C&O Canal Towpath: Winter (105-116)

Dam Number 5 (MM 106.6)

It was mid-January, although it was a very pleasant 56-degrees, most of the Potomac remained frozen.

A photograph of the dam just before sunset. The young woman in the photo is on her phone as a boyfriend is fishing below. The dam was an important site during the civil war, especially since the river was the dividing line between the union and the confederacy.

Just before arriving at the 107-mile maker, the path is narrow as if makes its way around a large rock formation. The edge of the water is close, and the rock face high.

I came across a couple who were walking a pair of Burmese mountain dogs. Although the humans were hesitant, both dogs wanted to greet me. As I usually do, I offered the back of my hand, fingers slightly curled to prevent any temptation of tasting my fingers. The lumbering docile giants a perfunctory sniff and then licked my knuckles. The canines were deferential, and the episode reminded me of when people kissed the Pope’s rings. A few minutes later, I came across a couple who, I had the impression, did not take many walks. Given that it was very warm for January, the man greeted me and said, “It’s a good day for a walk, isn’t it?” I was wearing my Penguins hat, and decided to channel Badger Bob Johnson, “It’s a great day for a walk,” I replied.

The trees are bereft of leaves. This offers a clearer view of how fallen and leaning trees have become intertwined with one another. They create complex sculptures that are fascinating to examine.

I photographed this deer at Camp Spring Run, a small creek that runs into the Potomac near mile marker 108. I was walking along the path and saw five wild turkeys and two deer. Before I could turn on my camera and focus, the turkeys began to scatter, which spooked the other deer. But the young buck in the photograph was confused and just looked around, seemingly in confusion, while the other six animals ran into the woods.

The remnants of Charles Mills, dating to 1790. The mill closed after the 1924 flood, which ended commercial activity on the canal. A woman who was walking a border collie commented, “It’s impressive, isn’t it?”

A couple of pileated woodpeckers flitted among the trees overhead; however, they rarely want to be immortalized in photographs.

Several abandoned and semi-abandoned structures dot the towpath. A small cabin, of dubious structural integrity, stands across the canal from the towpath at mile marker 109.  I espied it while walking alone; photographing it from a distance, though multiple trees and bushes, which was not satisfying. I explored the dry canal, looking for an easy way to cross it, with the lowest possible risk factor. It was about ninety minutes before sunset. A wrong step, or an unforeseen injury, could have meant a night alone in the woods. Yet, the allure to explore was strong. I managed to find a relatively easy way down to the canal and across its bed, navigating the undergrowth, much of which, with particularly sharp thorns. I scaled the wall on the far side of the canal, about four feet high with a sharp incline to conquer afterward. My jeans were muddy, but I was none the worse for wear.

Carefully I crept to the cabin, because buried beneath the leaves was a fair amount of undetermined debris. Upon closer inspection, it was apparent that the cabin was listing to the right and rear. Seemingly unsteady, I knew better than to even place a single foot inside. Peaking in through the front door, signs of occupancy were still evident. Wallpaper, adorned with faded roses, still covered about half of a wall. A painted blue wooden door, fading from exposure to the elements, retain metal hooks used to hang coats. It is small artifacts that reminds us that people, actual human beings, once habituated in this structure. It was not a great edifice, but it was someone’s home. Did they love this domicile? Were they proud of this modest residence? I consider the structure’s age, but I do not have the background or expertise to make such a judgment. Was it a witness to the end of commercial traffic on the canal in the 1920s? Walking around the perimeter of cabin, a woodpecker was so close and noisy, that at first I believed it was harvesting a meal within the structure. It took no notice of me but continued to pound away pine tree that hung over the cabin. Directly below the woodpecker’s skinny tree, a disconnected drainpipe dangled, probably as a result of the collapse of the foundation.

Completing my circumnavigation, I peeked into a bedroom window, askew from the ravages of abandonment. The remains of a mattress and blanket were scatted across the collapsed wooden floor, although my identification was based upon frame of the mattress rather than the shreds of cotton stuffing. Looking into this bedroom made me even more melancholy: It had not been very long since this structure had occupants. The living conditions for the last residents were likely not optimal.

Prather’s Neck – Majestic American Sycamore trees, their white branches standing out against the gray winter sky, are numerous in this area. The towpath, and the remnants of the canal, diverge from the Potomac at Prather’s Neck. The river makes a large loop, almost in the shape of a cursive L. The canal shaves over about one mile by cutting across this short piece of land (half a mile).

