sat up to see the flashlight had returned to that spot. Checking my thermometer I saw that the temps had taken a nosedive down to just below freezing. What the HELL was going on? Who - on a Sunday night - would be out suddenly doing construction in the yard of his rusty shanty? I have to tell you quite honestly (though through a bit of admitted paranoia) that all I could think of was: this dude pushed his girlfriend down, she hit her head, and now he was building barriers to keep other people out, while he did something with the body.
The hammering was not indicative of having nails used (which would have been a very distinctive metallic sound), but was instead more like he was chopping wood and pounding it into the ground--making a fence.
He did this for two hours more--mumbling to himself, then the light disappeared again. I fell asleep again. And, then at 3:20 am the pounding returned, with only the hint of a flashlight (weak batteries?). I slipped in and out of sleep until my watch alarm sounded at 6:30 am. He was still there--pounding away...
Anderson, South Carolina Sleep Spot.
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..oh, wow, and then? . . and then??
ReplyDeleteTurned out, that was the end of the road for that mystery. I do check their local news though, just in case. :-D
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