I stopped at a gas station for bottled water and on the way out asked a man idling near the gas pumps in a Dodge pickup truck if he knew of a nearby hotel.
“You want the cheap one or the special one?” he asked.
“The cheap one,” I replied.
“Hop in,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride.”
I put my pack in the truck’s bed and climbed inside.
As he pulled out of the station he asked, “Where you walking from?”
“Seattle.”
He looked at me like I was pulling his leg. “You come all the way from Seattle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why would you go and do a thing like that?”
I looked at him for a moment, then said, “I guess I was bored.”
He laughed the rest of the way to the hotel, a Budget Inn, where he wished me well on my journey. I thanked him, retrieved my pack from the back of his truck, then went inside. The rooms were just $24.99, and I ate a dinner of a T-bone steak and halibut at the Main St. Steak & Seafood restaurant, then went back to my hotel and to bed.
It took me two days to reach my next destination, the town of Sylvester. Nuts are big business in Sylvester, and the town has proclaimed itself the Peanut Capital of the World, although it was pecan stores and brokerages that lined the main thoroughfare.
I ate dinner at a Pizza Hut and booked a room at the Worth Inn, a small hotel with Pepto-Bismol pink room doors. The hotel had a Laundromat and I spent most of the night eating pecan brittle while doing my laundry and reading from a paperback book someone had left in the laundry room, The Secret Life of Bees by author Sue Monk Kidd. I thought it curious that the abandoned book was autographed, until I read on the book’s back flap that Sylvester was Kidd’s hometown.
CHAPTER
Thirty-four
I’m not a fan of boiled peanuts. Just because you can boil something doesn’t mean you should.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next day I passed through the tiny township of Poulan—a town famous for giving out speeding tickets. Poulan was followed by the peculiarly named town of Ty Ty, where, at a small grocery mart, I tried my first muscadine grape. A muscadine is larger than any grape I’d ever seen; in fact, it looked more like a small plum than a grape, but it didn’t taste as good as either.
That evening I reached Tifton, a tidy town with all the amenities of home. I ate dinner at the Hog-N-Bones Bar-B-Q & Breakfast and stayed at a Hilton Garden Inn. The hotel had a nice hot tub and swimming pool and I made good use of both.
I started the day with breakfast at the Waffle House. I decided that if I ended up going back to Seattle, I would think about buying a franchise. Who doesn’t like waffles?
It was a hot day, and I stopped at noon for a swim in Hardy Creek, then walked on to a town called Enigma, where I stopped for lunch at the Corner Café. I thought the town’s name curious, so I asked my server about it. Even though she didn’t live in the town, it wasn’t the first time she’d been asked and she was prepared.
Originally the town was called Gunn and Weston, until the city’s founder, a man named John Ball, decided that wasn’t a real name, so he presented two new names to state officials—Lax and Enigma. Astonishingly, Lax, Ball’s first choice, was already taken, so the town was named Enigma. When he was asked why he chose the name Enigma, Ball replied, “I guess because it was a puzzle what to name it.”
That night, as I began looking for a place to camp along the highway, I found an old, abandoned building hung with a faded sign:
C&C Woodcraft
The front door was slightly ajar, so I pulled it open and went inside. The building had a large front room with several smaller rooms in back. Surprisingly, the interior of the shop was partially intact, with hanging blinds, chairs and bookshelves. Most peculiarly, there was an upright piano in the corner.
The windows were almost all broken out and the place was full of garbage, which was true of every abandoned property I had passed through since Seattle. What it is that possesses people to throw garbage in these buildings I can’t figure out. Were they just carrying their garbage around with them, saw a building and thought, There’s an old building. I think I’ll throw my garbage in there! Then again, back in Wyoming, people went out of their way to throw garbage into the beautiful Morning Glory Pool in Yellowstone National Park, so maybe people are just crazy with their garbage.
I cleared an area on the floor next to the piano, laid out my mat and sleeping bag and went to sleep.
Physically, I was getting better. It had been more than a week since I’d had a headache of any concern and my legs and ankles didn’t hurt anymore. I still tired more easily than I had pre-surgery, but even that was manageable. The next two days I averaged twenty-two miles and camped out both nights, nearly depleting my food and water. Fortunately, I was just a half day from the town of Waycross and the famous Okefenokee Swamp.
The swamp presented a problem. The Okefenokee is the largest “black water” swamp in North America, covering nearly a half million acres, or six hundred square miles. Waycross marked the beginning of the north border of the swamp and was the last major town along the highway until Folkston, which was more than thirty miles south. I wouldn’t reach Waycross until noon. But even if I had started my day in town, I’d be hard-pressed to make Folkston by nightfall and I had no desire to camp outdoors near the critter-infested swamp. I would have to stop in Waycross and start early the next morning for one of the longest walking days of my entire journey.
I reached Waycross by twelve-thirty, booked a room at a Quality Inn, then walked to the neighboring Walmart for food, supplies and bug spray. I took everything back to my room, where I ate a club sandwich and Caesar salad for lunch.
