Garden Recovery and Rebuild

 One of the big selling points for my home was the established garden plot. Here is the picture from the Zillow listing:

It was very wild when we bought the house, but I knew I could get it under control and producing again with some time and effort. In my initial assessments, I knew that I had three beds (south, center, and north), with paver paths running between the south and center beds and I assumed between the center and north beds, but it was so overgrown I couldn't see but a few of the pavers. What I didn't realize is that there were decades of rotted out boards, pipes, tomato cages, chicken wire, hog panels, rabbit fence, rebar, plastic sheeting, hoses, and pavers buried in layers of yard debris, weeds, and neglected plants. 

I started working to restore the original garden plot, but upon further inspection I realized it all had to come out. Everything was rotted out and ruined and the soil was in such bad condition that I'd need to amend it for several seasons before I could really start to benefit from GOOD dirt. I started to plan and dream and decided to take it down to bare earth, build a wall, and enclose it with farm fence to keep out the local varmints. Our yard is plagued with rabbits and while I am a huge fan of the book, I don't want to turn my backyard garden into the host for the Watership Down warren.

Last winter I began the process of pulling out all of the posts and wire wrapped around the garden plot with no rhyme or reason, which then led to pulling up miles of brittle soaker pipe. I've been photo documenting the process as I've gone, but sadly it's been slow going due to family issues, heat, and work demands. Still, I did make a bit of progress last winter.

I started on the bed that was the easiest of the three, the south bed. The east edge of the bed was covered in piles of yard debris, mostly palm fronds which do not compost very well and take a long time to breakdown. The bed didn't have too much growth in it, just some random herbs, tall weeds, and a mango tree. 

I managed to clear out a significant number of poles, wire, hoses, and weeds. To weed the garden, I crawled through every inch on my hands and knees and worked them out, bit by bit until nothing remained. My husband was very scornful of the process, but I'm happy to say it paid off big time this year when it was time to till.

It took me most of a weekend to get the south bed recovered. I'd removed at least an entire trailer load of debris from the bed but left behind the boards because I wanted to do all of the boards at once. At this point in the recovery process, I was still committed to just restoring the beds since this one really just needed the borders reestablished with new boards. I'd tried to pull out all of the posts and rebar, but these were buried too deep or had broken off closer to the ground and I couldn't get them out unassisted. I'd pulled out the mango tree from the bed and placed it in a pot. I later determined it was not grafted and wouldn't produce fruit, so I had it hauled off for disposal.

Then it was time to move on to the center bed. I worked on the center bed for the rest of the three-day weekend, but weather came down on me and I had to call it quits before I was finished. This bed didn't seem too bad, especially compared to the looming threat of the north bed on the right side of the picture, but looks were very deceiving. This bed was my trouble bed, it was full of rebar instead of pipes, and even now after we've tilled it out I've still been pulling out rotten hoses and buried pavers.

The center bed was where the previous owner was actually composting vegetable scraps, eggs, kitchen waste, and red solo cups. I wish I was joking. I've probably pulled out an entire Sam's Club sized bag of solo cups from this part of the garden. I have no clue why they were in there, but they were and they had to go. 

I removed as much of the chicken wire and poles as I could, but again, those poles were deeply embedded and reluctant to come out. There was also a row of t posts with a panel of hog wire in here, perhaps to act as a trellis, I'm honestly not sure. Worst of all, this was the bed that hosted most of the irrigation for the garden plot. You can see in the above photo that I was attempting to retain the hoses, mostly so I could follow them to their source and replace them when the time came to get the garden going in earnest. I didn't make nearly as much progress on this bed as I'd have liked, but when a thunderstorm strikes in Florida, you seek shelter immediately.

And then life got insane. I kicked off another solar project while simultaneously closing out my current one, my kid kind of went off the deep end in regard to mental health, and I sank into a very deep depression. What little energy I had left after work and family was dedicated to staring blankly into space and fishing because fishing brought me joy. Then it got HOT and for a native Floridian to spell that word in all caps means it was extremely hot. I'd wake up early and plan to get out to the garden before it warmed up too much and it would already be in the upper 80s with the feels like temps in the mid-90s as soon as the sun broke the horizon. It was so miserable all I could do was sit under an AC vent with a fan on full blast or hide in the swimming pool under the shade umbrella. It was so hot this summer our pool got up to 96 degrees. It was dangerous heat levels, and no work could take place.

We had a few cool snaps in September so I did make a valiant attempt to get started on clearing the north bed. I wanted to get the garden started this winter and if I didn't start making progress soon, it would never happen. We'd been in the house almost an entire year and I still hadn't even finished removing all of the debris, I was so disappointed in myself. Over one weekend I got in there and ripped out every single pipe and piece of rebar that I could dislodge, weed eated the north bed, and cleared out the remaining metal debris. I got the bed covered in plastic and hoped that by the time it officially cooled off enough to work in the garden I'd have cooked out all of the grasses and weeds that were growing wild.

