Completion of a Journey at the State Park Office

Ummmmm….no.  There was no way that I was going to hand over our precious ragged notebook of stamps that we had collected from 47 parks scattered all over the state of South Carolina to anyone but the central park office.  It made no sense.  Our family had ventured out to every nook and cranny of the state.  We had taken paved, dirt, gravel, sand and pseudo roads through towns with barely a stop light to their credit.  We had explored swamps, lakes, sandhills, mountains and shores.  We had discovered  Carolina Bays, monadnocks and sinkholes.  We had dedicated ourselves to this Ultimate Outsider Challenge.  God bless the intent, but there was never a question in our minds.  We were personally taking our stamps to the state house.

It made sense and was the only way to cap this leg of our journey.  The South Carolina Park System operates the tourism piece of the State House.  The South Carolina State House is in theory and in practice the 48^th South Carolina State Park.  Arrangements were made.  We donned our best park t-shirts and carefully gathered what we would need for our journey.

 

This was our easiest exploration.  We had travelled in excess of three hours to get to the mountain parks near Oconee and about the same when we went to Beaufort and Myrtle Beach.  Columbia is a half hour drive from our house. 

I had traded my worn backpack for two or three well stocked mom bags before setting out.  I prayed for sheer convenience sake that they would not have to be checked at security.  Apparently a family with four kids in state park shirts doesn’t fit a terrorism standard profile and /or security cares less for administrative employees than for legislatures.  We checked in but were not made to surrender our bags for inspection.  We herded the children into the elevator (a sight akin to managing a three ring circus) and into the outer office of the park’s suite.

Admittedly, we are…..um…..a unique family.  The two younger children had worn their Junior Park Ranger hats, Wet Foot was holding Ben’s hand and Ben was being kept calm by listening to loud Veggie Tale music via MP3 and earbud.  He was jumping along to the beat and pointing in the direction of the snacks put out on the front desk.  Anchor and I were doing our best to gather and move our group of excited and distracted children into the large room at the end of the hall while negotiating all our bags and bundles and keeping some sane amount of decorum.  The kids were behaving beautifully but the mama instinct kicked in and my expectations for them were high.

A slew of State Park folk came in to meet us.  The director introduced himself to us as Ranger Phil.  He was a tall man who has taken the responsibility of the parks for the sake of protecting and preserving those important places and stories for the citizens of the state and not for any great love of administrative duty.  He is fully capable and struck me as dynamic and intelligent.   He is the John Wayne of the park system.  He is bound by his duty and responsibility and love for the parks but his eyes betray his overall distaste for florescent lights and enclosed spaces.

 

The office was the opposite of any of the beautiful places we had explored.  This suite- these walls- were devoid of everything.  There was no color save an almost futile attempt of decorating with various photographs from the actual parks.  Those photos were beautiful but served to taunt rather than to decorate.  The walls were white, the carpet beige, the air still and quiet.  I know it is a state office but the place was so very grown up.  We had played guest to rustling leaves, crashing waves, gentle breezes and laughing streams.  We had listened to mountain orchestrations of bullfrogs, crickets and spring peepers.  We had not entered a park that had not bathed us in a sensory ecstasy of color, air and sound.  But this place…was quiet and bare and sad.

We were prepared.  I knew the office complex was the proverbial back closet of the park system- where you put the necessities so your house can work well and be maintained and loved.  I just hadn’t thought it would be this bad.  Still, we were prepared.  I smiled at my husband.  He kindly did not roll his eyes at me.  He just sat back to get a better view of his wife at work.

Everyone has talents.  I encourage and remind people of how great an impact they have on the world around them.  What a joy to do that here.  These folks work hard behind the scenes to ensure the preservation of the parks so that guests may come and discover the treasures of story and place. 

We had experienced so much on our journey.  It was fitting to encourage these dear people by bringing some of our experiences into the grey and beige walled capital office and show those trapped there the fruits of their efforts.

And so….I unloaded my mama bags.  Out came the toys we had purchased from the historic sites; out came the books that Thoreau and Little Legs had created about the different plants and animals they had discovered; out came the quilt we had made to memorialize our status as Ultimate Outsiders; out came the pictures and tales and laughter as we all began to share memories.

