The Lawson Trek
  • Home
    • About
    • Interactive Map
    • The Trek
  • Along the Path: Blog
  • John Lawson
    • "A New Voyage to Carolina"
    • The Carolina Colony
  • Talk to us!
  • Store
  • Press

Along the Path

Updates as we learned about Lawson's journey and times -- and reports from the trail as we progressed along it. Plus tales of the process of publishing the result.

"This Breach is a Passage through a Marsh"

8/25/2016

0 Comments

 
Picture
The nice thing about sitting with my old pal Lawson and braiding our journeys together for the book project as I work on it now is that I get to work out little things I didn't even know I didn't know. For example: Lawson, talking about the ten-person canoe adventure that got the journey started, mentions that he has to get through "the Breach," a passage "Northward of Sullivans Island," where the water gets so low that even a canoe can't get over it if the tide isn't high enough. Lawson tells us all about the coast pilots nearby and a lookout right near the breach and how they have to time their passage. I just sort of shrugged it off, assuming the canoe must have gone out through Charleston Harbor, around Sullivan's Island on the ocean side, then headed into the tidal creeks thereafter.

What a dope. Of course that makes no sense. In the first place, Lawson himself describes "leaving Sullivans Island on our Starboard," which he could only do if he were passing out through the breach into open ocean, which made no sense. And in the second place, who on earth takes a heavily loaded canoe out into the open ocean when there are tidal creeks protected by barrier islands? Nobody, that's who. 

​Anyhow, I looked up the excellent Mills Atlas images of South Carolina from 1825, and a single glance shows the obvious route: Lawson crossed the harbor, went into the cove north of Fort Moultrie, and then wended his way through the tidal creeks, timing their passage over the breach to continue northeastward up the coast. Of course I checked with my old pal Val Green, who agreed: that's the way Uncle John (Val's term for Lawson) went.

A tiny thing. But it's fun noticing things I hadn't noticed I hadn't noticed.
0 Comments

Gratitude and Bookends

9/28/2015

1 Comment

 
. That feeling when you have recently been in a little momentary difficulty outdoors with your kids. I would never say danger, because come on. But a wobbly canoe in conditions that are windier than is really safe, with not just wind waves but a surprising swell on the wide Pamlico, still a river where we were, not yet the sound but with a fetch that allowed an unkind headwind full access to our every square inch. Meanwhile everybody wearing life vests, no less, and able to swim. 

But still. Scudding clouds, that 15-mph headwind that would turn the canoe sideways regardless of my wishes, a frustrated 10-year-old in the front seat working as hard as he could but still more sail than powerplant. A cheerful 7-year-old clutching the yoke, keeping low as he had been trained, shouting, "This is so fun!" as the swell lifted the front of the canoe, then slapped it down, sometimes wobbling widely enough that we all leaned hard counter-wobble. By which point I had stopped thinking it was fun one bit.

Anyhow: after about an hour of this we wrestled our craft safely to a dock, then to shore, and help came. We had the remainder of our day, about which more later, but -- every now and then, all afternoon. Gussie, 7, would pull me and his brother near, and instigate long, tight, hungry group embraces; Louie, 10, did not show his usual resistance. And I would see them walking, or playing, or talking to new friends, and suddenly that hollow feeling, and the elevator drop in my stomach, and we were in the water and it was windy and i wasn't sure if i could control the canoe and these are my babies and it's just the Pamlico and if we get blown to the other side we'll be fine but oh god my babies and again: no real genuine danger. But still.
Picture
This is the only picture I took during the canoe trip. you can see the water just starting to get wavy, and the point on the left means we're just nearing the mouth of Duck Creek. In about another two minutes we found ourselves on the Pamlico River and there wasn't time for any more pictures after that.
PicturePhoto from Flickr by Lesley Loop.
So anyway, to the beginning of this last Lawson Trek adventure story.

Leigh Swain, who's in charge of things at Historic Bath,  has been a supporter of the Trek from the start, and she reached out as we neared the finish and asked whether, since Lawson himself co-founded Bath, owned properties there, and lived there for a while, we'd like to give the Trek a ceremonial finish by paddling in to Bath and addressing the assembled townspeople.

