A Bridge Too Far
Short takes » Between the conjunction of South Carolina and North Carolina Swamps
Just over a year ago, I began to wander my Jeep into the deep Carolina Bays region of the two states. Where they conjoin. It is not a place of ease, no matter your constitution nor your mindset. It’s an eerie place of separatist belonging, for I felt I belonged there by birthright but was excluded by status quo politics. What do I mean by that?
I don’t enter these regions without consideration of radical reformation, as exists in many places I loved in my twenties, now largely exclusionary of all but the folks they consider right minded. Not a direction, but a purpose. Ravens which fly over and through such territory are often heard laughing raucously as humans splinter apart, as they have watched us do now for decades. In these Carolina Bays, it is the crows which sound the back and forth of present participles versus past tense. These murders of crows were out in abundance on this trip into the swamp basins of the Carolina Bays crossings between Little Pee Dee State Park (South Carolina) and one of the newest North Carolina State Parks, Lumber River.
Here lies a bridge.
Let’s dissect it, as I did visually on the day I discovered its existence in my world.
It is an old bridge (the original construction) but with a new and shiny guard rail assembly. Nothing like an allegory there, for we are not about that, no, especially not in Carolina Bay territory. Lumbees. Witches. Panthers—or paints. Others. Neithers. Amalgams from the in-betweens. Dark, light, good, evil, all exist within these swamps. Along with the fish curiously trying to consider the humans above the surface of their waters. I walked this bridge four times, shooting each time something caught my eye.
My eyes were caught incessantly. There’s no stopping the sounds, the caws, the currents and eddies, the blackwater abundance in shallow layers hiding just what we do not wish to know is under there. But things which the hackles tell us are under there. Like today. Then I made my way into the swamp to shoot it from this vantage point.
Electric green water abides just over the State line as one approaches Lumber River State Park, algae hiding the surface from the reflective light of the Sun. The dense green defies the Sun’s warmth. It negates us; we do not belong unless we wish to be consumed.
“One of Earth’s more mysterious landforms, their origins yet unsolved, Carolina bays are rich with wildlife splendor and mystery.” ≈ Robert Clark
The gunshots, 10, 12, then 3 more. Suddenly, a raucous full burst of more than 30 shots in less than 10 seconds, reverberating across the waters of the cypress swamps of Lumber River State Park. The silence after as I realize I am now the only living human near the boat launch area, and the voices carrying in the distance getting closer, to the point where faces appear and eyes emerge, staring in my direction, both sets of eyes upon me. A single Jeep in the parking lot bearing Utah plates. It really couldn’t be more discordant could it? Although the shooters have far more in common with Utahns than they probably perceive, at least in that moment.
They walked over, stopping about 30 yards from me as I continue shooting the cypress trees against the fading light of day. The gloaming is upon all three of us. No words, just glances. They wait until I’m done shooting in my own way. They watch me as I walk to my Jeep as the Sun sets behind the trees. They know they belong there.
I know I do not.
I glimpsed them in my rear view mirror as I rolled up the hill to the interior gate. I stopped at the public restrooms before heading out. When I walked back to my Jeep they were parked beside my Jeep.
They nodded. I nodded back.
No words.
Just some kind of affirmation of purpose.
On the way out, I stopped to shoot the bilious green swamps in he waning light of day. The two shooters slowly drove by, staring still, observing me still. By now they seemed more curious than threatening. They were driving so slowly that I ended up behind them. Again, an eerie mirroring as the sky darkened. I followed them for a few miles until they took a road which maintained their place in North Carolina, as I crossed the state line into my Native State of South Carolina.
I drove back into Charleston that night, to the home of my friends, one of which hails from that section of North Carolina.
Our lives have become like a bed of lithic-age spalls, picked through for the best potential for knapping into useful purpose. The waters surrounding us are getting murkier by the minute.
That area IS eerie. I worked in NC for 6 months as a travel med lab tech and lived about 45 min north of Wilmington. I visited this same spot a few times.