26 Waccamaw River, South Carolina.

It’s a frosty morning promising a beautiful day.

We are motoring quietly up the Waccamaw River north of Georgetown. High forests line either bank. An occasional plantation house set back from the river is the only sign of human presence. Loons, now in their summer uniform, float on the still water and dive as we approach. An otter looped along the surface wet and shiny.

We are back in deciduous forest. The bare branches are just beginning to sprout tiny leaves. Each tree seems to be enveloped in a haze of colored dots. You would not believe how many greens there are. Some buds are lemon green, others that grey-green of Spanish moss, yet others the white-green of the innermost heart of a lettuce. And they are not only green. Some of these tiny specks are chipmunk-red, others raspberry. The buds are so minuscule that the forest remains delicate and transparent in a way that is impossible to describe.


This peaceful country had its days of misery. The British tried to secure South Carolina during the American Revolution. Local rebels like Sumter and Francis Marion maintained a skulking resistance, skirmishing with the British and fading into the forests they knew so well. The British stole the farmers’ horses; burned their crops and homes. The British colonel Tarleton, arriving at the home of a rebel officer who had died six weeks earlier, made the widow prepare him meal, dug up her husband to see what he looked like, then drove her cattle, pigs and chickens into the barn and set it on fire. He reported to the leader of the British forces, Cornwallis:
“…I laid the houses and plantations of the violent rebels to waste…the country seem now convinced of the error of the insurrection….”

We just passed an osprey nest on Marker 41. There was something stiff about the two birds looking down at their accumulated pile of branches that reminded you of a married couple having a disagreement about a carpet. They gave us an icy stare as we passed.