I am no longer haunted by my memories of Cumberland Island, but I feel a need to document the experience before life in the real world and September's Agrarian Urbanite monopolize my brain...
Part II
Recap: bitter disillusioned Ranger gives the fear speech leaving us afraid and weary of everything and we discover that armadillos aren't so scary...
By the next day, the armadillos became the obvious local residents of Sea Camp. They owned the place, but because of the thick underbrush, we never saw them coming until they were under foot. The sequence went like this: walk, walk, walk along the trail; hear movement in the bush; stop and look around for, for, for a raccoon? a snake? anything? then POP! an armadillo would waddle out snooping it's long nose along the ground...it's gray plated armor protecting it from EVERYTHING with it's long sharp claws which are something that nightmares are made of. The POP! was usually followed by an, "Ahh!" Brief sigh, then, "Oh, yet another, armadillo. Surprise."
But they didn't get boring and we didn't take them for granted. They actually became cute and more interesting as we were able to watch them feed and snoop. We even saw one jump.
They really are in their own little world and, I think, completely oblivious to us humans. One popped out at us and when we all jumped and screamed a little bit, I think the little sucker took notice and said to himself, "Oh shit! That thing is BIG!" and it jumped.
During twilight, life comes into itself. The animals really start moving about in search of supper. Because it's not quite dark, you don't need a flashlight, but the light plays tricks on the eyes which in turn plays tricks on the brain. At twilight, one needs to be super alert because things are waking up and stirring.
Aggravated, Officer Fear Ranger told us about a woman who was walking around at twilight and stepped on a RATTLESNAKE (it was probably a normal snake, but because it wasn't caught, we will never know), and the snake bit her which is a perfectly logical defensive move on the snake's part. The true point of the story was that it took several hours to get her off the island with by the time they were able to notify the Ranger and the call was put in to the mainland putting the emergency team into danger because they had to bring a boat across the waterways at dark and...etc etc...etc...told you he was a bucket of laughs.
One twilight, I was not being super cautious. As I returned from washing some dishes and fetching water, my head flopped side to side and I was probably singing a little ditty in my head when CRASH! The palmettos parted in front of me. I screamed and loudly. When I got my wits, I looked around and, you guessed it, an armadillo ran out onto the path...then stopped right in the middle of the path. I really didn't want to get to close to the thing. It was kind of big for an armadillo, but I couldn't get around it because it was hogging up the entire path which was only about three feet wide lined by a thicket of saw palmettos. I was laughing because I had screamed out so loudly, and I didn't know what to do. So I did the first logical thing and that was to tell it to, "Shoo."
Did I feel ridiculous? Yes. Telling a wild animal who is oblivious to humans to "shoo" was about as effective as trying to dig a grave with a toothpick. I clapped my hands a few times, and the creature kind of looked at me but didn't move out from the center of the path. I didn't want to jump over it because I didn't want it to jump up into me. So I waited. Finally the little critter moseyed back into the saw palmettos, and I quickened my pace back to camp keeping a little more aware.
To be continued...
Tomorrow Part III of Cumberland Island's Disney World: "Are You Sure This Ain't Disney World?"
20 August 2009
19 August 2009
Cumberland Island's Disney World Part I
Cumberland Island wasn't all serious and mystical and spiritual. Some crazy funny stuff happened, too.
It's stupid that I didn't get a photo of an armadillo. These things are everywhere, and they have no fear of the humans on the island. If you have seen any of the photos or researched the Isle after reading all my posts, you will know that the only cleared areas in the Oak Hammock are the actual campsites, the few trails, the Ranger Station/boat dock and at the bathroom area. Otherwise, under the hammock it is all palmettos with gigantic Live Oaks covered in Spanish Moss.
Seeing under or through the palmettos was impossible because of their thickness.
When we arrived at the Island, the normal person who gives orientation to the campers had gone on vacation herself, so we had the middle aged, grim, disillusioned, I've-been-working-for-the-park-service-too-long-and-seen-to-much-shit-and-stupid-tourists Ranger. One thing that he kept reiterating was the Cumberland Island is a wilderness area, not Disney World, and that we all had to be very aware and serious about the dangers on the island which he went on and on about for so long that we barely had enough time to secure camp before a torrential downpour (and tornado which we found out later had touched down on the north end of the Island).