It is a testament to the heat levels that I only took one picture, and that was after I'd finished the work. I am big on photo journaling the progress of this journey, but it was too damn hot. It took two mornings to get this bed knocked down and you can see that the center bed, left of photo, was already back to tall grass, the grass in the north bed was taller than me. I know I gave myself heat exhaustion on Saturday and when I finally called it around 11:30 AM, I ran straight to the pool to try and cool myself off before I hit a critical point. When I jumped into the 94-degree pool, it felt like an ice bath, and I almost shocked myself by cooling off too quickly. The heat had sapped me so completely I ended up going to bed for the rest of the day and slept through the night with a glass of water and bottle of gatorade on the nightstand. 

I did get an earlier start on Sunday morning before the sun was fully up and managed to accomplish my goal before it got too terribly hot. I was very careful about hydration and taking shaded breaks as often as I needed instead of pushing myself to the point of almost passing out. As a result, I was able to stay awake for the rest of the day and enjoy my usual Sunday church service of mimosas in the pool with the husband. 

And again, the garden sat for months, but that sitting time was planned. I knew I wouldn't have time to work in there again until after Christmas. During the holiday I approached my son with an offer, because I knew I couldn't do it on my own: bring your strong, young friends over and I'll pay them $15/hr to finish the demo work and build my wall. The offer was accepted, and a date was scheduled. 

I'll post later with the progress another time, it's late and even though I'm working from home tomorrow, I still need to get some sleep.

To Hunt a Mockingbird

My life was not sunshine and roses growing up, but it wasn’t always a suck and there were many bright times and hilarious or awesome experiences. I need to start recording them so I never forget and can share with my kids. 

This is the story of my sister’s cat Soccer Ball and the mockingbird. 

First a little information: the mockingbird is the state bird of Florida. It’s a loud and brazen little bird whose raucous calls become the sound of impending doom from the skies during nesting season. My parents always had nests in their front yard and there were times we’d enter and leave through the back door to avoid attack. You couldn’t even go through the garage because the birds could fly in there and raise hell until they were chased out. Those birds would terrorize the neighborhood for weeks until their babies fledged and their nests were empty. 

My sister rescued Soccer from a dumpster when she was 12-ish. She was this stunted and starving kitten who was so pitiful that even my stepmom (who was allergic and hated cats) couldn’t refuse to bring her home. Soccer was originally named Oreo because she had black sides and a white back and belly but as she grew, she didn’t really grow much in size except outward and eventually evolved into a soccer ball, hence the rename. It would probably be a good time to point out that Soccer was also a Manx cat, a rumpy to be exact, so she had absolutely zero tail. No nub, no stump, no flap, nothing, which fully lent itself to her soccer ball-like appearance. She was a pretty great kitty and really special, super affectionate and such a love. 

Before our family relocated to the beach, we’d lived in a very rural area of Florida. Soccer had free reign of the world and was a solid indoor/outdoor cat. Moving to the suburbs at the beach, she maintained that status and had a kitty door to allow her to roam in and out as she wished. By the time this story occurs, she was a much older kitty and was not as spry or active as she once was, but one thing she never stopped was hunting. She was always catching lizards and bringing them indoors to her family to show us how to hunt and feed ourselves.

One day I was visiting, I’d been long grown and gone by this point, but I came home from time to time to visit my sisters. We were hanging out in the living room when Soccer came into the house. She was making this very odd, muffled meow. It was loudly insistent, but at the same time it sounded like she couldn’t open her mouth and we were all terrified because we thought she was hurt. As she came into the living room, my sister and I clustered around her trying to see what was wrong. She sat down in front of us, gave one more muffled MURRRPH (seriously, that’s what it sounded like) before she opened her mouth. 

It was like watching a snake unhinge it’s jaws; there are no laws of physics that can describe what we saw. Her mouth opened an unfathomably enormous amount, almost cartoon like, and out tumbled a mockingbird onto the tile floor. There was a fraction of a moment where peace and unity prevailed as all parties took in the situation before all hell abruptly broke loose. The bird took flight with a raucous shriek of indignity, Soccer went into Teach Humans to Hunt overdrive, and my sister and I both screamed and collectively lost our shit. 

