It seemed whatever way we turned today the wind was in our face trying to smash us back into the Atlantic. It hit us with such force we even had to pedal going downhill. The Southern Tier was trying to tell us something – ‘go home’ – and at this stage of the journey we didn’t need much convincing.
It was difficult not to get despondent, particularly since there were times today when it felt like we were cycling through a landscape left behind after a major battle. Except this hadn’t been between two rival armies fighting it out and it certainly hadn’t been a fair contest. When Hurricance Michael decided to throw his toys out of the pram as he romped through the Panhandle in October 2018 there was only ever going to be one winner – and it wasn’t the people who lived here.
The omens were there right from the beginning today. The Triple Cs campsite, while off route, had been a perfect retreat for the night with the wooden protected shelters providing an excellent spot for the tents. As we packed up camp a few campers began to emerge from the assorted RVs parked behind us. We were among the first to head to the road – except we didn’t get very far.
As we rolled out on our bikes, dark clouds were skidding so fast across the skies it seemed they had somewhere really important to go and were already running late. Then there was a solitary thunderclap and the skies opened. Pushing the bikes rapidly thorugh the rain we dashed into the camp store where Rhonda, our teabag saviour of the night before, took pity on us and made us tea and coffee.
While we waited an hour for the rain to subside, Rhonda, who had been born in Scotland and came to the US as a child, told us more about the damage Hurricane Michael had wrought on the area.
She confirmed what we knew already. This was one of the poorest areas of Florida and was already struggling with major drug problems such as addiction to crystal meths and heroin when Michael decided to shake up the party.
The Hurricane had brought death, devastation and even looting, but there was a positive side. Cleaning up the mess left behind was proving a major undertaking – and that meant one thing people here did need – jobs. Fortunately the Triple C seemed to have survived pretty much ok, an example of how random extreme weather can be – ripping one house to pieces on one side of the street and leaving the one oppostie totally unscathed.
As we cycled our way up the Little Sycamore Road to rejoin the official ACA route at Chattahoochee, we started to see more of the damage for ourselves. The First Baptist Church in Chattahoochee had its steeple ripped clean off. The one at the town’s Presbyterian Church had survived that indignity, but was looking battered and bruised with cladding and pieces of roofing torn off.
“Hurricane Michael was unusual in coming this far into the Panhandle – and he found easy pickings”.
A little further down the road almost every home seemed to have a roof covered in protective blue tarpaulin. These are not the large solidly built holiday villas most people associate with Florida, but mainly single storey wooden homes and clearly not designed for this sort of onslaught. Hurricane Michael was unusual in coming this far into the Panhandle – and he found easy pickings.
As well as damaged properties we saw thousands of uprooted trees, damaged businesses and piles of debris and tree roots piled up next to the side of the road. Another ubiquitous feature were signs advertising the services of roofing companies. They had sprouted up everywhere, jostling for prime position on the road side, in front yards and nailed onto buildings. These were some of the jobs Rhonda had been talking about and if roofing was your business then this was boom town.
On the side of one business, written on wooden sheets in two foot high blue letters, were painted the words: ‘THANK YOU LINEMEN AND 1st RESPONDERS’ Goodness knows what this area looked like immediately after the hurricane struck – we were seeing it five months on and it still looked appalling.
Coming out of town we not only crossed the Apalachicola River, but also moved into a different time zone – so we got back the hour we’d lost in the rain at the Triple C. We’d also moved into a different region of the Panhandle – the Marianna Lowlands of Jackson, Holmes and Washington Counties. The ACA map promised us a flat or gently rolling area underlaid by limestone and dotted with sinkholes containing ponds or small lakes ringed with cypress trees.
But all we saw on the road to Sneads was more devastation. Hundreds of trees sliced in half about twelve foot up the trunk as if some huge scythe had cut all the tops off. Except this scythe had been a hurricane, leaving a scene that looked more like a WW1 battlefield than rural Florida. The noise when all those trees starting snapping must have been terrifying, cracking and spitting like battlefield guns. The energy expended here must have been immense and we looked on in shock – and awe.
Passing through Grand Ridge, whose only claim to fame seemed to be producing Miss Florida 2015, we battled on against the headwind and the 90 with only the occasional blustering of dogs to spark our interest. It was heart-breaking to see people’s homes and businesses crushed. Many people in this area seemed to live in little more than shacks or parked up old trailers. One hit with a fallen tree, or the full force of the storm screaming around the roof was enough to tear them apart. Sometimes all that was left was a pile of debris by the side of the road. It was hard to believe these had been someone’s home.
We struggled to find someone for lunch, which wasn’t surprising since it was a Sunday and besides which so many businesses had been flattened. So were forced to stop at Hardee’s, a fast food restaurant with the strapline: ‘We’re known as the place to go for juicy delicious charbroiled burgers’. It clearly wasn’t written to attract someone like Terry. Oh dear, this was going to be a complicated lunch.
There was absolutely nothing on the menu Terry could eat, so bless him, he asked for a burger bun, with just its salad filling, but without the burger. The waitress stared at him as if he’d gone completely nuts. “What – you don’t want salad on your burger?” she asked, obviously thinking she had misheard his order.
“No,” Terry explained politely. “I don’t want burger on my salad – I just want the bun and the salad”. She stared again, not quite believing what she’d heard and called over her supervisor, where a long discussion ensued about how on earth you could input that combination into the computer. It seemed no-one at Hardee’s had ever contemplated someone ordering a burger without, er, a burger!
“The restaurant had come to a standstill, undone by a piece of limp lettuce, a rather tasteless looking bun and a hungry and now irritable vegetarian”.
Eventally another member of staff joined them, the another and eventually a fifth. The restaurant had come to a standstill, undone by a piece of limp lettuce, a rather tasteless looking bun and a hungry and now irritable vegetarian. As staff member five tried to work out the accounting logistics one of the bemused young waitresses asked me where we were from and then the supplementary: “What are you doing here”? It was a question we were asking ourselves.
At Marianna we were reminded that Michael wasn’t the only time bloodshed had come to Jackson County. At Ely Corner a green sign detailed the Battle of Marianna with the main action starting there at 11am on September 27th 1864 when Confederate cavalry formed a line of battle across the main street. Union forces approached from the west and at first were repelled by heavy Confederate fire. But as the greys reloaded, the blues charged and the two sides ending up fighting with sabers. When the Battle of Marianna was finally over eight Union soliders were dead and ten Confederate.
“It was going to be tight but we might just make Mardis Gras – and boy did we need some encouragement to keep going”.
For us, our main battle remained the wind, which we fought, as ever on the cursed 90. It took us through Cottondale (where Terry appropriately spotted some cotton fields) and then onto Chigley where we we checked into a Super 8, boiled up noodles in the room and rested our tired legs. Well I say our, but I mean mine as Terry never gets tired legs. My knee was also very painful – or was I just looking for excuses to stop?
After doing some running repairs on the Surly – we finally got the front dynamo powering the light and USB charger – we planned out our next ten days riding and came to a surprising conclusion. If luck was on our side we could cycle all the way to New Orleans. It was going to be tight but we might just make Mardis Gras – and boy did we need some encouragement to keep going.
Today’s distance: 55.77
Total Distance since Anastasia State Park: 389.58
I had no idea that Hurricane Michael caused so much devastation and loss to the people of Florida.
Enjoying reading about places so different from England. Have to say though that the food on offer either catered or self-catered doesn’t sound tempting.
Keep on cycling.
K