The Old Woman and The Ranger
Cumberland Island is the southernmost of Georgia's barrier islands, and at about 40-square miles, it's also the largest. While some families still own small parts of the island, most of it is operated by the National Parks Service as the Cumberland Island National Seashore. There are pristine maritime forests, undeveloped beaches, wide marshes and ruins of man's attempts to tame the island.
The beaches are nesting sites for endangered loggerhead turtles. In fact, more loggerhead nests are documented on Cumberland than any other barrier island.
The only access to the island is by boat, and the boat most people use is the ferry operated by the National Park Service. Boarding the boat requires a reservation. If a visitor misses the return ferry, he is stuck on the island overnight and must camp at a designated campground or stay at the very expensive Greyfield Inn, owned by the Carnegie family. The only cars on the island are those brought over by the private owners - visitors must walk, ride bikes, or talk someone at Greyfield into a ride on a golf cart.
My friend Doug and I loaded our large format cameras, boarded the ferry and made the hour-long voyage to Cumberland. We got off the boat at the first dock and began the long hike across the island. One of the first interesting sites is the Dungeness mansion. The 57-room Queen Anne style house was built in the 1880s by Thomas Carnegie, brother of Andrew. At the time, the Carnegies owned about 90-percent of the island.
The Carnegies moved out in 1925, but various people occupied the house off and on. In 1959 Dungeness burned, leaving only the stone walls standing. Authorities suspect arson, but never prosecuted anyone. For years, residents of Georgia's other barrier islands told the story of how the mansion fire lit the sky and was visible for miles.
Before we could photograph the ruins, Doug and I got to watch an interesting sight. Cumberland Island is the home of wild horses, and a small group of them galloped up. The horses are not generally dangerous, but are well capable of defending themselves if they feel threatened, so people are warned to keep distant.
Water bubbled up near one of the old walls, whether from a spring or part of the old mansion's plumbing system, I don't know. But the horses obviously counted on it being there. One young stallion stood between us and the group of horses as they drank and he made sure we didn't get too close. When the others had their fill of water, a second stallion took the first's place while he drank. I wished I had my digital camera to photograph this. I was afraid that unpacking my tripod for the large format camera would spook the horses.
When the animals moved on, Doug walked around the mansion while I stayed near the front gate. I spotted an interesting section of the gate, unloaded the tripod from my cart, mounted the camera, and began to search for just the right image.
Then I heard the sound of tires on the dirt road and people talking. I pulled out from under the darkcloth and took a look. The noise came from a golf cart owned by the Greyfield Inn. An old woman slowly climbed from the cart, waved her cane at the driver and told him to come back in an hour.
The woman looked up at the mansion then walked down the lane towards me. She looked at the gateway and poked at it with her cane. She particularly poked at the ¾-round concrete ornaments that extended from the ground up about two feet, and swept around the roadside corners of the gateway. She slowly walked a few more steps, then saw me.
"I haven't seen a camera like that in a long time," she said. Her voice was booming and not at all frail.
"Yeah, not a lot of people use them anymore."
"I used to live in this house, you know."
"No, I didn't know. Are you a Carnegie family member?"
"It was a really nice house. All of those windows were made to catch the breeze at different times of day. It was really cool inside."
"When did you live here?"
"These young people, like my grandchildren, don't care anything about history."
"Probably not." I'd given up trying to have a conversation.
"Not even about their family history. I could tell them a lot. About the ladies and gentlemen who would watch the polo."
I knew a large field west of the mansion had been used for polo.
"My grandchildren could learn a lot about being ladies and gentlemen. All they do is listen to that awful music on those earphone things, and tune out sensible adults."
I could imagine.
"Like these things right here." She pointed her cane at one of the ornaments on the corner of the gate. "Do you know what these were for?"
Since she was looking at me with focused eyes, I answered, "No, ma'am."
"They're to bump the carriage wheels away and keep the carriages from getting stuck in the gate. See," she said as she tapped the lower part of the ornament, " they stick out almost a foot. The wheels will bump here and keep the body away from the wall."
"That's interesting," I said, but her eyes had unfocused. She turned away as though I was not there and wandered towards the ruins.
I went back under the darkcloth and looked at the gateway with a new interest. I wanted to be sure I got the ornament - I wished I knew the actual name - into the photograph. I tried to carefully line up and straighten all the angles in the scene, and made my exposure. I don't think I was wholly successful.
Then I hiked to the other side of the ruins to find Doug. He was across a broad grass lawn, at least a football field length, sitting at a picnic table in the shade. He was very sensible. I made the trek over to him, spread my tripod legs with camera mounted, and sat down. We talked about what we had found to photograph - he had concentrated on the ruins themselves and thought he had a couple of good ones.
I thought I saw something else interesting - a piece of Spanish moss hanging from a tree limb. Photographers know that Spanish moss looks beautiful hanging there, but getting an enticing photograph is very difficult. I thought that since this piece was hanging alone from an isolated branch, I might be able to make an interesting photo. I moved the tripod, adjusted the camera, and ducked under the darkcloth.
"Oh, no, " I heard Doug say. I pulled out from under the cloth.
Far across the lawn I saw a small pickup racing straight in our direction. It bounced across the uneven ground showing it was driven with purpose. I sat down at the table and waited.
The truck slid to a stop on the slick grass and turned slightly so we could see the National Park Service emblem on the door. A man in a Ranger's uniform hopped out.
"What are you doing?" he asked with a menacing tone.
"Sitting at this picnic table, resting in the shade, and waiting for time to head back to the ferry," I answered.
The Ranger glared. "What are those?" He pointed at our cameras.
"Cameras," said Doug. "We're photographers."
"What are you taking pictures of?"
"We've been photographing the ruins. Now we're sitting in the shade," Doug said. I thought perhaps he angered the man less than I, so I kept my mouth shut. I envisioned us stuck on the island overnight without food or bedding because answering the man's questions would make us miss the boat.
The Ranger walked over to the cameras and took a close look. He walked from one to the other and circled completely around them. He picked up my darkcloth and looked, where he could see that I was focused on the Spanish moss. Then he relaxed.
"We had someone report that two men with cannons were pointing them at people."
"Cannons?" Doug said and chuckled. "Whoever it was needs glasses."
The Ranger looked at his watch. "You've got a half-hour until the ferry arrives. Maybe you'd better move on." He watched as we packed up and watched as we hiked across the lawn. After a 20-minute hike, we reached the ferry dock, sat down and waited on the boat. The Ranger circled past in his truck and stared at us.
"I apologize," I said. "I'm a cop magnet for some reason, ever here in the wilderness."
Doug chuckled, but nodded in agreement.
Friday Photo - The Old Woman and the Ranger
Great slice-of-life peek in! Loved the crone! Fred Sanford's Aunt Esther reborn with more money!
Great story John! (I wonder if the person who chauffeured the old lady to the Dungeness Mansion was the one who notified the National Park Service Ranger about two cannoneers?)