There are steps from the trail down to the remnants of a stone structure, just prior to mile marker 110. I encounter a young woman is wearing a pink fluorescent cast on her left arm, but her right is fully engaged with her phone. She sees little else but her phone and is surprised to see me.

I do not see many people along this section of the towpath. It is because it is somewhat away from more popular access points and it is the middle of January. It gives me an opportunity to reflect and contemplate. This week I received the news that the death of Allen’s brother was ruled a suicide weighs on my mind. Although I knew this to be the case, it does not lessen the blow to the family. I also had a biopsy taken from a spot on my chin. More than likely it is nothing serious; however, it is a reminder, nonetheless, that in life the clock is always running; there are no timeouts. 

There are several culverts along this section of the trail, carrying small creeks and streams beneath the canal and towpath. In some places this is quite obvious because in the gulley that was once the canal there are no trees growing because not far below the surface is a bed of stone that lined the bed of the canal. The small streams and creeks are too numerous to keep track or count.

McCoy’s Ferry (MM 110.0)

There is a campground at McCoy’s Ferry Road. It is very nice, perched adjacent to the Potomac, but in January there is no one camping. It is a very mild winter’s day, 57 degrees, but large chucks of ice are stacked along both sides of the river. A light breeze, every so often, brings very cold air off the river. Suddenly, the river has pulled away the foundation of ice and several pieces escaped into the river. The float downstream and I imagine that they will grow smaller and melt into the Potomac before very long on its journey to Washington. Although the collapse is small in scale, nothing like the collapse of a glacier off the coast of Alaska say, it makes a tremendous roar as it echoes across the narrow valley.

I continue walking to the sound of constant and continuous reports of gunfire and surmise that there must be a shooting range on the West Virginia side of the river.

Accessing the Trail: Four Locks and McCoy’s Ferry

Getting to the trail is often as interesting as the trail itself. Several narrow bridges are found along Big Pool Road (Maryland 56), between Pinesburg and Big Spring in Washington County. The bridge that crosses Little Conococheague Creek is so narrow that only one vehicle can transit the bridge at a time. Constructed in 1907, there is a stone marker in the middle of the span noting that it was built by the Nelson Construction Company of Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. Clearly well built, the bridge has survived floods and weather, yet continues to carry automobiles, for which it was likely not designed, more than a century after its construction.

Shank Road, a small lane at the western foot of the bridge, provided a convenient place to park while I took some photographs. It too held an architectural surprise. Less than a tenth of a mile from the bridge, a viaduct carries railroad tracks across both Shank Road and the creek. What is uncommon is that in their era of road safety, there is no guardrail between the road and the water. An unobservant driver could easily misjudge both the width of a car and the narrow lane, to find his/her partially submerge into this picturesque creek.

February is a challenging month to walk as it is. The weather in this area, as well as the short days, makes finding good times to walk difficult. Between battling a cold, and the nettlesome problem of plantar fasciitis, it has been over a month since I have walked the towpath. Nevertheless, early March means that the weather is still unpredictable. The recent heavy rains and high winds resulted in many branches litter the trail and, in many places, the water in the canal is higher than normal. The crystal blue sky is a sign that the trail is on the cusp of spring. Despite a 7-mile walk, I meet no one for the first two hours. Selfishly, it is a great day: solitude and quiet. In the coming months there will be an increase in the number of cyclists and I will have to pay closer attention to where I am walking. But for now, I can wander and stare into the treetops without the fear of being run down.

An online guide for cycling the towpath suggests that this portion is the most difficult because of the large gravel and ungraded sections. It is an area that develops deep ruts, and erosion creates potholes. Perhaps this is why I find it so appealing. I spy a couple of red-bellied woodpeckers scrambling to hide in a hole within a sycamore tree. I remain still and watch for a few minutes, but I resist the impulse to take any photographs even though woodpeckers are my favorite type of birds. I take some time to observe the comings and goings of these busy birds. The sound of woodpeckers tapping on a tree, especially if it is hollow and the deep thud reverberates through the trees and beckons me to pay attention. I do not always know where to look, and for me that is part of the fun. It is a search, more complicated than a word search, less static than Waldo; a puzzle to consider and figure out. I continue to walk, realizing that I am upsetting their routine. The woodpeckers, sparrows and robins must pay close attention to me. I am a potential threat that must be observed. Just as cyclists can interrupt my ruminations, I upset the routine of our avian friends.