The bird started flying in panicked circles around the living room, Soccer started chasing the bird, my sister continued shrieking, and I (still screaming as well) eventually gathered myself enough to close off the room and directed my frantic sister to open the back door. Eventually, we managed to chase the bird out the back door with our flailing arms and high-pitched battle cries while Soccer Ball ineffectively attempted to continue her hunting lesson. Quiet descended upon the house and Soccer prowled the living room for a moment before she fell into a full sulk after confirming that yet another prey had been released and her humans remained unlearned in the ways of the hunt  

That wasn’t the last bird she brought into the house. By the time she died, the screens in that room had multiple holes pecked through from birds attempting to escape after she’d released them into the house. It was her new party trick and since we were obviously too slow or dumb to catch lizards, she must have assumed that a larger prey would be easier for her humans to catch. 

Her efforts didn’t go unnoticed or unpaid in the eyes of the birds, not at all, and they held a lifelong grudge. During nesting season, if you were brave or foolhardy enough to get close, you’d see tufts of black and white fur lining the nearby mockingbird nests. Those birds would dive bomb Soccer during and snatch the fur right off her back for insulating material and also to act as a warning to keep her away from them and their fledglings. She couldn’t lounge in her sunny patch on the front walk or show her face in the front yard during nesting season or she’d become piebald and tattered from the attacks. Those birds gave as good as they got during nesting time and they gave no quarter. 

Bees!!!

 I started my venture in amateur beekeeping with what I thought was a massive failure. I removed a very established hive from a well pipe on my jobsite. It did not go smoothly and I made some pretty stupid mistakes, but it was a very difficult extraction and I did the best I could. I got the girls home and into their new hive but within days they got raided and I thought the hive was lost. I chalked it up to lessons learned and started planning my next hive that I’d start when there was pollen flow and minimal risk of being raided. 

The other day I went out to start cleaning out the hive in preparation for my new hive season and when I opened up the top, lo and behold, the bees were still in there! They are much diminished in number but the hive is there. I’ve ordered some pollen patties to bulk them up and get them healthy and I’ll be picking up some mite treatment and beetle boxes to improve their health. I’m absolutely amazed they survived being moved, raided, AND winter with no help from me. Those are some strong girls I’ve got there, I’m just amazed. 

Yesterday, I removed a very juvenile hive from my jobsite. No sign of a queen but a drone was present so that’s actually quite promising. I placed their young comb in a frame, but it didn’t even fill one frame. I set that frame in my second hive and left the hive next to the wire reel they were living in. As I shifted the reel to lean against the hive to create a bridge, the reel fell apart and I REALLY pissed them off. Bees EXPLODED and I felt awful, even more so because the husband was standing away at a very safe distance observing and a bee flew right into his hand, stinger first. He was fine, no allergy, and joked that he hoped it helps his arthritis. I’ve been thinking back on what I could have done to have prevented that and I realize I should have taken the reel apart, slat by slat, instead of trying to lean it over in its half disassembled state. Lesson learned. I’m going to go back this evening and see if they transferred over on their own, when I leaned the reel over, before it broke apart, they were marching into the hive in a nice line, so I’m hoping they go in and all I have to do is close off the entrance and lid and pop them in my trunk and take them to their new home. 

Oklahoma Antiques

I’m currently back in Oklahoma working to bring renewable energy to my country’s heartland. The last time I was in OK (2016) I didn’t really do much shopping or searching through local online sales because I was making half of my current income, but now I have a comfortable salary AND a working spouse, so I can spend some money on the things I want.

I’ve been keeping an eye on online resell groups and scouting local thrift/junk shops to see if I could pick up any rarities to feather my nest away from home. So far it’s been a lot of junk or items in very poor condition for very high prices. I even scoped out a few actual antique shops with even less success (seriously, I will not pay high value prices for refinished pieces) and in the process I've seen some absolute travesties wearing greedy price tags.

About two weeks ago an antique dresser popped up in the local for sale group.

Very little info was provided and I didn’t like the price so I just saved it and moved along. Once the guy dropped the price by $100, I shot him a message. He’d already had it loaded up for a no show buyer so he came right over to me. I loved it as soon as I saw it.

After I got it back to my place, I spent an entire night researching to identify the piece’s provenance. All the guy knew was that his grandpa had been gifted it back in 1917 and it’s been sitting in his house since he died in 1971. Turns out it’s Eastlake style, likely manufactured between 1870-1890. I’ll admit I capered about a bit in glee after seeing similar pieces for sale for a minimum of double what I paid.

I did a ton of research on how to clean the piece because a simple mild soapy water was not cutting through the layers of century plus old grime. The piece is absolutely filthy, beyond words filth. I got all the bug carcasses, dead spiders, dirt, and webs wiped out from inside and underneath, but the exterior was almost sticky to the touch in spots and other spots were rock hard with years of pledged over grime. So I girded my loins and prepared for battle. I spent the entire evening last night working to strip the piece and got one side and tiny bit of the top done. I was so scared the entire time, worried I was going to ruin it, but after a bit of fudging with the cleaning solution I got it ironed out and have made much larger strides this morning on the top.