I came to love the idea, especially because it would allow me to bring along Louie and Gus and would, neatly, allow me to finish my undertaking by stepping out of a canoe, just as I had begun it by stepping into one last October. Lawson spent the first week of his trek in a canoe, making his way through the tidal creeks along the South Carolina coast before heading up the Santee River, where he and his companions quickly abandoned their canoe and took to the trails. He finished near what is now Washington, NC, a couple months later, and a few years after that helped to found and survey Bath, so Bath is probably the place most associated with Lawson in this world. They have a historical marker there for him and the Lawson Walk, a little dirt path on which grow several trees and other plants Lawson wrote about. They even have, if Vince Bellis is to be believed, a pile of bricks and stones that might be fragments of the chimney of Lawson's old home.

Picture
 But I was going to tell you about gratitude.

To my ears Leigh's idea that we paddle in initially had originally sounded a little overmuch to me -- I wished to end as Lawson had, at Richard Smith's land west of Washington. And I did, but all I did there was stop walking. Much as Lawson had, of course, but it lacked a certain sense of finality, especially as the very next thing I did was start walking again, to get to my car in Washington (I got a ride for the last couple miles from Russ Chesson of the Estuarium in Washington). Fortunately by the time of that slight anticlimax I had already arranged with Leigh to paddle in to Bath, so I had a new Finish to look forward to, and if it was a bit conjured up, well, isn't this entire enterprise a bit conjured up? 

So I planned for Bath, and my two boys wanted to come with me, which felt even more fun. They had stood on the dock and waved me out as I began this journey last October, accompanied by a guide and some bottlenose dolphins, and I liked the idea of steeping back out of the canoe with them along at the end. I gathered up canoe, life vests, paddles. Where to put in was a quandary. There was nothing authentic about the journey, so we could start anywhere. We considered simply going from Bonner's Point at the southern tip of Bath up Bath Creek to the community dock, but at less than a mile of paddling that seemed a little small. So I grazed Google Maps, finding various likely docks along the Pamlico, figuring that somewhere a mile or two upstream would be a pleasant dock and a family that wouldn't mind us using it to dump in. Once we saw that the weekend was going to be all over rain and wind, we gave up ideas of camping at Goose Creek State Park and decided to just drive down early Saturday, the day of our paddle.

​Enter Seth Effron. An old friend from my days at the News & Observer, Seth and his wife, Nancy, have put up a house on a piece of the land Nancy grew up on -- and the house, which they planned to be staying at that weekend, was on Duck Creek, about a 5-mile paddle from Bath. Seth reached out to say they'd be coming to the event at Bath to hear me talk after we landed. Where did I plan to stay? Would I like to stay with them and put in from Nancy's brother's dock next door?

I would. Thus did three Lawson Trekkers bed down in their delightful house, breakfasting on eggs from next door, bacon from a pig who had been known to the neighborhood when he was still using the bacon himself, and toast with blueberry ginger jam Nancy had made herself. The day had dawned cool, drizzly, and windy. The breakfast helped.
Picture
Gus, Nancy, and Louie enjoying breakfast on Seth and Nancy's delightful screen porch. You can see Duck Creek from the porch, and you can see across the Pamlico from the creek.
Picture
The Duck, and the Pamlico beyond. The trees and the Spanish moss and the grasses just posing because they're hams.
We put the canoe on the dock, drove to Bath to leave my car there, enjoyed some of the activities, and headed back so Seth and Nancy could drop us in around noon, to arrive in Bath by paddle around 2 p.m.

Right. The paddle started nicely -- we put in on the Duck, Seth took our picture, and off we went. The Duck runs southwest towards its mouth, so though a strong breeze pushed us effortlessly down, I didn't worry.
Picture
Intrepid travelers set out on the Duck Creek. Photo by Seth Effron.
Dumbass. Any breeze strong enough to push a canoe without paddling will make you very unhappy if you don't happen to be going exactly downwind. Which, once we hit the Pamlico River, were were doing the exact opposite of. Louie instantly had to wrestle manfully with his paddle just to keep it in the water, and Gus clutched the yoke, shrieking with glee as we were blown hither and yon. I had sometimes to tell Louie to pull in his paddle and scrunch down in the bow so I could get us oriented nose in to the headwind, and then as soon as he sat back up and lifted his paddle, he'd function as a sail and the craft would turn sideways and there we were again, being
blown towards the southwest shore of the Pamlico instead of paddling northeast towards the mouth of Bath Creek, a couple miles downstream. 

