Lake Moultrie

8/3/2019 Lake Moultrie

1/4

Stratton

Lawrence

VOL15

ISS

UE14

NOVEMBER

16,

2011

charlestoncitypa

per.com

TheJazzManRemembering

Jack McCray P.59Ahoy!What would Blackbeard

eat at Queen Annes? P.40

A boy and his doghead to Lake Moultrieand try not to get eaten

P.20

OOPS ! | FREE


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charlestonciTypApER

11.

16.

2011

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Maybe its the 771-pound dinosaur that threeUpstate residents hauled out of there in lateSeptember. Or maybe its the man who lost his armwhen he went snorkeling in 2007.

Loading up my kayak for the drive to Moncks Corner,I wasnt concerned about gators, although the decisionto bring along my Australian Shepherd (read: gator bait)seemed questionable. Hed hate to miss a chance for acamping trip though just him and dad, alone in the

woods with miles of water and islands to explore.Poking around the sleepy community of Bonneau

Beach, I settle into my surroundings. This is a townwith street names like Carp and Brim roads. Thelakes big public ramp is closed as a result of the lowwater level, three and a half feet below normal. I pullup to Lake Moultrie to find white caps stretchingacross the water, whipped into a froth by 20 mphwinds. Its blowing from the north, and Im on the

south shore. My destination is Coon Island, abouthalfway across. Between myself, the dog, and the gear,Ill be pushing about 300 pounds across the expanse.It wont be easy.

Not easily deterred, I drive around looking for aplace to launch, preferably a place where I wont beshot at for wandering onto someones property. I getlucky with a boat landing tucked onto a winding creekthats not on my map.

Two boys, about five and eight, are catching brim andtiny largemouth bass with Walmart fishing poles and atub of earthworms. They pull out five in the short timeit takes me to unload my boat and pack the dry wells.

A boy and his dog head to Lake Moultrie and try not to get eaten

Story and photoS By Stratton Lawrence

This must be your honey hole, I remark.Oh, its not even, says the older of the two. He

doesnt say where their good spot is. Then he asks meabout fishing and examines my rod and reel. I keeppacking, while he says things like, Im country, but Iran out of my camo shirts so I had to wear this one.Its a nondescript black tee.

He asks if Ive kayaked here before, and I tell himits my first time.

Well, I maybe shouldnt tell you this, but theres alot of gators out there.

If even the local kids are concerned, maybe I shouldthink twice. But Im packed and ready, so I push outinto the shallow creek and start poling my way towardthe lake.

Wish me luck with the gators, I shout back atthe boys.

Just paddle faster than them, the oldest advises.Thanks, kid.

The Low wATer LeveL means that kayakershave the creeks to themselves. Pontoon boats areworthless in two feet of algae and grass-filled swamp.I round a turn and catch my first glimpse of thewide-open lake. At the curve, eight four-wheelersare parked and loaded with coolers. A crew of peoplestand along the bank drinking beer.

How deep is it there? one man asks.I check with the paddle. About four feet.

You know theres gators in there! a woman hollers.I look back at the dog, tucked into the cargo hold of

my boat, his snout inches from the water, and I thinkto myself, Buddy, lets both hope nothing leaps out ofthat murk and pulls you down.

AbouT 10 MinuTes LATer Im paddling into theexpanse. The bottom is no longer visible, and the windis whipping pretty hard. Im headingright into it. I spot what I think isCoon Island far in the distance.Theres another island, about half-way there, and it looks like Ill needto pass it to the left. Hugging theshoreline would double my paddlingtime, so I decide to set out straightacross the lake.

wiThin five MinuTes, gatorsare the least of my concerns.Waves are breaking over my boatas I struggle to keep the bowturned into the three-foot swellthats white-capping all aroundme. I dig in. About halfway across,

I see a strange brown spot, like driftwood, floatingon the surface.

Heading toward it, I quickly realize its a stump.This broad, round valley, a series of ridges andswamps, was flooded in the 1940s by the S.C. PublicService Authority to generate hydroelectric power.Today, public power utility Santee-Cooper controlsthe lake and its adjacent land, making the islands avail-

even with the water three-and-a-half

feet below normal levels, lake moultrie

continues to be hauntingly beautiful

the power

plant on the

far shore is a

constant

reminder of

lake moultries

genesis

ake Moultrie is gator country. Tell anyone familiar with it that youregoing to paddle there and youll undoubtedly hear, Watch out for the gators.

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able to the public for camping and recreation.

The stumps of the cypress trees left behind by theintentional flooding have been well-preserved in the water.I start to notice them all around me. Some poke six inchesor so above the surface; others only appear after a large swellpasses over them. Many remain completely submerged. Theylook like ghosts. Im a mile from land in the middle of anunderwater forest, fighting my way through gale-force windsand waves.