I hadn’t always known that the Okefenokee Swamp was a real place. I first heard of the swamp from the Pogo cartoons my dad loved and in the contraband issues of MAD magazine I used to smuggle home and hide under my bed. (My mother said the magazine was “perverted” and banned me from reading it, which, of course, made it much more desirable. It wasn’t until I was sixteen, eight years after my mother’s death, that my dad found one of my hidden magazines. He picked it up, took it to his den and read it without saying a word. As it turned out, he had no objection to the magazine at all, which, for me, had two effects. First, it made me feel stupid for hiding them for all those years. And second, I lost interest in reading them.)
With a name as absurd-sounding as Okefenokee, I had always assumed that it was just a made-up place, like Shangri La or El Dorado. Okefenokee is a Native American Hitchiti tribe word meaning “shaking waters.”
With most of my day left, I had the hotel call a cab to take me the eight miles to the Okefenokee Swamp Park. The road from the park’s entrance to the visitor center was five more miles. There were fewer than a dozen cars in the park’s parking lot.
The visitor center had a gift shop featuring shelves of alligators, and alligator parts, fashioned into bizarre novelties: alligator-claw key rings, necklaces and back-scratchers; gator-skinned wallets, business card holders, and iPhone covers; lacquered alligator heads, stuffed baby alligators dressed as golfers or brides and grooms, and full-grown stuffed alligators guaranteed to keep the neighbors’ dog off your lawn.
I signed up for a boat tour, which I was told would be departing in five minutes. I hurried to the boarding dock. There were already people in the boat, an elderly couple in the back row and a family in the front two rows: mother, father and two teenage boys. I took a seat in the center.
As we waited for our guide, the man sitting in front of me turned around and said, “We’re the Andersons. I’m Boyd and this is my wife, Dawn.”
“Like the sunrise, not the Trump,” Dawn said.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Alan Christoffersen.”
“Where are you from, Alan?” she asked.
“Seattle.”
“You’re a long way from home,” Boyd said. “Where are you
headed?”
“Key West.”
“So are we,” Dawn said. “Maybe we’ll run into you there.”
“You’ll probably be long gone by the time I get there,” I said.
“Oh?” she replied. “Making other stops on the way?”
“I’m walking.”
“You’re walking from Seattle to Key West?” Boyd asked.
“Every step of the way,” I said.
“Did I hear that right?” the elderly man behind me said. “You walked here all the way from Seattle?”
I turned around. “Yes.”
“That’s amazing,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to walk across America and you’ve done it.”
His wife looked at him quizzically. “You have?”
“I’ve thought about it many times.”
“Probably just to get away from me,” she said.
The man offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you. We’re the Pitts of Montgomery, Alabama. I’m Eric and this is my beautiful wife, Peggy.”
I shook her hand, then his. “It’s a pleasure,” I said. “I’m Alan Christoffersen. I walked through Montgomery a week or so ago.”
“What did you think of it?” Peggy asked.
“It’s a beautiful town,” I said.
She smiled. “We’re pleased you enjoyed it.”
Two men walked along the dock and one of them stepped off into the back of the boat, next to the outboard motor. He squeezed a black rubber priming ball, then pushed a button and the motor fired up, sputtering in the water behind us.
“Good afternoon, y’all.” He was an older gentleman, maybe in his late sixties, thin, with a straw hat and an accent as thick as the swamp water. He wore denim jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. “My name is Herman and I’d like to welcome y’all to the world-famous Okefenokee Swamp. Before we set sail, let me tell you a few things. In case we sink, the exit is all around you. Secondly, y’all will want to keep your hands inside the ride at all times. Some of the critters are always looking for a handout.” He laughed at his rehearsed jokes, and we politely laughed.
Herman untied the boat and his helper shoved us off with his foot, then he put the boat in gear, driving us forward. Thirty feet ahead we passed under a walking bridge and the canal narrowed to about fifteen feet wide.
“If you fall in, it’s not deep,” Herman said. “But I wouldn’t stay in too long.”
“The water looks gross,” one of the teenage boys said.
“Looks like beer,” Eric said.
Herman took the boat out of gear, then reached a bucket over the side and scooped up a gallon of the water, tilting it slightly forward so we could see it. “You might think there’d be a lot of skeeters in this water but there ain’t. That’s because it’s so filled with tannic acid, it kills them.” He handed the bucket to Eric. “Here, y’all tell me if it tastes like beer.”
Eric pursed his lips. “I’ll pass, thank you.”
“It stinks,” Peggy said.
“That’s methane gas,” Herman said. “Same stuff cows emit from their backsides.”
She grimaced and Herman laughed. “Every now and then somethin’ will ignite the swamp gas and you’ll hear an explosion out here like a shed o’ dynamite.” He put the motor back in gear and the boat plowed ahead.
“What kind of trees are these?” Peggy asked.
“These right here are cypress. I’ll tell y’all somethin’, these cypress trees can live up to six hundred years. Every inch of thickness equals twelve and a half years of growth. So, you can see, some of these trees are hundreds of years old.