With thunder grumbling, we made our way to the campsite and secured camp. We then had to walk back to the Ranger Station, return the carts that we used to haul all our stuff in on and rush back to camp (a mile and a half with all three trips there, back and there). By the time we returned to camp, the rain had started to fall in huge drops and lighting and thunder crashed all around us. With no other place to go (like a gift shop or restaurant) most of the group, except for me, went into their tents. I was stupid enough to let myself get caught out in the worst storm the Island had seen all season, if not longer.
After 45 minutes in the grueling rain and wind watching a river of water flow through the campsite (my shoes nearly floated away and the bottom of the tent, I'm told, felt like a big water bed), the storm abided and left a new calm in the forest, Sea Camp and especially number 13.
It wasn't long before the first armadillo showed up. It didn't really show up, it just sort of sauntered out of the bushes keeping its nose to the ground pushing things along looking for grubs. We all freaked out, and we didn't go too close because our ears still rang with the Ranger's substantial fear lecture. By that night though, all fear of the armadillos had subsided leaving a calm like the earlier storm.
That night, an armadillo came right into camp just shuffling along. They don't seem to eat human food, but maybe he was attracted to the campfire. SB got one of the beer boxes that had partially disintegrated in the storm (because we let the beer sit out in the rain...hell, it was cans, nothing could hurt it) and tried to use it to shoo the creature back to the thicket of the palmettos. Well, that little guy wasn't havin' it. It didn't care. It went around minding its own business not hissing or freaking out or anything.
SB kept trying to shoo it when his six year old son screamed out at the top of his lungs (which comes out VERY loud in a quiet forest with no city sounds or buildings around to muffle the noise), "STOP! STOP! DON'T HURT THE WILDLIFE!!! YOU"RE HURTING IT! STOP!"
We all cringed. We knew the neighbors a few sites down heard his bellow. SB wasn't hurting the wildlife at all. He wasn't even touching it. He was very cautiously shooing it with a very soggy beer carton. We very loudly replied so everyone around could hear, "He's not hurting it. He's not hurting anything. He's just shooing it," trying to explain to the boy and the neighbors that we were not throwing things or taking knives to the to the little beast.
There is also quiet hour at Sea Camp, and, well, at any campground across America. At night, every little sound carries far distances. We had no idea what time it was. It was dark and that's all we knew.
We might of got a little stink eye from our neighbors the next day.
As I laid down with Blue to sleep for the night, my scared son felt extreme worry and fear about the wild horses and the raccoons both of which the ranger had gone on and on about for what seemed an hour. Blue repeated what the ranger said almost verbatim. It took me at least half an hour to change the direction of his mind by getting him to think about the funny armadillos. Finally, he drifted off to sleep.
So, by this point, yes, we definitely had to agree with the Ranger that Cumberland Island was NOT Disney World.
To be continued...
It's stupid that I didn't get a photo of an armadillo. These things are everywhere, and they have no fear of the humans on the island. If you have seen any of the photos or researched the Isle after reading all my posts, you will know that the only cleared areas in the Oak Hammock are the actual campsites, the few trails, the Ranger Station/boat dock and at the bathroom area. Otherwise, under the hammock it is all palmettos with gigantic Live Oaks covered in Spanish Moss.
Seeing under or through the palmettos was impossible because of their thickness.When we arrived at the Island, the normal person who gives orientation to the campers had gone on vacation herself, so we had the middle aged, grim, disillusioned, I've-been-working-for-the-park-service-too-long-and-seen-to-much-shit-and-stupid-tourists Ranger. One thing that he kept reiterating was the Cumberland Island is a wilderness area, not Disney World, and that we all had to be very aware and serious about the dangers on the island which he went on and on about for so long that we barely had enough time to secure camp before a torrential downpour (and tornado which we found out later had touched down on the north end of the Island).
