The forest that is Fort McAllister Historic State Park awakens as a primeval dawn. Slanting light filters through boughs thick with their Georgia spring growth. Mist reveals the shafts of light. Diamonds of light poke through drapes of Spanish Moss.
The night before was just as glorious. Except for our arrival, this park provided wonderful peace. The exception? The big brown flies. Swarms of big brown flies. The second I opened the truck door at the campsite I was was engulfed in a small cloud. You have to understand one thing. Insects seek me. Even when other people are not bothered, I am chased, bitten and stung. I inhale these things.
I immediately announced to Bernie that I could not stay here. We had to press on, even though I was tired. She asked where we would go. Good question. I had no idea. This is the south and this is spring. What would I expect anywhere else?
The trailer needed to be unhitched, and I started my strict procedure, but I couldn't think. I was baffled and again implored her to leave. She had that tired look on her face. I stood back for a second thought.
Repellent! Get me repellent, woman!
That simple solution had eluded me. The bugs left as quickly as they came. Unhitched, I headed into the camper, only to notice a goldish diamond patch on the screen door. I had no idea. Bernie smiled and explained they were citronella patches, stuck too the screen, and she had one stuck on her chest, like a badge. I felt left out. Where was my badge? Never mind that she had just hosed me down with repellent.
The drive yesterday from The Villages was probably the most unpleasant trip I have taken, but we made it, tired, hungry, cranky and I was deeply irritated by the some of the insane girations the Garmin GPS put us through. I would submit that its software was written by some Garmin officer's ninth-grade son.
What else caused a certain level of stress were the lack of rest stops along I-95 north of Jacksonville on th way to Savannah. Or maybe I missed them. I had third-party information in the GPS that was supposed to show us rest stops. It was complete unacceptable. Garmin's own information found one a few miles ahead at one point. Even though the point was shown on the northbound side and labeled that way, it was on the southbound side.
We asked the GPS for a truck stop. That was shown three miles off the interstate and off we went, grumbling why it would be so far off the road. It wasn't there. Just as we were getting back onto the interstate, there is was, on the other side, with no signs, I might ad.
The truck stop we finally found was a laugh. Getting fueled there would have been a trick. I watched the other campers try to squeeze out between the pumps and the front of the store. For trucks with campers, it was an almost impossible squeeze. Wouldn't you think a Flying J truck stop would have a careful designer? They clearly saved a lot of money with a less intelligent one. Luckily I had enough fuel to move on, after parking in another impossible-to-navigate area, where I slept for a half hour. I didn't feel compelled to actually buy anything there. Flying J did not deserve to be rewarded for its idiocy.
Of course the road was packed with with vehicles. Ninety-nine percent were doing it right. The other one percent deserved to be jailed for attempted murder. Thanks to the alert drivers a dozen accidents were averted.
I complain too much, but all this contributed to the tired, cranky guy waving and hopping amid the bugs.
Ahh, but the rest of the night was glorious. Fresh, clean air. Cool. Silence. Deep, sound sleep in this primeval forest.
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