Don't Call Me Ishmael: Congaree's Champion Trees, Many Shades of Charleston

Our latest venture across the Southeast started with family member checking off a new year’s resolution. In January, I agreed to join my sister in running a half-marathon in Cumming, Ga., where our parents lives. After an icy, ugly February and early March compounded by a bout of steep depression, I lost my zeal for training, sputtered and knew I was done. As a consolation prize, I asked the race organizers if I could switch to the 5K, and they happily made the adjustment.

I watched my sister depart on her inaugural half-marathon, then jogged race just 10 miles shorter than hers. With every stride I nearly lost balance on the slippery boardwalk. I wasn’t helped by the dense that fogged my glasses within the first half-mile. After the 5K, I cleaned up and gathered the family so we could applaud Jenny when she rounded the running track for the last quarter-mile of her longest race. We had a big lunch at the brewpub near my parents’ house, then said goodbye. Nancy and I headed east by southeast, leaving Georgia for South Carolina.

Looping around the state capital, Columbia, we found ourselves in a rural stretch of pine forest. After many years of planning, we reach one of the top destinations on our national park wish list.

Congaree National Park houses the last virgin stretch of lowland forest that once covered much of South Carolina. Difficulty in logging around Congaree led the lumber companies to spare it. Later conservationists recognized what the unique space and pushed for federal protection.

Snarky bloggers like to deride Congaree as little more than a boardwalk through a swamp, but anyone who experienced the soaring, old-growth trees and wildlife would scoff at such ignorance. This isn’t some empty bog but a thriving, rich forest. Plus, Nancy and I had a barred owl experience we’ll likely remember the rest of our lives.

Sitting next to the Congaree River, the forest, oxbow lakes and swamp has footpaths, kayak trails and a yes, a boardwalk.

A boardwalk protects the fragile soils and vegetation that supports the soaring pines and cypress trees. It’s a birders’ paradise; in less than two hours, we saw several species of stilt-legged waterfowl, ducks and others. At one point, a heron splashed into a pool about a dozen yards away. A woodpecker drilled away, stealing the forest’s silent moments. With every step in Congaree, it felt as if we ventured deeper into a secret world. We did our best not to behave like intruders.

Congaree was more than just sights and wildlife– a wide array of smells erupted from the forest. Everything from sandalwood to pine and various herbs smelled richer here, as if being in an old-growth forest gave those scents deeper resonance.

Only a handful of people milled around in the park this Saturday night. Most were set up at the park’s spartan campgrounds, a handful of others trekked along the sandy paths that wound deeper into the forest's drier spots.

Aside from bird calls, the park was placid, its waters clear and its foliage impenetrable in places. By visiting in spring, we missed the reptiles and insects (the park’s Mosquito Meter was mild, from the “war zone” of the hottest months.

Along the boardwalk, we passed enormous loblolly pines, including the largest living specimens.Known as champion trees for being among the largest of their kind, the forest almost seemed unreal to the touch. The trees grew much larger in Congaree; old-growth forests remind us that redwoods and sequoias are not the only trees that grow massive when not subject to man’s harvesting.

At Weston Lake, we reached the trail’s end in an overlook where the conversations of “Who cooks for you, who cooks for you all” echoed across the waters. We couldn't spot the barred owls, but there vocalizations are unmistakable. For a short eternity we stood and listened as they bantered. The calls came and went, their noises grew more intricate.

Walking back from the Weston Lake, we spotted one, its body vibrating intensely as it broke out a lineup sonorous calls.

High in the branches, the barred owls were deep in conversation. I tried to mimic their call initially led us to believe we were talking with them. We weren’t; at least three and maybe more owls congregated near the lake. A second owl flew off during the dialogue, and I feebly attempted to call to the remaining owls, only to have them go silent. However, we did hear the calls irregularly a few more times as we hiked back toward the visitor center.

Barred owl, as seen from the Congaree boardwalk

We passed a park ranger on the boardwalk. Relating what we saw, he stood quiet for a few seconds conceding that seeing multiple barred owls was an unusual event. He had only seen more than one at a time from a canoe in the park waters. A few minutes earlier or later, we would have missed our conference with the barred owls.

The last splinters of daylight guided us out of the dense forest surrounding Congaree and back to Columbia. As both a state capital and home to the University of South Carolina, Columbia was a lively place on a temperate Saturday evening.

The Liberty Taproom and Grille had an intimidating beer menu and somewhat decent pub grub. Anytime we can get Scaldis Peche Mel (strong Belgian with peach juice) or Southern Tier’s Tier de Garde (Belgian IPA with grapefruit peel), food is a secondary concern.

Any thoughts of returning to Congaree washed away in the Sunday morning rain that pounded Columbia. Nancy wanted to see Charleston, and I agreed.

One hundred miles south of Columbia, we left the rain behind for the humidity and In Charleston Harbor sat Fort Sumter, which is surprisingly small for a place of historical magnitude. The first shots of the Civil War rang out over these waters. Boats went out to the little, blocky fort that seemed even smaller with the aircraft carrier moored on the Cooper River and the soaring cables of the Arthur Ravenel Bridge.

Few cities are as conducive to wandering as Charleston. Armed with a free map and fresh legs, we fanned out through city’s historic homes, squares and churches. Without a mid-rise building in sight and churches the tallest buildings, it is as easy to navigate as many European cities.

While looking out at Fort Sumter and the bridge, Nancy grew excited after seeing a dolphin fin poke momentarily above the water. For all the people at Waterfront Park, she alone got the joy of seeing unexpected wildlife in Charleston Harbor.

After wandering away from the shopping district we ended up at the Amen Street Fish and Raw Bar. It could not have been more satisfying. Their regional oyster choices and cuts of local fish gave the restaurant every right to call its Charleston’s best seafood restaurant.

The rain that held off as we roamed Charleston returned with a downpour, forcing us off the interstate to find shelter at a gas station. A full few days ended in a Charlotte hotel, enjoying each other’s company as we always do.

Our plans for Charlotte’s aviation museum were dashed the moment we pulled up to see the parking lot empty except for three charter buses and 100-plus chattering schoolchildren. The thought of sharing the museum hangars with the echoing screams of that many kids just killed the experience. Instead, we drove around downtown Charlotte and its adjacent neighborhood for an hour or more, the began the busy road back to Nashville.

Soon enough, we were winding through Blue Ridge foothills within sight of Mount Mitchell, the tallest peak east of the Rockies. We contemplated Asheville but pressed deeper into the mountains instead.

Besides, I couldn’t imagine being sluggish from a big meal when navigating I-40’s pass across the Smoky Mountains. No one warned us about that swerving, claustrophobic drive where 55 is a not a suggested maximum, but the highest safe speed. Trucks actually stayed in their designated lanes as we wound through the valleys and foothills of the range’s mighty green peaks.