Barking at Armadillos

After leaving Smokey Mountain National Park, I enjoyed a short drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway before making my way back to the interstate system for the trek to Florida. It was tough for a mountain lover like myself to pull away from the views along the parkway. This early in spring I had the road much to myself, which was good because of the fog. Signs warned me to beware and drive slowly and I did, pulling over at nearly every stopping place to admire views of Doubletop and Lone Bald Mountains and Looking Glass Rock. The moist air makes the mountains look blue without somehow obscuring them completely, even though the fog managed to obscure the roadway completely at times. I had always had the idea that these were mere hills compared to the Rocky Mountains. Seeing these mountains gave me an appreciation of their beauty despite the lower elevations.

Although I had seen evidence of many things to do and see in the intervening states, I decided time was a-wasting if I were going to see the parks of Florida and get to New Mexico in time to meet Tom on June first. It was now the end of April. I would have loved to see the gardens at Biltmore Estates in Asheville, North Carolina or the arboretums of half a dozen southern cities. I really wanted to cross North Carolina to see historic Roanoke Island and to drive Highway 12 along the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. However it would add many miles to the route and probably result in having to miss driving the Florida Keys or some other highly desirable goal.

I did take time to visit Carl Sandburg’s home, now a National Historic Site outside of Hendersonville, North Carolina. I just happened to see a sign for it and decided not to miss the chance to get a feel for the life of one of the last great poets to actually receive popular recognition in the United States. Sure, poets get recognition within the ranks of other poets and writers, but most people these days have no idea that there even is a poet laureate. A lover of reading and writing poetry myself, I understand that popular culture no longer includes poetry. The road called again after a brief tour of the house and the farm where Sandburg spent the last of his days. My quest was ever more national parks.

Then it was back to the Interstate following I-26 out of North Carolina through South Carolina to I95, and across Georgia for a couple days of just driving. The Dude could put up with long days of resting his head on my lap without a whimper. I didn’t vocally whimper when the days got long, but occasionally I did so silently. If I had no book on CD, I listened to music I brought along, but sometimes I found a radio station I liked or could abide for a while. I am not much of a radio listener at home and then only have about three stations I listen to (two public radio and an oldies station). I enjoyed listening to what the announcers and even sometimes the commercials were like. It might not be as exotic as listening to radio in Barcelona or County Kerry, but there still are some differences from what I hear at home. The accents are certainly different.

If I was in a sunny mood, I sang along with the oldies or my favorite CDs. It is surprising how many songs have words that can be substituted with “Dude”. Any time you have the phrase “I love you,” which is of course well represented in popular songs, you can sing “I love Dude” instead. Like this phrase from a great oldie, “Baby, it’s Dude, la la la la la lah”. Or that memorable country hit, “If Dude loved me half as much as I love Dude.” If you’re up on your old Monkees’ hits, you’ll recognize “It’s a little bit me and a little bit Dude.” It’s easy to sing about such a fabulous dog. “If I can’t have Dude, I don’t want nobody baby.” The Dude does not care to join in though. He prefers to howl, and then only when he is coaxed into it by my repeating a howl until he can’t stand not joining in. When he does succumb to the power of song, he has quite a gifted voice. His favorite Dude tune is based on Food Glorious Food from the soundtrack of Oliver.

Driving with no one to talk to but The Dude allowed me many hours of just watching the road and wandering in my mind. Daily life keeps me busy enough that I often forgo thoughtfulness. No time for thoughts; I have needs. Needa do this. Oughta do that. So I go on about do I want to paint the bathroom back home, about whether or not I’m going to find a really great place to camp that night or just a space in a parking lot, about how nice it feels with a dog resting his head on your lap, or maybe about how I’m going to find my way through the next traffic-laden city. Sometimes I think about the oil The Escaper is using to propel my thoughts and me. The odometer ticked off the tenths of miles, and 12 miles per gallon of gas ticked in my brain.

