You feel the coast long before you see it. Taking full advantage of a warm morning, knowing it might easily be the last one of the season, I cruised along I-16 with the windows down and the radio up. Somewhere east of Statesboro, the longleaf pines of south Georgia give way to palmettos and live oaks and the highway gets a little...rough. The same sandy loam that nourishes those stately coastal trees also wreaks havoc on paved surfaces - the earth tends not to stay put here. Long cracks, perpendicular to the edge of the road, rhythmically jostled my truck as I sped east toward Savannah. The regular ba-bump, ba-bumping might've lulled me to sleep, if it wasn't also slinging around the notebooks and papers spread out over my dashboard.

Smells like marine spirit.(Source: The author's own) — Smells like marine spirit.
(Source: The author's own)

As you get closer, the air gets heavier. The salty, humid headwinds swirled through my open windows, leaving me with that vague sensation of uncleanliness that comes from a day near the beach. It felt like the breeze itself was oxidizing my delicate, inland skin to a dull patina, like the UV-faded hull of a shrimp boat. "You're welcome here but you'll need this first," the briny air seemed to say. I've never spent enough time near the coast to know if that's a feeling you get used to but I wasn't about to put my windows up - seventy degree temperatures in December wouldn't last long, so I was going to savor them even if it meant feeling a little grimy.

I-16 takes you straight into downtown Savannah, whether you want it to or not - the interstate literally dead-ends into Mongomery Street, just two or three blocks west of Pulaski Square. Between visiting family and a friend from my childhood, I planned on spending a combined eleven days here in the Lowcountry, with my time split between Savannah and Beaufort, South Carolina. The two are only about thirty miles apart as the egret flies but there's no direct route between them - this area is, as the Lowcountry moniker suggests, a patchwork of bottomland forests, brackish tidal marshes, and white sandy beaches, all within a few feet of sea level. Rivers and estuaries coil through the landscape, forming islands that number in the hundreds to the thousands, depending on the depth of the tides. Choosing the scenic route (because, obviously), driving between the two cities takes about two hours.

Routes don't get much more scenic than this. At least, not in December.(Source: The author's own) — Routes don't get much more scenic than this. At least, not in December.
(Source: The author's own)

Though I wouldn't go so far as to say it's in my blood, this place is definitely in my heart. I've been coming to the area in and around Beaufort (and, to a lesser degree Savannah) since my early teen years, when my Aunt Kathey and Uncle Bill moved here from South Florida. Bill (my mother's sister's husband) is originally from Beaufort - from what I understand, his people were among the movers and shakers of Beaufort County for several generations, so his first-person anecdotes and familiarity with the region's landscape, culture and history (along with the frequent off-color remark) always made for some memorable visits, especially to an impressionable child.

My visit this time around would take me to Savannah first, then up to Beaufort for several days and then back down to Savannah. Here are some of the highlights:

Fort Pulaski

As a general rule while traveling, I tend to gravitate toward places with a historical or ecological focus, which are often delicate and unfriendly toward my canine companion. That's understandable, as I don't want Gabby relieving herself on a Civil War-era canon any more than the National Park Service does. Still, I have to keep reminding myself that this road trip is as much hers as it is mine, so sometimes we have to compromise. For example, Tybee Island doesn't allow dogs, so that was a no go; however, Fort Pulaski does. So sometimes, a change of plans benefits us both: I love historical ruins and Gabby loves peeing on historical ruins. Everybody wins.

Everything the light touches is my toilet.(Source: The author's own) — Everything the light touches is my toilet.
(Source: The author's own)

Following an early-afternoon lunch of breakfast tacos in the parking lot, I toted my bag of dirty dishes up to the men's room. A father with two small boys entered as I was scrubbing my little cast iron skillet, no doubt wondering why the restroom smelled of bacon and dish soap, I heard him whisper something to his children before they left - something that sounded suspiciously like "don't look at him, just go." Whether he was afraid I would accost them or put them to work, I don't know, but I certainly could've used the help; the NPS clearly doesn't account for dish-washing when designing their bathrooms.

Constructed in the first half of the 19th century, Fort Pulaski is significant in that it fell relatively quickly compared to other fortifications in the area, due in part to a new technology available to the Union - rifled artillery. Despite having solid brick walls of over ten feet thick in some places, the fort fell to Federal troops on April 12, 1862 after a 30-hour bombardment. Exterior walls on the southeast facade still sport some impressive pockmarks, though the Union army repaired the worst of the damage during their occupation.

