Savannah River Swamp Trail

There ain't nothing in Garnett, SC except the post office. And the guy selling watermelons behind the post office. And what might have been the guy's wife sitting beside him in the car--although if it was his wife he's going to have to sell a lot more watermelons than what he had in the trunk of his car to fix her teeth. And, hell, I saw the sorry condition of her teeth from the road.

If watermelon didn't upset my stomach, I would have bought the whole trunkful. Maybe even the whole car. Probably could have had the whole shooting match for less than $50. Not including the wife. Probably would have had to bump my price to $65 to throw her in the deal.

The Jim Webb Wildlife Management Area is also in Garnett, SC, hard up against the Savannah River in Hampton County, SC. A Wildlife Management Area is a place where native species are preserved. It's also a place where local hunters can shoot the shit out of the native species during certain closed-hunt times. This is very much like how real management works in offices and businesses around the country. Management gives people jobs, but those people are fair game during certain company-called hunts. Culling the herd, as it were.

I went down the longish dirt and gravel road to the Bluff Lake picnic area and the start of the Savannah River Swamp trail which winds through a cypress swamp to the Savannah River. There was a small viewing area on the bank of Bluff Lake.

There was a busload of chirren from the Hampton County Rec Center just pulling up and from the looks of it, the serenity of the moment was about to be altered--significantly. So I snapped a few shots from the viewing area and jumped back into my truck to find the trailhead that led to the Savannah River.





I unloaded my bike and set off. Personally, I like sweat dripping off of my nose. It connotes work and effort. Within 12 seconds of mounting my bike, I was drenched. I also realized at about the same time that my scent is very attractive to bloodsucking insects. I was lathered in them. I could almost feel, in my central nervous system, every carnivorous animal that the hunters hadn't already shot to death, lifting their heads to this new aroma wafting through their bald cypress forest. I had biked about 20 feet when I was lashed across the face with a drooping bamboo shoot--like it was a living, sentient thing, warning me away from Jim Webb's Deathly Hallows. And Deathly Hallows it was. Very, very spooky as I pedaled on.



I expected the Swamp Thing or the Bog Monster or even just a half-crazed emo chick to come up out of the ooze and chase me down.



But I bucked up and realized that I could handle a crazy emo chick (talk her down, give her a Morrissey CD) or a bog monster (probably just a drunk local--maybe even a relative of watermelon seller guy and his wife) if either should rise up from the swamp, so I got down to the business of staying on my bike and not actually riding it into the swamp because I was thinking of stupid thoughts instead of paying attention to the trail. When I paid attention to the trail, I found things like this:



When I flipped it over with my foot, maggots and ants came squirming out. Mr. Slowski was finished. Literally, there was nothing left. Damn, nature is efficient.

Finally I came to a place that was rife with tell-tale signs that the trail was over and the banks of the Savannah River were nigh:



Through the clearing, I could see the Savannah River. The Hampton County version--free of clutter, free of commerce, free of help if I needed it because my body was about 123 degrees in the shade and I was almost ready to dunk my head in radioactive river water and take my chances with whatever orifice drilling leech or river worm that was swimming around. I mean almost. I dumped some of my water bottle over my head instead.



There was a little bluff overlooking the river and about 15 feet below the bluff was a tiny strip of beach. As you can see, there weren't any babes sunbathing down there. If there were, I'm sure the gators would have pulled them under the log that you can see to the left-center.



I looked out over the water and try to see if anyone was moseying along on the Georgia side. Or if there was one of those red laser dots on my forehead or over my chest. Nothing.



I could feel a mud dauber wasp inspecting one of my ears for purchase, so I decided it was time to head back, down the trail, through the cypress swamp, back to the truck. A good day.