Rockfish Nation

February 7-9

Tuesday morning was time to retreat north. 

There’s no straight line from Georgetown to I-95. So I followed a Google Maps tacking maneuver through the Low Country.

It brought me to the Interstate near mile 181, less than 20 miles from South of the Border, the theme park that is the last stop in South Carolina before you cross into North Carolina.

The route home was almost deja vu. There were three stops on the way south, two on the return trip. Fredericksburg got a pass. Days Inn at Weldon was the first stop

As many times as I have been to Weldon, either stopping at Ralph’s and moving on or staying overnight at Days Inn, I knew little about the place. 

This time, I found there’s more to Weldon.

Not so much in the food way. I wound up going back to Ralph’s, this time for pulled pork with only a side of Brunswick stew and some Southern-style green beans,

I was out looking for a place to buy a bottle of wine. You can pick it up in any convenience store in North Carolina. The state ABC store only sells hard liquor.

I keep forgetting that this is not a wine-drinking area. The wine rack at Big Al’s on U.S. 158 had four shelves, stocked mostly with sweet reds, whites, and pinks. The only dry wine I could get was a Barefoot Pinot Grigio. 

I was tiring out, so I took it.

During my search, though, I saw signs for River Falls Park. I wasn’t in shape for more exploring, but managed to store the information.

Google Maps showed it two miles away and with only three turns. Maybe even I couldn’t get lost.

Wednesday morning, before driving north four hours or so to Aberdeen, Md., I set out to find the park

First, I missed my last turn, Rockfish Drive, which looked like a private driveway. Then Weldon Mills got in the way.

Weldon Mills is the name of a craft distillery. It is in two buildings. One is an ancient three-story brick structure. There are no curtains or blinds; you can see right through it to the other side.

Judging by the size and shape, it could have once been a cotton mill.

There’s no sign of manufacturing there now, not thread, fabric or whiskey.

There are whiskey barrels on an old wagon outside. There’s also a tour bus.

I moved on and made the next right. Oops, this doesn’t look anything like the Google Maps route.

I came back and found Rockfish Drive. It’s a loop road at the site and runs next to the newer single-story building where the actual distilling takes place.

The park is behind the big mill building on the hill and overlooks the Roanoke River. 

I saw a man with white whiskers out walking on the park field. 

“Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me where the waterfall is?”

There is no actual waterfall, he said. The falls are rapids caused by exposed rocks. 

He pointed to the building on the hill. You can go there to start a tour of the distillery, he said. 

“I won’t have time for a tour today. I said. “I photographed the building. It looks haunted.”

Maybe Weldon Mills carries visitors between buildings on that tour bus.

The two are only a couple of hundred yards apart, but the bus would keep a tour party together.

There is no precipice on the river, but these are falls of a sort, especially for flat terrain. Just as a trickle in dry country is a river, and a lake, if it has alligators, could be called a bay.

The river’s elevation drops enough to create a swift current. You can see whitewater where the river hits the rocks. The turbulence roils the surface for maybe a hundred yards downstream.

The park has another statue of a fish, shaped just like the ones at Ralph’s and Days Inn. They aren’t large-mouth bass at all. That was just my guess because they were in disguise so you can’t see their stripes. Ralph’s fish, for instance, was dressed in pink pigs.

The park’s fish had stripes and the pedestal underneath it read:

Weldon, N.C. 

Rockfish Capital

of

the World

A few feet away, I found what that meant. A sign told me that striped bass are also known as rockfish. In the spring, they swim about 130 miles from the Atlantic to spawn here. The population is so dense that the spawning bass roil the water in events known as rockfights.

As I was taking a snapshot of the sign, a lady in braids streaked with gray came up and sat on a park bench behind me.

“Do you fish?” She asked.

“No, Ma’am. I haven’t fished since I was maybe 11 years old.”

She nodded. “I fish.” Perhaps that’s why she was here.

She asked me if I could read the sign.

“Yes.” I told her what I had learned from it—about the rockfish and the spawning. 

“That’s nice,” she said.

I wonder now if she wanted me to read the text to her.

The drive on I-95 wasn’t difficult. I stopped at a gas station in south Virginia to fill the tank. It would be my last shot at fuel under $3.10 a gallon. I also needed to stretch my knees a little.