 

We overwhelmed them with the exuberance we brought back from the wild places we had visited.  In moments, the entire staff was being reminded of their purpose- that of bringing together people with the wise wilderness preserved in the park system- of seeing the fulfilment that these protected places bestow of families.  They lapped up the children’s stories of hiking at Table Rock, camping at Oconee, splashing in the artesian wells at Lee and the waves of Huntington Beach.    They leaned forward so as not to miss one word of the recounting of finding sharks teeth at Hunting Island, sinkholes at Santee and a caterpillar tree at Woods Bay.  Their jaws fairly dropped to hear Thoreau and Little Legs accurately describe the stories they had learned of the Gist family from Rose Hill and the Hammond family of Redcliffe as well as the battles of Musgrove Mill, Kings Mountain and Rivers Bridge.

 

They played with the children and challenged each other as to who could best catch the ball in the cup or command the gee-haw-whimmy-diddle.  The children patiently explained the tricks of the wooden buzz saw toy and reminded the park staff of how to play the old card games of war and crazy 8’s.  An hour passed.  Two.  We were all having so much fun.  We could have spent the day except that our new friends were called off to the work required of them to nurture and care for those places that so nurtured families like ours.

 

I like to think that we affected our new friends – that we showed them the necessity of their labors.  I like to think that those who tended the parks were reminded of the impact those places, stories and people were having on the families they served.  I like to think that we affected them by relating stories of how we had been affected by the parks.  I like to think we gave them reason to work even more diligently with the knowledge of their crucial role as nursemaids to their 47 trusts.  I wanted them to see my children’s faces as they tended their wild charges.  I wanted them to remember our stories and laughter.  I wanted to give them a touch point- a memory to fuel their passion for their mission even on the difficult days and through the most tedious task.  Our family- these children.  The parks had given us so much.  This memory was our gift to them.

The Pride of Paris Mountain

It’s a what?  You try explaining- or encouraging the correct enunciation of a monadnock to my brood of children.  After a few rounds of back and forth explanations gone awry….I gave up.

“It’s like a little mountain in between a whole lot of flat…where it really shouldn’t be.”

I may be hated by geologists the world round but that definition settled the masses for a while.

Paris Mountain was where it shouldn’t be but for the prehistoric whim of a random glacier.  Since those days, Paris Mountain had served as a water reservoir, CCC camp and place of exploration, recreation and abandon.  We had been exploring some of the lower lying sand hill parks lately so we were quite anxious to stretch out into a more challenging hike- or rather pull.  It had been a while since we had dealt with any elevation and Little Leg’s little legs needed help getting used to the idea.  If there was any justice to the law of calorie burn, I should get double credit for managing the terrain of Brisby Ridge with actively assisting a fifty pound seven year old over the muddy, narrow trail which meandered up, down, around, over roots and rocks, over creeks and beside ledges.  Still, I couldn’t complain.  Anchor was hiking with Ben.  Ben hikes with the end goal always in mind.  Here is the trail.  I must follow it to its end and then I will receive a snack.  Silly issues of individual and/or group safety never cause him worry.  Onward and upward and possibly downward if he isn’t paying attention.  Anchor hikes with Ben to try to assure that our firstborn is kept safe.

 

Poor Anchor holds Ben back on steep slopes and watches our son’s feet on tricky assents.  If my calorie count is doubled by Little Leg’s care, then Anchor’s is quadrupled as he cares for Ben.

Brisby Ridge was a worthy challenge.  There was chatter but it came between steep ascents where extra breath was required.  We were mostly quiet saving shouts of “Rhonda”, “Garfunkel”, “Share the Trail,” “Watch out for Steve” and “Dudley.”  We recalled our trail vocabulary and flummoxed fellow hikers as we cheered for Salley when we saw the creek flow at the foot of our next climb.  We named the rain as it came to join us.  We called her Sophie and we were glad for her arrival.  She graciously ministered to us making sure to clean and cool us as best she could.

Paris Mountain christened us with Sophie’s rain.  She cemented our commitment to finishing this Ultimate Outsider journey.  We had known in theory the enormity of our undertaking even at Rose Hill and Kings Mountain.  We had vaguely known the challenge of taking four children throughout every nook and lair of South Carolina to hike and explore.  We knew and we thought we could do it.  The children were willing to try.  They had to really.  They were broke and didn’t have a car.  What choice did they have but to follow their crazy parents’ latest adventure?