Here’s a picture that captures how filthy it is and justifies why I’m risking damage to the piece to get it clean (I am actually stripping it completely and recoating in a beeswax polish for antiques once it arrives).

If you look closely at the edge, you can see where I hadn’t gotten to cleaning the grime off in one spot. I’d left that for perspective to show just how filthy it was. 

Now the top is completely stripped and ready for wax. While I wait for my beeswax polish to arrive from the UK, I'm doing a light coating of Minwax Paste to protect the piece until I get the real stuff here. Once it's arrived I'll repeat this process to remove the wax and then give it some proper love.

As I've gotten into deconstructing the piece for cleaning, I've discovered that my initial suspicion that the top piece is not original was absolutely correct. You can actually see where the old top used to be with the drawers pulled out and the wood on top is likely stained birch instead of the walnut on the original piece. I'm also almost 99% certain that the top was damaged at some point and repaired (very well) with a piece of oak because that strip on the front of the top is completely different. The vote is still out on the mirror, but I'm thinking it's original because it matches the wood on the rest of the piece AND would have fit on the smaller, original top. I'm almost certain that the drawers on the upper are the originals, but if it had a marble top, that broke at some point (possibly 1929 because 29 is written on the bottom of one of the upper drawers) and a repair was made using as much of the original piece as possible. Or I could just be telling stories to make it more interesting, who knows, I am a rather imaginative individual. It has been repaired and the upper section is not original, that is a fact, but with the drawers and mirror woods matching the wood of the rest of the dresser I think my theory is not that far fetched.

Regardless, I’m excited to continue this project and can't wait to have an actual dresser in my bedroom. I'll post more pictures as I progress in the project.

1/11/20 update: I’ve finished the dresser and it is now proudly displayed in my room. All that remains is to line the drawers and put my stuff in there. 

This was a nail biting process start to finish. I’d really wanted to avoid using TSP because it stripped the wood of everything, patina included, but now that it’s done and a good coat of a high quality wax has been applied, I couldn’t be happier. 

I will now proceed to a picture dump. 

I Saved Someone’s Life

Today I saved a woman’s life. So no shit there I was, enjoying a high dollar business dinner on a supplier’s dime, when I noticed a man trying to perform the Heimlich Maneuver on a choking woman. It didn’t seem to be working and I watched her go completely limp.

No one else in the restaurant was doing anything besides doing their best to pretend that a woman wasn’t dying right in front of them. I made a few uncertain starts and stops before I realized no one was coming to help. I have the most basic of  CPR and first aid training and besides dislodging a bead from my infant daughter’s throat, I’ve never used it before.

I jumped up and told the man I was first aid/CPR certified and asked if I could help. He just looked at me with horror and fear in his eyes and mutely nodded while he held his dying wife in his arms. I asked him to lay her flat on the ground then very rudely shoved/asked a man sitting at the table directly next to them to move out of the way. Management said EMS was on the way.

I got her on her back, tipped back her head, and tried to establish an open airway. No dice. Her face was grey, her lips were blue, and she wasn't there. I swept her mouth, probably one of the vilest things I’ve done in my entire life, and pulled out small chunks and shreds of meat. She instantly started making a gurgling sound so I quickly rolled her onto her side in case she vomited and she started coughing and taking little gurgling breaths.

I asked for a napkin, it was instantly thrust in my hand, and I started clearing her face and her mouth, getting the rest of the meat off and out of her. I started talking to her, telling her she was ok, I was here to help, and she was going to be fine. She started croaking out some words...I smoothed her hair back and gently rubbed back, she spoke more clearly...she was so embarrassed.

I almost started crying right then and there. She was breathing, she was back, and she was self aware enough to realize what was happening! I got my coat handed over to me and made her a pillow to keep her comfortable while we waited for EMS to arrive. I chatted with her, introduced myself, and just kept her breathing and talking and distracted.

EMS arrived and I backed away. Once they had her up on the gurney I went over and told her I was so thankful she was going to be ok. I gave the EMS staff a full report of the situation and then excused myself from the dinner to wash my hands and step outside to call my husband and get some nicotine.

I’m still high as a kite right now. I’m shaking, I can’t sleep, and I’m just so damn thankful I stepped out of my timid comfort zone and took the steps necessary to save her life. No one else was doing anything, they were all just sitting there ignoring that woman dying as they ate, drank, and laughed.

So today I saved a life. I hope I never have to do it again.

