Cumberland Island Backpacking Day 2

My phone alarm sounds, and I rush to exchange my cozy base layers for my hiking clothes before my bladder forces me to visit the bathroom several campsites away. Britt, Abby and Mike are milling around in their respective campsites when I emerge from my tent, and we head to the beach to welcome the day together. We sit on the beach in relative silence as the sun peeks over the horizon. Abby and I make a short side trip to investigate an object in the surf that turns out to be sea foam and a jellyfish. 

After the solar show, I return to my campsite to enjoy coffee with breakfast while I read another chapter of Cumberland Island: Strong Women, Wild Horses.  I pack up and head out of Stafford Campground on the Parallel Trail, making my way toward Hickory Hill and Yankee Paradise campsites. A quick glance at each is all I need to know that I chose well staying at Stafford. There’s nothing wrong with them, but I’ve been spoiled staying so close to the beach.

From Yankee Paradise I opt to hike Duck House Trail which dead ends at the beach. I can’t resist another beach walk, at least for a few miles. Once again, I have it all to myself, and I don’t see a single soul the entire three miles I cover before ducking back into the maritime forest to pick up the Roller Coaster Trail.

As I weave through the tall sand dunes with my calves protesting at the effort, I’m torn if I’ve made the best decision since the beach walk was so peaceful and effortless. The wilderness trails on the island have a reputation for being overgrown and unruly, and I’m a bit apprehensive about walking by a lake on such trails. Would an alligator move before I stepped on it unwittingly? I’m shocked to find the trail in great shape, and the cuts look so fresh on the vegetation that I feel I can smell their oils. 

Turns out, they are fresh cuts. I run across a crew of young Americorp workers snipping away, and I thank them for this unexpected treat! Eventually, I catch glimpses of Whitney Lake from the trail. I hear a horse whinnying incessantly in the near distance, and I fear he’s trapped in something—there’s an urgency to his cries. As I get closer to his voice on an expansive stretch of sand that opens the views around me, including the lake, I spot him standing near its bank.

He’s even more agitated now that he sees me, and I look around me, trying to figure out the cause of his angst. Venomous snake? Nope, at least not that I can find. Gator? Definitely don’t see one of those. And then I hear it.  More whinnying from multiple horses. Except the rest of the horses are in the lake, swimming! For real! I have to pick my jaw up off the sandy ground when I see their heads bobbing above the water before I walk as quickly as I can toward the water to get a closer look. 

The horse on the shore starts moving parallel along the shore a safe distance from me, and he makes much better time than I do in the deep sand. I’m barely able to get a photo of this enchanted scene before it’s over and the horses are emerging from the water in an area I can’t visualize from where I stand.

Then I hear them again, except this time on dry land, running. I’m grateful the stampede sounds far enough away that I can stay put where I am and wait to catch a glimpse. There’s one, two, three, four, five, six….and then I lose count as they run past me. I can’t think of a more mesmerizing thing to witness than what I’ve just experienced, and to think I had my own private viewing. I know the horses on Cumberland are controversial and they would fare far better off this island, but I’m selfishly thankful they’re still here, so I could witness this scene.

Here’s video footage when I captured of them toward the very end of their swim and them running past me after they were on dry land.

Shaking my head in disbelief while smiling, I start my journey again down the trail. The only thing that could top this sighting is to come across Carol Ruckdeschel at my next stop—the First African Baptist Church (her house is next door to the church). Sadly, I do not see any signs of her in the yard when I arrive, but I snap a quick photo of her house, doing my best to remain respectful of her space. I sit in front of the church and imagine the scene of JFK, Jr. and Carolyn Bessette’s wedding, many moons ago. The church door is unlocked, so I step inside and am shocked at how small the space is in relation to what I conjured up in my head.

After filtering some water from the outdoor spigot (that’s not potable and is absolutely the worst tasting water I’ve ever consumed), I backtrack down the road toward Bunkley Trail. I barely see the opening for it, it’s so overgrown. I wish I could say it improved, but it’s a mess. I laugh as the brambles and saw palmetto grab at my hair and pack, slowing my pace and resolve to get to Brickhill Bluff campsite.

Finally, after 15.5 miles of hiking for the day, I arrive and continue to the end of the camping zone where I suspect I’ll find my new friends. They greet me with smiles and warm hellos, and they’ve added Mary, Mike’s lovely wife, to the mix. She couldn’t join them until this day due to work obligations. She becomes my friend as quickly as the rest of the crew did the day prior.

I set up my tent and settle into the site. I’m especially grateful the well pump has clean tasting water compared to what I brought with me from the north end of the island–I could barely smell it without wanting to gag, much less consume it!

As the sun sets across Brickhill Creek, the color radiates across the whisps of clouds and fills my soul with light. We cook our dinner by the water, then watch the celestial show begin to unfold as the sky darkens. Eventually, we tear ourselves away when it gets too cold to stand without more layers. I head to bed and start to drift off when I hear a very abrupt and loud thrashing sound in the water. What in the hell?! I don’t hear anyone call for help, so I suspect it’s an animal of some sort. Surely it’s not the horses. But on this magical, mysterious island, nothing would surprise me.