I stopped to watch a round (flock) of robins frolicking in the canal bed and noticed that just a few feet from me something is burrowing just below the surface. I could hear what I presumed to be a mouse, or other rodent, gnawing on some morsel beneath the leaves and grass. Perhaps it could see me, after a few seconds the ground no longer moved, and the gnawing stopped.  I waited for a several minutes and nothing appeared. I am constantly amazed by how much we do not see during our travels and explorations. There is a whole world at our feet, and most of us are clueless to its complexity.

Fort Frederick State Park (MM 112.4)

Fort Frederick is a restored 1756 fort built during the French and Indian War. A couple of decades later, during the Revolutionary War, the fort housed British prisoners of war. From 1860, the area was owned by an African-American family who farmed the land until it was purchased by the state of Maryland in 1922. Today, as a state park, its primary focus is on eighteenth century history.

The floods of March 1936 affected much of the Northeast of the United States. A contemporary federal government report noted that the floods “constituted a major catastrophe,” resulting in erosion, bridges and roads being washed away, and transportation seriously affected. A small marker near the towpath at the park, designates the high-water mark and contains two names. I assume that they are victims, long-forgotten to most.

The CCC History Museum at Fort Federick

American Sycamore in the state park

Big Pool

As I walk, I am reminded of the bulletin board in my elementary school teaching students that, “March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” The nineteenth century idiom was very popular when I was a kid, but today. Although mid-March, and a week from the beginning of spring, it is 40 degrees. A Nor’easter is blowing off the coast, and there had been a dusting of snow the night before. The winds, becoming gustier as I walked, reminded me that the lamb-side of March had yet to appear.

I had lunch at mile marker 113, a place sometimes called the dragon’s teeth. It is difficult to discern the purpose of the structure, but I eventually learned that it was a spillway for excess water from the canal. Before my walk I stopped in Ernst Country Market, located at the intersection of Maryland 56 and Dam Number 5 Road, to buy a lunch to take in my backpack. It is a store that takes one back in time, despite its modern décor. The deli counter has hot meals and sandwiches made to order. Near the entrance of the market, there are several bins of traditional candies. I ordered half a sub with ham and swiss, both components shaved as I waited, and a small container of chocolate covered peanuts – a treat for the coming week. Other people were picking up salads and vegetables for a Saturday afternoon at home.

The market is an intersection of different people; young and old, rural and suburban. A group of construction workers came in for lunch. One young man purchased a large bag of flavored potato chips and a two-liter bottle of highly caffeinated soda. I cringed. Of course, I said nothing. I did not even give him a second look. I was no more than background filler to his day, someone who had slightly impeded his quick trip to the store. It would have been inappropriate to comment on his choice of lunch; in fact, his lunch could have been a one-off. But I suspect not. What would my 19-year-old self said to someone warning me about my diet?

I contemplate how a simple ham and cheese sandwich can be as I watched and listed to Canada geese on Big Pool.  An elderly couple were walking a couple hundred yards ahead of me, taking their time watching birds before I stopped for lunch. On a walk of seven and a half miles, they would be the only people I would see on a gorgeous, but chilly, Saturday. I decided to give them some time and space so that the birds they sought were not spooked by me walking. Upon finishing lunch, I find the couple had not substantially moved, making very little progress. I soon overtook the couple and offered a greeting. About half an hour later, when I passed them on the return trip, they still had not made much progress, the gentleman offered a piece of exciting news. “We just saw and heard two wood ducks about half a minute ago.” I feigned excitement saying that I would watch for them but was also dubious. Had it only been thirty seconds prior, I too would have heard the ducks as well. Then again, about five minutes later I did hear the call of wood duck.

Railroad Bridge near MM 114 

The railroad bridge, near mile maker 114, was part of a short run built to link the B&O station at Cherry Run, West Virginia to the Western Maryland Railroad at Big Pool. The bridge hangs low across the path and the canal. Surprisingly, the tracks are easily accessible to the curious. While still in use, I suspect it is infrequently so. My supposition is based upon the fact that a large nest, for a bird of prey, had been constructed in the corner of girders about halfway across the bridge.  

