October 2, 1999

Santee, South Carolina

Fall break at Francis Marion gave us a three-day weekend so we decided to go camping with our bicycles. Saturday morning, we had to finish packing and drive almost two hours before we could start our adventure. So it was 10 a.m. by the time we left the truck at the trailhead, tied our gear on the bikes and headed off on the Palmetto Trail. Organizers plan to have the trail run the length of the state but right now 27 miles have been completed. The ride began with a narrow sand path through a thick stand of pine trees. After a few minutes of that pleasant environment we arrived at the bottom of the dike around Lake Moultrie. A steep climb put us on top of the dike and afforded us grand views of sparkling blue water separated from the mottled blue of the sky by the green of distant trees. We saw the first of perhaps a dozen great blue herons. As we made our way around the lake we could look at the far shore where we would seek lunch 27 miles later. It seemed too far to pedal. The lake remained always on our left as we rode the levy for mile after mile, but it changed from an expanse of blue to a series of channels through weeds and islands. After a while cypress trees and weeds predominated and the only water we could see filled the ditch created by the building of the dikes. Far from roads or houses we passed an occasional hunter. We crossed the Cooper river where it runs out from the lake on its way to Charleston and passed a couple on horseback. Eventually the dike ended and a tiny sign pointed us straight ahead on an unmarked, little used dirt road. Eventually that dumped us behind a gate on route 45, not a the trail head but consistent with our days destination. We saw a sign on a side road advertising Helen’s Diner two miles away. We asked a   letter carrier if such a place existed and would probably be open. She answered affirmatively but without notable enthusiasm.

Starving we headed down the dead end road to Eadytown, named for a long-departed Indian village. Many pick-ups sat in front of Helen’s, a modest two-story cinder block building, and a steady buzz of conversation came out through the screen door. We locked up our bikes and walked in. Immediately all talk stopped. We felt as if Wyatt Earp had just walked in. No one stared or talked as we took our seats. Gradually the chatter resumed. Half of the patrons wore camouflage with ball caps and the rest were females. Stuffed fish and deer decorated the faded paint on the walls. We sat among a group of people who seemed like Hollywood exaggerations of unsophisticated country people and felt as if we had stepped into another world. I couldn’t understand a word anyone said, but Paula heard them talking about plans to go to the bull riding at the Florence civic center. Happily the menu offered more than the burgers and fries everyone else was eating. A salad and baked potato convinced us we were eating a healthy meal.

Refreshed by food and copious quantities of water we continued our journey. We soon pedaled over the diversion canal as the river is called where it runs from Lake Marion to Lake Moultrie. As we crested the bridge the cement asphalt turned to iron gratings which provided a scary view of the river straight below. We tried not to look as the heavily laden bikes wobbled on the uneven grates. Paula said hi to the people waving from a boat a hundred feet below us. Kudzu covered the banks along the canal as well as trees, fences and small buildings. We continued west on highway 6 happy for the smooth pavement and flat road. The 27 miles of the Palmetto trail had surrounded us with natural beauty but rough dirt roads had made pushing heavy bikes a lot of work.

We stopped for a drink at a nondescript convenience store with no charm or bench to sit on. Nevertheless, just sitting felt great and we loved the break. A couple stopped and asked us about cycling in South Carolina. They had recently moved to Pawley’s Island from New Mexico. That friendly chat with fellow cyclists encouraged us as we started the last ten miles to Santee.

When we rolled into that town I called the state park to see if they still had the restaurant that was so good fifteen years ago when I camped there on another bike trip. "It burned down three weeks" replied the woman to my query. So close! That meant we would have to eat in Santee before heading down to the park. Though it was early we ate as if it were late. We finished all but one piece of our Super New York size mushroom pizza. The sun set soon after we got our tent set up. We watched it turn orange over Lake Marion, the fish pier and a plethora of cypress trees growing out in the lake. A friendly fellow from the next campsite came over to see what I was doing as I developed pictures from my digital camera on my notebook computer. He wanted me to take a picture of Stinky, his cat who turned out to be a four-month old pet skunk. Having ridden 61 miles including a lot of rough trails we happily went to bed with the arrival of darkness. Barking dogs, radios, voices and one woman’s inane laugh couldn’t disturb our rest. It’s hard to describe just how good it felt to lie on a soft pad and sleeping bag.