(Source: The author's own)

Fort Pulaski is also significant in that it was the site of Gabby's first taste of saltwater. Thinking maybe the first, second and third times were flukes, she eventually came to accept that she should probably keep her mouth shut while in the ocean.

Hunting Island State Park

Despite taking a serious beating during the recent hurricane season, Hunting Island is still South Carolina's most visited state park and an essential stop whenever I come to Beaufort. It is one of the state's best examples of a semi-tropical maritime forest, with slash pines, cabbage palmettos and live oaks creating a dark, almost jungle-like atmosphere, similar to what you might expect to find in Southeast Asia (in fact, the Vietnam scenes of Forrest Gump were filmed here for that very reason).

Much of the island is closed for repairs (including the campgrounds, which is why I ended up evading an axe-murderer on nearby St. Helena Island later that night). This would be my final day of nice weather for a while so I spent the better part of it on the beach, alternating between hammock and surf. One of the visuals for which Hunting Island is most recognized are the hundreds of salt-bleached, weathered trees slowly eroding out to sea from its beaches. As something of a stick aficionado, Gabby was most pleased.

"Five stars, would chew again"(Source: The author's own) — "Five stars, would chew again"
(Source: The author's own)

Beaufort

Stunningly beautiful at just about any time of the year, Beaufort is a town swelling with so much history and culture that you can't throw a seashell without hitting a building or property of some national significance. "American history begins in Beaufort," so the saying goes (at least, that's how it goes in Beaufort). In a town with so much pride in its holdings (and rightfully so, I must say), it's always good practice to take some of what you hear with a grain of salt. Pride is a healthy quality to have in one's community but it can also blind you to its faults. The "Lost Cause of the Confederacy" movement is alive and well here - woe unto he who refers to the Civil War as anything but "The War of Northern Aggression." It's not unusual to hear that phrase spoken with ambiguous irony, the speaker waiting to see what kind of reaction it elicits. That's how you trap a Yankee.

Though diverse in its ecology, you'd be hard-pressed to find a diverse way of thinking around these parts. It's a land of white sand, white clouds and white people with white hair. Beaufort is a town set in its ways and has been for 300 years. Still, aside from the occasional discomfort of being a blue fish in a red pond, I always enjoy my time in Beaufort. Kathey and Bill are among the most generous and interesting people you'll find in this city - and finding them isn't difficult; during my stay, there wasn't a restaurant, museum or tailor within a ten-mile radius of downtown where someone didn't recognize them.

During the day, I would accompany them to various sights around town - the Santa Elena History Center, the US Marine Corps Museum on Parris Island - and Bill would wax poetic about his life in the area, peppered with tidbits of history, culture and Pat Conroy-isms about the coastal town he so dearly loves. Though unrelated by blood, he and I share a passion for novel experiences, with a willingness to try anything once, especially if a good story can be whittled out of it. "It ain't bragging if it's true."

One afternoon, we took a drive down to the town of Port Royal, a few miles southeast of Beaufort and adjacent to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island. As we cruised by marshes and estuaries, Bill pointed out a wide field of debris bobbing on the water's surface, right next to the road. "That's left over from the hurricanes. The waves pushed it in until it came to the road here and couldn't go any further. Been there for months."

Further out in the water, well beyond the semi-submerged fields of spartina, sailboats dotted the bay, all curiously facing the same direction. "That means the tide is still coming in," he explained. With only the very tips of the grass visible, I wondered how much more water the moon planned on dragging in from the Atlantic. He wasn't acting alone, either; my visit just so happened to coincide with what's called a "king tide," a once yearly phenomenon when the Earth, the moon, and the sun are all aligned at perigee and perihelion, bathing tidal basins the world over with the largest range seen over the course of the year. "I'll consider that a good omen," I thought to myself.

As we continued our drive along the bay, we paused momentarily at a cracked, weathered dock, to which a small fleet of shrimp boats was tethered. Names like Carolina Girl, Little Boy and Mrs. B adorned their faded hulls, with fonts that offered a glimpse into the personality of their respective captains, or maybe even the boats themselves. With their booms raised skyward, dangling webs of rope and netting, the boats appeared almost insectile, like a dragonfly during warmer seasons, perched on a blade of black needlerush.