“As you probably know, the swamp’s full of all kind of critters. There are thirty-four different kinds of snakes in the swamp and I seen every one of ’em. Six of ’em are venomous, includin’ the famous water moccasin, or cottonmouth, eastern diamondback rattler and the coral snake.
“We also got some fine specimen of spiders,” he said to Dawn. “Like the one right above your head.”
Dawn looked up and screamed. The spider was yellow and black and nearly the size of my hand. Its web spanned the width of the creek.
“Now watch this,” our guide said. He grabbed a section of the web and plucked it like a banjo string. “Now that is strong! The government is studyin’ this, tryin’ to duplicate it. Inch per inch, this web is stronger than steel.”
We were more intent on the massive spider hanging above us than its web, which, in spite of our guide’s provocation, seemed content to stay where it was.
“If y’all look to the port side on the bank there, you’ll see a big ol’ hole with the brush all pushed back. That’s an alligator nest. The gator there we call Miss Daisy and her eggs hatched just last week. We got a half dozen of her babies back at our center for their own protection. These baby gators get gobbled up by just about everythin’ that can get to them, raccoons, birds and other gators.
“An interestin’ fact about gators, the temperature determines their gender. During their incubation if the temperature averages above ninety-three degrees, they’ll be male gators. If it’s cooler than that, you got females. It’s been hot lately, so this brood was all male.”
The boat continued up the canal. Nailed to a tree overhanging the bank twenty yards ahead of us was a sign, printed backward and upside down. “Y’all might want to get a picture of this before our waves make it hard to see.”
The sign’s reflection in the water read:
MIRROR
LAKE
The boat churned up the narrow black waterway for another five minutes before our guide started speaking again.
“That big ol’ rusty kettle up on your left is a still. Back durin’ Prohibition, the swamp was lit up like Christmas with all the stills pumping out illicit moonshine. We’ve got two kinds of stills in here, turpentine and whiskey. It’s best not to get them mixed up, but sometimes there’s not a whole lot of difference ’tween the two.
“This still right here was for alcohol. It was owned by a feller they called Lightnin’ Larry. The locals gave his moonshine whiskey a special name: Autumn Leaves. Anyone wish to venture a guess why they called his brew Autumn Leaves?”
“Because he only made it in autumn,” Peggy said.
“No,” Herman said with a grin, “it’s because you’d take one drink of the stuff, change colors and fall.”
We all laughed.
“Now take a moment to notice some of the unique foliage around us. On your right is the pitcher plant. It’s one of several carnivorous plants in the swamp, includin’ the Venus flytrap. Even the plants in the swamp have a bite.”
Our excursion lasted about forty-five minutes in all. We didn’t encounter a single alligator, which was disappointing to me. After we had docked and tipped Herman, I walked around the park for a while, looking down from the boardwalk into wood-sided pens filled with alligators and snapping turtles, all of which looked more dead than alive.
A little more than an hour after I arrived, I returned through the visitor center, where I purchased a cold bottle of water and a Snickers bar. I had just stepped out onto the curb to call the cab company from my cell phone when a minivan pulled over in front of me. I walked up to the passenger-side window where Dawn sat.
“Sure you don’t want a ride to Key West?” she said.
“We’ve got room,” Boyd added, “if you don’t mind sitting in back with the boys.”
“Thank you, but no. I’m hoofing it.”
“Then how about a lift to town?” Dawn said.
“I’ll take you up on that,” I replied.
“Brandon,” Boyd said, “open the door.”
The boy slid the side door open, and I climbed in, shutting the door behind me.
“Are you really going to walk all the way to Key West?” Brandon asked.
“I really am.”
“You’re nuts,” he said.
“Brandon!” his mother said sternly.
“He’s right,” I said. “I am.”
“Wha
t’s that on your head?” the other boy, who looked a little older, asked from the back seat.
“Chris!” shouted Dawn. She turned to me. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I turned to Chris. “About three months ago I had a tumor about this size removed from my brain.” I made a circle with my thumb and forefinger.
“Cancer?” Dawn asked.
“No. It was benign.”
“What does that mean?” Brandon asked.
“It means it’s not going to kill me,” I said.
“Praise God,” Dawn said.
“Does that have something to do with why you’re walking?” Boyd asked.
I shook my head. “No. It just made it a little tougher.”
After about ten minutes, Boyd rolled the van to a stop in front of my hotel. I slid open the door and climbed out. “Travel well,” I said.
“You walk well,” Boyd said.
“We’ll warm up Key West for you,” Dawn added.
“Thanks. Have a good time.” I pointed at the two boys. “Especially you two.”
They were both playing video games on their phones and just kind of nodded. I shut the door and Boyd turned back to the highway. I ate dinner at the El Potro Mexican Restaurant, then went to bed early.
I didn’t sleep well. Mexican food isn’t the best choice for a good night’s rest, and I was nervous about the upcoming stretch. It had been a while since I’d walked more than thirty miles in one day and that was before my craniotomy. Don’t worry, you’ll make it, I told myself. You always do.
CHAPTER
Thirty-five
Some so fear the future that they suffocate the present. It’s like committing suicide to avoid being murdered.