Wildfires

All of these wildfires burning in Canada and California are affecting the air quality where I'm working in Minnesota. When the wind is blowing from the north, the smoke from the Canadian fires are blowing into this area. You can't smell wood fire, but the haze is thick and air quality is considered dangerous for individuals at risk. Overall it isn't bothering me, but the sunsets stirred up some feelings I haven't felt in twenty years.

Back in the late 90s, Florida was on fire. I was newly on my own, having flown the nest with a great quickness and relief, happy to be out and free from parental rules and regulations even though the responsibilities were heavy. A friend of mine was also recently fledged himself and feeling the financial pinch worse than myself so he decided to sell his very rare bass guitar in the hopes of making ends meet and float his finances for a few more months. I graciously offered to drive him to Orlando where he could get the most money for his bass and even watched the news to be sure our driving route was open and safe. After finding out that we were clear to go, we headed out only to learn that his rare guitar was an equally rare knock off of such high quality, it almost slipped detection.

Heartbroken, we piled into my '65 VW Beetle and headed back to the beach. I'd tuned in to the local rock station as we were driving but instead of music, we were listening to live reporting of the suddenly rekindled fire activity and road closures. As if to rub salt in our already festering wounds, our route home was closed due to fire hazards. I pulled over into a parking lot and sat there in the blazing Florida sun trying to parse out an alternate route using my second hand, well-lined Rand McNally map. We listened closely to the radio announcements and added more marks to the map to show what roads were closed before finally beginning to plan our return trip. We opted to go through the town of Christmas and hopefully skirt the worst of the flames before the fires got close to the highway.

We were getting close to Christmas on Hwy 50 when the air went from hazy to something that was indescribable. It was so thick I could barely see through it and even though I had my headlights on for safety, the light just reflected back at me from the smoke. We'd rolled up my windows because we were coughing and choking on the air blowing in, but the roads were still open so I decided to push through. I drove white knuckled as we sweltered and choked in my car. I ended up taking my bandanna off my head and wrapped it around my face to try and cut the stink and make the air easier to breathe but it did little more than go soggy from my sweat and make me even more uncomfortable.

The haze thickened to the point that it was almost as dark as full night and then it suddenly took on a reddish tinge. At some point, the wind had switched and we were now driving through an area that was actively on fire. Fueled by teenage stupidity and quavering bravado I drove on past trees that were burning, just trying to push through as fast as my little Beetle would go. It was horrifying to see that living line of destruction hedging closer to the road as we hurtled past but I held it together and kept repeating that we'd be okay. Then the fire started to cross the road ahead of us; we could see chunks of burning debris blow over and across the road to settle on the other side of trees and ignite. We were all terrified at this point. I was crying, my friend was holding his head in his hands and apologizing over and over to me for getting me into this situation, and the other friend in the backseat, the rabid atheist, was chanting a Hail Mary over and over again.

Finally, a fire ranger sped past us on the opposite side of the road, lights flashing and siren blaring, but oddly muted by the smoke surrounding us. His tail lights winked out almost as soon as he passed but it gave me a slight burst of confidence that the way ahead must be clear. Soon there was an almost steady stream of fire fighters in varying types of vehicles headed in the direction we'd just come from. Some of them honked and waved encouragement to us while others just stared in slack-jawed amazement and I'm sure they made plenty of comments about idiot teenagers to lighten their mood before the battle began.

Ahead, I could just make out blue flashing lights through the hazy smoke and began to let off the throttle as we closed in on a police checkpoint. The road was barricaded to prevent anyone from driving through into the fire zone and we had to wait for the wide-eyed and VERY ANGRY local deputy to move one and allow us to pass through. We were then ordered to get OUT OF THAT GOD DAMNED CAR RIGHT NOW and obediently filed out, shaken but so relieved. We received an ass chewing to end all ass chewing from the officers and accepted it with heads hanging and tears streaming down all three of our faces. Once the officers were relieved of their anger fueled by fear we explained that we'd listened to the radio reports and had plotted our route to avoid the areas affected by the fires. The deputies did ease up on us after that because it was very obvious we were just a pack of very scared kids who had just gone through a terrifying experience and it turned out that we were very much not at fault because the route had been clear until the wind shifted unpredictably and rekindled a fire that had been considered under control.

I dropped my friends off and headed back to my apartment, a little studio above a garage in a suburban neighborhood. As I pulled into my designated parking spot, the home owner came out of his garage to chat. I remained close-lipped about my recent experience since he knew my parents and would have called them right away to report on my activities. He told me I needed to go watch the news and keep an eye on the fire activity across the river. Even though he was almost certain it wouldn't jump and I didn't need to worry, he'd knock on my door if we got an evacuation notice to make sure I got out of there safely. I headed up the stairs, weary and exhausted, but instead of showering I climbed out of my dormer window and onto the roof to see if the fire was visible yet. Sure enough, there it was, far off in the distance and marching towards the river with great speed. I sat there, mesmerized by the flames as they danced, twisting up into the air to a height of what seemed like hundreds, if not thousands of feet.