After About An hour, exhaustion begins to set in,but theres nowhere to rest. Im about two-thirds of the wayto the island, but the option of steering toward an equally farshore (in the direction the wind is blowing) seems appeal-ing. I resist and start counting my strokes. I concentrate onmaking every paddle matter, pushing from my core. Eighthundred solid strokes later and the water shallows to a foot.Dead trees are pushing out of the water all around me. I takemy time with this final stretch, eventually dragging bottom.I hop out and beckon the dog to do the same. Im not worriedabout gators here. A sandy, shallow bottom is visible for 100yards in every direction.

I pull the boat to shore and set out to explore. Were onthe tip of a peninsula, jutting out into the lake. The coalplant on the north shore seems even more ominous andthreatening from this closer vantage point. Apart from its

two giant smokestacks and enormous industrial structureon the horizon and the occasional beer or motor oil can

bobbing on the lakes surface there are no other visiblesigns of humans.

The dog and I set out around the point. Wed pulledin on the protected side, but we turn the curve and catcha reminder of the wind wed paddled directly into only

moments ago. Theres another island about as far off as thedistance we just paddled, straight into the wind and directlytoward the coal plant. I decide that even if this isnt CoonIsland, well be staying here for a while.

the islAnds interior is thickly wooded and home tomore banana spiders and their expansive webs than Ive seenin even the most infested coastal maritime forests. Its a thinpeninsula about 150 yards wide and the lake is v isible through thetrees from almost anywhere. Afterwalking full speed into more than afew four-inch-wide spiders, I decideto keep to the shore. The low waterlevel has left a wide beach. Someparts are sandy, others muddy orhard eroded limestone.

After about a quarter mile, thewoods narrow to just a line of trees. Ihop from one shore to the other andwalk back to the boat. Ive noticeda clearing in the woods where aplywood table, fire circle, and plasticbucket privy indicate folks havecamped here before, and I head there

with my hammock and book. I finda place to tie the hammock and look

up. High overhead, a bald eagle alights from its nest.Relaxing in my hammock, I think about the map of Lake

Moultrie posted at the landing. It marks the location ofchurches, cemeteries, and schools where they once existed,erased by seven decades of water. I recall visiting theBerkeley Museum years ago and an old promotional videomade after the lake was completed. I remember a narratorwith a booming voice saying, Once again, the persistentdetermination of man has triumphed over the patient resis-tance of nature, heralding the lakes completion. Being anenvironmentalist, I wonder if

Moultries origins have kept mefrom exploring it before.

In 2011, its a beautiful place,flourishing with wildlife. Ofcourse, the omnipresent coalplant is always visible, but itsthe power utility that built thislake in the first place. Nevermind the posted warnings aboutconsuming the lakes fish; theyhave high mercury levels due inpart to the smoke from the coalplant. I decide to settle in andenjoy this place for exactly whatit is today: a natural escape, lessthan an hour from Charleston.

Its not until several hourslater that I venture out, about anhour and a half before sundown.Continuing along the curve ofthe island, I finally confirm my suspicion that I am indeedon Coon Island. The hook-shaped spits inside curve boasts awide beach, with almost a dozen obvious primitive campsitestucked into the sandy, wooded shore. Maybe its the low waterlevels or the late stage of the season, but on this balmy fall

Saturday, I seem to have Coon Island indeed, all of LakeMoultrie to myself.

At the islAnds other terminus, dead treesare everywhere, sprouting up from the water all the wayto the shore. Many of these stumps boast f lat tops wherethey were harvested before the area was f looded. Thelow-hanging sun stretches out the trees shadows, so I takea few pictures of the eerie scene. Its not as romantic as theboneyard beaches on Edisto, Capers, or Bul l islands, but itsbeautiful nonetheless.

my cAmerA bAttery dies, but its too far to return to

the boat for another. I head deeper around the curve into amuddy stretch that connects Coon Island to another. Whatwas once a maze of navigable waterways dividing solid highground is now an expanse of marshy growth left behind by

continued on page 25

Gator Countrycontinued from page 21

top left:

Moultrie May

not be the

best place for

herpetophobic

kayakers and

fisherMen

there arent a

lot of options

to protect your

face froM wind

burn (left)

while paddling

in the Middle oflake Moultrie

Relaxing in my

hammock, I think

about the map

of Lake Moultrie

posted at the

landing. It marks

the location

of churches,

cemeteries, and

schools where

they once existed,

erased by seven

decades of water.


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the receding water. I spook a flock of ibises and head into anarea of tall grass. Ive yet to see a gator, but maybe I shouldwatch out. A massive reptile charging from the marsh atthe dog would be a terrible way to end the day. Just in case,I check my belt for my knife, a pocket variety far fromadequate for fending off an alligator.

