Into the West: Oklahoma to Arizona

Santa Rosa Lake, New Mexico

As we awoke in our camp in Red Rock Canyon, the sun stretched a warm arm down our canyon, reflecting hot off the red walls and coaxing the first scent of the sycamore into the air. While my skin would later be plagued by the arid high desert, on this morning the dryness was welcome after the humidity of the south. Several campsites had been vacated before breakfast and I let Harry out for a quick untethered run in one of the grassy vacant sites before we broke camp. Like a homing beacon he shot away as I unclipped the leash---I had a moment of pleasure watching him run---straight as an arrow to a discarded pile of hotdog buns. "Nooooooooooooooooooo! Harreeeeeeeeee!" No dog can gobble forbidden food quite like my beagle, and the buns were gone in seconds. I didn't even have time to count. I was grateful they didn't reemerge in the car once we were on the road.

Today we would pass through Texas into New Mexico. Steinbeck famously wrote of the passion of Texans (for Texas) in Travels with Charley, but what I remember from my last reading of the book is despair at the sheer expanse of the state. Our new itinerary dealt with the latter by crossing at the narrowest part---the Panhandle. As far as the pride of Texans, we got a taste of that at the most epic rest stop of the journey, just across the Oklahoma/Texas border.

Monument to Texas Passion overlooks overgrazed rangeland. Seems right.

Aside from the rest stop of Texan Passion, my only stop in the Panhandle was Amarillo, the single smelliest armpit of a city I've encountered. Admittedly, my travels likely took me through the worst the city has to offer. Neither of my road trip guides noted the Cadillac Ranch, and somehow I missed it on the side of I-40. I'd probably have enjoyed spray painting some old cars. As it was, the best thing I found in Amarillo was a thick 10 pack of freshly made tortillas (for $2.99!), that redeemed the otherwise dismal Fiesta Foods market. Maybe it was because their arrival in my pantry was unexpected, but those were the best tortillas I've ever had. When the last of them turned up moldy, I shed a tear. Here's the Yelp review that steered me there---the claim regarding the freshness of the produce is highly questionable but you can see pictures of the tortilleria.

Searching for the best campsite for each night on the road throughout my journey has been a challenge and a pleasure. I planned very little more than a few days in advance. By the time I reached New Mexico, I had taken the search to a place of high art. Some discoveries seemed miraculous in that had many of the elements that I look for (natural features, beauty, wildlife viewing, nearby trails, uncrowded, etc...) in a location where one might not expect to find such things. A road weary Pagoo and crew arrived at one such place at Santa Rosa Lake, in the middle of the New Mexico desert off I-40. The camp host ushered us into a cushy spot with electricity (exciting only because I could charge my laptop and use my sorely neglected toaster oven), near the access point to a trail down to the lake (and the camp host's site, I would later realize). The view of the moon rising over the lake provided extra motivation to get camp set up and hit the trail before the light waned. 

Moonrise over Santa Rosa Lake

My neighbors at the next site were a friendly couple my age who fawned over Harry and lamented leaving their dog at home. Many, many campers I encountered in my travels had left their dogs at home. Perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that I find this incomprehensible. As Harry and I took our leave and headed for the trailhead, the camp host (toothless I should add, why are they always toothless?) intercepted us.

"I'm having a fire later. Folks might stop by.You're welcome to come too."

"OK, maybe."

"I have beer..."

"We'll see."

Dammit. I hadn't had liquor since leaving New Jersey. How much company is a beer worth?

The trail through pinon pines and shrubby cedars wiped all consideration of campfire social time out of my head. Some late season wildflowers were still blooming. Birds and butterflies were strangely scarce, but beetles were plentiful.

Epicauta sp. beetle on unknown Asteraceae

Pencil cactus, Cylindropuntia leptocaulis with
bordered plant bug, Largus sp. 

Not a great picture, but these big carrot beetles (Tomarus gibbosus) were abundant and charming 

 Lakeside, we found a warm rock ledge from which to meditate on the poetry of twig and water. There is perfect quiet but for the bump and click of a quarter-sized carrot beetle that collides with my leg and drops to the rock. He's up and away after a stunned instant. I sometimes envy the simplicity of that primitive tangle of ganglia, designed to navigate the most basic tasks of survival: live, eat, mate. But were that my unencumbered brain, I would not be now contemplating the utter masterpiece of that glossy brown elytra. Perhaps none are fit to comment on the capacity of a beetle to recognize beauty?