As I mentioned above, I took one picture while we were enjoying the tailwind, and once we rounded the point never took my hand off my paddle.  On the map it looks like where I finally called the coast guard -- Seth and Nancy -- was about 1.6 miles' paddle from the dock, but I'm going to guess it was at least 50 percent longer for all the being blown backwards. We got turned sideways and around enough times ("Whee! This is so fun, dad!") that I eventually doubted our capacity to make it another mile and a half to the Bath, to say nothing of another couple miles up the Bath. To say nothing of coming home and telling my wife, "Well, I made it to Bath and the Trek is done, and we have at least half as many kids as I started out with, so that's good, right?"

I wrestled us over to a dock, between whose slats the water would geyser up when the swell came by. I hauled the canoe up, then Louie and I hauled it to the actual shore. I called Seth and Nancy; Nancy took the kids for milkshakes while Seth and I got the canoe and loaded it onto my car. Nancy was not having any of this "we're done" business -- we were just going to put back in at Bonner's Point and the boys and I would paddle up the half-mile to the town dock like we had said we'd do.

Which we did, but not before another half-hour of precision canoe drilling, with me shouting Louie into the bottom of the canoe and even Gus getting that this was just way harder than it needed to be as we got blown backwards and clear across the creek.

But it ended well. I finally got us pointed right,  took advantage of a brief drop in the wind to get us across the creek, and got Louie to head us in, as reward for his hard work. "You have the bridge, Mr. Sulu" -- and he never looked prouder. A gathering on the shore cheered us in, and I can pledge to you that I have never been happier to step out of a canoe. Finished indeed.
Picture
Seth in the yellow, Nancy in the blue, and a good dozen or more others cheered us in. And you know what? By that point I actually felt like we deserved it.
Picture
And this is what it looked like when I stood up to talk to people who care a lot about Lawson at the Historic Bath visitors' center. Gratified that so many braved bad weather to come hear us.
Lawson had his own canoe misadventures -- he describes almost being blown to sea by "a tart Gale at N. W. which put us in some Danger of being cast away, the Bay being rough, and there running great Seas between the two Islands," and another time he tells how his "Canoe struck on a Sand near the Breakers, and were in great Danger of our Lives, but (by God's Blessing) got off safe to the Shore," and I am inclined now to believe he in no way exaggerated. And he had five friends and four Indian guides paddling -- and no children to worry about.

​I told the audience at Bath that I could see now why Lawson took his journey before he had any children to worry about, and I got a good laugh, but I wasn't kidding. We were never in danger. But I was scared. Those are my kids.
Picture
The Lawson Trek heading in to shore at last.
Anyhow. Then a delightful hour spent talking at and with a room full of fellow Lawsonians, a fond farewell to our various hosts, and a dinner with Val Green, my forever guide, and then we were driving home through more driving rain.

Lawson started his journey with unexpected friends in Charleston, was taken in and cared for by every group of settlers and Indians he met, and finished it with generous hosts near Washington. I started mine with the vast and unexpected generosity of Kathie Livingston and Nature Adventure Outfitters last October, met almost nothing but a constant parade of generosity, support, and kindness on the way, and finished the outdoor portion of this project with yet another outpouring of help unlooked for and enormous assistance at Bath. 

I stepped in a canoe in Charleston October 12, 2014, and stepped out of one in Bath on Saturday, September 26, 2015. Every second -- well, maybe not the seconds where I was wondering whether I was going to drown my children, but every other second -- was a delight. It has been an honor to share Lawson's journey with you.

What's Next?

The Lawson Trek will be a book before it's done, and I'll share pieces of it as I produce it. In coming weeks and months I'll blog about people -- Val Green who knows more about Lawson than any other living person, John Jeffries of the Occaneechi, my many friends with the Catawbas, the people in the Lancaster and Boykin and Camden and Durham.  I'll blog about stories -- von Graffenreid's insane narrative of the founding of New Bern and the death of Lawson, for example. I'll tell you about science -- the missing apex predators like wolves, the new ones like coyotes, the destruction of the rivers of the Carolinas and the invasion of the invasives. 

And I expect I'll tell you about cool stuff I come across and about how good it feels to be just in my office writing, too.

Anyhow, the Trek itself is done, but the Lawson Trek isn't going anywhere.

Actually, let me say that again, because gracious, after a year of constant motion, it has a lovely sound: the Lawson Trek isn't going anywhere.
1 Comment

Expeditions!

12/4/2014

1 Comment

 
Picture

The newest post of the Lawson Trek on the Scientific American Blog Network site Expeditions is up. Go see us there!

