peaceful
feeling as we began spring break 2003 by pedaling across the South Newport River
into McIntosh county Georgia. As we crossed the river we saw a couple of fisherman
leaving a dock in the fog and heading down the river toward the sea maybe ten
miles away. We saw our first animals when we approached a dumpster where black vultures,
normally wary, just watched us even as we got as close as we felt comfortable.
We would see them frequently during the day, soaring with enormous wings high
above us but not close like this. Almost across the road we encountered a grove
of gnarled and twisted ancient oaks, dripping Spanish moss over a sandy parking
area and a tiny building. The self-proclaimed smallest church in America sits
on land deeded to Jesus by Mrs. Agnes Harper and cared for by Effie Gray Shaw,
so the sign says. No one was around but the door was open we ventured in to sign
the guest book and say the serenity prayer. The church seemed like a wonderful
act of random kindness I found touching at a time of terrorist attacks and talk
of war. Highway 17 impressed us with its "Share the road" signs and others indicating that it was part of some number 95 bicycle route. It had a shoulder and not much traffic at that hour but we were happy to turn off onto a quiet road leading east. After seven
miles
we crossed a salt marsh at low tide and entered the Harris Neck Wildlife refuge.
All week the forecast had suggested warm temperatures but that morning the fog
kept the sun away and an onshore breeze made for chilly riding. Harris Neck, a
2,700 acre former military airbase, now is home to a plethora of birds. We
loved the winding road that ran beneath oak trees covered with resurrection
ferns. At one point we took a detour that led us to a small pond covered with
lily pads. In the still morning we could hear a busy chatter of unusual
chips, squeaks, and clucking. We were able to identify the common moorhen with a
red beak and a tendency to walk (or run when we scared them) along the lily
pads. We saw bluebirds on a snag (dead tree) in the pond and watched a
female catch and eat a fat caterpillar. We also managed to identify a
green-winged teal, a duck with a reddish head, green patch across it and distinctive
white line near the chest. We watched wood
ducks and a variety of large wading birds fly overhead. The most dramatic had
huge wing spans with white at the back and ends. They turned out to be wood
storks and further up the trail we passed a section of pond with dozens if not
hundreds of them roosting in trees surrounded by water. We had to leave the
rookery before
we had tired of the natural bounty we had found because we had dressed for the
forecast and it wasn't getting that warm. Pedaling we crossed the old runways
and made our way out by the boat landing and toward a restaurant we'd heard
about in Shellman Bluff, the nearest town. We saw few cars as we pedaled into a tiny place that was just what we seek on bike rides. A sign for Hunter's Cafe directed us down an impossibly potholed, slimy
dirt road filled with puddles from recent rains. Under the kind of oak trees
we'd been enjoying all day we found some wood frame houses lining a bluff
about thirty feet above the Newport River. The houses ranged from
impressive two-story structures with new paint and porches to abandoned little
places overgrown with vines. We found Hunter's Cafe
which I read about on the Internet. In an isolated spot like this it almost
seemed justice that they ignored the schedule posted to the world and remained
tightly shut. One older man next door said they usually opened everyday and
would probably be open soon. Another, friendlier man chatted with us for a while
and we learned that he grew up inland in Georgia but spent 35 years in
Pittsburgh before retiring here. He asked where we were from, and we said
Florence, South Carolina, but I added that I came originally from Maine.
"We've had worse" he said in a gentle Southern tone that brought
a chuckle from Paula. When we commented on how charmed we were by Shellman Bluff
he answered dryly "Well, don't tell 'em how you got here. We got too 
many
already." He directed us a mile up the road to the Shellman
Cafe, "the only restaurant left." There a friendly waitress served us
hot food that tasted great after miles of cycling and hours outside on a chilly
day. Later that day we drove to Darien. a few miles down the road, and while we
waited for our room pedaled around that historic city. Paula took this picture
of me next no old St. Cyprian's Episcopal Church on the edge of the Altamaha
River. Former slaves built it from tabby, a seashell and sand building
material. The next morning rain canceled our plans and we drove to Palatka,
Florida. 