There was a sign in the parking lot:

No loitering

No profanity

No loud music

Well, hell, that’s all right. After all, it’s their lot.

I went back to the Comfort Inn again in Aberdeen. Getting there heading south was easy. Two turns and you’re there. Northbound, though, that’s different.

Google tells you to take the right fork to MD -22.

I took the right fork. Damn, this isn’t MD-22. Turn around. It’s all one way, with no access to the road I left.

After 15 minutes or so of trying to find an alternate route to 22, I passed Prost. What luck. Now I know where I am. 

Uh-oh, flashing lights at the intersection with MD-22. A policeman was directing traffic to the right. 

I don’t know how long it took to get straight again. I went in the entirely wrong direction for a while and wound up in Havre de Grace. 

There was a time that would have been OK. My sister Jamy used to live there.

I turned around and came across MD-22 after a few miles. Problem solved.

Well, almost. Wow, I needed the men’s room. I made it in time.

There is an Italian restaurant in a mall across the highway from the hotel.

It’s called Olive Tree. I had seen the sign before and wondered if it was connected to the Olive Garden chain.

While I was writing this, I came across a 10-year-old review in the Baltimore Sun that led with: “The Olive Tree is not the Olive Garden. But you would be forgiven for mixing them up.”

TripAdvisor has generally favorable reviews of the place, so I tried it.

The veal piccata was OK. I’ve had better. The sauce was a little too thick and made me wonder. Was it made in this kitchen? Or taken from a can?

Don’t get me wrong. The food was fine, just not terrific. If I’m not in the mood for Prost, I’d go back to the place again next time I’m in town. 

I was going to take Joanna to dinner before I checked into my room in New Jersey. It’s a short drive to Joanna’s from Aberdeen, maybe 160 miles.

My usual route is to cross the Delaware Memorial Bridge to reach the New Jersey Turnpike.

This time, I drove I-95 on the west side of the river, past Philadelphia. The plan was to cross the Scudders Falls Bridge north of Trenton, then either go to Hamilton Township to pick up the Turnpike, or else take U.S. 1 North to the Garden State Parkway.

Being unfamiliar with this part of the road, I wound up crossing into New Jersey sooner and joining the Turnpike at Exit 7. 

The surface of I-95 around Philadelphia is rough and battered, maybe the worst stretch on the highway. I won’t try that way again. 

I got to Joanna’s early. She had been feeling a bit under the weather when I left. She had been improving every day when I called in. It was great to see her bright and smiling at the door.

Be well, gang, and try to get lost now and then. It’s a lot of fun. Unless you need to pee, of course.

Love to all.

Harry

History in a Grain of Rice

February 5-6

Sunday was nature day. Sort of.

It was drizzling much of the time, so that put a crimp into walks in the woods.

First stop was about half an hour from Florence at Woods Bay State Park.

I met the ranger at the visitor center and she assured me that the huge stuffed alligator on display was typical for the area. In May and June, she said, gators come up from the bay to mate.

I was thinking “bay” as in Chesapeake or Barnegat. Did alligators live in salt water?

No, Woods Bay is sweet water. It is the last of several bays, lakes in my parlance, most of which have been dried out and turned into crop lands.

About 50 years ago local people got together and purchased Woods Bay and a large parcel of land next to it, which they donated to the State of South Carolina for a nature preserve.

When I got out of the car, my shoes picked up a paste made of clay mixed with the sand. That’s one of the great things about bucks. They dry and you brush off the dirt with a paper towel. 

I had my slicker on because the rain had picked up to a steady drizzle. 

I followed a path to a small stream, not far because the going looked uncertain, very slippery. At least I got to enjoy a little moody swamp vibe. Too cold for alligators, so I didn’t see any.

Next on the agenda was the Francis Marion National Forest.

It was an easy route to follow, so I managed to miss a connection. It eventually came to me that I wasn’t supposed to come this far.

I checked the map. Yeah, that big intersection was the one. I breezed right through it. Either my brain was out gathering wool at the time or the route marker had been taken as a souvenir.

The map showed SC-41, not far ahead, running due south to the forest.

It was all a fortunate screw-up because, on my original route I would have missed the sign that reads:

Welcome to Andrews, S.C.,

Home of Chubby Checker

I was 15 when “The Twist” hit the charts. How great it was. You had to have at least some coordination to carry off the Mashed Potatoes or the Watusi. Ah, but the Twist—even I could do that.

