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9/4

Yesterday we arrived in Someplace Different. We left Atlanta at about 8:30 after enjoying the big breakfast my sister Debbie made for us. To make time we stuck to interstate and found ourselves traveling along in heavy traffic with the Gustav revacuees. Heading back towards Atlanta were caravans of utility trucks with cherry pickers mounted on their backs. I guess they were going home, having been relieved of duty because the storm wasn’t as bad as expected.

Most of the ride through Alabama felt like more Georgia until, rising dark against the weakening arms of hurricane clouds were two black uprights from a suspension bridge. Arching over the upper reaches of Mobile Bay, this long bridge marked a dramatic change. On the other side of the bridge was Someplace Different. We had arrived at the edge of America, the coast. The air slowly turned salty and buildings and businesses now had that shabby worn look of a forgotten beach town. Passing on through Mobile, we pulled into Lucky Shrimp Shack in Pascagoula Mississippi for a break and some Po-Boys. It was here I decided that Pascagoula was fun to say. Even more fun than Whacker Packer. I wanted to rent a Whacker Packer in Pascagoula, but where would I put it? I was on a bike and it was getting dark.

Our destination for the night was a coastal state park west of Pascagoula. Winding through residential neighborhoods in the dark we got to the park gate to find it locked. Gustav had closed it down. We leaned against the bikes and were talking over our next move when I saw a cop drive down the road. I was hoping he’d see us and stop to ask what we were up to, leaning suspiciously and contemplating breaking The Law like that. Then we could ask him where to camp for night. Next, down the road came a fire truck, and another. Maybe there was station up the road? Maybe we could tell them a good story and they’d let us camp in corner of the yard? We took off looking for the station. In route Shannon spotted some folks leaning on a pick up so we stopped to ask them about camping, but instead of sheltering us for the night they solved our public servant mystery. It turns out that not long before we arrived the flames in their truck had been doused by the firemen we had seen going by. After questions and commiserations they directed us to a KOA that we never found. But we did find a freak show and passed a happy evening there.

As directed, right turn on Hwy 57, under I-10, and then to the right, like a vision out of Apocalypse Now, bare bulbs were strung from post to post, picnic tables were arranged all higgledy-piggledy, and in the air, the smell of wood smoke and pork fat. Like a moth to a flame I was drawn. And then I saw it. The sign read “CAMPING” – but the gate was closed and it was dark on the other side.

On two wheels and knobby tires, closed is relative, so like we had contemplated at the State Park, we drove around the gate. And were stopped by Mr. Work Release Program. Tall, thin and shirtless to show off his tats, he was attended by a pudgy little gnome with long grey hair.  She was doing some kind of dance. Or maybe having a fit. Or she could have been stomping on bugs. I couldn‘t tell. Mr. WRP told us to camp under the oak by the pool and gave us the code for the surprisingly clean bathrooms. We had a hot shower and cold beers in 16 oz. cans. We learned to spell home with a new alphabet.