Early spring. Mornings were brisk, afternoons hot and muggy. Cardinals were twitting in newly greened branches. Mosquitoes and seed ticks were already out, seeking blood nourishment. I sat on the front steps, breathing in salt air and drinking coffee. About that time, my friend, Beau, pulled up in his new truck. “Let’s go have an adventure!” he called out.
I walked over to the road to admire his shiny, green vehicle. Peering inside, I noted a cooler on the floorboard and a paper bag on the seat. “What’s this?” I asked, suspecting already what he was up to. “Lunch and refreshments!” he replied enthusiastically.
What could I say? “Let me get my boots on!” I laughed. Ten minutes later, we were heading up 65 into Tate’s Hell.
“It’s time for the red basil to bloom. Once,” he continued, “the red basil bloomed all up and down the sides of the road. It was everywhere. Then, one day, a road crew came along just before it bloomed and mowed it all down. It couldn’t reseed itself and almost died out in this area. Today, we’re going to search out the survivors!”
We traveled so many miles of dirt road, they all began to look alike. I suspected we were lost. “We got plenty of gas?” I inquired nervously. “Full tank. Never know when you’re gonna get lost out here,” he smiled.
Funny how some people can read your mind.
Early magnolias were filling the air with wild sweetness and small white orchids were dotting the high ground. Then, we were sliding sideways. Fast. Everything was swirling. The truck spun out, propelled by slick mud and speed. When it was over, we were half in and half out of a ditch. Water began seeping in under my door.
“Can you back it out?” I began hopefully.
“Maybe,” he responded. So he put it in reverse and began spinning the wheels. We began to inch back onto the road. Finally, we had gotten all the way out, except for one front tire. It looked stuck, so I got out and waded over to it. A root or something was wedged under it and preventing it from moving any farther.
We stood in the road and looked at our predicament. Surely there was a way.
“Maybe I can find some limbs to put up under there and give that tire some traction.” I suggested.
So we crossed the ditch and set off into the scrub to find some good sized limbs to use. Underbrush became denser and denser preventing us from making much progress. Then, through the tangle, we saw a flash of red. “It’s the red basil!” he shouted joyfully. By this time, I could care less about any basil. But, he was making such happy little sounds as he snatched and tore his way through the vines and bushes, I could not help but get caught up in his enthusiasm. When we finally broke through into a little clearing, I forgot all about the truck.
There, in front of us, was an old cabin. The roof was partially gone, and most of the glass had been broken out of the windows. A porch stood crippled on one side and rotten through on the other. The yard was full of red basil and purple irises. An ancient, overgrown azalea blazed magenta. The front door stood open. Something brown and furry scampered out of sight under the porch.
“Let’s look inside,” I proposed.
Beau was already five steps ahead of me. We gingerly stepped inside. A pile of moldy clothes were scattered around on the floor, along with some shoes. An iron bed stood off to one side. A wood burning stove dominated the main room. Some hand-made cabinets and a washtub served as a kitchen.
There was also a sturdy looking table and a couple of chairs. We sat. Pretended we lived here in this swamp dwelling. Talked about what it would have been like.
Then, we noticed a crudely framed photograph on the wall. It had turned dark with age and was most curious. It was a picture of an elderly man and woman, surrounded by racoons, foxes, squirrels, and deer, standing outside in front of the cabin. “Let’s take this with us,” I suggested.
“Yes, maybe someone will know who they are,” Beau added.
And, since it was getting dark, we started looking around for something solid to place under the tire. We managed to get a couple of good sized boards out of the dilapidated porch and carred them back to the ditch. Once again, I waded into the dark, treacherous water. The boards fit nicely and I tamped them down as well as possible with my foot, so they wouldn’t slide. “Try it now,” I commanded. Beau revved it fruitlessly for a few minutes. Then, incredibly, the truck began to move back and up, out of the ditch.
By the time we were back on the hard road and headed south, we were worn out. “We’ll have to come back and explore that place some more,” I said.
“Hey!” Beau remarked, “we forgot to get that photograph!”
“We’ll come back for it,” I assured him.
But, although we made several attempts later, to revisit our remote discovery, we could not find it. Evidently, we should have marked the spot. As the years rolled by, we often talked about that day and made plans to try locating the cabin again. We actually rode around several times trying to spot something familiar. Eventually, the incident was forgotten and Beau and I both moved on with our lives. But every now and then, I’ll wake up from a very vivid dream about a cozy little cabin tucked in among the red basil, deep within that enchanted wilderness called Tate’s Hell.