The Marion forest is like much of the pine woods in the area—tall, very straight long-needle pines with little undergrowth.

The ground is sandy, like the New Jersey and Long Island pine barrens. But the trees are very different. Live oaks grow here and they keep green leaves in the winter.

The pitch pine, which dominates the Jersey barrens, has always suggested a sense of overwhelming sorrow to me. It doesn’t grow tall, at least in New Jersey. The limbs look painfully twisted.

There are small towns and isolated homes in the Marion forest, but most of it is a national preserve.

I stopped briefly at a recreation area in the forest. A sand road circles a huge fire tower at the entrance. I’ve seen towers in forested areas of New Jersey, both north and south.

Because it was in the Carolinas, it put me in mind, too, of the fire tower in “Where the Crawdads Sing.” I had streamed the movie on Netflix. Then Joanna borrowed a copy of the book from a library, and we both read it. It is a fascinating celebration of wetlands, devotion, honor, dishonor, and prejudice, with a mystery story thrown in.

Even though the rain let up. I didn’t look for a trail or follow the sand road. There were people a short distance ahead. One was backing up a pickup truck with a trailer. 

A lady outside the truck was apparently frustrated, screaming instructions to the driver. Their dog was in the road. 

All that hostility and a loose dog besides. No way in hell I’m going through there.

I came to my next stop, Georgetown,  S.C., a little after four.

A web search had turned up Baxter’s Brewhouse Inn. It has a small website, but you have to book by phone.

The inn consists of three rooms upstairs (with two shared bathrooms) and the living room on the first floor. I think the Baxters live in the rest of the first floor. If you have any questions or need something, you call Joseph on his cellphone. He or his wife, Tina, will take care of it.

Georgetown was the jewel of this trip.

The hotel is a block from the waterfront, which is amazing. Sunday night I had dinner there at the Corner Tavern, a block and a half from Baxter’s Brewhouse. 

It's in a building that hosts several small shops in an arcade. The tavern is in the back facing the water.

The food was good but nothing inspired, so I had a fine house salad and a very good hamburger. There were two local ales on draft. 

Both came from brewers in Myrtle Beach, not far up the highway from Georgetown.

Airbrush Hazy IPA from Grand Strand Brewing runs 6.3 percent AVB, has lots of hops, only a mild fragrance, and an OK malt flavor. 

Some IPAs give you lots of hops but miss the malt. This was not one of them.

New South Dirty Myrtle is a double IPA that is 8.9 percent alcohol by volume. It, too, has plenty of hops and malt. The alcohol gives it added bite. But you’re not going to drink three of these and drive home, or even walk. 

The Baxter’s inn bills itself at the first “bed and brew.” They have a few things for a Continental breakfast, too.

The beer is home-made, brewed by Joseph, and I was eager to try it. 

When I walked back from the Corner Tavern, no one was in sight at Baxter’s, so I called Joseph. The bar, he told me, is “serve yourself.” Coffee usually, but this is the first time beer has been covered in the rent.

He was running two—a sour ale and a red IPA, which he calls Rust.

The sour has plenty of pucker, but isn’t going to cloy. I usually drink one sour and then go back to other ales. Sunday night I was drinking both brews all night long from small glasses, three or four ounces each at a round.

Red IPA may be an American craft-brewing innovation. I opt for them whenever I can find them. They have been scarce lately. This is the first one I’ve seen in a few years.

It is like an Irish red ale (think Smithwick’s) hopped up and usually strong to survive the sea voyage to India.

Damned good work, Joseph.

I had the place to myself and played on my computer at the bar, probably for too long.

Monday afternoon I took a scenic stroll on the waterfront boardwalk. Georgetown is on the Pee Dee River. The town used to be a commercial port, but now it mainly hosts sport fishing and excursion boats. 

One of the boats moored there is called The Office, which offers Gulfstream fishing. “Spend a great day at The Office,” the sign says.

Many of the docks are privately owned, and there is one area that is open to the public. But overnight docking is prohibited. The fine for disobedience: $1,092.50.

How do you come up with a number like that? Did somebody think $1,100 would be cruel and unusual?

