'TYBEE'

One of Tybee Island's most familiar landmarks

             It’s the middle of January, and the temp outside is a balmy 30-somethin’. So, here I sit in front of my warm heater, thinkin’ ‘bout what else?? Summertime and the beach, of course! But, not just any beach, have you. Having grown up with our family vacationin’ down along the Gulf coast, primarily at Gulf Shores or Panama City Beach, I have, in the past decade, become quite partial to Tybee Island, the northernmost of Georgia’s famed Golden Isles. No, the beaches on Tybee don’t offer sugar-white sands (although they are still so very beautiful), nor do the waters of the Atlantic come close to comparin’ to the blue of those of the Gulf of Mexico, but the historical romance and natural beauty of the Georgia coast more than make up for all of that.

            Close enough to Savannah for one to enjoy that beautiful old city, yet far enough away that there’s actually a small-town atmosphere about the island. Tybee is one of those rare places that makes one daydream about someday movin’ there and livin’ happily ever after. There’s no place else like it that I’ve yet to find.

Little Tybee's pristine beaches stretch for miles

            From the salt marshes that extend as far as the eye can see, at times seemingly barren, laced with empty, muddy creek beds devoid of any visible life, at other times absolutely beautiful with twisting, turning waterways rippling under the bright sunshine and teeming with fish and birds of every kind; to the island nature preserve of Little Tybee, an area that can only be accessed by boat, offerin’ empty expanses of pristine beach that stretch unbroken into the distance.

One of the boardwalks along the North Beach

            Boardwalks bleached gray from the weather; sea oats swayin’ in the breeze; the taste of salt on the wind as the surf rolls up onto the beach, leavin’  bits and pieces of seashells of every shape and size upon the sand as it goes back out again; dolphins breaking the surface in lazy arcs as they frolic just off shore; pelicans flyin’ in formation, then droppin’ out of the sky like Navy dive-bombers, plungin’ headfirst into schools of fish; and the hundreds of gulls and terns, ever-present with their incessant chatter.

            Historical landmarks, such as an old military installation, Fort Screven, in use through the Second World War; the oldest and the tallest lighthouse in Georgia, distinctly marked with none other like it in the U.S.; and a giant anchor, salvaged from a sunken wreck of an old wooden sailing ship discovered off of the island’s north shore.

A Tybee Island sunset

            Beach houses, vacation homes, and rental units of every size and style conceivable; there are huge, gnarled oaks, with gray beards of Spanish moss blowin’ in the gentle breeze, tall palmetto trees, prickly yucca plants, and azaleas galore. On Tybee, bicycles outnumber cars, electric golf carts and buggies are legal to drive on the city’s streets, and parking is at a premium.

            Postcards four for a dollar and sunglasses two for ten in the shops along Tybrisa Street, the heart of ‘downtown proper’, and across the street is DOCK’S BAR, where the locals hang out and the ‘weekenders’ are welcome; you can get fried conch with homemade remoulade sauce served dockside at AJ’S, where the sunsets are utterly breathtaking; a pound of fresh shrimp on the patio at STINGRAY’S, amid the thump-thump of a live band; or a huge platter of Low Country Boil under light-draped oaks out’n amongst the marshes, at THE CRAB SHACK.

Sunrise on Tybee

            A soft, linen shirt, with khaki shorts and barefoot; a frozen concoction of the sort that Jimmy Buffet sings about, in-hand; strollin’ along the beach late of an evenin’ with the tide washin’ the sand from around my feet as it rolls back out to sea washin’ my cares away.

                 A familiar island sayin’ warns visitors that once they get Tybee sand ‘tween their toes, they’ll forever have an urge to return. Well, it's the truth... for I'm ready to be there now, myself.

'CHURCH MICE'

          Now, back in the day, when we were growin’ up, me and my brother Terry weren’t allowed to take toys to church. Yeah, I know… nowadays, folks don’t think nothin’ about it, but back then, it just wasn’t allowed… especially for us, the children of the church’s Minister of Music and Youth. So, it ought to go without sayin’ that the Sunday mornin’ we did decide to break that rule stands out as a most memorable one, for sure.

          The day before, while over in nearby Meridian, Daddy had bought us a couple of realistic-lookin’ mice made out of rabbit fur. We loved ‘em. They were so life-like, right up a couple of 9 and 11-year-old boys’ alley, and the following mornin’, into our dress pants pockets them li’l mice went, church-bound.

          Now, at that time, in the Southern Baptist churches that we grew up in, the fifteen minutes between when Sunday school lets out and the church service starts, as the congregation filed in and made their way to their seats, folks would quietly visit with one another. Well, back over ‘bout midways back on the right side of the church is where our friend Beth Lindley and her folks sat, and me and Terry were in the pew behind her, showin’ off our furry li’l prizes. Now, Beth’s momma was busy visitin’ with the adults in the pew ahead, payin’ the three of us no mind. She should’ve known better. The three of us were always into somethin’. Yeah… you see where this is goin’, right? Like I said… Ms. Lindley was payin’ us no mind at all, even when Beth set one of them furry li’l mice on her dear momma’s shoulder.

Suddenly, the organ sounded, indicatin’ that church was about to start, and that was the Jennings boys’ cue that they’d better be sittin’ up on the front row when their Daddy and the preacher and the choir came out, or they’d be in big trouble. Our fear of not bein’ where we were supposed to be overrode any need whatsoever to have that mouse in-hand, so we left it with her, and made a dash for our seats.