Still, this hike at Brisby Ridge set us to our task.  Paris Mountain steeled us.  We did it.  We conquered the monadnock’s rugged climb.  We did it in the rain and in the mud.  We did it- each of us individually; Little Legs, Thoreau, Wet Foot, Big Ben, Anchor and me.  We did it together as a family.  We were sweaty again by the end of the trail.  We were sweaty and stinky and dirty and tired.  Legs, feet and arms ached.  We longed for the comfort of a bathroom.

Yet, we were proud.  Thoreau declared Paris Mountain a favorite and wanted to challenge the other trails.  We weren’t arguing.  We were laughing and planning our next adventures.  We still had other stamps to search out and secure.  We had many other parks to navigate but it was here at Paris Mountain that we transformed into Ultimate Outsiders.  It was unspoken but our commitment was real and our new identity was cemented.  We crossed Brisby Ridge and vowed love and dedication to each other and to our shared journey.  After Paris Mountain, the children told friends “We hike on Saturdays with our family.”  We had begun this journey to define those elemental pieces of ourselves and now we had found them:  God, love, nature.  I had subjected my children to lectures about the value of each of these for years but here on Brisby Ridge the content of my orations became real because they did not have to be heard.  Our children changed that day.  They transformed and began to see the beauty around them in the woods and in each other.  They understood why this time and these adventures were so important.  The journey that had begun as their parent’s crazy idea had become one of their own pride

Discovering Peaches at Croft State Park

Croft had first caught our attention when Wet Foot had a social studies project about South Carolina’s involvement in World War 2.  It had been an old army training facility but any traces of that history have been relegated to the memories of old men now.  Croft has long been a property of the South Carolina State Parks and was necessary for us to complete our Ultimate Outsider journey.

Croft surprised us as we brought our minivan into a long line of cars, trucks and trailers to enter the park.  Most parks dwelled in relative solitude.  What was happening here?  The drive inside the park led us into a corral for vehicles, trailers and steed.  Croft is home to a prestigious riding and showing venue.  The parking lot was full of some of the most well -mannered horses alongside of some of the most excitable children.  The horses were amiable and turned tolerant and graceful eyes upon the human children who ran and played loudly underfoot.

Promising our own little ones that we would come back to see the beautiful animals, we went out to find our coveted stamp.  We spotted the kiosk and the stamp and then saw a sign pointing towards the woods and on towards a section of the Palmetto Trail.  Our curiosity was peaked.  We explored the trail carefully watching out for evidence of fellow hikers, bikers or horses since all were allowed here.  We followed the trail to the river which was flowing high and strong from the summer’s rains. 

The old army trainees would have gladly joined our afternoon hike.  I am sure the comfortable wooden swings offering tranquil respite were a new accommodation since their time at Croft.  We sat and took in the view of the river.  We laughed that the children had instinctively sat in order of their height and age…something that in general they are loathe to do.  Luckily we got ta picture before Wet Foot realized her gaffe and raced us up the trail and on towards a mighty bridge which was also a recent addition to the park.  The trail proceeded on but the rains had left it such a muddy mess that it was impossible for our troop.

We decided to go back and explore the horse show.  The trail wound back around to the crowded lot full of horse, man and child, truck and trailer.  We guided our gang around horse piles and held hands until we passed the trailers and were closer to the viewing area.  The children had picked a favorite mare while still in the parking lot.  Wet Foot had spied the orange horse and christened her “Peaches”.  To this day, the mention of Croft State Park elicits a yell of “Peaches” at our house.  We stayed for a bit of the show watching horse and rider run, maneuver and turn, showing off amazing athletic prowess and stamina.  We learned that competitions can be more about waiting and resetting than agility and achievement.  We abandoned the show after about an hour which was well before Peaches’ displayed her skill.  It was late and Ben’s patience was wearing thin.  He enjoyed the initial spectacle of the prancing horses but was now much more concerned with the refilling of his insatiable teenage stomach.  We bid Peaches farewell and went off to find food for Ben.

Beautifully Wild - Jones Gap State Park

Jones Gap seemed a portal whisking me back to my teenage summers spent on Tennessee mountains surrounded by creeks and rhododendron.  The park is the fraternal twin of the stately Caesar’s Head.  While Caesar looks down its nose at such surrounding trifles as Paris Mountain, Lake Jocassee and Table Rock, it would scarce admit the existence of its savage sibling.

