Day 26 -- Savannah, Georgia to Ocala, Florida -- 238 Miles

Okay, somebody help me figure out what's going on. I was just setting up the rig, and I was sweating so profusely that I looked around to see if I had taken a wrong turn today and ended up in Panama. Sweat was pouring off my face, and I figured that I could wring my shirt out and save enough water for several future desert journeys. The air felt like it was half oxygen and half water vapor. Maybe ALL water vapor! Had I accidently driven the rig into a lake? Have the waters of the Atlantic suddenly started rising and swept over southeastern America? No, I suddenly realized, we had just crossed the border into Florida!

Please tell me why everyone is moving here. It's almost winter for God's sake, and I'd have to climb inside a freezer to experience weather I recognize! When we set off on this vacation, we thought that when we finally got to Florida the daily temperatures would be manageable by people who are used to the change of seasons. But here we are nearly a month after we left home, a home where frost was putting most vegetable gardens out of commission, and Florida feels like they still haven't gotten the message. IT'S WINTER FOR GOD'S SAKE! Put away the patio furniture and turn off the air conditioner! It's time to quit sweating!!!!

Last night in Savannah, Georgia I had to get up around eleven o'clock and retrieve the comforter. It had been pretty mild and wonderful all day, but by eleven o'clock it had gotten cold enough to need more covers. So today, as we traveled south 238 miles, I had no idea we were also going to travel into a diffent reality; a reality where Panama summers never end and Bermuda shorts stay in style all year.

But enough about climate catastrophes, let's talk about things we like to visit and photograph along the way. Today, as we motored south on Interstate 95, we knew that we had to transition at some point over to Interstate 75. When we consulted the Atlas, we discoverd if we didn't want to spend too much time traveling straight west, we had to watch for Route 301. Route 301 takes off on the north side of Jacksonville, Florida, but first you have to catch ring road 295 which makes the transition to Route 301 south.

That accomplished, we looked for a place to park and have lunch and found one just before the Route 301 offramp. Our ideal lunch spot lay just across the street from an elementary school and came in the form of several acres of grass punctuated by super-large, moss draped oak trees. The light was poor for taking a photo, but the setting was exellent for our lunch break.

Lunch done, we jumped right back on Route 295 and just a very few miles later, we were able to exit to Route 301 south. I thought the route would be lightly traveled, but such was not the case. Though it is a vast improvement over the Interstate, we did have to contend with the occassional stop light, road construction, and reduced speeds. However, if you're traveling from say Naples, Florida to Fort Augustine, Florida, Route 301 should be your choice for moving you elegantly between Interstate 75 and Interstate 95.

The big push for today was to find something to write about in the blog since we didn't spy anything from our routes to tempt us to stop. It wasn't until we were less than two dozen miles from our evening camp that we stumbled onto the perfect human interest story. Even more attractive, the tempting site was only four miles off Route 301.

When we turned onto a country backroad that promised to take us to a nice park beside a nice lake, we had no idea the outing was going to turn into quite a lengthy stay. When we arrived, I immediately chose the wrong place to park which put us in a tiny little alcove with almost no place to turn around. It was tough, but I finally moved a little bit this way and a little bit that way until I had turned completely around and exited the way we had come.

Back out in the more open parking area, we noticed all the shady parking places were occupied by boaters' trucks and their empty boat trailers. Obviously the boaters had used the boat ramp and were now out catching fish. Oh, well, we just went ahead and parked in the sun and opened the windows.

The next thing we did was wander around the stands of moss-drapped oaks and enjoyed the shade that we couldn't take advantage of with the rig. The ancient oaks were stately and sturdy, and we enjoyed walking amoung them. Off in the distance, the beautiful lake embraced the brilliant blue sky and fluffly clouds, and it certainly beckoned us to find a boat somehow and go fishing. That not being an option, we satisfied ourselves with exploring the park grounds.

At one point, as I was wandering beneath the oaks, I could hear hammering going on in some unseen place nearby. The park was farily well bounded by thick brush and trees, but before long I discovered a gate that led into the world beyond. At that point I retraced my steps and told Concetta that I intended to explore the grounds beyond the gate, and she agreed that she'd wait for me in the shady coolness of the rig.

When I returned to the gate, I noticed a signboard that gave me some clues to what I might find in the leafy world beyond. The sign promised that I was about to enter a special place known as Cross Creek. Cross Creek belonged to the renouned writer, Marjorie Kinnen Rawlings, the author of famous books like "The Yearling."