Harry is game for a good ponder

Refreshed, our route back to camp took us past the camp host, who was quick to point out his fire and hold a cold beer aloft. I looked up the road to my campsite and saw my neighbors, sitting in their camp chairs, grinning. 

"I'm afraid I'm quite exhausted, but thank-you," I declined.

When I got within earshot, Mrs. Neighbor whispered, "Good choice. No one else was invited..."
There would be no beer for Gena that night.

The next morning, I was lured by abundant road signs to this spot, an odd natural well known as the the Blue Hole. It's a draw for tourists but we arrived at 8:00 AM to find it empty.

Apparently a diving destination

I had not really intended to swim, but the water was so blue and inviting and I was so dry and dusty. The quiet and solitude so bewitched me that morning, I gave more than a passing thought to just stripping down and jumping in. When the tourists started arriving just minutes after I dove in (in my swimsuit), I was heartily glad I had been prudent, although it would have made a much more interesting story had I not. Being the only swimmer, I was apparently assigned the role of Blue Hole expert by the crowd who peppered me with questions as I emerged. If you plan to visit and prefer privacy, consider arriving at 7.

Only 80 feet in diameter at the surface, the pool fans out to
130 feet at the bottom. It is over 80 feet deep in places.

Blue water beckons

Risking an iPhone dunking for a selfie

I was feeling cheerful and optimistic as I left the cleansing artesian waters of the Blue Hole for Arizona. A free campsite (I know, I do go on about the campsites) was awaiting exploration at the Naval Observatory near Flagstaff. But I knew my travels today would take me heartbreakingly close to the Grand Canyon, one of the most desired destinations on my original route. I wrestled with the notion of veering off the current course just to stand for the first time on the rim. I told myself then, as I still tell myself today, I will be back when I can do it unburdened. This road trip will remain unfinished until that day.

Near dark I arrive at the observatory unofficial campground in a grove of ponderosa pines. It's dispersed camping and we may park wherever we choose. There are two other campers, but they are dark and seemingly unoccupied. As we set up Pagoo for the night in the pines, I am tired and saddened by the cross county rush. But even as I plod the path to Acceptance, I know one good thing about myself: even in my darkest moments, I look for beauty. And I find it. Everywhere.

Ponderosa pine woods, northwest of Flagstaff

Toadflax, Linaria dalmatica

Wooly mullein heart

The full moon in the pines

I call my sister, Lisa, that night---I will be in Tonopah, and her Eden, tomorrow. The moon is rising. The universe shines it's spotlight in my window but I am only a speck. I will need to pass through this tomorrow:

Photograph by Bob Krist/Corbis

...and it seems like a final test of my endurance.

On the Road to Acceptance

October 3-8

Very few, if any, of us will pass through our life without experiencing grief. I have some understanding of the rumored 5 stages as they have cycled and rolled and transposed themselves within my grieving psyche in response to the great losses of my life. For the loss of my plans in the American south, I grieve. As I acted on my choice to take a more direct route into the west to my next haven and rest stop in Nevada,  I had already gone through Denial and Anger, and had spent the last few days in Bargaining. This left me, as I crossed through Alabama and Arkansas, to deal with Depression.

Cotton field in a thunderstorm near Talladega National Forest, Alabama

With Step 4 on my heels, I packed up my comfortable camp in Carolina Beach and piloted Pagoo through South Carolina, Georgia and into Alabama. As the sun set and the Cumulus clouds squeezed and darkened, I bumped down eight miles of dirt road to a free campsite deep in the Talladega National Forest near Birmingham. I did not see another soul until a car pulled in (pulled in ominously, I would have said that night) at midnight. I peered anxiously from my window to evaluate the new arrivals, and was comforted by the sight of a t-shirt and flip-flops clad young man who grabbed a fee envelope and settled to sleep in his car. I'm not really sure why I found the flip-flops comforting---perhaps they were a familiar reminder of home in California. Perhaps I reasoned serial killers would opt for sturdier attire. Shortly after 2:00 that same night, the clouds let loose their torrent of rain, thunder and lightening. I have rarely felt so small and alone.

