 A sweet family of four from Chapel Hill joined me for an early salt marsh excursion out of Oyster Landing. The day was calm and fair, neither cool nor warm, and the tide was high, just beginning to crest, as we cut across the oyster flats and beheld the cormorants flexing on the pilings. The marsh grass was greening at the shoots, pushing the old brown grass into the water, and you could see the filmy detritus on the surface. I reached down in the cold water and extracted an oyster to show them our keystone species, and we turned around with the tide, scaring off the birds on the old nature center dock, the cormorants taking labored flight, the pelican just chilling. Back at the landing, a bald eagle flew above us, and I extracted a baby stone crab from the water, too, before heading off to the river.  The second of the day’s doubleheader proved doubly delightful as a family of four from downtown Philadelphia joined me on the river. The eighth-grader Lil wrote fantasy books and sung in the girls’ choir, and Shay had an adorable and toothy second-grade grin. Their parents were equally as cool, and we chatted in the way of old friend. We paddled upriver and took the Vaux Creek “lollipop” route and had enough time to jump onto the island for a quick peek at the old bricks and the Carolina bay and the longleaf pine forest. A swallowtail kite sublimely graced our presence on the big water back home, swooping in low and close to us, circling with its iconic tail and feeding on the wing. We saw no alligators nor any snakes, despite the day warming into what you could call heat, not to mention Shay’s curiosity in both species. A wind kicked up, but we had timed the tide as perfectly as possible, and we sprinted towards the finish after coming out from the “super-secret route.”
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 The morning started cold as we launched from the cypress shadows of Wachesaw Landing, but the sun warmed us up as soon as we hit the big open water of the river. I had two groups this fine mid-March day for a Sandy Island trip—a family of four from Greenville, and a couple down here vacationing from P.A.—pleasant and curious and wonderful people, all.
Spring showed itself in the greening buds, and the swamp azalea pinking the banks, and the great blue herons nesting in their rookery high in the canopy. A shrieking osprey swooped down and caught a fish, as if giving us the Nat Geo special. In the back creeks, a few songbirds flittered, and the wild rice, still golden, swayed in a cool breeze. On our walk on the island, we saw pig and deer tracks, the pitcher plants just beginning to green a little for spring. Vireos and cardinals and chickadees punctuated the day with their songs, and on the way back, I found a handsome wild turkey feather in the river. We made our way through the little secret path in the grass and paddled in the open air on the big water back home, quietly and reverently at first, then chatting away like old friends. What a time, as they say, to be alive.  The brothers John (a philosophy professor) and James (a retired English professor)—my tribe!—brought their families for a two-hour tour that had us launching just as the heavy fog lifted like a veil on the river, and the day showed its gorgeous face. Three osprey cross-stitched the blue sky, and above them, five turkey buzzards. I was reminded of a line in John Graves’ paddling book Goodbye to a River: “A sky without buzzards seems empty to me.”
The kids were full of energy and inquisitiveness, and as we made our way through the rice canal, I heard a wild pig grunt in the wild rice and take off through the mud. Sadly, no reptiles today other than the sunning turtles, but we timed the tide perfectly, paddling up White Creek just as the tide was beginning to ebb, and the current offered little to no resistance. The landscape still had not burst into spring’s greens just yet, but we saw a pair of herons in their rookery when we got back to the big water, where we rode the outgoing tide over the waves of a boat wake, and then right on time to the landing. The conversation was, as to be expected, literary and philosophical, and I was delighted when the whole family burst out into an impromptu song about their dried mango snacks. Good folks, good weather, good water...great day.  Three solo paddlers from New England—Wayne from New Hampshire, Mary from Vermont, and Phyllis from Greenville by way of Massachusetts—came together as one, for one of the best River Reader trips in a long time.
The mid-February day turned sunny and blue as we crossed the river and took, in a change of last-minute heart, the long way to Sandy Island by way of Cowhouse Creek and the rice canals. No wind tickled the rice, and the river was as calm as the river can be. Two red cardinals provided something of a color spark for a day otherwise birdless. In White Creek we rode the last of the incoming tide, chatting idly in the way of fellow kayakers about our various lives, then turned into Vaux Creek for gorgeous swimming sunlight. On the island, on our hike, Mary found a buck’s antlers (four points!), and the longleaf pinecones were closed up in anticipation of the week's coming rain. We found two small yellow pitcher plants fresh and green among the winter's decay, and we heard pigs squealing and grunting at the edge of the rice fields when we got back to the dock. Then a big black pig swimming--fast as hell!--across the creek! We fought a little headwind on the way back, but we dug in and kept quiet in our thoughts until we reached the blue heron rookery. We noticed that the birds had returned and were building their nests--twigs in their beaks--and then an osprey cut across the sky to remind us that the river is never truly birdless.  The new and third River Reader season finally began on Valentine's Day with an afternoon double-header. First it was a noon river tour, and four young men--one in college, three others just graduated and down here for the federal holiday weekend--joined me for a two-hour loop. They wanted, they said, to see the Waccamaw National Wildlife Refuge. And so we made our way downriver on the outgoing tide, everything in winter browns and grays but only just--you could sense it--about to burst into the greens of spring. We turned off-river and made our way through Buckskin Creek, our kayaks and a few holly berries the only touch of bright color in the entire landscape. A bald eagle soared above us--the first any of the group had ever seen in the wild--but not much else. Still, the day was warm and bright, the water cold and brown, the whole two hours fine and pleasant. One of the young men said, "I always say, 'South Carolina is where God goes to retire.'" And we all had to nod and amen him.  A few hours later, I found myself in the salt marsh with four wonderful women from my hometown. The afternoon wind whipped up the slightest nip, but the sky overhead was wide, the clouds wispy, and the light slanted with a particular kind of coastal clarity. The water was calm and very clear--you could see right through it with polarized lenses--and the incoming tide didn't put up much of a fight for the first ten minutes we paddled against it.
An oystercatcher worked the last little oysterbeds sticking up above the surface like a sentence, and an osprey carved the sky at the upper end of Oaks Creek. We followed the crab buoys and had just--just!--enough water to glide over the oysters as we rounded the bend under the eagle's nest. And then--as if returning from the river earlier--we heard the unmistakable chatter of the bird itself, and looked up to see a bald eagle soaring above. ~ All in all, I'd say, the world gave us quite the love letter on Valentine's Day. I have always kept a detailed log of each River Reader Kayaking trip for my own notes. It helps me with remembering people, tides, sightings, seasons--and occasionally provides fodder for my articles, poems, and pedagogy.
This year, I plan to publish these log entries in blog form--for both the Waccamaw river trips and for the Murrells Inlet salt marsh trips--so that folks can know what to expect on certain tours at certain times. I will always ask permission from clients before publishing names or other identifying information. My inspiration comes, in part, from books like Aldo Leopold's A Sand County Almanac and Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek--the kind of nature writing in which the small vignettes, when read together, form a glimpse into the year-in-the-life of a place. |
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