Accessing the trail from Ernstville Road 

Culvert between MM 114 and 115

The bark has been stripped away from a dead tree

Licking Creek Aqueduct built between 1836 and 1838

Saint John Chrysostom Church, Pittsburgh

Built between 1932 and 1935, the evocative Byzantine Church, Saint John Chrysostom, is located on a remote residential street in the Greenfield section of the city. It is a distinct landmark, with onion domes adorned with Slavic style crosses, visible just east of the Squirrel Hill Tunnel from Interstate-376. Often, while driving in Pittsburgh, I tried to deduce how one got to the church. Several times, I scanned the highway for an exit that would allow easy access to the church. It turns out that it located in an isolated part of the city, entombed by surrounding tunnels, highways, hills and waterways. 

We were unable to explore the interior of the church, but murals on the exterior of the building are both beautiful and compelling. As an Eastern Russian Greek Rite congregation, the church has served immigrant families of the community. Buildings such as Saint John Chrysostom serve as a testament to those who settled and worked the dangerous and dirty industrial jobs of Pittsburgh and the religious diversity these families brought to the United States. 

Without a doubt, the most famous parishioner was Andy Warhol, who was baptized in the church as a child.

Fear

Driving through town on a Sunday afternoon, about 12:15pm, I saw a red pickup truck with American and Confederate flags attached to its bed.  As I followed a few cars behind, I considered the debate between heritage and intimidation. Growing up in Kentucky, I am sure about my understanding of the debate: the use of the Confederate flag is a provocation. Therefore, in my mind, it is no coincidence that the truck turned onto a small side street where the borough’s only A.M.E. church is located. Not coincidentally, as well, it was about the same time as church services were ending throughout the borough. 

Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 5 Lynn’s Oysters

In every sense of the word, Lynn’s Quality Oysters is a seafood dive. The small cinderblock building is nestled between US98 and the bay in Eastpoint, even has its own dock that allows fishermen to deliver directly to the restaurant-shop. Inside there is a display case with fresh seafood on ice, and a wooden case, which could easily be converted to bookshelves, containing impressively numerous hot sauces, seasonings, and breading.  There are only two tables and a L-shaped bar, seating seven. The total seating capacity for dining patrons must be about fifteen. The walls are adorned with various items: faded photographs of the store in the aftermath of Hurricane Dennis in 2005, a stenciled print of Dale Earnhardt, and beer advertisements. A steel cargo holder for a pickup truck is located along the wall near the bar, it is full of beer on ice. Hanging over it is a home-made wooden sign, a bottle-opener attached at the bottom, reading, “the best beer is an open beer.”

Oyster Flag from the outside wall

“Are these from the bay?” the patron at the bar asked. The amiable man shucking oysters behind the bar slowly shook his head no. He confessed that they were from Pine Key, some three hours away by automobile, about 120 miles across the bay. He explained that the oyster in Apalachicola Bay were too small to harvest at this point. The patron continued, understanding the problem, by asking if there were any recovery in sight. The large man, with a full red beard, a Lynn’s t-shirt and ballcap, looked despondent and exhaled a “no.” After a pregnant pause, he continued, “some people are saying that we might have to shut down harvesting for a few years.” The two men, lamenting the fate of Apalachicola oysters, laid the blame on upstream cities taking too much water from the Apalachicola watershed. Others in the raw bar listened to the conversation silently, as did I. I judged the mood of three employees and the owner of Lynn’s to be one of resignation, rather than anger. But there is no doubt, local identity is closely tied to oyster harvesting along the Apalachicola Bay. 

Lynn's Gumbo

Many come to Lynn’s for the oysters. It is common to see local people stopping by for a beer and a snack after work. I come for the best gumbo I have ever had. Made from the recipe of the owner’s mother, I hear employees often express their pride in creating the stew. We occupied the smaller table on a Friday afternoon. An older couple shared the larger table with two men, who had been friends for a long time judging from their conversation. After eating a dozen oysters, one of the men ordered a bowl of gumbo while his friend enjoyed a second dozen. After a few bites, he exclaimed, “I don’t know who makes the gumbo, but they deserve a raise.” 

Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 4 Liquid Gold

The small city of Wewahitchka, established in 1875, is located about 25 miles north of the coast in northeast Gulf County. The city takes its name from Native Americans and is believed to mean “water eyes,” because of the shape of two oblong lakes on the edge of town. The lakes are separated by a noticeable ridge that resembles the bridge of a nose. More importantly, situated along the swamps of the Apalachicola River, the city is the center of tupelo honey production. 