Jones Gap isn’t exactly savage but she is certainly a wild child.  She is as free spirited as Caesar’s Head is refined.  Her independence and spirit greet visitors at her parking lot.  She laughs at any who would try to confine her nature.

 

Jones Gap is a lurid pixie who draws company by virtue of her beauty.  She is beautiful with her quiet stream bubbling among rocks, a canopy of trees filtering romantic light amid rhododendron.   And yet, though she is beautiful, she is not tame.

 

Instinctively, you feel her danger.  The place is wild and home to wild things.  Jones Gap is largely undeveloped.  Here we step into the beauty of wilderness untouched and untamed.  You feel it.

I felt it.  My mama sense sent sharp warnings even as my eyes begged my feet to explore this beautiful place.  Ben felt it more than I.  His autism makes his instinct sharper than anyone else’s.  Ben quickly displayed his misgivings.  He looked at Anchor and me with disgust as we beckoned the children out from the minivan.  He protested as we explored the path and crossed the creek to the place where the stamp was.  His behavior was so communicative that we almost left Jones Gap without further exploration.

 

But the wild sprite is vain.  She sent her emissary, a ranger, to serve as a guide.   The ranger noticed our family and greeted us with all the pleasantness and exuberance as if we were the very first guests of the day when in reality he was locking up when he noticed us.  He was so excited to introduce us to his park.  He unlocked the door and bade us take a look at the newly constructed education center.  The ranger had fallen under the siren spell of Jones Gap and was excited to spread his love to all who ventured near.  He spoke to us of the secrets the park held, the vegetation and the creatures.  He educated us as to her history.  He gave the children cups full of trout pellets- not made of trout but food for the trout that were held in the park’s trout pools- and espoused all the secrets that made trout the smartest, most athletic and elitist of fish.  The ranger walked us to a viewing area where we could see the park’s resident copperhead who had taken up permanent residence some distance from the office.  The snake had never bothered anyone and stayed in her place- a watchful guardian of the park.

 

Ben calmed a bit as we threw the pellets to the trout in the pool.  The children wandered as they watched the prowess of the fish fighting and jumping and clamoring for each pellet.  The cups soon emptied but my children’s delight had overflowed into joyous laughter.  Jones Gap smiled through the ranger’s eyes.  He invited us back and sweetened the deal by giving us a map of the latest stretch of the Palmetto Trail featuring a long travail inside the wild beautiful Jones Gap State Park.

 

The sun was now setting and Ben was again becoming agitated.  As we drove out from the canopy, I knew we would return.  We had been infected by the untamed essence of the place.  That knowledge brought me a smile of delight and a shiver of apprehension.

The View from Caesar's Head State Park

Up, up, up, up, up……..

Around and around and around and around and around some more.

Groans from the back seat.

Prayers from Anchor and me that our children’s constitutions would hold true and that we would not have to clean this morning’s breakfast from the backseat carpet.

 

Anchor and I exchanged wondering glances that any destination in South Carolina could reach these heights.

 

On and on and on and on.

 

We finally made it to the top and found the majestic Caesar’s Head indeed inside the border of South Carolina.  Our poor devoted minivan begged for mercy as we pulled into the parking lot.  I was tempted to kiss its sweet blue hood in gratitude for ferrying us safely to the top.  The heat of the hood and the priorities of the day delayed that kiss.  We were off instead to answer the urgent needs for a bathroom stop, a park stamp and then curiosity's demanded exploration of the site.

We were of course drawn to the view.  We joined the procession of tourists and looked out over the ledge to the view the vastness of the mountain region of South Carolina.  Instinctively, I grabbed my youngest children’s hands too tight yet not as tightly as I would have preferred as we drew closer to the viewing area.  There were barriers of course but their reliability is a hard sale to the instinctive nature of my mama bear heart.  The children were enamored and strained for a better look.  They had seen the sights one at a time up close as they hiked the trails of the individual parks of the South Carolina Mountain Region.  There we saw Table Rock.  Over there was Paris Mountain.  Was that Lake Jocassee?  The children pointed each landmark out with great excitement.  I was so proud that these children of mine knew these places and that the names were as familiar to them as those of their friends at school.