My campmate's car was still and quiet when I wrung out and packed up my rugs left out in the rain and left early the next morning. I discovered in the always hopeful light of dawn, that the road was not as long and was cheerfully lined with the first turning leaves of fall. I headed to Birmingham and breakfast at IHOP, where I learned it was possible to be viewed with suspicion and admiration over a veggie omelette. The restaurant was crowded and the tables quite close---the slip of an elbow could land you in a stranger's pancakes. As I spread my Rand McNally out on the table, I was eyed by the folks at my nervous right elbow, a man and woman in their 50's and a twenty-something young woman, perhaps their daughter. 

  "Where are you traveling?" asked the older (that is to say, my age) woman as she leaned over the   atlas.

  "I'm on a cross country trip."

  "All by yourself??"

  "No, with my dog. We spent last night in the middle of the Talladega Forest in a thunderstorm."

  *blink, blink* "Whatever for?"

I did not have a convincing answer to that question. The waitress, Michelle, her open face in perfect makeup, with every hair perfectly obedient and stylishly combed, listened in on our conversation as she waited for my order. As I ordered my food--mushroom omelette, no bacon (seriously, everything in the south has bacon in it), Hollandaise on the side, please---my table neighbor stared.

  "Where ya from?" she asked.

  "Where do you guess I'm from?" I grinned.

  "From your accent, I'd say you're one of them folks..." Everyone around the table nodded in agreement.

  "Them folks?" 

  "New York City." Welcome to my Pace picante sauce commercial (Git a rope).

As Michelle came to clear my plate, she beamed shyly at me, "I would so love to have an adventure. I wish I were as brave as you."  In a moment where I felt at the lower threshold of my courage, these words were a tonic. Thank-you, Michelle at the IHOP in Birmingham, Alabama. I doubt I deserve your admiration, but if someday you think of me and Harry and embark on your long-dreamed of adventure, I will be very pleased.

After breakfast, another big push across Mississippi into Arkansas, just dipping our toe into Tennessee at the Memphis corner to pick up I-40. There is road work (as there has been on the major interstates for 80% of this trip) and the progress is slower than usual. My mood darkens with the waning light, and I am perversely determined to reach the curiously named town of Toad Suck, northwest of Little Rock. It seemed to me that when one passes near a place with a name like that, one should not pass up the opportunity to bear witness . There was a pretty sunset as Google maps guided me on a highly questionable route down the trailer lined back roads, under railroad trestles and through barking packs of stray dogs to my destination where all the darkness the world and my consciousness had to offer would descend upon me.

I still don't know if the toads suck

Anxiety had a purpose once. Perhaps it still does, in that gut feeling we get that turns us away from the dark alleys of the world. The anxiety of today has runaway with us. It is devoid of rationality and wisdom. It is a consumer of peace and weaves its tangling web in the darkness. My heart was not peaceful as I bedded down that night in Toad Suck---I worried about the broken latch on my pop-up discovered just after my arrival. I worried about time, money and the expectations of myself and others. I worried that the one bathroom in the campground was half a mile away.  With every little thought that entered my mind that night, a little piece of my soul was pinched. I tapped the bottom of Stage 4 right there in Toad Suck.

But of course there are always solutions, and when the sun comes up, things are never as dire as they seemed at 2 AM. I remembered the straps I'd brought just in case, and secured the pop-up to Emmy's frame. It doesn't look pretty, but it worked for 3000 miles. I was treated with southern charm and courtesy by the camp host who solved two problems for me (empty propane = no morning coffee) by directing me to the nearest Walmart where all reserves that might run low may be replenished. An observation on Walmart: I avoid them as a rule but I think I've tapped in to part of their appeal. When I walked through those doors into the fantasyland of fluorescent illuminated objects of consumer desire, I felt oddly safe and comforted. What is up with that, I wonder? I guess one can find anything behind those automatic doors.

Always have duck tape, zip ties and tie-down straps

Fueled with coffee and propane, I met the transition from south to the American West at the Oklahoma border. One of the benefits of a rapid journey along a line of latitude, is that ecological patterns unfold at an observable rate. Humid palmetto pocosin, to dense hardwood, to the plains and scrub, I knew I'd made it west when I saw my first armadillo which was on my list of "must see" species for this trip. Heartbreakingly, the only specimens of this bizarre creature I saw were flattened on the side of the highway. Our heavy transit east to west crosses theirs from north to south, and they will always be the losers at the intersections. The engineering of wildlife corridors for the safe coexistence of non-human travelers and vehicles is a science we can only hope gains momentum and support. See one example here.

