When you look down at the ground of the campsite and it is literally a moving carpet of small ants, you know you are in southern Georgia. The gnats invade your ear canal. Fly into your eyes and up your nose. Swarm your head like Pigpen in Peanuts. They don’t bite, but they sure do irritate. The temperature hovered in the mid 90s after the brief respite of a passing rain shower. But it’s all good. The town of Adel has a Walmart Supercenter cleaner than an operating room where you can pick up an fan to blow the gnats away on aisle H22. Steel Reserve 211 tall boys are two bucks and country music over the transistor ray-dee-o is free. If you have never heard of Steel Reserve then, boy, you ain’t from around here. It is a beer with the kick of a 12 gauge. Perfect for fishin’ and campin’ and survivin’.
Reed Bingham State Park has few signs off the Interstate. It’s easy to miss and maybe that’s the point. Camping markers say FULL, but half of the spots are open. We guess the good ol boys know to keep a spot on reserve for the weekend just in case the fish are biting and the misses lets them take the bass boat out. This ain’t Atlanta and it ain’t Florida either. This is the Deep South. Frankly, you can love it or leave it Scarlett. Because they just don’t give a damn.
The park is ready for crowds. There are pavillions with grills and volleyball courts. Mini golf and kayaks for rent. Boat ramps and bait shop; Ice cream and America 250 tee shirts for sale. There are trails and waterfalls and memories to be made. Unfortunately it’s just too darn hot and buggy to take advantage. In Reed Bingham we are the only RV less than 25 feet without two or more slides and the only two people in sight. The only two people using the bath house and checking the free little library for books. If we were still in a tent, we would be In a Best Western. The Tag with its small window air-conditioning unit (recently DIY replaced from Lowes after breaking on its maiden voyage) allowed us to sleep in relative comfort. But if you go to bed at 5 pm, it’s going to be a long night. Until the suns sets and we escape into the sleeping pod, life is a battle. Until we move far enough north to be out of the sweat belt, we are embracing our inner Dixie.
Next stop is the northern Georgian mountains of the far reaches of the southern Appalachi. For now, we can confidently report that the bottom of Georgia is safe from Yankee infiltration. With the exception of the greater Atlanta metro, these parts remain unconquered. Sherman may have had his moment in time razing the South marching to the sea, but he mostly lived and died in New York City. If he conquered the south, it was only temporarily.
There are dozens of billboards along I-75 summoning travellers to Bucee’s. At Sheri’s father’s birthday party last week, more than a few people asked us if we were going to stop at Bucee’s for the brisket. With the threat of one coming soon to our neighborhood we decided to partake. With 100 pumps and convenience store chefs putting on a show of meat, fudge and roasted nutz, we skipped the mile-long lines for the bathrooms, grabbed a fountain soda and brisket to go wondering if Bucee sold his soul for a brisket made of gold.
We’re thankful for the stop because the Travel Gods closed Interstate 75 to all traffic on Sunday. A four car pileup across all lanes three miles in front of us made us wonder if Bucee’s saved our lives. We listened to a podcast in the cab of the truck for three hours without the distraction of actually moving. A good journey begins uncomfortably. It almost has to doesn’t it? What satisfaction is there in life with no obstacles to overcome?