 

Still, I drew them back and we proceeded down a metal staircase between two pillars of rock.  Here was Devil’s Kitchen – a cave without a roof.  The walls were damp and the temperature dropped as we descended the cold staircase.  The way was narrow but we stepped quietly through the semi darkness.  The family behind us graciously waited and gave my children an extra moment of wonder.  In all our hiking and trekking adventures throughout South Carolina, we had not encountered anything as unique as Devil’s Kitchen.

 

We emerged and the summer sun attacked our eyes with intensity.  We stumbled out for a second view of the overlook.  We saw how much we had explored during our Ultimate Outsider journey.  We appreciated again the magnitude and majesty that was South Carolina.  As I looked out across the vista, I remembered each journey we had made, each way point we had passed in our quest of Ultimate Outsider glory.  I prayed the memories we had made here in the South Carolina State Parks would stay with my children forever.

There are so many options for families in this modern era and there is a lot of good in each of them.  But our family has staked our claim here in the wilds and wonders of the parks.  They have imprinted themselves on our hearts and minds.  They have drawn us close and grown us into a different kind of family.  They have cemented and sealed us as Ultimate Outsiders.  I look over my children’s faces and wonder how this journey will shape the people that they become.

The Brick Maker's Mark at Oconee Station State Park

Historic sites can be a bit eerie when they are abandoned.  We pulled into the parking lot at Oconee Station and were greeted warmly by a vivacious canine who took pleasure in checking in the park’s guests.  The morning was late and the impending heat of the day had already driven away human visitors.  The canine self-appointed caretaker was respectfully quiet after his first welcome and there was no noise at the historic site save our own.

How odd that a place that had witnessed the bustle of trade and the tension of a boundary fort now stood so quiet.  The children ran between the old buildings laughing and playing, peeking through windows and bemoaning the inaccessibility of the cellar door.  If I sat on the porch and closed my eyes, I could picture my children in period garb laughing and playing as my husband and I bought provisions.  The summer haze mixed images of my present day brood with those from centuries past. 

Times change.  Cultures vary and grow.  The laughter and innate joy and playfulness of young innocents are constants and echo timelessly through the ages.

I love the natural places and wonders showcased by the South Carolina State Parks.  My family delighted as we explored the trail from the historic site to the magnificent Oconee Station Falls.  The wet summer supplied torrents of water that was dashed among the rocks in a grand spectacle of power and beauty.  Light highlighted water and glittered over the falls.

Still, I am drawn even more to these historic sites.  On another visit, the park manager showed us a brick marked by the imprint of its creator’s thumb.  I stared at that brick for a long time.  Here was a marker and a testament to the importance of these historic places as keepers of the remnants of families and individuals long since gone.  These folks could not believe, though the brick maker may have hoped, that anyone today would have given them a second thought.  Yet, the mark has been made.  The thumbprint is there.  The brick maker and those around him were here and in some weird way those lives and personhoods have now intersected with the story of ours- my family’s- as we visit the place where they once were.  Our humanity somehow gets all mixed together in the sweat I wipe from my forehead, the laughter of my children and the thumb print of the brick maker.

 

The historic sites are treasures.  I am so grateful that they have been seen and saved by our park systems.  These quiet places remind us of the commonality of our hopes of individuality.  They are our compass pointing towards more fulfilling futures.  Today the compass pointed from the thumb print in the direction of my playful children.

Devil's Fork State Park and the Elusive Oconee Bell

I know. I know. I know.  It was ignorant to add another park and another trail to our day’s adventure.  I understand the fool heartiness of dragging four children over an excess of eight miles of trail.  But the sun had not yet set and the children were game.  They wanted the bragging rights that a full day of mountain hiking would be sure to give.  I chose to ignore my husband’s amused glance as I looked out for the sign directing us to Devil’s Fork State Park.

Evening had brought relief from the full sun.  We found even more relief as we descended into the sheltering canopy of the Oconee Bell Trail.  Springtime brought mass sightings of the rare bloom which lent its name to the trail.  This was summer and all around us we saw varying hues of green.  We would have to come back to see the splendor of the Oconee Bell.  We walked through the wood as quickly as a tired family of six can.  We were subdued by our own weariness of miles already conquered.