With thunder grumbling, we made our way to the campsite and secured camp. We then had to walk back to the Ranger Station, return the carts that we used to haul all our stuff in on and rush back to camp (a mile and a half with all three trips there, back and there). By the time we returned to camp, the rain had started to fall in huge drops and lighting and thunder crashed all around us. With no other place to go (like a gift shop or restaurant) most of the group, except for me, went into their tents. I was stupid enough to let myself get caught out in the worst storm the Island had seen all season, if not longer.
After 45 minutes in the grueling rain and wind watching a river of water flow through the campsite (my shoes nearly floated away and the bottom of the tent, I'm told, felt like a big water bed), the storm abided and left a new calm in the forest, Sea Camp and especially number 13.
It wasn't long before the first armadillo showed up. It didn't really show up, it just sort of sauntered out of the bushes keeping its nose to the ground pushing things along looking for grubs. We all freaked out, and we didn't go too close because our ears still rang with the Ranger's substantial fear lecture. By that night though, all fear of the armadillos had subsided leaving a calm like the earlier storm.
That night, an armadillo came right into camp just shuffling along. They don't seem to eat human food, but maybe he was attracted to the campfire. SB got one of the beer boxes that had partially disintegrated in the storm (because we let the beer sit out in the rain...hell, it was cans, nothing could hurt it) and tried to use it to shoo the creature back to the thicket of the palmettos. Well, that little guy wasn't havin' it. It didn't care. It went around minding its own business not hissing or freaking out or anything.
SB kept trying to shoo it when his six year old son screamed out at the top of his lungs (which comes out VERY loud in a quiet forest with no city sounds or buildings around to muffle the noise), "STOP! STOP! DON'T HURT THE WILDLIFE!!! YOU"RE HURTING IT! STOP!"
We all cringed. We knew the neighbors a few sites down heard his bellow. SB wasn't hurting the wildlife at all. He wasn't even touching it. He was very cautiously shooing it with a very soggy beer carton. We very loudly replied so everyone around could hear, "He's not hurting it. He's not hurting anything. He's just shooing it," trying to explain to the boy and the neighbors that we were not throwing things or taking knives to the to the little beast.
There is also quiet hour at Sea Camp, and, well, at any campground across America. At night, every little sound carries far distances. We had no idea what time it was. It was dark and that's all we knew.
We might of got a little stink eye from our neighbors the next day.
As I laid down with Blue to sleep for the night, my scared son felt extreme worry and fear about the wild horses and the raccoons both of which the ranger had gone on and on about for what seemed an hour. Blue repeated what the ranger said almost verbatim. It took me at least half an hour to change the direction of his mind by getting him to think about the funny armadillos. Finally, he drifted off to sleep.
So, by this point, yes, we definitely had to agree with the Ranger that Cumberland Island was NOT Disney World.
To be continued...
18 August 2009
The End of Summer
Oh (said with a long exasperated exhale of a sigh tinged in grief).
It's quieter around the house as my son is off to spend his days in the government care that we call school. I feel such a sense of melancholy. For I admit, though there were days that I was at my wits end with him, I want summer to go on and on.
As school cranks its gears into motion, I'm still at the beach romanticizing about giant live oaks and wild horses while following bobcat tracks into the wood. I'm still whirling about how much I enjoyed spending time relaxing with another family as we shared duties such as cooking, childcare, dishes, and fetching water. I appreciated the constant conversations, support and openness that seemed flow so easily on the island. I liked being half naked not worried about body image while sauntering around in a bathing suit feeling the sun warming my skin.
A few more days on the island would have had me reverted into a tribal state...my mind was already reaching there wandering and feeling freer and freer each moment. I didn't pick up a book nor my journal once. My senses exploded, and I simply rode the wave enjoying every free moment not concerned with documenting or educating. As the writer, I felt such a sense of relief to release the occasional burden of expression through written word which often haunts me.
On the last night, I wanted to take a shower, naked, at the "rinse off" shower near the boardwalk that leads to the beach. Though the traditional unisex showers were merely surrounded by a few thin walls with hooks, a locking door and simple screen as a roof, I wanted to take a shower amongst the trees.
