Creekside

Ever been asked to describe your perfect getaway?

It’s a question I’ve struggled with, oddly. Not for me worrying over string theory or noodling over why are we here. No; I fret over not having an ideal dream getaway. The important stuff.

It’s definitely not the beach. Geez. Hot hot and more hot, followed by a big old heaping of hot, and sand. Not to mention jellyfish. And hot.

I thought about a cabin snuggled into some mountains in the wintertime. I pictured mornings in front of a fire, that first perfect cup of coffee. Red and black check flannel shirts, a big stone fireplace, the smell of wood smoke. I wonder what would I do after that cup of coffee? I’d want to get out and go for a walk, only – brrrrr – so cold out there. That won’t work.

I found it last weekend at Black Creek in South Carolina.







The cypress trees are incredible.







I don’t think I could ever get tired of looking at them.







There was something elemental about the creek.



It could have been a hundred years ago, three hundred years ago.


It was quiet. The creek was welcoming and hospitable as if it sensed our reverence and appreciation. Somehow, on an incredibly hot and oppressively humid day, it was cool on the creek. Pleasant.



We went for long stretches where there was no sign of another person, past or present.



Around each bend we turned in the creek was more gorgeous scenery.



The water black yet so clear and still.




Sure, every now and then we’d come across reminders of modern life.




Can’t you just picture teenage boys climbing and jumping into the water?





The afternoon had an almost dreamlike quality.







I glimpsed this colorful cottage and thought, “That’s it! There’s my perfect spot!”


Not really.

Then I saw this:

That’s more like it.