For the entire trip (8,245 miles), I used about 750 gallons of gas. I paid an average of just under two dollars per gallon, sometimes up to two thirty five per gallon. I spent $1400 total on gas. Not outrageously expensive from my middle class perspective. If I had taken my car that gets 30 to 35 miles per gallon, I might have used only 275 gallons and spent maybe $600 on gas. Here’s the whiny justification of a gas-guzzling vehicle for the skinflint in me and of using the precious resource for the environmentalist in me: “But then I would have to sleep in a tent, and I’m old and my knees hurt, and it’s more work, and I’d be cold, and as a woman alone, I need more privacy and a more solid wall between me and the real world, and if I didn’t camp, I’d have to get a motel and that’s REALLY expensive, and I would eat at restaurants more often because it would be difficult to cook ,and that’s REALLY expensive, and besides, I wouldn’t be sleeping among the great scenery of the parks if I was in a motel, so this was my only choice because I’m old and my knees hurt!” (I was only 50, which is not so old thank you very much, but my knees did and do hurt.)

I needed to fill up the tank two or three times a day if I was doing a full day of driving. Eight hours of getting from point A to point B was enough for me most of the time. One reason for taking ten weeks was I didn’t want to feel rushed or weary. Six to ten hours of driving is wearying to me, even if I take The Dude for short strolls every time we stop.

Driving can often be frustrating when the opposite of serendipity comes along. On my two-day leg from the Smokey Mountains to Florida I discovered that I couldn’t just pop into a campground any old time. I wanted to get some miles in without starting out early in the morning, so I drove the first long day until around 10:00 p.m., then got a hotel rather than quitting at suppertime like a sensible tourist.

I consider staying at motels when I have a house on my back to be a bit silly. So much so that I am loath to admit that I stayed at a motel about three times on this 10-week trip. Let me rationalize it for you. Long day. Warm shower without walking to a bathhouse a block away from The Escaper. The devil hot line to “civilization” known as cable TV. A phone that works. Four walls that are mine for the night. I’m sure I could think of more excuses. I’m sure my dear readers are thinking, “Well, I know what’s silly and it isn’t staying at a motel!”

So that was easy. The next night, I planned to camp at a state park in South Carolina not too far off the interstate. At about 9:00 p.m., I pulled off the freeway and found the park. There was a gate across the entrance and it was locked. “Not open?” I wondered. Checking the small sign by the gate, I found that the park was open but the gates are locked after dark. You have to arrive earlier and get the combination to the gate lock. Then you can go in and out after dark if needed. The practice is common in parts of the U.S., but I hadn’t encountered it before.

Oh well, there must be somewhere else to camp. Sure there is. Judgment impaired by the late hour, I decided not to follow the five or ten-mile route back to the interstate. I took a two-lane highway that went in the same direction, thinking I would find some kind of campground or at least a motel. I drove for another hour through a sort of suburban residential area, passing gas stations and fast food and a large antebellum garden estate that looked enticing had it only been daytime. Before long I was in Charleston.

I’m sure Charleston is a great city if you plan to visit it. At midnight after a long drive, it was not working for me. I tried a KOA, but they had closed the office by then. Bleary and weary, I hit the freeway until I found a truck stop where I could just pull over and sleep.

The next day, the second of May, took me without incident into fecund Florida, where I repeatedly begged The Dude not to bark at the armadillos. We do not have those furless, funky fellows in Minnesota. I had never spent much time anywhere that did. I don’t think I had even seen one outside a zoo. In the state parks and campgrounds of Florida, they are as numerous as squirrels are at home. The Dude was quite excited about these slow-moving little guys. I pointed one out to him from the camper as we drove into Fort Clinch State Park. He almost leapt out of the half open window in his eagerness to get a smell of that thing. That one did not even leave the road when I backed up to get a better look at him (or her–what do I know from girl or boy armadillos?). The little oddball was nosing through dead leaves on the side of the three-mile road from the park entrance to the campground. This slow and unafraid disposition must be the reason why they’re famous as road kill. We met another armadillo at our campsite. “Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark,” said The Dude. The little armored guy ambled away into the trees. I like looking at the goofy guys but I was glad it left, so The Dude wouldn’t continue disturbing our neighbors.

