We drove straight east from Atlanta yesterday along back roads, to a campground in mid-South Carolina that we picked because we needed only a one-night stop and could get a 1/2-price discount here with a certain camping membership. So, what the heck, let’s try it.
It’s called Saluda River Resort, but really it’s a fishing outpost, where the closest towns have one gas station (or, I should say are one gas station). In the center of the campground are folks who live in RVs permanently, with lean-to’s attached and tarps over their roofs. I didn’t take any pictures because I have a feeling that poverty porn is a thing, and I don’t want to contribute to it.
The campground is right on a river, as advertised (but not a resort as advertised). Last night there were a dozen people fishing at the edge, black and white families and single dudes with tattoos and small groups of friends, some quiet and some laughing together amiably. They probably come to this spot most evenings.
What cracks me up is what the campground offered us as camping spots. Because the center of the place is a maze of semi-permanent structures, we were offered the perimeter, which is basically the land that slopes down to the river’s estuaries, with the occasional electric post and old picnic table to indicate campsites.
When we pulled in, we left the truck and trailer in the road by the bait store and walked those sites down by the river. There is no way a trailer as long and low as ours would be able to back down into one of those sites, much less get level enough that our gas-absorption fridge wouldn’t die on us.
There are no other transient campers here, so instead of backing perpendicular to the river, we eased our way down alongside it.
We still had to pull the trailer up on a million leveling blocks on the river’s side to approximate being level, but close enough not to kill the fridge.
And then we had a lovely evening!
I’m reminded of the two months we spent in central Virginia at another place labeled ”a family campground”: Small Country. They attract more local vacationers than this place seems to and have fewer full-time residents, but at both places, country folk can live cheaply and still in a community. They can park their RVs so they can do seasonal or contract work nearby. They can gather to fish and chat in the bait-shop (I was introduced to the local pastor and his children there while I was checking in). Perhaps they can gawk at the city folk in their shiny trailer who don’t know how to park in a campsite the right way.
Addendum
I sold my kayak!
I’d listed it back in the keys (and described at length why I decided to sell), and finally, after months of messaging with total kayak weirdos ad nauseam, a reasonable guy texted me one evening in Atlanta, looked at the kayak the next morning, gave me cash, and literally paddled away in it there at the campground. Woohoo!
I mean, Um, now how do I find a replacement kayak? What kind of kayak do I even want? Stay tuned.
So much Nomadland.