Most people are surprised at the cost of tupelo honey. In order to get the purest product, existing honey must be removed prior to the production tupelo trees blooming. Then, the harvest season is very short, only two to three weeks. Finally, tupelo trees are cluster in remote swamps making the retrieval of honey very difficult. Nevertheless, tupelo is considered one of the best and rarest of honeys in the United States.

The Mailbox at LL Lanier

We visited L.L. Lanier & Sons Apiary in Wewahitchka, a family business that began in the 1890s. Located on a small avenue on the edge of town, at first glance it is hard to believe that this modest operation is the source of the rare honey. Jars of the liquid gold are displayed outside the storeroom, a converted house, and the staff are employees that help in all phases of the production. While many local shops will claim to carry tupelo honey, at much more reasonable prices, caveat emptor: quality and purity vary.

Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 3 Food and Eating

Abandoned seafood processing house in Apalachicola

Eating along the Forgotten Coast can be an adventure; in a good way. Eastpoint, the small hamlet on the eastern shore of the Apalachicola River and the bay, is widely regarded for its oysters. A local Apalachicola resident told us when he was a young man, Eastpoint and Saint George Island were poor and underdeveloped. Oyster boats dotted the bay between the two towns, so thick he said, that “you could walk from boat to boat from the island to the mainland.” Perhaps a bit of hyperbole, but an indication of the thriving industry. Several restaurants cater to locals and tourist alike, touting the best oysters in the United States. We met a group of German university students who were thrilled to have a chance to try the local oysters, even if it was not their favorite new food. Seafood processors and canneries once lined the riverfront in Apalachicola. Declining oyster production in the Apalachicola Bay, because of both natural and human activities, has had a devastating effect on the local seafood economy. Today, the processing plants are closed; the buildings derelict or converted to other commercial enterprises focusing on entertainment and retail. Nevertheless, seafood remains a significant part of the local economy and heritage. 

In addition to oysters, several restaurants offer traditional foods not found in many restaurants in the United States: gumbo, alligator, conch, frog legs, among others. Richard and I had lunch at the Red Pirate in Eastpoint, an establishment that is frequented by the local population and includes miniature golf as a diversion. Having looked at the menu I noted, out loud, that Richard could enjoy a gator or frog leg basket for lunch. He chuckled and said that he had not had frog legs in about twenty years.

After our orders had been placed and we were settled, I told Richard about a famous family story. Growing up in Louisville, one of the most popular places to eat after church on Sundays was KingFish, a small local chain that began in the late 1940s. I still fondly long for a fish sandwich from KingFish from time to time. A number of fellow Louisvillians would disagree with my assessment of KingFish, claiming that the best fish sandwich in town is Moby Dick’s (“A Whale of a Sandwich,” the advertisements suggest), but I digress. On a particular Sunday, when my brother would eat only chicken, he wanted to order a second helping of chicken from the kid’s menu. My cost-conscious parents tried to provide him with food from their meals, but he adamantly refused seafood of any sort. My dad eventually offered my brother the “chicken” from his sampler platter, which he happily devoured in a matter of a few minutes. Dad asked how he liked the chicken, to which my brother expressed satisfaction. Dad then confessed that my brother had just ate the frog legs; my brother was sullen and horrified. Richard laughed, thinking that it was a good story.

Richard then told me about a restaurant in Montezuma, Ohio, the next town east of Coldwater. That restaurant, which was little more than a house converted into a small dining room, in the 1940s served frog legs and turtle soup. He remembered that the restaurant paid high school boys to take flashlights at night and hunt frogs. Some of the legs, he claimed, were as big as chicken legs. Richard mentioned that no one eats turtle soup anymore and pondered why. I mentioned that several turtle species were protected, and it was illegal to harvest. He smiled and remembered that his father, who wintered in the Tampa area after retirement, could never pass up a bargain. One winter he went to a grocery supply store and bought two cases of canned turtle soup because it was a good bargain. He brought them back to Coldwater, and everyone in the family ate turtle soup for a long time. When they cleaned out the house, years later, after his mother died, they still found cans of turtle soup in the basement.