Eventually, the grassy marsh gets a bit too muddy and

likely too gator infested to continue across. We turnaround, following our steps for about a mile and change,back to the boat. I consider paddling to a new campsite in thewaning light, positioning myself for the moon and sunrise(and avoiding a view of the coal plant across the water), buttheres plenty of firewood here, and the breeze facing northshould keep mosquitoes away.

I cook up some ready-made teriyaki noodles, feed the doga bowl of soggy dog food, and crawl into the hammock withmy travel guitar. Hours later, I think about going to bed, butIm guessing the moon is about to rise just around the corner.

Its all I can do to muster the energy to get out of thehammock and walk around the curve and discover that mypremonition was right. The moonlight shining across thebackdrop of cypress trees growing out of the lake is stunning.Its impossible to get a good picture with my point and shoot,but when the flash bulb fires, I spota pair of eyes in the water. I fl ip onmy headlamp and two gold orbs stareback at me.

Gators have reddish-orange eyesat night, I think. Maybe Im wrong.I motion to the dog to wait behindme, and I step closer. The eyes holdsteady. How close should I get? Just

as Im debating moving farther in,

the creature jumps up and seems to run across the water. Itsa raccoon. He hides out in the exposed roots of a cypress tree,and I let him be.

Finally, I fall asleep. It couldnt have been for more thanan hour or two though, because I awaken to the moon justreaching the top of the trees. Its colder than I expected, andmy 45-degree-rated down sleeping bag isnt cutting the windchill or insulating the bottom of my hammock. I could set upthe tent, but thats a tough proposition when its the dead ofnight and even colder outside of the sleeping bag. I lay awake.Its strangely silent here. A few birds move in the trees now

and then, but I never hear an owl.Just as Im dozing off, a racket erupts from the woods, not 50

feet away. The dog jumps up, ears perked, growling. There arebears here, I know. Maybe even a puma were on the edgeof the Francis Marion National Forest and about as remote asyou can get these days in the Lowcountry. Its probably a deer.Moments later, whatever it is takes off through the trees. Mynerves slightly rattled, I settle back in and eventually fall asleep.

ITS DAWN WHEN I AWAKE AGAIN, and colder thanbefore. Still, I pull myself up, put on my pants, and quicklypack the hammock. Were back on the water before the sun isan inch off the horizon.

This time, the dead forest is gorgeous. Theres no breeze,so the water is a silky tapestry, reflecting both stumps andthe occasional live trees across the surface. I paddle happily

through the shallows, spottingan enormous gar and a coupleof good-sized striped bass in thecrystal clear water.

All of a sudden, theres a scrapeon the boat bottom. Im stuckon a stump. I try to push off thetree with the paddle, but Im onlyspinning myself around in circles.

Finally, I succumb to the reality of

what I have to do. I get out of the boat and venture into thegrassy, waist-deep water. With my weight off of the kayak,its easy to dislodge. I climb back in.

Heading deeper into the swampy forest, Im more carefulwith my movements. The waters depth fluctuates fromthigh to head high, but the stumps persist throughout. Thedeeper I get, the more uncomfortable the thought of gettingin the water becomes.

The journey into the muddy, colorful marsh is stunning.The cypress trees are turning a rusty red, and the cloudlessblue of the sky is reflected off of the lakes surface. I continue

as far as possible before the lake narrows and becomes soshallow I have to turn around.

I set out toward the direction I came from, looking for asandy beach to cook breakfast and relax. But I never find one.When the water level is low, Coon Island boasts the onlybeach accessible without tramping through mud, and Ive leftthat island far behind.

Finding the inlet and creek where I began, I start to writethe story of the adventure in my head. Ill conclude it like this :

In 24 hours on Lake Moultrie, I saw two bald eagles,several impressive osprey nests, and an endless paradeof geese, cormorants, egrets, and herons. Turtles wereconstant companions around me in the water, and afour-foot gar slowly passed under my boat. But guesswhat I never saw? An a lligator. Not even one.

On cue, I look to my left and spot an enormous black masson the nearest shore. The gator and I make eye contact. Itrises. The beast is at least 10 feet long. The alligator takes afew steps forward and slinks into the water before I have achance to take a picture. I paddle ahead, hoping to catch aglimpse of it swimming through the water. Then I look backat the dog, looking nervous in his tiny perch on the boat. Ireconsider, turn toward home, and paddle faster than a gator

can hopefully swim.

Gator Countrycontinued from page 23

The waters depth fluctuates

from thigh to head high, but

the stumps persist throughout.

The deeper I get, the more

uncomfortable the thought of

getting in the water becomes.

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