I sat there the rest of the afternoon watching the fire come closer and closer to the river and as it came closer, the ribbons and gouts of flames started to blow across the river, only to fall in and sputter as they hit the water. Then it happened. A particularly large ball of flaming debris blew across the river and landed in the marsh grass of North Merritt Island followed by another and yet another. I went inside, packed a bag, and went down to knock on the home owner's door. I let him know that the fire had made it across the river and I was heading to stay with some friends at the beach.

Thankfully the fires on the island, though they burned a large amount of grassland, didn't reach my place. I went home the next day and everything was safe and sound, though the air was thick and hazy for weeks as the fires raged across the region for almost two solid months. Sunsets were particularly eerie during that time. There was none of the usual technicolor beauty, just a hazy red ball lowering in the sky. It's what the the sunsets have been like here in Minnesota, twenty years and almost two thousand miles from my terrifying experience of my youth. Putting those two pieces together has lifted that unsettling feeling from my heart and I can't help but hope that there isn't another carload of kids out there getting a hard life lesson as these modern wild fires burn.

Paddling Rockfish Creek

Since we got our kayaks, Man and I have been scouring internet message boards and kayaking groups to find good paddles nearby.  There are many places to paddle in our state, but most of them are far out west or further north.  As I've often stated and confirmed, our area is the doldrums of NC.

However, there are three waterways that are suggested to kayak in our area: Cape Fear River, Little Lower River, and Rockfish Creek.  Since I cross over Rockfish Creek every single day on my commute to and from work, I figured why not give it a shot.  It was calling out to me every time I crossed over and the point where I cross (Hwy 87) during my commute is the pull out point.

There was very little information available about the creek.  I found one review on Trails.com stating it was a pleasant paddle with poor fishing, a trail guide in Paddling Eastern North Carolina by Paul Ferguson that was not very detailed, and a local newspaper article that gave us more information, particularly the time that elapsed during their paddle.  I felt as if we were about to go into this pretty blind, which made me a bit nervous.

We got the kayaks loaded onto Man's car and tied down securely.

We stopped at a local sporting goods store to pick up a hand bilge pump and ogle the nicer paddles.  Of course that means we both picked up new paddles since they were running a sale.  I lucked out and got the last fiberglass paddle and since it had a slightly damaged handle (the lining was already peeling) I got an additional 10% off along with my $10 coupon I had on my discount card. I saved almost $20!

We drove both cars to the take out point and pulled off the highway to park mine in a hopefully shaded spot.  While we were there we went ahead and scouted out the take out point so we could familiarize ourselves with landmarks so we didn't miss our take out.  The guide and news article I'd read both stated the take out was steep, I think steep was an understatement.  It was STEEP and even worse, the soil had been so washed out it was packed hard, slick, and severely rutted in spots.

Man and I sat there mulling over the take out and began to waffle on whether or not we thought we could do it, well, if I could do it.  I'm not a weak woman, but I am a realist.  I'm rather slight framed and while I'm strong I did genuinely feel concern about how I'd feel after a long paddle.  We finally decided it would be worth the effort at the end and headed back to Man's car.

As I navigated, Man drove to our drop in point.  The paddling guide suggested dropping in at Hwy 59 in Hope Mills, but we were both worried Man's car would be towed from that location.  This was also right before the a small stretch of rapids and the remnants of a dam which sounded hazardous.  The news article dropped in at a fire station about a mile down the road and avoided the dam so we opted for that location.

When we pulled into the parking lot of the fire station we were pleased to see parking right next to the woods alongside the creek and a police car parked in the shade of a tree.  Man parked two spots down from the officer's cruiser and we went into the station house to ask permission before just dropping our kayaks in the water and leaving his car.  We got a quick approval and headed out to prepare to enter the water.

After applying sunscreen and securing our gear to our kayaks we hauled everything over to the edge of the slope leading to the creek.  It was steep.  Man stood there in a moment of concern while I said "screw it" and just grabbed the front carrying handle and started dragging my kayak down.  It was surprisingly simple since the slope was grassy and easy to walk down.  Getting into the water proved to be a bit more problematic.

Surrounded by the aroma of homeless urine (most of the bridges in our area are at full capacity due to one of the largest homeless populations in the southeast US) we mulled over the best way to get our kayaks over the six foot drop into the creek.  There was a slight cut out in the bank that was a more or less sheer drop with a few "steps" in the dirt.  Lining this little spot was a bramble of thorny vines to tear at our flesh as we descended.

