Y’all might be tired of me, but I just want you to know that yesterday I finished physical rehab for my knee. To celebrate and test out their assessment that I could resume normal activities, I decided to check out a park I sometimes pass but have never entered. I’ve missed being in wooded areas, and figured I have a good chance of fighting off or bullshitting any scary people I might encounter. 

Besides, I’d had another mini adventure on Tuesday when, while in an area of town I’ve only been to twice, I somehow thought I might be near a BBQ place the ladies at the phone store had recommended when I first arrived in SC. Turned out to be only eight minutes from my errand, and I was thrilled to finally feel I had a sense of location in relationship to anything here, in a place that does not run along the NY grids I’ve known for most of my life. Looking forward to seeing if it was as good as I remembered, I entered and proceeded to act as goofy as many tourists would when I lived in New York. I somehow managed to always be going the wrong way where people were trying to go, had too many questions that the very busy, yet patient staff tried to answer, and managed to bump into or cut in front of the same gentleman three times. After the third time, I could only laugh, apologize, and say, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this!” And fortunately, he was amused and witty, quickly replying with a serious face, “Why?” giving us both a good laugh and relieving my very uncharacteristic awkwardness.

 Today, being a bit hyped when I left the physical therapist, I decided to make my way downtown, maybe have, or pick up some lunch, be around friendly people, and enjoy this beautiful, sunny day. As I headed there, I again noticed the sign for the park I’ve never been in. One of the things I’ve missed most while being incapacitated has been my pretty regular walks in a nature reserve not far from my house. So this seemed like a good time to check out this park, walk a little bit, but mostly just enjoy the woods and the sense of peace it brings to my soul before heading to our adorable downtown area.

As I entered, it appeared to be somewhat similar to my local, but with a worse entrance road. The scenes I glimpsed through my right-side window as I carefully made my way to the parking lot were inviting, with tall trees, and what looked like a lake or stream from the car. I said hello to the trees and thanked them for being here, happy that the recent wildfires hadn’t reached this area, and that these wetland woods were being preserved.

 The parking lot was empty except for one car. No entrance station, but one picnic table a few yards from the information sign and a fence leading to the main trail. I surveyed the desolate area, clear in my mind that this would be a short exploration for both physical and safety reasons. Got out to explore, knowing that I wasn’t going far with my cane, but remembered that I keep trekking poles in the car, and retrieved them, figuring that I could get closer to the cypresses that so fascinate me and take a photo, but not get close enough to fall in or have any problems.

As I got closer, I realized that although it fed into the Waccamaw River, this area was, in fact, swampland. Now folks who know me know that I’m a bit phobic about swamps. I can appreciate them and their mysterious beauty, and I’ll fight for their preservation and for the critters that make those swamps their homes. But I do NOT enter swamps, willingly. Driving my son one day during my first year here, he noticed that I was close to the yellow line and made a remark, thinking that I needed to be warned. I in turn explained to him that I had a mortal fear of driving into the swamps that line the sides of the roads and around which there are no barriers. Surprised, he said, “You could get into a head-on collision, isn’t that scarier?!? You’d probably survive a crash into a swamp, Ma.”

I’m not sure if I said exactly what I was thinking, but I made it clear that the likelihood of death was less disturbing to me than the possibility of winding up in the swamp. My phobia might be born of stories from my elders, or just the fact that the water is murky and a repository of who knows what. Whatever its origins, it is visceral and real.

In the years since, I’ve become more secure, and very consciously stay in the middle of my lane rather than the edge furthest from the swamp, but my feelings about swamps remain.

When I entered the park and from what I initially saw, I had no idea that I was heading towards swampland, but once I did, I decided to be brave and athat I wasn’t leaving without trying to get that photo if it could be safely accomplished.

I began to make my way very carefully down the incline, checking for critters, but also anything that might cause me to trip or slide. I stopped every few feet, checking for safety, but also enjoying the scenery at each angle. As I continued down the hill, I noticed a lovely circle of trees, like a giant fairy circle in the woods. It looked like a perfect spot for my photo, and I made my way over to it, quietly asking permission of any inhabitants, and assuring them that I intended no harm to any. As I settled into the circle, I had a good view of the water and noted the fallen branches along the water’s edge. Now two things I learned early on in the South when I spent summers with my grandfather in North Carolina: ya don’t swim in dark/murky waters, and every log isn’t a log! I’ve been reminded of both since moving here, but since I seldom enter anything other than my son’s pool or take an occasional trip to the nearby ocean, these bits of wisdom were in the recesses of my mind. Until today.

As I looked at the logs, one in particular caught my eye, pricking my Spidey senses and causing me to focus my myopic sight as keenly as possible. Remaining still and silent, I watched that log intently. Nothing. But something told me to keep watch, even as I was considering how best to make my way up the slope and back to my car, should the need arise. I remembered hearing that gators couldn’t make sharp turns, and I accessed my ability to “run serpentine” thinking that as slow as I am, the gator might be confused by a human running at angles and in slow motion, thus giving me the chance to make my getaway. I don’t know if gators can laugh, but I imagined that the ridiculous sight of a semi-crippled old lady imitating the funniest scene from “The In Laws” might evoke surprise and amusement enough to slow it down.

And immediately after I had that thought, the log blinked! I in turn blinked, and then, without alarming it, and as quietly and quickly as my arthritic legs could move, I skedaddled!

I’ve had encounters with elk and once with a bear, and I’m respectful towards all living beings, and try never to disrespect their ways, homes, or relatives, so it seemed wise to leave this creature to its territory, because I don’t know much about gators or crocodiles, but I know damned well that even with an adrenaline burst, I can’t outrun one!

Now I’m here to tell you that South Carolina is a beautiful place, with wonderful people, but I am not a lowlands kind of person. I do not like heat and humidity, and ancient as I may be, I do not belong in physical proximity to prehistoric reptiles! That’s a big, fat NOPE for me. Anoles, yes, gators/crocs, no! I’m not a person who tends to panic or lose control, but you can believe that my progress was as swift and steady as I could make it, twisted humor and all.

Once safely ensconced in my locked car, I vowed never to explore the woodlands here alone again. For the foreseeable future, I’ll stick with my local forest reserve, the beaches and finding good places to eat. In my many decades on this earth and in spite of my extensive vocabulary, I have never had cause to say “skedaddle” and I hope never to have such again.

Reptiles: .5, Cool Old Lady: 1

 With no disrespect intended to the tune “I Lived To Tell About It” by War and Pierce that’s been running in my brain since: https://youtu.be/6Yjo4_WHGug?si=akkXOuukiOj9gcOUhttps://youtu.be/m4zwP-W2wwwhttps://youtu.be/m4zwP-W2www