If you’d told us at the beginning of the day we would end up spending the night camped on a plastic sheet in the pitch black bunker of an Alabama fort dating back to the civil war, we’d never have believed you. But so it is and I’m lying here on the concrete floor with only the light of the iPad to see from and swatting at mosquitos which appear to be laying siege to the fort in the same way union forces did in the Battle of Mobile Bay in 1864.
Fort Morgan can be found at the far end of a narrow peninsula which stands guard over the eastern approaches to Mobile Bay. We are surrounded by water, with the bay to our north and the Gulf of Mexico to our south. Outside a horn is sounding out, warning shipping of the many obstacles obstacles in the bay, which this afternoon vanished under a thick blanket of fog.
The day began so differently. We arose from our tents just after seven and rode our bikes down to the beachfront at the Big Lagoon State Park. The lagoon, sheltered from the Gulf of Mexico by a slender armed spit stretching from Perdido Key to the west, provides a perfect habitat for wildlife, including Ospreys. We watched two pairs on their nest and climbed the observation tower which overlooked the bay and the Gulf shore beyond the spit, which had lulled us to sleep the night before with the sound of crashing breakers.
Arriving back at camp, Earl brought us milk for our cereal and shortly afterwards Maureen turned up with a packet of McVities biscuits. Before we left camp we cycled past their immaculate campsite in the volunteer section of the camp and found about more about how this incredible woman had walked all 2,200 miles of the Appalachian Trail six years previously.
Maureen’s trail name was Gee Ma (Grandma) and she’d carried a 35 pound pack on her back the whole way. She turned out to be a world authority on how to save weight – and there were certainly a few things I could learn!
In fact before packing for the Southern Tier I’d spent quite a bit of time watching You Tube videos by long distance walkers, most noteably a young chap called Darwin. I figured out if you had to carry the weight opf your gear on your back, you’d do everything you could to shave off every single gram. The advice proved incredibly useful and I’d bought my tiny stove, featherlite pillow and titanium mugs based entirely on his reviews. I vowed next time to put in a call to Maureen.
We said our goodbyes to Mickie and as we rode out of the camp we got very excited at spotting a a snake sliding across the road, which we are now pretty sure was a Cottonmouth. Wanting to get a good picture, we set up a pincer movement with our bikes, only to see it rear up and give us a good view of the inside of its wide white mouth. We only discovered later that they are venomous and can jump a short distance. As usual we were far too close!
We then left to ride the 40 or so miles which would take us to the ferry crossing at Fort Morgan. We’re right on the edge of the Gulf Coast here, cycling along narrow spits of land which thread and weave together these far southern slivers of Florida and Alabama. Our first long road bridge took us across from Big Lagoon to Perdido Key. It was clear from the number of dredgers in the bay there is an ongoing battle to prevent it silting up. For a while, as we rode along the coastal strip we remained in Florida, while Alabama was directly north of us, before once again becoming Florida further north, as the state line traced the narrow channels.
A short time after we came to the Florida/Alabama border where we stopped for coffee at the Flora-Rama music venue, which straddles the state line. Hundreds of snowbirds were queuing up with their $10 tickets for a hootenanny featuring the Rhonda Hart Trio, who were already in full swing.
“Terry pointed out a poster on the wall that revealed one of the resident bands was Big Earl and the Sexual Biscuits”.
The venue, which has been going in one form or another since 1964, boasts five music stages and claims to be the most famous beach bar in the country. As well as the stage out back, there was another in the bar and a poster revealed there were four live music events that day alone, in addition to the snowbirds special. Terry pointed out a poster on the wall that revealed one of the resident bands was Big Earl and the Sexual Biscuits. Personally I’d have loved to see the duelling pianos, but if we’d have stayed any longer the venue would have witnessed its first ever fighting cyclists – so we had to push on.
Alabama’s state motto is ‘Alabama the Beautiful’. For a cyclist that means quiet(ish) roads and a broad shoulder and Alabama certainly delivered. I couldn’t help humming ‘Perdido’ as we wheeled along the Perdido Beach Boulevard and pretty soon we were off the road altogether on cycle paths that wind and weave around the Gulf State Park and Bon Secour Wildlife Management Area. Moving on towards Fort Morgan the high rise buildings gradually disappeared to be replaced with wooden houses on stilts.
It felt like we were travelling into another world, a million miles from the typical US strip of retail. It was a landscape more akin to the remoteness of Dungeness in Kent – except there was water on both sides of us. This other worldliness was amplified as a cold mist gradually began to engulf us about ten miles from the point. When we eventually arrived at Fort Morgan all we could see of the fortifications were dark shadows.
The lane for the ferry was worryingly quiet and pulling up at the payment booth our fears were realised – all crossings had been cancelled until further notice due to the fog.