Not even four feet upstream was a pretty little sandbar with easy access to the creek.  Of course there was absolutely no way to get to this sandbar from the parking lot, trust me we tried to find a way.  We steeled our resolve and just took the plunge.

Man went first.  We lined up his kayak with the cut out, he dropped down to the creek, and took the brunt of the bramble vines out for me, a true gentleman.  Once he landed on the bottom of the creek, I passed down his kayak which he secured alongside a fallen stump.  I sent mine down after and then carefully and gracefully slid down the little cutout in the slope, nearly falling into the creek.  If Man hadn't been standing right there I'd probably have landed right on my face on a rock.

I'd never entered my kayak in the water before and while the water was only knee deep, I was concerned I'd tip over and did not want to start out our first creek/river paddle with such an inauspicious event.  I pulled my kayak up to the sand bar, climbed in, and prepared to push off with my new paddle.  Man just hopped in, river rat that he is, and started to go.

For a few minutes we marveled at how awesome our new paddles were.  When we bought our first paddles, we'd gone for the cheapest paddles the store had and didn't realize they were children's paddles.  The new ones fit us perfectly and our crafts were SO responsive to handling, we had a few moments of silliness, showing off our new found agility and speed.

It was beautiful on the creek.  The water ranged from dark brown to an orange color, common in black water creeks.  Information tidbit - the black water is caused by tannins released into the water from decomposing vegetation.  Trees lined both sides and grew over and into the water, resulting in a mostly shaded trip.  We paddled through a tunnel of trees at times.  Even so close to civilization, we were reminded of the raw beauty hidden in our part of the state.

Here's a good picture to show what the water looked like depending on depth.  The lighter water was shallow and the darkest water was deep.  There were many places where we barely skimmed the bottom and several places where would couldn't touch bottom with our paddles extended a full arm's length into the water.

We enjoyed paddling this part of the creek as it was mostly free of downed trees, however there was one tree across the creek where we couldn't find a way through and we had to climb out of our kayaks onto the trunk of the tree, lift over the kayak, and then carefully climb back in.

After I got my kayak over the tree and secured myself, my spidey senses issued a full red alert.  Not even a foot from where I'd secured my hand was a wolf spider roughly the same size as my hand.  As I let out a yelp, Man chuckled and said he'd been watching the spider and didn't tell me about because he knew I'd have panicked.  I have a deep seated fear of spiders, lingering on a full blown phobia, but I'm mostly inclined to live and let live as long as they live away from me.  I do value their contribution to bug control.  I'm grateful he didn't tell me and that I didn't notice that healthy beast because I'd have probably jumped into the creek and started swimming in a panic to get as far away as fast as possible, kayak be damned.

Shortly after this I encountered my first actual spider attack.  We had to navigate through another fallen tree and while it was possible, it did require sort of rocking and hand maneuvering our kayaks around and over the trunk in the water.  There was quite a bit of brush in this spot and while I pushed through a spider plopped into my kayak.  I managed to free myself from the tree before shrieking and flailing my feet in the direction of the spider.  After it was squished we had to pull over because I couldn't get rid of the shuddering sensation and felt that I was covered with spiders in all the places I couldn't see or reach. I was splashing water over my back and kept stretching my paddle over my shoulders to run it up and down to knock any imagined predators off my back.

Thankfully, we came to the point where Little Rockfish Creek joins into the main body of Rockfish Creek. I hopped out and did a little freak out dance on the shore while Man looked me over and declared me spider free.  This was just upstream from our first bridge (Research Dr).  Man had received a phone call so we pulled onto a sandbar to give him a chance to get his phone out of the wetbag and return the call.

As he was calling back I noticed a chimney up on the bank with a steel door.  I have no clue what it was and why it was there, but it looked pretty old and seemed abandoned.  I spent about an hour researching online and it seems there was a paper mill built in this region in 1850, so perhaps it could be the remnants?  I'm honestly not sure, but it was certainly neat to see.

Once Man's call was wrapped up, we headed back into the creek and crossed under our first bridge.

After this bridge, we hit a section of fun paddling.  It was by no means rapids, but there was chop and even a small, and I mean small, waterfall where a fallen tree crossed the stream and caused a reduction in elevation by about 6-8 inches.

We settled into a good rhythm at this point.  The current did most of the work and we just steered with our paddles as we floated.  This area seemed pretty remote, though we did hear traffic in the distance, so of course we had to start a rousing rendition of Dueling Banjos as we continued downstream.  There were many fallen trees to paddle through or around, but we didn't have to get out of our kayaks to navigate over them for a good stretch.

