Sunday, February 12, 2012

Chickens, Bert? Really? Chickens?

Two days ago we towed IMG_1484through the remainder of the Florida Panhandle and just across the Georgia border to the place where a full size submarine surfaces out of a grassy lawn.  Oh yes.
We proceeded dutifully beside the Kings Bay Submarine Base, and, turning our backs on the perfectly beautiful Crooked River State Park, wheeled into the Big Wheel RV Park.  We were here on the undiluted rave recommendation of one of our heroes, Bert Gildart,  adventurer, explorer and world class nature photographer. Bert wanders our National Parks, enduring privations (when away from his Airstream), facing down wild animals (duh? that’s his game).  Surely, if he warns us away from Crooked River into our first private campground,  it must be because the conditions there are too extreme for more risk adverse old Airstreamers like us – hordes of biting insects perhaps?  or free ranging armadillos? Have there been Maltese Pythons sighted this far north?   Other inducements offered by Bert were the  friendly folks and the Sunday POTLUCK!  (Now Al loves potlucks. A table load of everyone’s best dish, what’s not to love?)
Standing amidships in the registration lane, bowlegged, barking and defiant was Jasmine, an eighty pound bulldog.  She, of course, turned out to be a pussycat, and while Al was scratching her ears, a friendly resident gave true testimony as to her gentle disposition.  He liked our rig … had restored an Airstream himself… wishes now he had kept it (a refrain we have heard before.)
Registration was patient and unhurried and we were allowed to join Passport America for a discount on our first nights stay.  We were awarded pull thru site #1 with a view out our door of the wood pile, lawn mowers and assorted plastic children’s toys arrayed beneath the singlewide. Another friendly resident walking her Lab paused during our setup and was genuinely welcoming.  So far, so good.  Not a view of the river, but… 
We scouted the lovely village of St Mary’s, walking all the streets in town, marveling at the old homes and the older Live Oaks. We had a lovely dinner with new friends we pounced on while waiting for Lang’s Seafood to open and returned home after dark to load our packs for a day trip to Cumberland Island National Seashore 7ish next morning.
Constantly thereafter with hardly a pause for breath, we were serenaded.  He (or they) were nearby, Incessant and  discordant.  Patty, who already has sleep issues  sharing a bed with an old man and his miniscule bladder, was totally wasted by dawn, when , quite strangely, the rooster paused so we could hear the shotgun blasts from just over the boundary fence.  We fervently hoped that the gunshots  and the mangy chicken’s silence were related in some gruesome mortal way, but we were disappointed and he was still at work as we left in the dawn’s early light.
The winds were clocked at 30 knots that day and the temperature dropped to 24 degrees last night. Our shiny little home was buttoned up tight and various heating devices were humming along, so if the roosters did not have sense enough to seek shelter, at least their protestations were muted.
It is sunny this morning, temperature slowly climbing.  We haven’t seen smoke rising from the barbeque pit as promised, but we are hoping that the entrĂ©e of the day is CHICKEN.


  1. OK OK, geographers. Malta doesn't have pythons... but they have these feisty little dogs....

  2. Maybe if the pythons start heading north then there won't be a feisty dog problem anymore...