Earlier that day, BB and I were out on the bikes and found a beach access to what is called Greyfield Beach where the few residents and the guests of the Greyfield Inn go enjoy the sea.
After an hour of beachcombing at Greyfield Beach (where residents of the isle get to drive their four-wheelers with their supplies onto the beach...oh, heavens, imagine if they had to walk like the rest of us?), we headed back to sea camp with a few treasures to show the boys. On the main road, nailed to tree, was a tiny little sign posted way up high pointing to the luxurious, notorious and mysterious Greyfield Inn. And of course, we wanted to see it. (Both BB and I live in historic homes in an H-1 nationally protected historic zone. We kind of have a thing for old things.)
We rode up the tree lined drive on our rented beach cruisers, and it opened to a clearing. There were buildings, a few horses grazing on a lawn and, beyond some large live oaks, the Inn. We were going to bike past it (not get off our bikes and try to go in...we were sandy and gritty from the beach and LORD we have more sense then to mess up their lobby!) when a woman halted us. She told us that we needed to exit the property since non guests disturb the privacy of the residents of the island and the guests of the hotel.
I was flabbergasted that I couldn't just bike past the Inn, a historic site and landmark on the island. The night before, Chad and I jumped the broom to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. In all honesty, I was hoping (since I was on the island which is an eight and a half hour drive from Knoxville) to see the Inn up close and personal with ambition to return for a future anniversary. Well, the woman wasn't haven't any of that. There was no getting by this Sentry. She told us that we could see the Inn online at the website, though the Inn sat right in front of me hidden by a few trees.
(Chad told me on the return to Knoxville that he researched the Inn before we left town. They have a restaurant, and he wanted to take me to dinner for our 10th wedding anniversary. The Inn is so particular and illustrious, that one MUST be a registered guest to dine or even sit at the bar there.)
BB and I laughed and complained all the way back to Sea Camp. Of course, we knew that she was just doing her job, but it felt good to blow off some steam as we were slammed and humbled into our commonness and peasant status among the truly Wealthy. We decided though, that peasant-ness was good because we gots the freedom to have fun (even the Wealthy try to slum it every once in while, but we ain't havin' them!).
Back to the shower. It was this truly humbling experience along with my newly tanned beach skin (those of you who know me KNOW how dark I get) along with walking barefooted in a skimpy (yet modest) swim suit covered in beach salt and sand that opened the flood gates for a feeling of utter and complete tribalism. Suddenly, all the common folk of the island and world were of my tribe.
There are many who try to pretend that they aren't of common folk, but there's no denying it. One may have wealth, but Cumberland Island and the Greyfield Inn are of the Carnegie's and Kennedy's. It don't matter who you are, you is common. If you ain't from that "old" money, you is pretendin', fool.
I imagined that I was a servant or a slave on the island and as the Gents and Women dined seven courses, we cooked over an open fire slapping together a feast to rival the best culinary delights.
As the Fine People dined with linen cloths and silverware lined neatly and properly at each setting, we sucked down our food with shared or no utensils letting the juices drip from our fingers and chins while sitting around a wooden picnic table draped in a vinyl red and white checkered cloth. As the Wealthy sat in corsets and tuxedos, we let our bare feet and our sons' bare feet collect more beach sand as the sand flies bit our ankles.
And when it was all over, I wanted to take a shower the way a servant or a slave of the 1800's may have had to do it. Outside and unashamed knowing exactly what I came from, like life crawling from the ocean and completely bonded with Earth.
It's quieter around the house as my son is off to spend his days in the government care that we call school. I feel such a sense of melancholy. For I admit, though there were days that I was at my wits end with him, I want summer to go on and on.
As school cranks its gears into motion, I'm still at the beach romanticizing about giant live oaks and wild horses while following bobcat tracks into the wood. I'm still whirling about how much I enjoyed spending time relaxing with another family as we shared duties such as cooking, childcare, dishes, and fetching water. I appreciated the constant conversations, support and openness that seemed flow so easily on the island. I liked being half naked not worried about body image while sauntering around in a bathing suit feeling the sun warming my skin.