Updates: 
--Next segment scheduled for late December
--Interesting people to meet coming soon: Val Green knows where Lawson slept every night and seemingly everything else there is to know about Lawson; one Richard Traunter seems to have written an unpublished sketch of a journey similar to Lawson's taken two years before Lawson's; I have cool photos of sketches of flora and of Charleston made several years before Lawson showed up; I have been speaking to an artist who is both planning to draw on the trek with me and putting the illustrations from Lawson's book into context; and I have befriended an ecologist who plans to trek with me during my next segment.

In short, I am very excited to be heading out again.
Picture
1 Comment

The Place of Lawson's Death

11/13/2014

1 Comment

 
Like Lawson, I spent the first week of my trek in a canoe, making my way among the Spartina and tidal creeks along the South Carolina shore. But following that, our paths have briefly diverged. Lawson continued directly on, walking for nearly two months until he finished his journey in what is now Washington, NC.

But Lawson, as I tell people, did not have teacher conferences to manage and recycling to separate and Sunday school carpool to organize. So I’m going about this piecemeal. My next segment of the main trek will be through the Francis Marion National Forest, though I’m being hugely careful to make sure I avoid the part of deer hunting season where they chase the deer with dogs. I’m all good with hunting and hope an orange vest will keep me safe from responsible hunters, but on the days they let the dogs out, I prefer to be in.
That said, there are plenty of outings to make in the meantime. I got to make a weird bookend to my beginning trip by visiting the town of Grifton, NC, which Nov. 7 and 8 celebrated John Lawson Legacy Days, which commemorate Lawson’s awful death at the hands of the Tuscarora Indians ten years after his famous journey. So inside of a few weeks I’ve retraced Lawson’s first steps and his last.

You can get a little more detail on Lawson's demise here -- his actual death came sometime in the middle of September, 1711. He and Baron von Graffenreid, with whom he was developing the town of New Bern at the mouth of the Neuse River, decided to take a journey up the Neuse in search of a better trade route to Virginia. One member of their party scouting ahead stumbled into Catchna, a Tuscarora settlement, where the Tuscarora were organizing the raids they planned to begin September 22. The Tuscarora had given up on either going along with the English or moving away and figured that it was time to stand and fight. Though Lawson showing up on their doorstep made him the Tuscarora War's first casualty, as an agent of the changes that were destroying their lives, Lawson likely had a target on his back either way.
Picture
Um, you guys! Hi! We were, um, just coming up to check and see how you're doing! We brought Doritos! You guys? Aw, hell.

The area that archaeologists think was Catechna has everything you'd want in a settlement: clear access to the river, high spots that stay dry, a small creek useful for gathering water. Yet what was most powerful about the spot came later, when the entire festival hiked out to the spot and placed a magnolia wreath there. "In Memory & Honor of All Those Who Came Before," it said. "May they rest in Peace." Standing on one side, dressed much as Lawson would have been dressed, was Wayne Hardee, who manages the Grifton Museum and has helped organize the festival for all of its four years. Standing on the other side was Vince Schiffert -- a descendant of the Tuscarora people, down from New York state, where much that remained of the tribe relocated after their inevitable devastation in the war that began with Lawson's death. The moment of silence all observed was a sweet end to the day. Vince hopes to walk with me on part of the trek, and I very much hope he -- and any compatriots he cares to bring -- do join me. The descendants of the settlers and the descendants of the Tuscarora very much seem to consider themselves part of the same community, which was, after all, what Lawson himself had originally hoped for, advocating marriage between settlers and natives as a way of combining the two cultures to the advantage of each:
Picture
Wayne Hardee, president of the Grifton Historical Museum, dressed not unlike Lawson would have dressed in the early 1700s. I love the hat; Lawson probably didn't have the watch, though.
The thing I enjoyed most from Lawson Legacy Days was the boat trip up the Contentnea Creek to what archaeologists are beginning to agree is the site of Catechna. Tim Bright, a resident of Grifton, ran a small boat up the Contentnea, past stands of ancient bald cypress old enough that Lawson likely saw them. Bald cypress doesn't grow terribly high, but you can estimate age by girth (kind of like people, huh). As we putted along, Tim constantly said: "TELL me that tree's not 300 years old." I never did.
Picture
On the right, Wayne Hardee of the Grifton Museum, in Lawson-era garb; on the left, Vince Schiffert of the Tuscarora nation. At the spot where Lawson may well have been killed, a moment of silence.
Picture
They tell me you gauge bald cyprus age by girth, not height. This one's been around a while.
In my opinion, it's better for Christians of a mean Fortune to marry with the Civiliz'd Indians, than to suffer the Hardships of four or five years Servitude, in which they meet with Sickness and Seasonings amidst a Crowd of other Afflictions, which the Tyranny of a bad Master lays upon such poor Souls, all which those acquainted with our Tobacco Plantations are not Strangers to.
       This seems to be a more reasonable Method of converting the Indians, than to set up our Christian Banner in a Field of Blood, as the Spaniards have done in New Spain, and baptize one hundred with the Sword for one at the Font. Whilst we make way for a Christian Colony through a Field of Blood, and defraud, and make away with those that one day may be wanted in this World, and in the next appear against us, we make way for a more potent Christian Enemy to invade us hereafter, of which we may repent, when too late.