“It just came down,” explained the attendant in the booth at the entrance to the state park, “When you are out on this point you never know what it’s going to do, it just does what it wants to.”
We took a quick spin around the historic site on our bikes, but apart from seeing a couple big cannons through the murk, it was very hard to see what treasures were hidden there. More visible was the small museum so we had a look around to see what we were missing.
That done we now had to tackle where we were going to stay for the night. Camping on historical monuments is strictly forbidden (can you imagine turning up at Chatsworth and pitching your tent on the lawn?) but Heather Tassin, site director from the Alabama Historical Commission kindly gave us permission to put our tents close to the entrance. We then headed for what appeared to be the only place in town – Tacky Jacks, a seafood restaurant and tavern which offered spectacular views of Mobile Bay. Except of course when it was shrouded in thick fog.
We weren’t the only ones there – just a few moments after we arrived the place was packed out and I tucked into seafood gumbo and hush puppies while Terry enjoyed a giant taco salad. Throughout our meal the waitress gave us ever more worrying information about the weather. “Looks like there’s going to be a storm tonight,” she warned as she poured more coffee.
“Any idea when the fog will lift?” I asked. We were now getting seriously short on time if we were going to make Mardis Gras in New Orleans. If the ferry didn’t leave in the morning then there would be no time to take an alternative route which meant diverting inland via Mobile. It was the ferry or bust.
“Could be a month,” came the matter of fact reply to gasps of astonishment from Terry and myself. For the second time that week we were faced with the prospect of having to scrap part of the ride. “A month?! – really?”
She nodded and made to walk away to serve the next customer. Worried that we were blocking a table – we’d long since finished our meal and were trying to see how many free refills of coffee would could get before we were asked to leave – she told us we could stay as long as we like: “You’re doing me a favour – it’s one less table for me to wait on”. I was beginning to suspect she had no desire to be Tacky Jack’s ‘Employee of the Month’.
A little later she returned with yet more doom-mongering. “They are saying tornadoes now, ” she informed us with, in my opinion, just a little too much satisfaction. Perhaps she’d turned up for work at the wrong restaurant tonight, confusing Tacky Jacks with her real place of work Tactless Jacks, just a few doors along.
Either way it seemed clear that spending the night in a tent on such an exposed finger of coast was a no-goer. It had been suggested I call AJ Andreson, the local volunteer fire service chief about advice on finding a shelter for the night – and when I got through to him he already knew of our predicament. It seems word of two stranded Englishmen on bicycles travels fast in these parts.
A little later, as the rain came down in rods, thunder crashed and lightning lit up the sky, AJ and the fire station mascot dog Ashes, arrived at the restaurant (they’d driven 12 months to help us) along with Heather from the museum. They had a couple of ideas where we could stay – in a shelter by the fire station twelve miles up the road, or inside Fort Morgan itself, sleeping in one of the old concrete gun batteries – as long as we didn’t tell anyone about it. Usually the only people who got to stay there were the local scouts. Since the bunkers were bombproof we decided they were also up to braving a storm, so we opted for the fort.
As we were making arrangements to get going, a fishing boat came in behind the restaurant with a 225lb swordfish onboard which had been caught 79 miles off shore. Heather explained that at this time of year the population of Fort Morgan was around 500 but ballooned to thousands during the summer months. One hundred thousand people had visited the Fort Morgan last year.
She also told of of the conservation work the fort is doing to protect the endangered Alabama Beach Mouse, as well as important nesting grounds for turtles. The mouse once lived on much of the Fort Morgan Peninsula but it has faced a triple whammy of coastal development, storms and predation by domestic and wild cats, which have seen its numbers fall.
Alabama only has a small strip of coastline but is appears it is trying to be as eco-friendly as possible. Earlier in the day we’d cycled past the Gulf State Park which Heather explained had one of the top ten buildings in the world judged on its environmental credentials. It seemed there had been a long and on-going campaign to protect this unique narrow strip of land.
With the rain showing no signs of abating, AJ helped put our bikes and panniers into his fire truck while Heather drove us out to the batteries, via the old WW2 airstrip. By the time we’d left the restaurant, loaded and and unloaded the bikes and dashed into the concrete bunkers we were soaked.
Laying out plastic sheets on the cold floors, we stripped off our wet clothes and crawled into our sleeping bags in probably the most bizarre places we’ve ever slept.
“Just make sure you are up and out by eight before the public arrive,” reminded Heather and with that they were off. It may not have been the Hilton but we were in the dry, with no chance of being hit by lightning.
“This trip just doesn’t stop giving,” said Terry and we drifted off to sleep hoping the rain would erase the fog and the ferry will run in the morning. If not we have no idea what we will do next.
Today’s miles: 44.06
Total miles since Anastasia State Park: 580.43
Hooboy Ya’lls needs to be getting on to Norleans!