We picked a road

...it was a road in Blakeley State Park, Spanish Fort, Alabama. We have hiked at the park on three separate days in the last week.

The first day, we hiked about a mile. It was warm...in the 70's and humid. We ate a leisurely picnic lunch at the gazebo under monstrous, twisted live oaks dripping with spanish moss. A breeze stirred the treetops, but only occasionally reached us on the ground with enough force to stir the dried leaves.
After lunch, we drove up to a parking area, and walked down a slight hill to the Blakely River. The Explorer, a covered excursion boat, rested sleepily at her moorings. No tours today.

We walked along the river, high enough above the cypress knees and palmetto fans and dark mud patterned with raccoon tracks. Spiky sycamore seedpods crunched underfoot, and bicyclists passed us, accompanied by their bandanna-wearing dogs wet from a cooling dip. Near the shoreline, the breeze was steady.
The path turned left, away from the river, and climbed back toward the picnic area, and we crossed the gazebo grounds again. This was the site of the village of Blakeley, bustling metropolis of the 1800's and county seat of Baldwin County, until yellow fever wiped it out completely.




















Crossing the road, we headed down toward a swampy creek through scrubby trees and pines, always pines. The smell is intoxicating, fresh, clean.
On first glance it was an easy stroll, but we soon were clambering over timbers being built above the old bridge. Halfway across, the treated lumber of the new bridge abruptly stopped, and a 2 foot drop to the old bridge (with no handrails) was negotiated. We jounced along a swaying footbridge that crossed a black and barely moving slough, and then up a small, steep hill. A fallen tree, held up by the root system now tilted crazily skyward, bounced like a porch swing when I sat on it to rest.

One more hill to negotiate...up and over, and we crossed another swampy creek with a brand new bridge, bearing a sign boasting of being built of some exotic South American wood, supposedly safer for the environment than arsenic-laden treated lumber (but most likely a part of the huge de-forestation of the rain forests).

We passed one of the most amazing live oaks I have ever seen, full of pockets and burls and animal dens in the gigantic roots above the ground. Next trip, I will get a picture of that one.

















On our next visit, we hiked a different trail, meandering over a wide, flat path between pine, magnolia and hardwood trees, all sharing a uniform gray color in the warm December air. Temps in the 70's again.
This trail led eventually down a hill, past a huge washout, eroded by the torrential sudden downpours typical of the South Alabama climate. Deeply cut, with overhanging sides of red clay, it did not prevent us from creeping carefully toward the edge to peer into the tangle of privet and yaupon about 30 feet below. We gave the washout a wide berth, and dug in down the steep and sandy trail to a short footbridge at the bottom. This was Shay Creek, and it burbled over a small waterfull in the deep shade of this little draw. Clear water flowed merrily over small pebbles and dark fallen leaves, and I splashed my hot face gratefully with the cool water.


Refreshed, we trekked up the steep hill on the other side to the primitive campground, where just one or two tents showed signs of visitors. A flock of goldfinches pattered away from us, one after another, like skittering raindrops on the branches, and we ate lunch under more towering pines, which whispered to us of the silence and peace to be found in this cathedral of the woods.