Again -- Lawson wanted to turn the Indians into Europeans, so it’s not like he was a saint, and he hoped intermarriage would help settlers learn the local terrain and customs, too, so he was mostly merely pragmatic. But instead of slaughtering the Native Americans Lawson thought settlers ought to marry them; it’s rather a significant difference. One can wonder how that would have worked had it been tried.

Lawson Legacy Days had otherwise been dedicated to the cultures of both Lawson and the Tuscarora. A small longhouse in the Tuscarora style stands on the shore of the creek where one might have stood 300 years ago, and among other qualities it shows how the tribe used bark, peeled in full diameters from trees, to roof their huts. Among the drawings of such huts that we still have is that by Von Graffenreid himself, and the one at Grifton looks exactly right; it helped me finally understand something I'd had a hard time imagining.


Most satisfactorily, he demonstrated how to make fire with only sticks, bending a stick into a bow, adding a piece of string, and winding the string around another piece, which he then spun in a depression in a third piece. Friction caused smoke within a few strokes of the bow, he caught the spark in some tinder, and he had flames inside of half a minute. It was remarkable to see it work, reminding me that though the matches and lighters and firestarters modern campers take for granted make fire simple, people have been starting fires for a long time. Lawson and those like him could start fires with relative ease, even without Piggy’s glasses from Lord of the Flies. I hope to try it myself one trip (though as a backup I do in fact wear very strong glasses).

Anyhow. Lawson’s been dead a long time, and the Tuscarora have been around for longer. Lawson Legacy Days started in 2011, the 300th anniversary of Lawson’s death. I expect I'll be there next year too. Maybe I'll walk.
Picture
Lawson describes Indian houses as covered in bark, and I had the worst time imagining what he meant. Now I get it.

Joe Herbert demonstrated traditional pottery methods, making and firing pots using native clay and a fire; Schiffert told the story of how the Tuscarora originally separated from their Iroquois family when a grapevine that was helping them across the Mississippi River broke. Tom Magnuson of the Trading Path Association described ancient pathways and roads. 

Hardee and others kept a fire burning in a dugout canoe they were working on, and next to it sat another one, all but finished. At one point the fire went out, and I rebuilt it, blowing it to life; I also used an oyster shell to dig out some of the char. An expert in historic technology, Scott Jones of Media Prehistoria, demonstrated how to chip out a projectile point, then explained the progress from the spear to the atlatl to the bow and arrow, with a small side trip to the blow gun (hollow river cane, sharp thorn or piece of bone or antler, fuzzy cattail for its feathery back -- shockingly simple).

Picture
This little depression might have provided easy access to water so the Tuscarora would not have had to go directly to the Contentnea. Some think Contentnea is how the word "Catechna" has come down over three centuries.

1 Comment

    Archives

    January 2020
    October 2019
    May 2019
    February 2019
    November 2018
    October 2018
    May 2018
    March 2018
    August 2017
    May 2017
    August 2016
    June 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014

