Palmetto Trail: Lake Moultrie Passage

After a poor night’s sleep thanks to my overactive imagination, I’m grateful to start hiking before the sun rises. I nearly skip breakfast, but I can’t ignore my body’s incessant plea for coffee, so I make a caffeinated cup and drink it while I pack up.

As I start walking Fredcon Road where I left off the night before, I see a recliner in the road ahead with its back facing me. My imagination has played enough tricks on me, so I boldly walk up on it, despite the mental imagery of a zombie sitting in it (seriously, what is up with me getting so spooked on this trip?!). It’s empty, of course, but I’m befuddled as to how it got here. Would someone really just dump it in the road? Considering how much trash I’ve seen littering these remote roads, yeah, they probably would.

I continue on, still gobbling up the last miles of the Eutaw Springs Passage on roads. There are several yard dogs who let me know I’m encroaching on their turf and I’m not welcome. I chuckle at the one who raises the most ruckus–he’s probably not even ten pounds soaking wet, but despite his diminutive size he means business. We used to call these little-big guys “land sharks” when I practiced veterinary medicine.

Amazingly, after such an interesting day prior with human encounters, dogs are the only living creatures who speak to me until I reach the diversion canal and stop for lunch at Mac Daddy’s. I walk in and feel like a little out of place with my backpack and wild hair, pulled back with my brightly colored buff. But the staff is welcoming and kind. I sit on the front deck and am kept company by a big orange cat named Cheeto who lives at the restaurant. “You’re named after my most favorite hiking snack, Cheeto,” I tell him as he circles my table , hoping I’ll drop a catfish nugget (I may have “accidentally” dropped a piece or two).

I’m told the catfish came straight from the lake, and it’s delicious. Normally, I wouldn’t opt for catfish, but when in Rome. I eat every last crumb of the enormous meal and buy a cherry coke from the adjacent store to drink while I hike.

The road walk across the diversion canal and on Viper Road is stressful. The shoulder is wide enough, but the dump trucks barreling by are flinging roadside pebbles and debris, and several cars honk at me as they pass. I can’t tell if they’re “You go, girl!” honks or “Eff you, hiker!” honks. I smile and wave at each car’s driver, regardless of the message I sense they’re sending back. Kill ’em with kindness, my mom would say. When the UPS guys passes me twice and honks both times, I convince myself that most are, in fact, the “You go, girl!” variety.

Finally, I turn off the busy road and into the woods. The path is rocky with large gravel. It makes for slower miles, but it’s better than the road walk. I’m excited to see train tracks in the distance with a train blocking the path. I’ve seen this train in YouTube videos and blog posts, and I know it hasn’t moved in quite some time. My only challenge is figuring out the best way to get by it.

My options are walking to its end and around it (nope, too much work!), crawling under it on gravel (ouch!) or climb up and over it like everyone else seems to do (that’s the ticket!). I take my pack off and hoist it up onto the connection between two cars. Then I hoist myself up and take advantage of the opportunity to sit between train cars with no worry of it moving or getting in trouble for the act.

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be part of a train’s crew. I’m fascinated with train travel and that it still exists. I even take the time to eat a quick snack while I sit on this perch, and that’s when I realize how dirty I am from sitting here. My legs, hands and pack are covered in black soot. It’s worth it though–this was uniquely fun.

I climb down and continue on, eventually reaching the famed dike walk of the Lake Moultrie Passage. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but my mental image didn’t create the broad, expansive space that is the reality of this space I’m above the water to my right and there is a field to my left, with dirt roads occasionally feeding into it from the wooded edge. At one particular junction, I see a car driving down the field with two passengers. I wave at them, but they avoid eye contact as they cross the dike in front of me and continue down the road to the right into Crooked Bay which is, in fact, closed until spring. No wonder they were ignoring me!

When I reach the junction to turn off the trail that heads to the campsite between mile 18 and 19, it’s 3:45 p.m.– still early enough to get a few more miles in before dark. I walk to the campsite and take a break while weighing my options: continue another 9ish miles to the next legal primitive site (this will entail night hiking, for sure); continue to the Amos Lee Gourdine boat landing and camp somewhere nearby (I don’t think this is a legal option, and I think I’ve had enough stealth camping for one backpacking trip!), or stop for the day and continue enjoying the quiet of the woods, punctuated with the occasional bird call. Mourning doves and pileated woodpeckers encourage me sit and stay awhile. And so I take their sage advice and stay put.