If you find yourself a traveler on I-40 through Oklahoma, there is a gift-wrapped surprise waiting for you near Hinton. Invisible until the very last moment in the flat expanse of plains, Red Rock Canyon State Park dips magically into a slot of wooded river and red walls. It was one of the least expected and most welcomed discoveries on this trip. Harry greeted other cheerful campers as we tucked into a site at the end of a slot canyon that was heavy with the perfume of sycamore. The setting sun set the red rocks afire.  A great horned owl hooted in the night. Things were looking up.

Red Rock Canyon, Oklahoma

Turning of the Tide: Carolina Beach, North Carolina

A long-tailed skipper nearly escapes the shutter, Carolina Beach State Park

 September 30-October 2

I think I already knew I was heading into a crisis as I pulled out of my sister's driveway in Hopewell and headed south. There are no good or bad decisions, only the ones we make, and we will never know the alternatives unless we find a portal into alternate realities. I knew the circumstances supporting the funding of my trip had changed---I had known that for a few weeks--but just the day before heading down that driveway, I knew unquestionably that there would be consequences to my itinerary. I left the haven in the woods for Assateague excited, eager, optimistic, stubborn, and terrified.

I crossed out of the magic of Ocracoke Island on a 2 1/2 hour ferry ride to Cedar Island. I found myself at a bit of a loss for a campsite that night and ended up in the Croatan National Forest a swamp near the Neuse River, where I was able to buy a night amongst the mosquitoes for $8. Croatan, with its buzzing hoards and toothless camp host, thus became the exception that proved my rule that campsite quality was inversely proportionate to price. I popped up Pagoo, closed all windows tight, locked my doors and dreamed of showering in DEET. Under it all chirped a persistent voice, reminding me that there were matters that I could no longer overlook.

Swamps are lovely. Just not that night.

Not tempted to stay a second night, the next morning was spent researching my next destination. I had intended to reach Carolina Beach the day before, but was late to the ferry and was headlong into sundown while still many miles from there. This process acquainted me with an interesting bit of campground drama. There are 2 campgrounds with Carolina Beach in their name: Carolina Beach State Park and the Carolina Beach Family Campground. I believe there is considerable confusion among campers looking for a site, confusion that may benefit the private family campground in the short term at least. Not surprisingly, I avoid any campground with the word "family" in the name, but did give them the benefit of the doubt and read their Google reviews. The battle between one (?) reviewer and the management is fine, entertaining reading.

Carolina Beach State Park, photo NC Parks and recreation

Harry and I opted instead for the State Park site, with promises of carnivorous plant bogs, boardwalk trails along the Cape Fear River and a second chance with the elusive gulf fritillary. We chose wisely.

Native pitcher plants, Serracenia flava

On the park's Flytrap trail, we spotted unique plants and animals of the pocosin (swamps). By now, I had swapped my herbal insect repellent for a heavy duty formula so, while guilty of slathering myself with N,N-Diethyl-meta-toluamide (otherwise known as DEET) I was able to keep my remaining blood volume and hike in peace. I found a patch of pitcher plants, but never found the tiny Venus flytrap. When talking with a ranger the following day, I found that the flytraps in the park had nearly been decimated by poachers recently. Crimes against nature are not limited to the large and charismatic.

The Carnivorous blueflower butterwort, Pinguicula caerulea

Flaxleaf Gerardia, Agalinus linifolia

 I also caught up with the gulf fritillary, but the best photo I could get was of the underwing. While lovely, this is not the best side of this spectacular butterfly. I was pleasantly surprised to meet a blue-green gossamer trailing long-tailed skipper, which became my new favorite butterfly. So awestuck was I by this beauty at trailside, I fumbled my camera until it flew, capturing the trailing train of green just before it zipped out of frame. Though the photo (seen at the head of this post) was a mistake, it has proven to be one of my favorites of the trip and, if you look at my iNat observation, contained all the information necessary to have my ID confirmed by a butterfly expert. There can be grace in the unexpected.

Here is Hugh Christy's more conventional photo
 of a long-tailed skipper, Urbanus proteus

The gulf fritillary, Agraulis vanillae. Look here

for a picture of the dorsum.