The neighbors to my right were a friendly retired couple from Georgia who had their own little dog. He and The Dude never did make friends, but we all managed to keep the barking to a minimum. They and their friends had been visiting this park often for many years. The kindness of strangers demonstrated itself when Edith came out after their supper and asked if I liked soup. She warned me that it might not be the kind of soup I liked, but the “others had said they liked it.” I told her I would take their word for it and accepted her kind offer. She brought me a big ice cream container of soup and a hunk of cornbread, apologizing that the bread had not risen. Edith was just being modest. Inside was a delicious stew of beef and vegetables. The cornbread was sweet and light and I enjoyed every last morsel. I had enough to enjoy at lunch the next day. What a treat!

Despite the warnings to beware of alligators, I enjoyed camping with palm trees and tropical vegetation. The Dude and I took a hike around the grounds and decided it was worth spending another day. The Dude wanted to see more of these armadillo things, and I wanted to see the living history exhibit. Edith and Sam told me it was well worth touring the old fort the park was named after.

Checking with the ranger, I was pleased to find it was OK to hike the trails with The Dude on his leash. (Many Florida parks don’t welcome dogs.) After a morning spent mailing postcards and checking email in Fernandina Beach, the town that surrounds the park, we went back and hiked around the “jungle” all afternoon. Actually it was more of a swamp, but the bugs weren’t bad. The day was sunny and not too hot.

We had a stunningly beautiful nature trail to ourselves. The Dude got impatient sometimes as I spent too long reading those useless signs that to him are only good for marking and moving on. I liked knowing what kind of trees I was looking at, so I read all the simple metal signs the park had placed under various species. Near the end of the trail was a sign saying “Danger! Gator crossing,” at a spot where the trail was a narrow dirt hump between two pools. A few feet away was a bench facing a slope down to a lake. Approaching the bench, we heard a couple of hefty splashes as something big went into the marshy overgrowth by the lakeshore. The Dude was not intrigued. I was intrigued enough to haul us both up onto the bench (no doubt a futile strategy), before guiding us away and back to the Toy House. No sense in tempting fate or Gorgon the Giant Gator.

I still hadn’t walked along the Atlantic beach yet, even though one side of the park bordered on the ocean. Campers without dogs could stay in the campground on that side of the park. When I finally did check out the ocean campground, I found that it was not particularly pleasant, though the sites had long views of the ocean. The 20 or so sites were arranged in a big circle right next to each other with no trees or shrubs separating them for any semblance of privacy. It felt like an apartment building or a motel with all those RV’s stacked next to each other. I was now OK with not being able to camp there even though at first the thought of parking right on the beach had sounded idyllic.

Leaving the Dude in the Toy House to cool his heels, I took a short walk along the beach, one place in the park where dogs are not allowed. Looking out at the water, it seemed I could have been back home on Lake Superior. However the waves were a bit bigger than we usually get, and I knew the state of Michigan was not just over the horizon. All was blue space in constant movement, changing shape at the impulse of tide and wind; changing color at the whim of the sky.

Unlike Lake Superior at home, here white sands dotted with small shells stretched out in two directions. Yes, it was gorgeous. It was also dotted with pop cans and candy wrappers along with miscellaneous plastic caps and rings. I picked up a grocery bag of trash on the beach. I guess one bag was not too bad considering we tend to use the oceans as a garbage dump, just as we do any other body of water or length of land. I can’t stand it. The sight of blue water lapping on white sand should not be laden with human trash and garbage. It looks horrible. Why doesn’t everybody think it’s horrible?

Back at camp, the first thing I heard as I started to settle in and prepare dinner was angry shouting nearby. “Just put down the beer!” a male voice shouted loudly and repeated several times before other unintelligible shouting ensued. I froze, hoping it wasn’t a situation where I ought to go find a ranger or perhaps batten down the hatches of the Toy House. But then it was quiet and no more outbursts split the evening air.