There is a Rice Museum, devoted to one of the prime agricultural products of the region. There was a time when rice was shipped from Georgetown to countries around the world.

The museum is in a building that used to be town hall on the second floor. The first floor was an open-air market. Alas, the museum was closed.

The South Carolina Maritime Museum was open. It has exhibits on marine business, warfare, and disasters along the state’s coast.

There are models of some of the ships and stories about the people.

One, Robert Smalls, was a hero during the Civil War. He was a slave who served as a steersman on a Rebel gunboat. His officers must have taken him for granted because they went out on the town and left him in charge of the boat.

He took off in it, picked up his family and several neighbors, and sailed out to offer the ship to the U.S. Navy, which was blockading Charleston.

He joined the Navy, which put him in charge of a vessel, and so became the first Black man to command a U.S. warship.

The slave trade gets plenty of attention. Many slave ships came to Charleston, about 60 miles south of Georgetown.

There is even a nod to John Newton, the author of “Amazing Grace.” He had been slave trafficker but then had a religious conversion. He eventually became an Anglican priest and an abolitionist. He was a major influence on William Wilberforce, who led the movement in Parliament that abolished the slave trade in 1807, only months before Newton died.

Most of the artifacts on display are instruments recovered from some of the wrecks. I don’t know what most of them are for.

I did some more walking on Front Street. This may be the most walking I’ve done in some time.

I sat on a bench on the boardwalk to watch the sunlight flicker on the ripples. Then there were sparks on the boardwalk.

Oh no, wait a minute. Am I seeing spots?

Yes, I was, but not from brain damage.

The sun was so bright and at such an angle that it was reflecting off the water under the boardwalk. The sparks were flashes coming through the gaps between the boards.

A third museum in the waterfront area is the Gullah Museum. The Gullah are a Low Country people descended from West African slaves. They have their own language, which includes words from African languages, Arabic, English, and probably from other sources.

When I arrived, the owner of the museum, Andrew Rodrigues, was in a discussion with a couple. I sat in.

He was recounting the history of the Gullah people back to the 1600s. It was bound up closely with rice. According to Andrew, someone was surprised to discover slaves growing rice in a field. 

There had been attempts to grow rice in the Low Country wetlands before, but they had failed. This enterprise had every mark of success.

Andrew’s daughter, Janet came in and spelled her father.

Rice, she said, takes a lot of specialized knowledge to grow. The people who were growing rice were from West Africa. Guinea-Bissau and surrounding countries were the rice bowl of Africa.

When that information came together, Carolinian planation owners wanted to enslave people of West African origin. “Guinea-man” was a term that appeared in advertisements for slave auctions.

According to Janet, trade in slaves, rice, and indigo made South Carolina the richest of the British colonies in the Americas.

The biggest customer for indigo was Britain, which decided to buy elsewhere after the revolution. The Brits kept buying Carolina rice, though, because it was a luxury food with no substitute.

The legal importation of slaves ended in 1808.

Rice started to fall into decline with emancipation after the Civil War, when rice planters had to pay for labor. Then two major hurricanes devastated the plantations and put an end to the glory days of rice.

There is a quilt on the wall, made by Janet’s mother, Vermelle. It tells the story of the Gullah from their home in Africa to emancipation more than 200 years later.

She and Andrew were telling the story of that quilt.

Also on display at the museum is another story quilt by Vermelle. Commissioned for a display at the inauguration of Barack Obama, it tells the story of Michelle Obama.

I was floored by the Gullah Museum. The story quilt as a record of history is astonishingly apt. There are images—bones of the dead, an African home, a slave ship—to represent a rich and also brutal history.

Dinner was fantastic—shrimp and grits with gravy, collard greens. and black-eyed peas at Aunny’s on Front Street. 

The black-eyed peas I know are usually sweetened with molasses. These were savory, cooked with ham that was falling apart.

The photo of the day is of Andrew and Janet with one of the visitors to the museum, whose name I didn’t write down. The Gullah story quilt is on the wall next to him. 

Vermelle died in 2015. I wish that I had met her too.

That’s a lot for now, gang. Sorry, but this will go up on the blog and someday I’ll need the information.

I’m tired. I’m trying to get to bed before I get wasted.

Be well, all, and sleep soundly.

Harry