Just getting used to this blogging again. I tried to start the new 2015 trip with a new “page” but it turns out that is not what pages are for on a blog site.  Viewers on a mobile device only see the Home page and have to really root around to find a different page.  So I am moving this 2015 trip to the Home page as a continuation of last year’s blog.  If you missed the first 2015 entry, look below for “Doris Rides Again.”  Sorry for any confusion!

This morning we lolled around in George L. Smith State Park, toyed with and rejected the idea of renting a paddle boat, and finally got on the road about 11 am. Taking country roads, we bi-passed as much of I-16 as possible and were thus treated to lovely bucolic scenes of Georgia’s low country on a brisk, damp Spring morning. Most of the farms were immaculately cared for and looked prosperous — or at least hopeful of prosperity — at this new beginning of the growing season. We finally were forced to get back on I-16 in order to make the sure transition to I-95, which we took only a short distance into South Carolina before heading off towards Beaufort (which in SC rhymes with Yewfort and not Yofort), past Parris Island, where enlisted Marines from all over the country receive basic training (we drove fast), and on to Hunting Island State Park, where we are now. This is one of SC’s most popular and heavily visited state parks (over 1 million visitors a year), and we can see why — although we have not seen the other 46.  It is best known for its lighthouse, which is no longer in service but they allow visitors to go up the top and take in the vast expanse of scenery (most in South Carolina do not allow that).

Right after a latish lunch in the Airstream (grilled hot dogs and Sauvignon Blanc), Brad, Doris and I set out on a hike to find the much-touted lighthouse. The park map indicated a seemingly reasonable 1.5 mile trail through the magnolia forest and over the lagoon (via a board walk said Brad convincingly) and then to the ocean, where the lighthouse naturally stands.  The first part of the hike was magnificent — it was like walking though that old computer game Myst — a hilly pine strewn path surrounded by ancient oaks hung with Spanish Moss, tall pines, magnolias and palm trees and thicket after thicket of waist-high palms.  However, the brochure lied shamelessly about the length of the trail.  After about an hour of hiking smartly, we came to the part where I was expecting a board walk to appear to escort us over the lagoon.  No such thing.  We trudged for at least an hour through sodden paths.  I finally just rolled up my pants and took my shoes off and waded straight though knee-high pools of cold black water, ever mindful that the diamondback rattle snake calls this place home.

At long last we got to the lighthouse and struggled over to a bench to rest.  A park ranger came flying out of the lighthouse and told us that dogs are not allowed on that side of the white picket fence.  That really hurt my feelings.  There was not a living soul around and Doris was not hurting a thing.  I was reminded of the story my childhood nurse told me about when as a young person she finally got the chance to ride the bus to Atlanta and go to the zoo, but when she got there she was told that negroes were not allowed.  I cried about that for years and almost cried today at the affront to Doris (and indirectly to Brad).  However, I decided to go up in the lighthouse since we had come so far.  But the same ranger told me that I had missed the deadline by 5 minutes and he closed and locked the door in front of me.  I was a bit peeved.  So we set out to walk the two miles back to the campground along the beach.  To our astonishment, the beach was completely eroded — breakers crashed into trees well back from the shoreline and it was impossible to go that way.  There was NO WAY I was going to reverse our trek through the lagoon in the growing dark, so I frantically began to assess the likelihood that I could beg a ride from one of the stragglers going to their cars after the final lighthouse tour of the day.  None looked particularly amendable to adding two soaking wet adults and a dog to their cars.  In the meantime, Brad asked the park ranger for a suggestion and he said that if we left right that minute (giving the rising tide) we might be able to make it back to the campground via the Lighthouse Nature Trail without having to swim.  We set out at a run, dragging Doris with us in a literal race against the tide.  We sort of made it.  Brad got across with the camera but I had water up to my waist and Doris had to swim.  Thus soaked to the gills we just had to laugh.  Brad and Doris actually thought the whole thing was a great adventure.  I am still reserving judgment.  Maybe I am just tired and wet.

Brad fixed a great dinner of grilled chicken, roasted corn on the cob, turnip greens and gins and tonic.  I feel somewhat warmer and drier already!