(Source: The author's own)

Another briny breeze blew in off the water, sending a shiver up my back. The temperature had dropped about twenty degrees since I'd first arrived on the coast but knowing what awaited me further north, I welcomed the cool air. Cool I can handle, not as sure about cold.

Old Sheldon Church

The area around Yemassee is spooky - there's just no way else to describe it. The forests here are dense and knotted, with the trunks of cypress trees reflecting off the murky, tannin-rich waters from which they grow. Vertical, knobby protrusions known as "knees" grow upward from their roots, poking up above the waterline like ancient stalagmites, serving a purpose unknown to science, only to them.

(Source: The author's own)

This forest feels old. It's easy to imagine the sound of hound dogs drifting in on the wind, as they pursue a runaway slave through the soggy understory. Anyone claiming that slaves weren't treated as poorly as history suggests need only spend a few minutes walking in these woods to understand the degree of desperation that would push someone to try and escape through this landscape on foot.

Two miles off Hwy 21, on a desolate, claustrophobic road carved through this Jurassic forest are the ruins of a church over 250 years old. Officially, at least according to the historical marker by the roadside, it is called Prince William's Parrish Church. To locals, it is known simply as The Old Sheldon Church.

A majestic brick husk, flanked on one side by four stately columns (what's left of a covered portico), the church sits alone in a field, save for a steady trickling of tourists during daylight hours. From the outside, the ruins are pockmarked and crumbling, sporting sporadic clumps of ferns that give the impression of eyelashes. Inside, patches of plaster continue to flake away from the tabby beneath - a regional concrete made from crushed oyster shells. Scattered around the structure are precariously skewed gravestones and old tombs bearing wide cracks from over two-and-a-half centuries worth of shifting, sandy soil (like I said before, the earth doesn't stay put here).

(Source: The author's own)

I've been coming to the Old Sheldon Church since I was a teenager, during just about every one of our trips to Beaufort. Kathey is the church's official caretaker, a role thrust upon her by the previous caretaker and his wife not long after they moved to Beaufort. Her roles include scheduling events (it's a very popular spot for weddings), checking for vandalism and generally acting as the property's steward. This structure is actually what's called a chapel-of-ease, meaning it is a church building constructed separate from the parish church but still within the bounds of that parish. It served as a satellite church for those who couldn't reach the parish church conveniently (given the surrounding landscape, it's easy to see why that might be the case). Kathey and her husband are members of the parish church, which is how this responsibility came to be hers.

She mentioned in passing one day how beautiful the church was at night (in all my previous visits, I had never seen it after hours). Because I've recently been rediscovering how to use my camera, I decided it might be fun to go shoot the ruins after dark.

"How about checking the floodlights while you're out there?" she asked. "We've been having trouble with the motion sensor on one of them."

Let it be known that I don't believe in ghosts in any form, shape or fashion; I've spent enough time in places much creepier than this to know better. Still, as I found myself out on the grounds in the dead of night, I imagined past parishioners sitting atop their tombs, watching me fumble with my tripod in the dark. It also didn't help that the floodlights would cut on from time to time, though there was most definitely no one around to trip the sensors. If any ghosts were around, I'm sure my antics kept them amused; over and over again I sprinted back and forth through the shell of the church, trying to beat my camera's timer as I played around with light painting and generally trying to get at least one picture that didn't suck. While waiting for my long exposures to process, I watched the stars above me. Having long ago lost its roof to fire (multiple times during its life, from what I understand), one can stand in the middle of the ruins at night and see a sky absolutely full of stars, many more than I had seen during my trip thus far.

After draining two camera batteries and Gabby's patience (she was curled up in the truck, poor thing), I packed up my gear and headed back down to Savannah for the final stop on my tour of the deep, Deep South.

My final days here in the lowcountry have been spent in the company of strangers, at a "homestead" I found through WWOOF-USA (I plan to do a separate post about that in the coming days). Tomorrow morning, I set sail for my next stop - Columbia, South Carolina. Though I'll miss the coast for sure, I know it has lulled me into a false sense of security. These days spent in shirtsleeves have made me soft but they've also given me some insight into what it is I hope to find during my travels. The generosity of old friends, family and fellow travelers has rekindled some of the light that I let go out during my past life in Nashville. Savannah and Beaufort, you've done your job. I leave here at peace, ready for the next adventure.

CWO