Well, just about that time, Ms. Lindley shifted in her seat, causin’ that li’l ol’ mouse to fall off’n her shoulder and right smack-dab in the middle of her lap. Well, folks… lemme tell ya; she let out a holler that caused everybody in the sanctuary to twist ‘round in their seats

to see what all the commotion was.
            Now, Ms. Lindley, the very quiet and well-reserved lady that she is, quickly regained her composure and sat there all sheepish and red as a beet, embarrassed as all get out for havin’ drawn attention to herself. Yet, there were three in that big ol’ church sanctuary that were not about to turn and look thataway, sittin’ stock-still with eyes-front, visibly shaking with repressed laughter, though; which, was a dead give-away as to whom the three mischievous culprits were.

In walked the preacher and Daddy, followed by the choir, and luckily… Daddy and Momma were none the wiser, for Ms. Lindley was a good sport and after a good laugh, never said a word about it. Plus, thanks to Beth swiftly and deftly catchin’ it up when her momma had thrown it from her lap, we got our mouse back.

So, needless to say… that broke me and Terry from sneakin’ toys into church. That was our one and only time to do that. From then on, we sat our li’l hineys on that front church pew and were quiet as a couple of li’l church mice.

Okay… maybe not THAT quiet, but I think you get what I mean.  J

'A SIMPLE, YET VIVID, ACCOUNT'

Two Medicine Lake and Rising Wolf Mountain

            "In the morning an early start was made, and evening found us away up on the Medicine River, where the first pines grow. The next noon we went into camp on the shores of the lake, our lodges being pitched in a grassy little bit of prairie on the north side. Back of us rose the long, high pine and quaking aspen ridge, which divides the deep valley from the plains. In front, across the lake, was a long cliff-topped mountain of gray sandstone, its slope densely forested with pines. The grand view was to the west. First, but three or four miles distant, a huge, heart-shaped, snow-patched mountain, which I named Rising Wolf, in honor of the greatest plainsman of us all, my friend Hugh Monroe. Beyond that, hemming in a vast amphitheater of lake and forest, rose more mountains, cliff-faced and needle-pointed, forming the divide of the great range. Rose and gold they were in the rising sun, jet-black when silhouetted against the evening sky. We never tired of gazing at them, their shifting colors, the fleecy clouds of a morning banding their splendid heights.

Blackfeet camping at Two Medicine Lake

            The campsite selected. Ashton and I jointed the rods he had brought out from the East, set reels, strung lines, and attached the moistened leaders and flies. Then we walked down to the outlet of the lake, only a hundred yards or so distant, followed by every one in our camp, including the children. I had talked about the pleasure of fly-fishing. The Indians were anxious to see this, to them, new phase of the white man's arts. Ashton made the first cast, and his artificial flies were the first that ever lit upon the waters of the Two Medicine. The response was generous. The placid water heaved and swirled with the rush of unsophisticated trout, and one big fellow, leaping clear from the depths, took the dropper with him in his descent. The women screamed. "Ah-hah-hai'!" the men exclaimed, clapping hand to mouth. "Strange are the ways of the white men. Their shrewdness has no end; they can do everything."

An older Schultz with
fly rod & stringer of fish in-hand

            The big trout made a good fight, as all good trout should do, and at last came to the surface on its side, exhausted. I slipped a landing net under it and lifted it out, and again there were exclamations of surprise from our audience, with many comments upon the success of it all, the taking of so large a fish with such delicate tackle. Trout we had in abundance, rolled in yellow cornmeal and fried to that delicate brown color and unsurpassed flavor which all true fisherman appreciate.
            Thus the days passed in peace and happiness."


            The above excerpt is from My Life As An Indian, one of my favorite books by one of my favorite writers, James Willard Schultz. It's a simple, yet vivid, account of a trip back into what is now Glacier National Park, in Montana, where the author and a close friend were the first to fly-fish the pristine waters of Two Medicine Lake. Though the story takes place sometime in the early 1880's, the adventure and romance the telling of it conjures up still speaks as clearly to the outdoorsman of today as it did when it was written more than one hundred years ago.

Apikuni talking over old times with his
old friend Bobtail Chief of the Bloods tribe  

            If'n the Good Lord's a willin', one of these days, this here coon's headin' to Montana to hike and fish and camp amongst them same mountains, and with me I'll be takin' a couple of ol' Apikuni's books to read by the fire of a night.

            "Who is Apikuni?", you say. Why... Schultz, of course. That's the name the Blackfoot Indians gave him when he married into the tribe, means 'Spotted Robe' or some such. Come on... you know... Apikuni, the white Indian?
            Good Lord! Where have you been? I thought ever'body knew who Apikuni was. Why, back in the day, boys and men alike eagerly awaited his latest stories to be published. They couldn't wait to get their hands on 'em. Through his stories, they could travel the Great Plains, hunt buffalo, venture into the mountains, and know the free life of the Blackfeet.
            Say the name still don't ring a bell? Well, I declare! Friend, what you need to do is get yourself a James Willard Schultz book and dive right in. I guarantee ya... you won't be disappointed!

Two Medicine Lake, Glacier National Park, Montana, USA

            "I will travel the well-worn trails, cast flies on famed waters, witness nature's breathtakin' beauty with awe and appreciation, and make my bed under the Heavens, brilliant with a blanket of stars; and late of an evenin', as the temperature starts to drop and the shadows grow long, then deepen, I will rest by the fire and recall the stories of the old ones." - Barry D. Jennings