A few more days on the island would have had me reverted into a tribal state...my mind was already reaching there wandering and feeling freer and freer each moment. I didn't pick up a book nor my journal once. My senses exploded, and I simply rode the wave enjoying every free moment not concerned with documenting or educating. As the writer, I felt such a sense of relief to release the occasional burden of expression through written word which often haunts me.
On the last night, I wanted to take a shower, naked, at the "rinse off" shower near the boardwalk that leads to the beach. Though the traditional unisex showers were merely surrounded by a few thin walls with hooks, a locking door and simple screen as a roof, I wanted to take a shower amongst the trees.
Earlier that day, BB and I were out on the bikes and found a beach access to what is called Greyfield Beach where the few residents and the guests of the Greyfield Inn go enjoy the sea.
After an hour of beachcombing at Greyfield Beach (where residents of the isle get to drive their four-wheelers with their supplies onto the beach...oh, heavens, imagine if they had to walk like the rest of us?), we headed back to sea camp with a few treasures to show the boys. On the main road, nailed to tree, was a tiny little sign posted way up high pointing to the luxurious, notorious and mysterious Greyfield Inn. And of course, we wanted to see it. (Both BB and I live in historic homes in an H-1 nationally protected historic zone. We kind of have a thing for old things.)We rode up the tree lined drive on our rented beach cruisers, and it opened to a clearing. There were buildings, a few horses grazing on a lawn and, beyond some large live oaks, the Inn. We were going to bike past it (not get off our bikes and try to go in...we were sandy and gritty from the beach and LORD we have more sense then to mess up their lobby!) when a woman halted us. She told us that we needed to exit the property since non guests disturb the privacy of the residents of the island and the guests of the hotel.
I was flabbergasted that I couldn't just bike past the Inn, a historic site and landmark on the island. The night before, Chad and I jumped the broom to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. In all honesty, I was hoping (since I was on the island which is an eight and a half hour drive from Knoxville) to see the Inn up close and personal with ambition to return for a future anniversary. Well, the woman wasn't haven't any of that. There was no getting by this Sentry. She told us that we could see the Inn online at the website, though the Inn sat right in front of me hidden by a few trees.
(Chad told me on the return to Knoxville that he researched the Inn before we left town. They have a restaurant, and he wanted to take me to dinner for our 10th wedding anniversary. The Inn is so particular and illustrious, that one MUST be a registered guest to dine or even sit at the bar there.)
BB and I laughed and complained all the way back to Sea Camp. Of course, we knew that she was just doing her job, but it felt good to blow off some steam as we were slammed and humbled into our commonness and peasant status among the truly Wealthy. We decided though, that peasant-ness was good because we gots the freedom to have fun (even the Wealthy try to slum it every once in while, but we ain't havin' them!).
Back to the shower. It was this truly humbling experience along with my newly tanned beach skin (those of you who know me KNOW how dark I get) along with walking barefooted in a skimpy (yet modest) swim suit covered in beach salt and sand that opened the flood gates for a feeling of utter and complete tribalism. Suddenly, all the common folk of the island and world were of my tribe.
There are many who try to pretend that they aren't of common folk, but there's no denying it. One may have wealth, but Cumberland Island and the Greyfield Inn are of the Carnegie's and Kennedy's. It don't matter who you are, you is common. If you ain't from that "old" money, you is pretendin', fool.
I imagined that I was a servant or a slave on the island and as the Gents and Women dined seven courses, we cooked over an open fire slapping together a feast to rival the best culinary delights.
As the Fine People dined with linen cloths and silverware lined neatly and properly at each setting, we sucked down our food with shared or no utensils letting the juices drip from our fingers and chins while sitting around a wooden picnic table draped in a vinyl red and white checkered cloth. As the Wealthy sat in corsets and tuxedos, we let our bare feet and our sons' bare feet collect more beach sand as the sand flies bit our ankles.And when it was all over, I wanted to take a shower the way a servant or a slave of the 1800's may have had to do it. Outside and unashamed knowing exactly what I came from, like life crawling from the ocean and completely bonded with Earth.
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