We passed under Hwy 301/Business I-95 and got to deal with a great bit of pollution.  There were also several homeless camps set up alongside the creek in this area.  In order to keep ourselves from getting overwhelmed by fury at how humans just shit on our mother, we made a game out of furnishing our next home with all the garbage and debris we pulled from the creek.  By the end of the trip, we'd managed to furnish a dining room, porch, two bedrooms, and even part of a living room.  We also found enough siding to put up on a section of our imagined home as well as two doors and window.  Since I need tires for my Mom-Mobile, we managed to find a pair and determined that semi tires probably could fit if we tried hard enough.

Shortly before I-95, we pulled onto a big sandbar that was practically a beach to stretch our legs and have a snack.  It was perfect for swimming and being that we were completely isolated, I stripped down and hopped into the water for a nice swim.

We could have stayed there all day and did break for about thirty minutes before I donned my damp clothing (I'd stretched them over my kayak to dry in the sun) with much protest and we set off again.

As soon as we got close to I-95, the creek took on a stench.  It just smelled horrid.  There was tons of garbage in the creek, including tires, food wrappers, drink bottles, and discarded home items.  This is where we really began to furnish our imagined home in earnest.  In this section, we actively paddled most of the time, just so we could get away and get to cleaner water as quickly as possible.

This section of the creek is also populated.  It butts up against the Grey's Creek area of newer homes built for service members with some money that want an illusion of suburban life away from it all.  The creek remained littered throughout this portion and we could hear people shouting and music blaring at times.  There was also evidence that spots were used as swimming holes and there was even a rope swing out by an area with a steep bluff that was surprisingly shallow and then shockingly deep.  We weren't sure how people would get to the rope to swing into the creek since it was more or less in the middle of the current and inaccessible from shore.

We kept paddling with purpose to get as far away from people and their evidence as possible and after about an hour, we were free from most signs of humanity, save their lingering debris caught in trees across the river.  There were two more trees in this final stretch that we could not find a way around or through, so twice more we managed to climb out, push over, and climb back in.  After the first tree, where I wobbled and bobbed around quite a bit, I'd found my balance and was able to get over these obstacles with a much stronger confidence.

Finally, we found another sandbar across from an idyllic little trickle fall coming from the bank high above.  We landed our kayaks, had a snack, and once again stripped out of our wet clothes to give them a chance to dry out while we went for a swim.  Hand's down, this was our favorite spot on the entire creek.  With the little falls, we had a perfect soundtrack for our break, and we got a chance to cool off in the cold water.  It was relaxing and invigorating to have a chance to frolic about in the water and take a nice break truly away from it all.

We probably spent about an hour in this spot playing and enjoying our break.  We both reluctantly put on our now dry clothes and prepared to push off once again.

At this point, we'd traversed just over seven miles down the creek so we were nearing the end of our journey.  We let the current carry us for a while though I kept paddling at times.  Man asked me why I was in such a rush several times to remind me to slow it down and take it easy.

And then we were there.  We heard traffic in the distance and it grew louder so much faster than we thought possible.  We weren't ready to be done!  We also realized that getting out of the water meant pulling our kayaks up that impossibly steep and slippery slope.  I pointed out the trunks I'd noticed in the water and Man pulled in.  I pulled up alongside him and we both climbed into the water.  He climbed up onto the shore through a small cut in the slope and hauled up his kayak.  I quickly followed suit, struggling until he gave me a hand.

We got our kayaks up and loaded into my car.  It was hairy and I confess, after getting Man's kayak up I wanted to cry at the thought of doing it again.  We did it though and loaded up into the car with the a/c on full blast as I drove to drop Man off at his car.

When we got back into town, we stopped at Big T's for a shave ice.  It was such a treat after a long day on the creek.  We looked over our stats on our trip tracker, marveling that we'd paddled 8.96 miles on our first real, big trip.  We were on the creek for just over 5 hours and if we'd just paddled and hadn't stopped so many times, we'd probably have been able to do the stretch in 3 hours.

Since we were seated for such a long time on thinly padded kayak seats, we've decided to look into a way to pad them out a bit more.  Both of our bottoms were quite sore and even today, after a full night's rest, my tailbone still feels slightly bruised.  I've already spent part of the morning eyeballing a memory foam bath mat we don't use to determine if it's big enough to cut out for both of our seats.  We'll see.

It was an absolute blast.  Though we're both a little sore across our shoulders today, I don't feel like I paddled nine miles down a creek.  I thought we'd both be miserable today but we aren't and if we didn't have be responsible adults today, I'd probably be pestering him to hit the water again.