The walks calmed the anxiety monkey a bit---I had taken to visualizing my worry affliction as a rambunctious spider monkey, all grabbing arms, legs and tail, biting and pulling my hair, and hiding nasty things in secret places for my discovery late at night. If I tell you that I have named him Ziggy, I know at least one reader who will understand, and giggle. The pocosin was charming, but I had a decision to make.

I choose not to explain the specifics of how the finances of the road trip shifted, what is relevant to the story is that what had been expected was no longer to be and I had to come to terms with that. I had to decide whether to keep going on a wing and a prayer, hunker down and ride it out, or make for refuge. I spent three days in Carolina Beach working it out. There I found respite in a quiet campsite in the hickories and pines and a local coffee shop where I could research options on the web. If I say I was completely calm and resolute, I would not be honest. I had moments of panic (with Ziggy waving me in) and bouts (mostly at 2:00 in the morning) of despair. By the morning of October 2 I had decided. There are no good or bad decisions, only the ones that we make.

She's Got the Urge for Staying: The Outer Banks

Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, Buxton, North Carolina

September 27-30

The barrier islands of the Atlantic coast have always captivated me. There is something about their stubborn wildness in the face of civilization, contrasted with their vulnerability at the front lines for all the drama the great Atlantic storms can hurl at the east. I feel an affinity to them. So I am eager to turn once again eastward at Kitty Hawk after dipping briefly inland past Richmond on my way south. 

Map of the Outer Banks---lighthouses mark the way.

There is a noticeable nod to the tropics as we move further south---it is warmer, the air is drowsy with moisture and the mosquitoes are more abundant. The shells on the beach remind me of the treasures beachcombed from family trips to Florida before my birth---the arks, coquinas, scotch bonnets and the whelks---that lined the shelves of my bedroom as a child.

The breath of the tropics

The sinistral (left turning spiral) lightening whelk, Busycon contrarium

My first stop is a single night at Oregon Inlet, an inlet that was named, not for the state, but the sailing ship that witnessed its formation (separating a single island into two) during a violent storm in 1846. The storm that hit while I was at Assateague lingers, but only threatens rain. As I arrive the state campground is abuzz with stories of the storm and assurances that the worst has passed. Tomorrow promises to be a beautiful day to visit the lighthouses of the Outer Banks as I travel even farther south.

Though the skies are dark and stormy, the air is warm, heavy
and fragrant

The eastern counterpart of my friends the brown pelicans

Sure enough, we awaken to blues skies and gentle winds the next morning. I can see the top of the Bodie Island Lighthouse just north of us from our camp. Built in 1872, it stands 170 feet tall and is now fully automated, as many lighthouses are. The key to keeping the black and white lighthouses straight, it to take note of the direction of the stripes in their "daymark". The markings are designed to allow mariners to recognize the lighthouses, and thus their location, during the day. At night, each light house has a distinctive light pattern for nighttime recognition

Bodie Island Lighthouse---horizontal daymark.

A drive down the narrow strip of highway separating the Atlantic Ocean from Pamlico Sound leapfrogs from Pea Island to Hatteras Island and the Outer Banks elbow of Cape Hatteras. At 193 feet, the all brick Cape Hatteras Lighthouse is an awe inspiring sight. It was built in 1870 and protects an area known as the "Graveyard of the Atlantic" where a collision between the warm Gulf Stream and the cold Labrador Current pushes unwary ships aground.

Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, sinistral spiral daymark

The tallest brick lighthouse in the US tempts visitors with the opportunity to hike its 269 spiraling steps to the top for the best possible view of the Cape. Harry, while allowed to enjoy the lawn at the base of the lighthouse, is relegated to Pagoo during the ascent. Shame. He would have LOVED the stairs.

The spiral is echoed by the internal staircase (3 spirals in one blog!)

The ranger snaps my pic at the top, with Cape Hatteras in the background.
I really gave up on my hair and fashion style on this trip...

It's a long way down

I share the ledge at the top with two couples, both of which have one acrophobic partner prodded to make the climb by their mate. One has lost all fear at the sight of the view and dashes from side to side taking photographs. The other clings to the wall like a limpet. As I return to ground level and tour the historic outbuildings, I muse that I would have made a superb lighthouse keeper, hermit that I am, and would have made a fine lighthouse ghost as well, for they are all haunted here. The next lighthouse, and our campsite for the next 2 nights, is a ferry ride away. The ferry between Hatteras and Ocracoke (like the vegetable and the soda) Island has recently been rerouted from a 40 minute straight shot, to a circuitous, nearly 2 hour ride that circumvents the shifting sandy shoals of the Sound. I don't mind the extra time on the water.