In a society where there is an astounding homogeneity of food choices, simultaneously with a desire for diverse food tastes and experiences, the decline in turtle consumption might have portended the decline in oyster production. The reason why turtles are not widely consumed in the United States today is largely because of overconsumption in the past, not because of changing culinary habits. Green sea turtles were hunted to the brink of extinction; governments banned the production of turtle soups. Today, even some of those in the oyster industry have called for radical solutions to save a heritage industry. One wonders what people fifty to a hundred years from now will think about oysters as a part of our diet.  

Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 2 Saint George Island State Park

St. George Island is a 28-mile long barrier island near the mouth of the Apalachicola River in Franklin County, Florida. The Dr. Julian G. Bruce St. George Island State Park occupies the eastern most nine miles of the island, containing undeveloped shorelines and numerous hiking trails. The last four miles of the island, and the state park, are gated for the protection of an ecologically sensitive area. It is open to the public but there is limited vehicle usage allowed. The limited access, the remoteness, and the chance to observe nature was an appeal: It was the allure of the secluded.

My first inclination was to walk the five miles to the end of the island; however, a bike ride afforded me more time to explore once I arrived at the east end and I would have reserved some energy for that exploration. The adventure began after Angie dropped me and the bike off at Sugar Hill Beach area. As I rode the bike through the gate, rap songs from the early 1980s, by the Sugarhill Gang, played through my head.

A ruddy turnstone

The road was bumpy and desolate. It was a beautiful day and there was exhilaration in exploration of the remote and barren dunes. I am not used to riding a bike, so I stopped after two miles into the journey to explore. Thus far I had passed three other cyclists going the other way. They would be the only people I met on my outbound journey. The island was becoming very narrow, perhaps only 100 yards to the water from either side of the road. I walked to the ocean side first and saw several shorebirds. A couple of Ruddy Turnstones were a little wary of me coming too close, but were largely unconcerned about my presence. Once I remained still, the turnstone went back to its business of finding lunch beneath the seaweed that washed ashore. 

There is something compelling, and even satisfying, about crunching shells as I walk. They were all largely broken anyway – I was not denying collectors a great find or animals a home. But that crunch is a sound that sticks with me. As I explored the bayside of the island, it was a different sensation. The sand, textured by the rain of two days before, providing a wonderful tactile experience on the soles of my shoes.

A tree used in turpentine production

With a few exceptions there are not many trees, and virtually all are loblolly pines. Beginning in the 19th-century, and lasting well into the next, these trees had slashes cut into the trunks in the shape of “cat-faces” as part of the process to collect sap for the production of turpentine. It was a major industry in Florida's history and led to the acquisition of the island from Creek Indians in 1803.  There are still a few trees visual, in the State Park, that bears the cat-face marks dating from the 1950s. 

My smartphone app indicated that I had rode 4.4 miles when I arrived at the small parking lot near the east end of the island. I walked from the parking lot to the point in splendid isolation. Across the strait, I could make out a few houses on Dog Island, the next barrier island to the east. Although one can buy a special pass to drive to the end of St. George Island form the state park, I reveled in the decision to bike to the end. It allows us to observe and appreciate. As I walked the shoreline, careful to avoid damaging any dunes, I spied several plovers and willets. Here, on a natural beach with very little human traffic, sponges were plentiful along the shore. Near the point, there was a sailboat that had run aground on a sandbar just offshore. As I was riding out, I saw the mast in the distance and figured that some boaters had docked in a remote location. I dreaded any interaction with partiers. Walking around the dune, I saw that the boat was damaged, its mast at a 60-degree angle; I realized that I was still alone. Later, when leaving the park, I asked Joshua, one of the rangers at the State Park, how long the boat had been there. It had been abandoned shortly after running aground a month before, and the owner had decided not to retrieve it. The park was in the process of declaring it derelict so that it could be removed. I expressed surprised how much damage had been done to the vessel in as little as a month. Joshua noted that there was going to be a big job to remove the boat; water and sand had gotten into it and it was going to be very heavy to move anywhere. 

The road to the end (of the island)

I turned back and walked the shoreline on the bayside for about a mile or so. I imagined it be the least trafficked part of the island. But it was disappointing to find how much trash and garbage littered the shoreline. I found shoes, containers of smokeless tobacco, soft drink cans, and plastic bottles galore. It ruined the effect of walking in one of the under-explored places of the state. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful day and a unique experience. Yet, there was a price to pay for my exploration. That evening, I found that a tick had burrowed its way into my inner thigh. In removing it, the parasite took with it a huge chunk of flesh. A small price to pay,