 

Most visitors seek Devil’s Fork for its access to Lake Jocassee.  They spend days fishing, sunning and playing on the water.  Our trek on the land was mostly devoid of other visitors save for one older couple whom we passed towards the end of the trail.  They looked at our children and commented about how well they were doing on the trail.  I had denied my young ones the satisfaction of going back to the Table Rock gift shop and bragging to the ladies there.  I could not deny them this.  I let the children recount their full day’s accomplishments to the kindly couple.  The two fellow travelers listened to our young ones and were mightily impressed.  My children grew three prideful inches as the adults congratulated them.  They had achieved.  They had gone to the mountain and explored and had made it their own.  They were children, yet they were mighty.

Later, we recounted our tale to the park manager at Devil’s Fork.  He loved that we had explored and enjoyed the Oconee Bell Trail but could not fathom the thought of us completing our state park journey without seeing the Oconee Bells themselves in all their finery.  Quickly, he grabbed his business card and wrote down the dates for Bell Fest and invited us back.  He was so earnest and so kind…and we were so curious…that it was impossible to refuse.

 

The villas at Devil’s Fork are very different from the CCC cabins we had stayed in before.  The villas were beautiful modern accommodations.  The children enjoyed the fact that there was a television in the villa.  I enjoyed the fact that they had no time to turn it on.  As per our habit, we arrived late on Friday night.  A ranger saw us dumbly driving down the wrong road and pulled up beside us.  She smiled and said that she had been expecting us and offered to escort us to the villa.  Devil’s Fork is full of sincerely friendly staff.  We went through the drill of unloading the van, setting up sleeping quarters and settling in for the night.

 

Anchor and I did our best to rouse our sleepy brood the next morning.  It was between ten and eleven before we made it down to the festival site by Lake Jocassee.  We knew it would be a wonderful day when we heard the twang of a banjo playing “Rocky Top” coming from the tents set up for the festival.  A bluegrass group comprised of students from the local schools were performing…and they were good.  A Tennessee girl will either clap along or cringe every time Rocky Top is played…depending on the skill with which it is delivered.  “Rocky Top” is not a song to be taken lightly.  It is like the Appalachian Tennessee anthem and it should not be desecrated by any musician who cannot do it justice.  These students were doing an amazing job.  Anchor and I were both clapping and singing along.  Our South Carolinian born children looked at us as if we were crazy.

The festival did not disappoint.  Ben particularly liked the hot dog lunch while the rest of the children eagerly looked forward to 1:00 which was when we had signed up for a short boat tour of the lake.  We started over to the dock around 12:30.  It wasn’t a thirty minute walk, but we weren’t able to hold the children back any longer than that.  We were able to board fairly quickly despite our early arrival.  The children were immediately taken with the tour guide’s lovable lab.  They each vied for her attention but she sat contentedly on the bench seat near her master and her treats.  We headed out.  We got the quick tour of Lake Jocassee but even in the limited amount of time we were out there we saw the migratory loons and hidden waterfalls accessible only by boat.  We all had a great time.  Ben loved the movement of the boat and the sounds of the engine.  He rocked and laughed the entire time.  We would have to sign up for a longer trip soon.  Unwillingly, we disembarked.  The children petted the dog one last time and Anchor and I told the tour guide that we would soon make arrangements for another outing.

 

We barely had time to make it over to the trail head and our chance to see the Oconee Bell.  The plant is rare and the park is home to about 90% of the Bell’s known population.  The bloom of the Bell is a rare treasure as it adorns the plant for only a few weeks before its fragile petals give way to the wear and tear of the woods around it.  We reached the trail head and remembered the last time we had explored here after exploring two other parks.  We laughed as we remembered those adventures.  We hiked on until we met members of the Friends of Jocassee and a slew of horticultural experts.  They pointed out the beautiful Bells and gave us a full recounting of their history and importance.  The Friends were full of so much information.  It bubbled out of them as they joyfully engaged the children in their own excitement about the plants around them.  The Friends themselves were as much of a treasure as were the rare blooms of the Oconee Bell.

 

The beauty of the springtime at Devil’s Fork made me so glad that we had accepted the invitation of the manager to visit.  The parks were becoming extensions of our home.  The rangers and staff were becoming good friends.  We were learning the value of revisiting the parks and learning more and more secrets of these hidden places.  The parks were warming up to us and sharing their personalities.  Devil’s Fork quietly but vainly flaunted her Oconee Bells and reminded us that there is always something new to discover in the wilds of the South Carolina State Parks.