Cost of ferry ride from Cape Hatteras to Ocracoke Island: $0.

Ocracoke was chosen as a destination a bit blindly. After ending up in an RV parking lot in Ohio, I have become very wary of campgrounds catering to RVs, and the Outer Banks is every bit the "house on wheels" camping destination. After considerable research, I decided to take the state or national campground route, and this is a trend that stayed strong throughout the trip---they consistently offered clean toilets and showers, well-marked campsites with tables and fire pits, the best camping rates, and the highest ratio of minimalist campers to giant RV traveling road shows. When it comes to paying for camp sites, I found my enjoyment of a site to be inversely proportional to its fee. High fees tended to be strongly correlated with "amenities" that I felt unnecessary and even bothersome. A few of my favorite sites on this trip were absolutely free. And so I crossed the Hatteras Inlet to Ocracoke Island, the most remote spot in the Outer Banks, a ferry ride away from everywhere else in the world.

Juvenile white ibises will molt at maturity and become pure white

Arriving at the Ocracoke NPS Campground on a Sunday, we have our pick of campsites, and find a private spot near the dunes with a set of living ibis lawn ornaments to guide us in. Ocracoke romances me early with endless beaches, sea turtle nests, Gulf Stream warmed waters, birds and butterflies to appeal to my naturalist side and antique stores, fresh seafood and pirate lore for my more cultural tastes.

The town of Ocracoke from the water, ocracokeislandrealty.com

The town itself is incredibly charming and, much to my great joy, was home to the Ocracoke Coffee Co., which had excellent coffee and homemade baked goods and sandwiches (not to mention WiFi). Typically, I am suspicious of Mexican food when away from the west, but Eduardo's Taco Stand had a great rating on Yelp and an encouraging long line out front. So it was that I had the best food to date on my road trip from a taco truck on a remote barrier island: a cheesy crab taco with big succulent chunks of seasoned blue crab on a double tortilla layer with jack cheese, all topped with fresh tomato, lettuce and improbably perfect avocado. If there had been a Margarita on the menu, I'd have blissed out. It may have been after finishing this taco that I first picked up the want ads to peruse the job listings. Or maybe it was after checking out the real estate...

Yes, please.

Or visiting the pirate museum...

 

Blackbeard is Ocracoke's most famous celebrity

The Outer Banks has a rich and colorful history, with every historic building having either a pirate, Civil War, Revolutionary War or pilgrim ghost story to go with it. Arguably the most infamous of pirates, Edward Teach, otherwise known as Blackbeard, frequented Pamlico Sound and was killed at Ocracoke Island in 1718 at the age of 38. For a scientist reasonably well-grounded by skepticism, I am enamored with ghost stories. While I couldn't pass the red-face test if I said I believe in ghosts, I do believe in the energy of places and if I can attach a human story to that and scare myself a little in the process, I consider myself well served.

But nature is always my first love, and a trail near my campground offers a tour of  marsh and pine barrens. Mosquitoes are our hosts, but other invertebrates are more charming denizens. I chased through the dunes in pursuit of the giant, brilliant orange gulf fritillary butterflies, who were pausing their migration to nectar on late-blooming dune wildflowers, but was not to catch up to one with my camera until Carolina Beach and the next blog.

Huge, black and yellow Argiope aurantia waits for prey at web center

Crabs are always favorites of mine---they seem to have an attitude that is entirely unrelated to their size. The trail was home to many of these little fiddler crabs who seemed to dare me to mess with them.

Fiddler crab flushed by Harry. 

There were no jobs for me on Ocracoke. I had a long conversation about life on the island with the fellow selling tickets for my 4 hour departing ferry trip to South Carolina. I asked what locals did to support themselves in the off-season. "Drugs and unemployment," he said with a wry smile. Well, at least half of that equation is right up my alley these days.

The marsh on Palmico Sound. Perhaps, 300 years ago one might
have seen Blackbeard's ship, Queen Anne's Revenge from this spot
and been afraid.