Palmetto Trail: Lake Marion Passage to Santee

I’m accustomed to waking at 5 a.m., so it’s not a total shock when my phone alarm sounds. There were no more peeps out of Squatch through the night, but I am hearing multiple guns firing in the distance. I know next to nothing about hunting, but I vaguely recall learning that it’s duck season. It feels like I’m on the outskirts of a battleground as I pack up and get going–so many shots are being fired in the distance. There are either plentiful duck or plentiful hunters with bad aim.

I find myself rooting for my feathered friends to escape sudden death, while recognizing the hypocrisy of my thoughts since I think duck is delicious. I’d be a full-on vegetarian if I had to hunt for my food though.

I walk through Pack’s Landing, and it’s like a ghost town short of the many trucks parked there.  I’m grateful I stumbled on a thru hiker’s blog that talked about his experience here last spring. The staff told him the bridge on Old River Road was repaired, eliminating the need to hike the detour route still showing on the Palmetto Trail Avenza maps. It will knock off about 1.5 miles which gives me extra time for a break at Carolina King Marina which I’ll arrive at mid morning. I eventually get there and buy a drink in the marina’s store. I enjoy it on a swing by the water while I watch some fisherman on a nearby dock.

As I’m hiking the road leading away from the marina, two friendly men I’d conversed with briefly there slow down to talk to me again. “We wish those tips on your poles were a little sharper to protect you better out here,” one of them says with an edge of concern in his voice. They’re about my dad’s age, and I can visualize him saying something similar.  He’s never liked that I often hike solo. A few years ago he was (for the millionth time) reminding me that there are bad men in the world who prey on innocent women. 

“But I just don’t think they’re lying in wait in the woods, Daddy.” 

“That’s probably what Meredith thought too,” he accurately retorted.

As a parent, I can empathize that my dad probably saw my face in Meredith Emerson’s when the story of her abduction and murder near Blood Mountain in North Georgia was circulating in the news. Over 25 years has passed since the tragic ending to this young woman’s life (as well as several other hikers Gary Hilton murdered—two close to where I live in western North Carolina), but this wasn’t a passing news story in my life, forgotten in a week or so. Apparently it wasn’t in his either.

I can’t argue that hiking solo carries more risk, but I’ll still argue to my grave that the most dangerous part of my adventures is driving to a trailhead—especially when I consider how many empty beer cans I see on the side of the road, no matter where I’m hiking. But even so, the mens’ cautionary words leave me wondering if hiking across these fairly remote stretches of road in rural South Carolina is a reckless act, given I have a family who wants and needs me to return home safely. I understand why the Palmetto Trail isn’t always tucked away on a wooded path, but I can’t help but feel more vulnerable when it’s not. If my dad knew where I was in this moment, he’d surely remind me of my mom, too.

When I was in high school, she was jogging on a rural road close to our home in south Atlanta when two men pulled up beside her, pointed a gun at her, and told her to get in their car. She bravely bolted and ran into someone’s yard instead of meeting their demand. My best friend unwittingly drove up on the scene from the opposite direction. The men sped off when they saw another car approaching. Janice sensed something bad was going down and hollered to my mom to get in her car, and she brought her home. Would I be that brave? Could I outrun and outsmart someone in pursuit of me? Would I remember what I have with me for protection and be able to use it efficiently and quickly enough? I ponder these things as I walk, saddened that I have to contemplate them at all.

Unlike the road detour I avoided earlier in the day, I have no choice but to take a lengthy road walk to get around Jack’s Creek. I’m a couple of miles away from Jack’s Creek Campground when another truck pulls up alongside me. With these thoughts running through my head, I’m on guard. But Bo and Karen, the couple in the truck, immediately put me at ease. They’re heading home to watch football after spending a little time on the Palmetto Trail. They tell me I’m welcome in their home when I pass by if I need anything, and then they proceed to tell me where it’s located. They drive off, and like a light switch, my mood shifts from dark to light.  

I continue on, stopping at the now closed and abandoned campground for lunch, thoroughly enjoying this little oasis while I look across Jack’s Creek at Carolina King Marina where I was a couple of hours prior drinking a soda.

After lunch, the trail traverses a stretch of woods before popping out on the road where Karen and Bo live. As I approach their address, I notice a cooler and sign at the mailbox. As I get closer, I read the sign (see photo below) and am blown away by it and the contents of the cooler: a smorgasbord of drinks and snacks! Truly, it’s trail magic at its absolute finest and I’m grinning from ear to ear as I pop the top off a Topo Chico (they even included a bottle opener in the cooler!) and grab a handful of snack-size chocolate bars. I then head toward their house to thank these kind souls who have restored my confidence that there are far more good people than bad in the world. The trail community is often where I make my most treasured acquaintances and friendships, and the timing of this encounter is as poignant as their selfless acts.

We chat for a bit and they tell me it’s not unheard of for people to still walk the closed “301 bridge” while the construction is occurring, especially on the weekends when the crews aren’t there. This bridge has been closed since 2017, just prior to the solar eclipse when it was deemed potentially unsafe to support thousands of people watching the skies darken at an unnatural hour.

I call the trail angel who was willing to drive me across the I-95 bridge, to avoid walking the closed 301 bridge, and explain that I’m going to give walking it a shot. He tells me he’s on standby if I still need a ride, and I thank him for his kindness and willingness to help an outlaw.

I work my way around the fence blocking the bridge’s entrance and start the 2+ mile walk across it. It closely parallels I-95, and there’s no way I can hide from a cop if they see me from it (especially in my hunter safe hiking attire!). But I see someone on a bike and a jogger ahead of me, so at least I’m not the only derelict out here. I get to the other side, thankful I chanced it. I hated to miss out on this experience, and the bridge was perfectly safe to walk across. 

I continue my walk into Santee, and I stop at the first hotel I come across to book a room—my feet are tired after 27 miles of hiking and the next viable camping option is over 15 miles away. A quick glance online tells me it’s the cheapest hotel in town, but it has mixed reviews regarding sanitation. I’m fairly low maintenance about hotel rooms while I’m hiking, and it’s fun to maintain my hiker trash persona on these trips, but I also don’t want to stay in a room that smells like an ashtray. 

I tell the receptionist I read a few reviews that gave me pause and ask if I can see a room before paying, especially when I glance the sign taped to a window that reads, “No refunds. No exceptions!” And yes, I’m fully aware that this sign should have been a big ol’ red flag!

“Of course,” she says. “Those reviews are true, unfortunately. The owner had some family members who squatted here and it was only recently that they were evicted for good. We’re still cleaning up the mess and this place needs a lot of work.” She shows me a couple of rooms—the first two reek of stale cigarette smoke, but the third looks clean enough and smells okay. I return to it after paying. When I close the door once I’m inside it, I realize it doesn’t have a lock and the back of the door looks like someone took an axe to it. At this point, I’m tempted to double check that the sign out front doesn’t read “Bates Motel” or that Jack Nicholson isn’t wandering the property mumbling, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” 

I return to the lobby to speak with the kind receptionist again. “I really don’t mean to be high maintenance, but that room isn’t going to work. There’s no lock on the door.” Her reply nearly makes me laugh out loud it’s so absurd. “Oh, you want one with a lock? I’m so sorry, I think both of those are already booked for the night.” I remember the refund sign and wonder if this exchange is about to get more uncomfortable, but she doesn’t bat an eye returning my payment. I walk down the road a bit further and book a room at the much cleaner and much nicer Baymont Inn (which includes a door that actually locks). I revel in the day, chuckling as I think of my non-hiker friends who ask, “Don’t you get bored when you’re out there?!”

“The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.” ― Annie Dillard