Leaving Atlanta is never easy. More aptly, leaving my Atlanta family is never easy, but it was something I had to do. I stayed too long and made a stop at an odd roadside attraction (a giant metal hillbilly) and didn't get only the road until almost two o'clock. I knew that I had a long drive ahead of me but, since I didn't know exactly where I was going to be spending the night, I didn't really care. I was just letting things happen. I knew I was going to Florida and I had some sites to potentially see along the way and that was all I felt I really had to nail down plan-wise. I'm such a planner most of the time that I felt letting things happen somewhat organically would be a refreshing change, especially in the midst of such an overpacked journey. Besides, my friend Grace had recently told me "The most boring way to arrive at your destination is to have traveled in a straight line."
I thought about visiting the original monorail but decided to save that for another time given how late it was and how far I had to go. I had one stop that was non-negotiable. I had to visit the Cross Garden in Prattville, Alabama. This display of religious zealousness rides a fine line between inspiring and creepy. The late W. C. Rice erected dozens of crosses on his property and covered them with messages of hell and damnation. He also covered old appliances with these same messages, like the old Coke machine that has a faded message of "Coke is the real thing" on it as well as Mr. Rice's message: "SEX used wrong way in HELL". I'm sure there is some degree of truth in both messages.
While at first walking among these displays and these messages made me feel like I was in a horror movie where some crazed inbred hillbilly was going to torture and kill me (this was in front of a trailer park in rural Alabama, after all) the more I looked around and reflected on in all, the more my opinion changed. Here was the work of a man who was so passionate about his faith and who so desperately wanted to help save the souls of his brothers and sisters that he went on a personal crusade, even making his vehicles shrines and driving on the highways to spread his message further. In an age where talking about one's spiritual beliefs has become almost taboo, he was walking the walk and talking the talk proudly. I went from thinking that Mr. Rice was a crackpot to developing tremendous respect for him for having the strength and courage to stand up for his beliefs even when others might have laughed at him.
With a new perspective, At dusk, I saw I sign on the highway that inspired me to make an unplanned stop. This one was at the boyhood home of Hank Williams. It was a very nice looking house, from what I could see (it's closed on Sundays). It's also conviently located across the street from the Hank Williams Fan Club and next door to a caboose that proudly proclaims Georgiana, Alabama as his home. His momma sure knew a good neighborhood for little Hiram to grow up in. As I strolled around the grounds listening to ol' Hank on my iPod, I reflected on the amazing impact he had on the music world in such a short life and what he might have done had he lived beyond 29.
Crossing into Florida after sunset, I abandoned my half formulated plan of trying to find a place to camp and drove to Pensacola, checking into a cheap but clean Motel 6. In the morning, I headed out again. Like the day before, I would make unplanned stops. Sure, I went out of my way to see a giant roller skate and a house that's shaped like a UFO, but I hadn't intended to stop at Pensacola Beach. Still, once I was near the parking lot entrance, I couldn't not go there. It was wonderful strolling along the beach, looking for shells, and smelling the salty air. It was a moment of true repose in what I knew was going to be a long day with a lot of driving. Later I made another unanticipated stop at the Gulf Islands National Seashore and learned about the usage of live oaks for ships and the establishment there of the first national forest.
Driving on, I finally reached the true object of my visit to the aptly named Sunshine State.I approached Britton Hill, the lowest highpoint. Of the fifty states, Florida is the one who's highest point is lover than the other forty-nine at only 345ft above sea level. It's situated near the FL-AL border and is surrounded by farms. One notices the slight rise in the road as you approach the park, but otherwise the concept of a "hill" seems out of place. I did the .3mi loop around the summit in very nice southern woods and met an older gentleman named Dan who was taking a break from walking the .75mi loop with his dog. He had weights on his ankles and wrists and was carrying poles that he used as trekking poles and which he had attached more weight to. He talk to me at length about the area and the schools and invited me to the chili cook off at his church in a couple days time. I politely informed him that I appreciated his invitation but now that I had conquered Florida's highest peak that it was time for me to move on the Appalachian Trail and some other high peaks.
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