After dinner I checked out a ranger’s tip on finding a cell signal. There was no pay phone, as was common at most parks I visited. A ranger told me the phone company didn’t make enough on them to make the maintenance from vandalism worth the trouble now that so many people have cell phones. There were plenty of times at parks without pay phones when I tried to call Tom and I couldn’t find a signal. Bah. Yes, it’s true. I was missing him madly, calling him every day I could find a signal or a pay phone.

The next day was hot, probably in the 80s, yet something this northerner could handle with a sun hat, sunglasses and sunscreen. Before heading off to see what else Florida had to offer, I visited the actual fort of Fort Clinch State Park for a mere two dollar entrance fee. The first weekend of each month, Fort Clinch hosts Union Garrisons where volunteers and rangers staff the infirmary, blacksmith shop, jail, laundry and kitchen. If I get this way again, I have to visit on such a weekend. The park also hosts nature walks, fishing clinics and tournaments, and historic military commemorations.

A sign at the entrance tells you that you are entering a fort in the year 1864, during the civil war. The soldiers will answer your questions about the time they live in. Fascinated, I took photos of the thick brick walls and the canons pointing towards the ocean. My bonus was that, perhaps because it was a weekday, the living history museum was not crowded. Never mind that it meant there was only one living history guide on duty that day, the Sergeant was a great host.

Inside, as I approached the infirmary, the Sergeant invited me to join the handful of tourists around him. He knew his fort history. He told us the fort was not a reconstruction but the actual uncompleted fort from 1864. The Union army abandoned it to the Confederate militia, the South abandoned it at some point, and it was outdated by new military technology by the time the Civil War ended. The usefulness of brick fortifications ended with the development of the rifled barrel cannon. The fort was used again briefly in 1898 during the war with Spain, and again in World War II. Never having seen military action, the place has been preserved in good condition unlike many forts that had been abandoned to time and decay in other parts of the country.

Construction of officers’ quarters and some barracks was never completed, though a bare foundation testifies to the plans. The rest of the huge fort is on display, many structures containing reconstructions of the furniture and implements used by the 1860s Union army. The Sergeant proved to be an engaging storyteller. The kids in the group enjoyed being asked to speculate about what various medical devices were used for or being invited to see for themselves how comfortable the beds were not. Later I was able to have a conversation with the Sergeant (he didn’t have a historical name nor did I ask his real name). We had a talk about how the Civil War participants may have felt and acted. He knew a lot about what might have motivated the southern citizens to rebel. I wish I could recall more of our discussion. I regret now not having sat down and written some of the ideas after leaving the park.

Leaving the fort in early in afternoon, I propelled the Toy House down the road, hoping to camp somewhere near Ocala late that night. The traffic was heavy and the stop signs plentiful on the route I had chosen, highway A1A. I lost my bearings and after studying my map, decided to grab SR90 to lead me back to Interstate 95. Reaching Ocala was much too ambitious with the late start from Fort Clinch. I stayed in a commercial campground near St. Augustine.

Information there about the living history museum in St Augustine caused me to detour once more. A woman at the campground gave me a great map of the town and told me what landmarks to look for to find the Colonial Spanish Quarter. Interpreters there depict life in the 1740s. The city-run exhibit is quite extensive with ten buildings and grounds, depicting a candle maker and herbalist, several homes typical of various classes of society, artisan shops, and a tavern. Unluckily for me, there were numerous school groups that day so it was not easy to find an interpreter to ask my own questions.

Outside the living history museum, the atmosphere at the Colonial Spanish Quarter was of a theme park. Quaint shops in antique buildings, restaurants and snack bars, and lots of colorful flowers and banners. In contrast to the museum, it seemed tacky to me, but I am not a big theme park fan. Despite that prejudice I might have loitered longer, but I felt hurried because temps were in the 90s and I was worried about leaving The Dude alone in the camper for too long. I returned to find the camper kept nicely cool (in the 70s) by the ventilation system.

Florida was a major destination of my travels because my favorite aunt lives in Ocala. After a visit with them and a couple cousins, I planned to head to the Keys, and zip back up north on the Gulf Coast, before heading west to meet Tom. Luckily for me, the route I chose to Ocala took me to a favorite park of the trip, Juniper Springs National Forest Campground.