The campsite doesn’t have a designated fire pit which bums me out for five minutes until the sky starts spitting, and a harder rain falls in earnest shortly. Grateful I pitched my tent as soon as I decided to stay so I couldn’t talk myself out of it, I climb in and make my dinner from it. For the first time in my hiking life (nearly 30 years), I brought all the fixings to make a ramen bomb: a concoction of ramen noodles sans the MSG packet, a pouch of tuna, and a pack of instant potatoes (yes, all combined in one big pot–sounds delicious, right?!). Looking at all the ingredients and gauging my appetite after a huge lunch, I just can’t bring myself to make it. I figure a little MSG won’t kill me, and I make straight up ramen instead. It’s a cozy meal for a rainy evening.

I sleep better that night, but I’m woken a few times by what I suspect is deer wandering the woods after the rain ends. It’s far less anxiety inducing than worrying I’m illegally camping and getting caught!

The next morning I wake up early again and head out before dawn. It’s my last day on trail and I only have 18 miles to hike before meeting Gwen, my phenomenal friend and trail angel, who is picking me up at the end of the Lake Moultrie Passage.

The dike is eerily quiet, so I sing loudly to scare any gators that may be milling about on land hoping for a big breakfast. Can alligators even hear, I wonder? The answer is yes, quite well, and I apologize to any who heard my tone deaf voice singing my modified rendition of “Whenever I See Your Smiling Face” that I made up and sang to my oldest son when he was a baby and wouldn’t lie still while I changed his diaper. It always made him (and me) giggle, and it works like a charm again.

I walk through the small town of Bonneau and see a white squirrel as I walk through a neighborhood! I’ve only seen one other, but it was in North Carolina in an area I know to expect seeing them. What a bizarre treat!

Finally, the part of the backpacking trip I’ve looked forward to the most comes into view—walking on the dike beside massive Lake Moultrie! It feels like the ocean more than a lake, and it evokes the same feeling I had during my Superior Hiking Trail thru hike last fall. The skies are moody and grey, in contrast to me feeling light and cheerful. I reflect on the nearly 130 miles I’ve hiked while I eat my lunch, gazing at the lake. Despite the challenges of these passages, and more road walking than I usually have tolerance for, the positives far outweigh the few negatives. The trail reveals its gifts, whether they’re on dirt or pavement–you just have to show up to receive them.

I continue on, getting slightly delayed by a passing train on tracks I have to cross. I pride myself on my ability to dead reckon and estimate my ETA to a trailhead, almost to the minute, usually. But watching the train whiz by me at close range is a thrill, and I wish I’d arrived sooner to count all the cars–something I loved to do as a child in my hometown.

As I get even closer to the trailhead, I see a cute, young couple in the near distance taking a selfie. I fear I unintentionally photobombed them, so I tell them I’m happy to take a picture of them to make up for it. They accept the offer and we chat for a minute. I learn that the guy has a friend who finished the Triple Crown this year on the CDT. “One of my best friends did the same thing on the CDT this year! Wouldn’t it be something if they knew each other!” I ask for his friend’s trail name and promptly forget it since I didn’t write it down. My curiosity shall remain a mystery.

I reach the busy highway at the end of the passage and see Gwen waving from the other side. I see an opening in the traffic and hustle across, my pack far lighter than when I started but still heavy enough to make the jog awkward. Gwen hugs me and I laugh, telling her, “Oh Gwen, I smell awful!’ Of course she tells me I don’t, because that’s what good hiking friends do.

We load her car with my pack and head to her home. Before I leave, I look at her Smokies $1 map with her. She’s traced nearly all the trails in Great Smoky Mountains National Park with a pen, just like I’ve done so many times before. She’s closing in on her Smokies 900, with only bits and pieces of trails left to hike, many in the most remote areas and on the most challenging trails. Gwen will finish–I have no doubt. Her resolve and grit to see it through inspires me, especially since she’s coming from such a long distance. I want to be just like her when I grow up.

She sends me on my way with delicious brownies and Cheetos that I have to eventually put in the trunk of my car to avoid eating all of it at once. I only have a couple of hours to drive, but my hiker hunger is kicking in hard. I’ll tuck away for the night in a hotel with the benefit of a bed, shower, and clean clothes to replace my stinky ones. The following morning, I start the second phase of my winter mombatical on a journey that’s long overdue for this native Georgia peach–a backpacking trip on Cumberland Island.