    Categories

    All
    Adventure
    African American
    Angie Clemmons
    Anthropocene
    Apothecary
    Appalachian
    Archaeologists
    Archaeology
    Army-navy
    Art
    Artifacts
    Atlanta
    Backpack
    Banking
    Barbecue
    Barry Beasley
    Bath
    Beaufort
    Beckee Garris
    Beetle
    Beginning
    Ben Franklin
    Berm
    Bill
    Birds
    Blister
    Book
    Bookstore
    Boston
    Botanical
    Boykin
    Breach
    Brent Burgin
    Brownlee
    Buck
    Buffer
    Cabelas
    Cambridge
    Camden
    Camera
    Canoe
    Canty
    Catawba
    Chain
    Charleston
    Charlotte
    Chelsea
    Chocolate
    Chris Judge
    Church
    Cincinnati
    City Of Raleigh Museum
    Civilization
    Coe
    Comment
    Community
    Concord
    Confederate
    Contentnea
    Cornwallis
    Country Music
    Couture
    Crawford
    Creek
    Croatoan
    Cutler
    Cypress
    Danger
    Davis
    Death
    Delightsome
    Delk's
    Denton
    Devices
    Drake
    Drawing
    Drunk
    Duck
    Durham
    Eagle
    Earnhardt
    Earth Day
    East
    Ecologist
    Effron
    Embankment
    End
    Error
    Evans
    Exhibit
    Expeditions
    Facebook
    Feather
    Fern
    Finish
    Fire
    Flag
    Flintlock
    Flood
    Francis
    French
    Gaillard
    Gander Mountain
    Garden
    Geology
    Gimpy
    GIS
    Google
    Great Wagon Road
    Green
    Greenville
    Grifton
    Guerry
    Gun
    Guns
    Haigler
    Hallenbeck
    Hampton
    Hanging
    Hannah Smith
    Harris
    Hartford
    Harvest
    Heat
    Hempton
    Highway
    Hillsborough
    Hips
    Historic Bath
    Hollow Rocks
    Home
    Homeness
    Hortus Siccus
    Hospitality
    Huguenots
    Huntley
    Indians
    Instagram
    Interstate
    Island
    Ivy
    Ivy Place
    Jamaica
    Jarvis
    Jennifer Landin
    Jered
    Jimmy White
    John Jeffries
    John White
    Journalism
    Kadaupau
    Kannapolis
    Katawba Valley Land Trust
    Katie Winsett
    Kayak
    Kershaw
    Keyauwee
    King
    Knife
    Lame
    Land
    Language
    Lawson
    Lawsonians
    Lecture
    Legacy
    Legare
    Legislators
    Leigh Swain
    Lenoir
    Lenoir Store
    Lenses
    Library
    Lichen
    Lies
    Loberger
    Locke
    London
    Longleaf
    Lost Colony
    Lynch
    Lynching
    Magnuson
    Mansplaining
    Maps
    Mass Shooting
    Match-coat
    Mathematical
    Meerkat
    Memorial
    Mental Floss
    Mill
    Millstone
    Miniature
    Monkeyshine
    Moonshine
    Museum
    Museum Day Live
    Musings
    Nancy
    Nascar
    Native American Studies Center
    Natural History Museum
    Nature
    Nesbit
    Netherton
    Neuse
    Newspaper
    Nonfiction
    Notebooks
    Occaneechi
    Orlando
    Pack's Landing
    Palmetto
    Pamlico
    Park
    Patent Leather
    Pedestrian
    Peggy Scott
    Periscope
    Petiver
    Photography
    Physic
    Pig
    Pig Man
    Pittsburgh
    Pocket
    Poinsett
    Polo
    Potsherd
    Pottery
    Preparation
    Presentation
    Press
    Process
    Proofreading
    Property
    Publishing
    Raccoon
    Racing
    Racism
    Racist
    Raleigh
    Rape
    Ray
    Readings
    Reconsideration
    Records
    Revolution
    Richard Smith
    Richardson
    Rights
    Riparian
    Rivulet
    Road
    Roadness
    Roanoke
    Robert Off
    Roland Kays
    Rolling Stone
    Roombox
    Rules
    Salisbury
    Santee
    Sapona
    Sassafras
    Scan
    Sconc
    Seneca
    Seth
    Shakespeare
    Sir Walter Raleigh
    Slavery
    Slime Mold
    Sloane
    Slope
    Small Town
    Smith
    Smithsonian
    Snow
    Sore
    Sounds
    Spanish Moss
    Specimens
    Speedway
    Spencer
    State Fair
    Steve Grant
    Stewart
    St. Mark's
    Suburban
    Sumter County
    Surveying
    Swamp
    Tar River
    Technology
    Textile
    Tide
    Tobacco
    Toms River
    Tool
    Towel
    Trade
    Trading Ford
    Trading Girls
    Trail
    Trap
    Traunter
    Tree
    Tree Farming
    Trek
    Trilobite
    Troi Perkins
    Truth
    Tryon
    Tupelo
    Turkey
    Tuscarora
    Twitter
    Ugly
    Unc
    Val
    Val Green
    Virginia
    Virginia Dare
    Virginia Historical Society
    Walking
    Washington
    Waxhaw
    Weather
    Website
    White
    Writing
    Wrong
    Yadkin
    Yoga

    RSS Feed

Proudly powered by Weebly