To quote the sign adjacent to the gate, "Margorie described her adopted home in north central Florida as an enchanted land. Immediately upon arrival in Cross Creek, Rawlings immersed herself in the local culture, including hunting and fishing with her Big Scrub neighbors. She quickly grew to understand and appreciate the lifestyle of people who depend on the land for survival. With this understanding, Rawlings became a voice for environmental stewardship." Margorie would write that she had become a part of Cross Creek, she was more than a writer. She was a wife, a friend, a part of the earth. Of her Florida home, Marjorie msaid, "Cross Creek belongs to the wind and the rain, to the sun and the seasons, to the cosmic secrecy of seed, and beyond all, to time."

Well, after that stiring send off, I could hardly remain outside the grounds. I opened the gate and strode purposely through. The first thing I encountered was an orchard of lemons and palmettos. I looked around for something clearly ripe, but then decided I wouldn't be able to carry anything and shoot photos as well. Next, I encountered the barn containing a light spring wagon, walls full of tack, and a bale of hay. The wagon was vintage looking, and I snapped a couple of photos.

When I left the barn there was nothing else visible on the grounds but a white frame house, probably constructed in the 1920s, upon which a couple of workers were busily constructing a new roof. They weren't just applying singles, they were doing new plywood sheeting on parts as well as applying the old-style 1"x6" slatted fir that was commonly found under cedar shingles until the latter part of the twentieth century.

Unfortunately, the new work in progress sort of ruined the vintage look of the house for photos, so I snapped one for the heck of it, then approached for a closer look. The first thing I saw was a 1940s vintage yellow Studebaker under a lean-to roof. That might make a good subject, I thought to myself, but a closer look revealed that the Studebaker was hemmed in so tightly by the walls of the lean-to that photos were not going to be easy or pleasing.

After snapping a shot of the yellow car anyway, I wandered over to a screen door that provided access to the east end of the house. I looked around and didn't see anyone who might oppose my entry, so I just opened the door and stepped into what turned out to be a screened porch. Immediately inside I found what looked like Marjorie's work space. Her typewriter, a very vintage portable manual machine, rested on what was once a dining room table. Nearby, a couple of book sheleves full of ancient tomes clung to the wall near her work space.

Busily snapping photos as I went, I began to wander through the house. At least I did that for a couple more minutes. I was busily photographing the living room when a bright young lady appeared in front of me and asked what I was doing.

"Ahhhhh," I said, "Are you the person who collects my three dollar admission."

"Well, not exactly," the young woman said. She didn't look terribly cross with me, but I wasn't exactly sure how much trouble I was in by looking at her. "Are you part of the tour group," she said finally.

I admitted that I wasn't.

"Okay," she said, "I'm just about to start a thirty-minute tour, and you can come along on that if you like."

I told her about Concetta being in the RV out in the parking lot and how it was hot and how I better not keep her waiting that long. "Guess I'll have to pass," I said.

"Hmm," the young lady said. Her name turned out to be Joy, but I didn't ask her until later. "How about if I give you a five-minute synopsis before my regular tour begins?"

"That would be great," I said. "Thank you very much!"

And so Joy gave me the briefest of tours only finishing when she had to leave to collect her legitimate tour folks. She let me take her photo a couple of times while I told her about my own writing efforts. Somehow she didn't seem to react to my tales of the writing life so maybe I was treading a little too heavily on her patience. But in the end, she and I shook hands and parted amicably. I'm sure in the future she's probably going to try harder to keep wanderers out of Marjorie's small house until the tour begins.

Returning to the rig, I passed the same fishermen whom I had passed earier when I approached the gate. They had told me at the time they were waiting for one of the men's sons to come rescue them with the tools necessary to remove the boat trailer's spare tire. Glancing at their problem, I told them that I probably had a wrench that would do the job, and I went to retrieve it. Thankfully, my super duty cresent wrench was exactly what was needed, and it made me feel good to give them a hand.

Concetta wanted me to be sure and let my readers know that the beautiful park adjacent to the Rawlings estate where we had parked earlier, had at one time been slated for a GIANT building project that would have, at buildout, provided homes for 200,000 residents and established a major rural city. But a community-spirited woman formed a group to save the parkland. In the process of saving the park for future nature-lovers, she became a county commissioner so she could have a greater say in future such projects.

Anyway, that was our day. Just a few miles down the road from Cross Creek we wandered into a park adjacent to Route 301, and found that they had a site just for us. Now night is swiftly coming on and we hope that cooler temperatures prevale. So until next time, we wish you exciting travels of your own. Ciao!