We woke up shortly after six to darkness. Nevertheless, we packed up and were pedaling down the road before seven. The sun rose as we rode back into Santee and seemed to suggest that we would enjoy a wonderful day. I always like eating, but there’s nothing like exercise and fresh air to make food even better. After a leisurely breakfast we headed south on route 15 passing Wells, where three main roads intersected but only one abandoned house gave a hint of the town that once existed. We saw another hunting dog lost and looking lonely. It wouldn’t come near us but followed us down the road. We have seen many of them on this and other trips. Paula remarked that we have seen more hunting dogs than deer. Soon we crossed Interstate 26 and stopped for coffee at grubby little gas station/diner. We bought the Sunday Charleston paper and found out that the University of South Carolina football team, with the longest losing streak in the nation lost to Mississippi. We nearly bought tickets to that game but were glad we didn’t.

After a few more miles and a bathroom stop in the woods we found ourselves in St. George which we correctly assumed had the last restaurant or store we’d see all day. We hunted around until we found a Piggly Wiggly supermarket where we loaded up on canned food, cookies and fruit for dinner. We asked the cashier to recommend a place to eat. "You’re in the wrong town for that." she told us saying that what they had was out by the interstate. We pedaled out there and found Giorgio’s, a bright, clean place with a reasonably-priced buffet. A lady who entered about the time we did talked with us about what a wonderful place we had found to eat and asked about our trip. Meeting happy people like that is one of our favorite parts of a bike trip. Paintings of Greece hung on the walls and the cheerful, attentive waitress told us the owner had just returned from a visit to Athens. She stayed amiable even though we drank large amounts of tea. A well prepared buffet makes hungry cyclists very happy and we took our time enjoying to the max our best meal and nicest atmosphere of the trip.

In Grover we turned left on Wire road which stretched on and on. We were getting tired and hot, and began to wonder which would run out first the road or out energy. Finally, we took a break even though the park seemed close. At last we pedaled into Givhans Ferry state park on the Edisto River. Banjo music drifted out from a meeting hall reserved for a family reunion. The campground wasn’t well maintained but was empty. Paula took a shower while I set up my computer to develop the days pictures and describe the journey. Eventually one tent and three campers joined us as we built a fire and cooked our dinner. That night the area was so quiet and dark at night that we heard a chorus of owls. The next morning I let Paula sleep until daylight. The prospect of no hot breakfast made an early start less appealing. Eight miles up the road, or predictions were confirmed when we found only a convenience store in Ridgeville. One fellow pointed to a building and said it was the only restaurant in town and opened just on the weekend. We settled for pop tarts, cookies and orange juice discovering that it is possible to eat too many sweets.

As we left Ridgeville we crossed a highway and then passed a church and cemetery. A row of old buildings covered with weather-beaten boards caught our attention. A bunch of cabins formed a large U with the church at the top. They faced a grassy area with a large open pavilion full of rows of seats situated in the middle. A road ran around the backs of the houses and across the road sat a row of outhouses. We saw a pick-up truck and someone working in the narrow space between two cabins. "Looks like hard work" I said. "Well, would you look at that." he responded as he put down his tools and walked over to us as if we were old friends not seen in a long time. We exchanged names but neither of us remembered his. He spoke in a charming, singular accent with a hint of Charleston in it. He told us that some of the tents had stood there for a hundred years and that people used them only one week a year. The rest of the time they left them unoccupied to protect them from danger of fire. He said the annual revival at the Cypress Methodist Church drew the owners from surrounding towns. He related that he had worked in Vaughn’s store in downtown Ridgeville beginning in high school. Except for the four years he spent in the Army during world war two he worked there his entire career. He worked for Mr.Vaughn "the finest Jew I ever met" and ended up owning the store by the time he retired at age 65 in 1985. He told of his son buying a furniture store in Summerville and then said "one more bit of information and then you can go whenever you like" He told us about making a friend in the war who was from Racine, Wisconsin. They came back together on a ship and made contact last year for the first time in 54 years. He even took a trip and saw his friend who now lives in Connecticut. We assumed he must have told many stories during those years in the store. After asking a few more questions we continued on our way and he went back to pulling rotten boards off the cabin. Anyway, we know knew the origin of the name of the road: Cypress Campground.

Paula came bounding out of the woods saying "I’m not going in there. I saw a dead deer’s skull and further in a leg bone. Then in the other direction I saw another leg bone." She’s a hearty traveler but has her limits. That didn’t deter her from ducking into another spot. No stores means no rest rooms. After a break at a run -down store near Wassamassaw road, we started the final ten-mile stretch before lunch. Rolling into Monk's Corner as rain threatened we braved the busy traffic on route 51 and found a great buffet lunch at Western Sizzlin. We knew of no back road so had to continue north with all the traffic. An enormous bridge took us over the diversion canal