Wateree Passage of the Palmetto Trail

In my ongoing quest to connect the dots of walking diagonally across the lovely state of South Carolina, I set out to backpack about 130 miles of the Palmetto Trail in January. I intentionally chose the dead of winter since it would inevitably mean fewer ticks, mosquitos and no necks (a.k.a. snakes, especially venomous ones which seem to be a common sighting through this stretch as the weather warms). I suppose dodging two out of three should be considered a success, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

My trip started with the most delightful trail magic before I even stepped onto the trail. Gwen Robbins, a friend from the Smokies hiking community, offered to shuttle me from her home in Moncks Corner to the start of the Wateree Passage. I treasured the chance to spend this time with Gwen, and our conversation flowed freely for the nearly 1-1/2 hour drive–so freely in fact, that we didn’t even notice the lowered speed limit or the cop sitting on the side of the road clocking cars. I had every intention of paying the ticket (despite Gwen’s insistence that I wouldn’t), but the cop and his trainee let us off with a warning–whew! Perhaps karma was at play when I explained to the cop that Gwen was spending three hours of her day doing a good deed for a fellow hiker.

Gwen and I hugged goodbye before I set out on the first few miles of the passage that parallels McCords Ferry Road. I caught glimpses of the coal-powered Wateree Power Station–a behemoth of a facility, tightly guarded by tall fencing topped with barbed wire. A quick Google search revealed recent lawsuits filed against it since its waste water permits hadn’t been renewed in a decade. I was grateful that I had all the water I needed for the day in my pack and wouldn’t need to filter from any water sources near it. I was also grateful to leave the road noise and my visibility to drivers when the trail ducked into Manchester State Forest.

Soon enough, I was walking on the nearly 200-year old Wilmington & Manchester Railroad bed. The long, straight path created an optical illusion, convincing me I was close to the end on repeat, when in reality I was miles from it. My friend Beth Eberhard uncovered an interesting Civil War era story, known as “Potter’s Raid,” about this swamp and railroad. She wrote about it in her wonderful blog.

The quiet calm of the swamp was a stark contrast to the events that took place during Potter’s Raid, and I was thankful for the many trestles that took me over the water instead of through it. I pondered how much money it would take to convince me to walk through the murky swamp water instead of following the trail. After my wild experience in the flooded waters of Wadboo Creek on the Swamp Fox Passage, I figured it was a pretty hefty price tag. But I thoroughly enjoyed sitting above it when I stopped to eat my lunch.

After lunch, I continued crossing a series of trestles with signs naming them. I wondered about the odds of hikers ever seeing a cottonmouth near the “Cottonmouth Slough” trestle. I didn’t have to wonder more than a few seconds, because I came within inches of stepping on one curled up in the middle of the trail right in front of it! Thankfully, the temperature was cool and the snake was sluggish, or else he could have easily reacted to nearly getting stomped on. “Good grief, dude, aren’t you supposed to be holed up somewhere warmer?!” I asked him, laughing nervously as I took a few photos from a safe distance.

After my adrenaline rush subsided and my legs didn’t feel like jello from nearly stepping on a venomous snake, I continued on, jumping at every stick I passed. In short order, I reached Molly’s Bluff and was excited to gain a little elevation. My body is accustomed to constant elevation changes when I hike, and the long, straight, flat stretches of the Palmetto Trail make me far more sore than I ever get in the Smokies.

I knew I wasn’t allowed to camp on top of the bluff, but it would have been a fun spot to bed down for the night. Instead, Little Miss Rule Follower continued on into Poinsett State Park. But it was nearing 5 p.m., the park office’s closing hour, I still didn’t have a reservation to camp. I wanted to scope out the scene before committing to a reservation in a potentially noisy frontcountry campground, but my long lunch break lounging above the swamp put me behind schedule.

I considered stealth camping on the edge of the park’s woods near the visitor center, but I still couldn’t bring myself to camp illegally, despite gawking at the price for a primitive site in a state park whose facilities I’d barely use. A quick phone call and $32 later, I was squared away and legally camping at site 27.

The campground is nearly a mile from the trail, and I didn’t arrive at my site until it was almost dark. The nearby smells of campfires and cookouts permeated the air, but I was excited about my Skurka Beans and Rice, one of my favorite backpacking meals. It started to rain, so I cozied up in my tent and ate my dinner while studying my route for the next day. I drifted off to sleep with the light rain pitter pattering above me on my tent.