Cumberland Island

Perhaps it was the sun filtering through the live oaks. The dappled, dancing shadows on the dusty, sandy roads. Perhaps it was the stillness of noon, barely a sound in the thick woods. Perhaps it was the smell of a fire, burning the last remnants of winter's scorn. Perhaps and most significantly, it was the puttering sound of a small tractor that made me think of home. All the memories of my childhood ricochet around me. On this remote island, amongst the ruins of a sophisticated, wealthy world, I paused, prodding myself to look deeply into my imagination. Did a little girl live in that huge house? Did she pretend she was a wild and free Indian princess riding bareback to the sea? As I walked through the ruins, the wild horses wandered in to take fresh water collected in a pool on the south side of the ruins beneath a small flowering tree. .My reverie was interrupted by a gaggle of women on a guided tour. Time to go deeper in the hammock toward the cemetery, slave quaters, barns and the 1 and 1/2 mile beach trail. My imagination switches, I now feel like Lawrence of Arabia, crossing the dunes in blazing sunlight. We marched through perfect white sand dunes for almost a mile. The sea, from the dunes, was exhilarating, magical, glorious. We both made a mad dash to cool our hot feet in the cool surf. We did not see another soul until we returned to Greyfield Inn for a glass of sweet tea, sitting on the veranda, relaxing on the porch swing.
After a five mile bike ride, a four mile walk and a picnic by the sea, this seemed like the perfect ending to a manificent day on Cumberland Island.

Sunny Sunday

Yawn. Stretch. WFS brings my coffee to my sea watching spot. We both stare into the sparkling sun dancing on the low tide until WFS's belly began to growl. Our Sunday brunch was bagels, lox and cream cheese. Traveling in a vintage airstream garners lots of attention. Fellow campers wander in, how long you had it? Where did you get it? Are you from New Mexico?(front bumper) Are you from KY?( back bumper)... Then, where you been? Where you going? Time drifts away. I am eager to walk to the lighthouse, which can only be reached from the beach in lowtide.. The lighthouse is about a 3/4 mile trek along the shore. I repeat, only in lowtide. We have to get moving.
This very wild beach is Gullah country and for the most part, has been left to the natural wildness of the sea. Other than bird and turtle hatching protected areas, the park service isn't intrusive, at all. Several warnings say: Give alligators a wide berth. Thus, stick to the sea! We made it out to the lighthouse along the shore, climbed the 238 steps up
to the catwalk for a stunning view of the Atlantic Ocean, Harbor River and Fripp Island. The day was bright and sunny with views extending forty miles.
We walked through the hammock back to the seashore, where we found the most rewarding ice cream hut. A Ben & Jerry's ice cream sandwich eaten while the sun warms your back and the sea breeze cools your face..well, as the saying goes, priceless. You have to grab the moment, no?
While the tide was low, we hiked as far as we could go to the very edge of the river and the sea. Stop. Breathe deeply. Do not move.
Now, continue.
We decided to drive 16 miles into the historic town of Beaufort, SC. This is a lovely southern town and also very lively on Sunday afternoon. Perversely, I was seeking a Sunday NYTimes. Unsuccessfully. We did treat ourselves to fried grouper cheeks and Palmetto ale. You get good and greasy and wash it all away with beer. Oh, by the way, in the south, you lick your fingers!
We found Beaufort very southern and, hospitable. Do stop in, if you are ever lost between Charleston, SC and Savannah, GA.
A footnote:
the sunset over the marsh would take a small book to adequately describe. When I write my memoirs, I will include that indescribable sunset

Asheville, North Carolina

WFS is a nimble driver. No doubt about it. He's also a relentless one. Miles upon miles, never relinquishing the wheel. I will also add he will stop a zillion times, for no better reason than allowing me to dip my feet in the French Broad River. We followed the French Broad as we snaked through the lush mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina. The very, very slow route, to be sure. We took this senic and splendid route to avoid the rock slide on I40. We didn't see the Smokies but we did see America, the beautiful and America, the kitchy!
Camping last night was bliss. I was sleeping soundly by 9:45!
We've left the mountains behind and we'll see the Atlantic Ocean soon. Tonight our little TinCan will be nestled by the sea. We have cherry wood and bison burgers.. What more could two vagabonds want?

Eastern Kentucky

As I travel through the magnificent mountains near Pineville, Kentucky, two things are very clear to me:
1. It is breathtakingly beautiful.
2. It is devastatingly poor.
I wonder if we will ever reconcile these glaring contrasts.
As a child in a one room school, I was graced by the Save the Children Federation. I only knew beauty, I did not understand the concept of poverty. I thought we were priviledged. I still do. Later in life, and noted by my oldest son, I became vocal, perhaps militant on the stereotypical portrayal of the undereducated. I
must admit, it is hard not be protective of the people from this incredible landscape. It only takes a few guffaws or pointed grammatical corrections to set me aflame. I wear my heritage with enormous pride. I am looking out the windshield into a deep hardwood forest, morels are there waiting to be dry land fish for supper. Wildflowers are dotting the south banks of creekbeds. Trees in the distance are pale green, red and gray. Birds are nesting. Someplace in a hollow, a baby's foot is touching green grass for the very first time. The timeless ritual of life in the mountains on a spring day is humming to my soul.
I honor the past, I am hopeful for the future of this remarkable corner of the world.