Florida’s Britton Hill sits at a dizzying 345 feet above sea level, towering over the flat swathes of land that make up the entirety of the Sunshine state. This peak (I’m using that term very loosely) is the lowest high point in the U.S. While Britton Hill is taller than both the Statue of Liberty and Big Ben, I’m here to confirm that it sure as heck doesn’t look or feel like it.
I passed down through the heart of Alabama before coasting through the final town before Florida: “Florala”. No; there is no typo there. It’s a concoction of the first parts of the two respective states. I get what they were trying to do, but that fact that they didn’t go with ‘Floribama’ baffles me. One other thing that sticks out in my memory of Florala, besides the quirky name, is in driving down the main strip, it had a distinctly “Small Town, USA” feeling that was actually quite nice.
Britton Hill is likely only destination for people who need to pull over for their dog to use the bathroom as well as lunatics who decide to hop in an old bone white van to hike high points around the country. I’m quite sure I was one of the very few out-of-towners to pass through Florala in the last year. And I did it twice. I’m sure I’ll be receiving job propositions from the Florala’s (even typing this word is troublesome)board of tourism any time now.
Florida’s highest point is a stone’s throw over the border. It’s a slice of grass masquerading as a park alongside a random state route. The Hill which doesn’t really even feel like a hill as the elevation gain is not only very gradual, but happens almost entirely while you’re driving. Even as far as parks go, Britton Hill isn’t anything to write home about. It’s a square of grass with some picnic tables, a bathroom, and a handful of Highpoint-Related reading material and commemorations. No slides or jungle gyms to speak of, prepubescent Billy would be appalled.
A bulletin board near the bathrooms was peppered with photos of other peaks (you know it’s bad when this peak’s most interesting point was pictures of other more interesting peaks)as well as the history of high-pointers (people who go around trying to bag as many state highpoints as possible). There was also a map of the Hill’s highpoint trail sitting next to a picture of a tarantula which incidentally brings me to a:
Spidery Sidenote-
I had no idea just how many tarantulas we had living in the wild in the US. I could have sworn they all lived in South America and were decidedly ‘that continent’s nightmarish problem.’ But, no apparently they’re all over the Southwest and we’re all just ignoring this infernal fact. The one bright side is that I didn’t learn this when I was a child or I probably would have just quit going outside.
Anyway..
The trail led back into the woods that served as a backdrop for the park. It was a five-minute walk with exciting features such as a bench and trees. Now, I don’t claim to be very perceptive. And perhaps if I had paid closer attention I would have noticed myself walking ‘upwards’ at all, but alas I didn’t. The path circled back to the other side of the park leaving me befuddled and with one more high point checked off. I shrugged, went back to Bucket and began to head north thinking that at least it would be an easy high point to recap; it was, quite literally, a walk in the park.
This was someone's backyard, there was a wire fence with a no trespassing sign and a dog was barking at me, but I like to live dangerously, apparently.
I had quite a bit of driving in front of me and I was losing day light. The drive back into Alabama afforded some nice views in the waning sunlight. I pulled over a few times, to hop out of the van and jog back down the street to a enticing view I had just passed, camera in hand, much to the confusion of passing Alabamians.
Haynes Lake in Tishomingo State Park
Hours later, I pulled into a parking spot in a Walmart in Mississippi. It was a mere twenty minutes away from the state’s high point, which I planned on hiking early the next morning. If you’ve been following along with this blog, you’ll know that I was consistent with using Walmart as my nightly residences in these early stages of this trip. I was still getting the hang of life on the road (and still am) so each night when I would roll into those massive parking lots and walk inside to fill water bottles and do dishes, it was comforting, in a strange, flourescent-ly lit way. I had become a bit of a Walmart sommelier, which is not something I am proud of, but it gives a little context to the feeling I had when I pulled into the parking lot that evening. Something didn’t quite feel right about that place. It was a small parking lot on a main road, very exposed. There were no other RV’s or campers (a sure sign a Walmart is a fine place to spend the evening), instead there were some trucks containing local youths who were socializing and eyeballing the guy who had just creaked into town in a large white time capsule. I mulled over these feelings of uneasy-ness, did some research on my phone and found another Walmart about 30 minutes away and headed there for the night. Most likely it would have been a quiet, eventless night, but I went with my gut. It’s also entirely possibly my gut just doesn’t trust Mississippi.
I heard my alarm go off from miles away that next morning. I climbed out of the dream I was having and into consciousness where I was met by heavy eye lids, drool marks on my pillow, a buzzing and noisy phone, and the general unpleasantries that come with waking up. It was still dark as I hit the road, driving back towards Tishomingo state park. I had read about this park on a review of the trail for Mississippi’s high point. The commenter said that Woodall Mountain was nothing special and recommended checking out this scenic state park for nicer sights. I decided to stop at Tishomingo first in hopes of using the favorable light of the new day to snap some nice images.
Apparently, Tishomingo got its name from Chickasaw tribe leader, Chief Tishu Miko, who’s ghost must be peeved about the current-day misspelling of his name. I’d be thoroughly irritated if I found out someone had named a park after me and called it Billohickley state park or something like that. That being said I did find Tishomingo to be a very fun word to say and took the opportunity to read it aloud on when I came across the many signs leading toward the park.
I arrived at the park and rolled past the entrance station, with no other soul in sight. The sun was up when I entered Tishomingo, the early morning beams light up the thick mist that covered the forest. The combination of the fog and golden morning sun made for some pretty cool shots, I was quite pleased. I went about exploring and snapping photos. The park featured a pristine lake, rocky hills covered in leftover autumn leaves and a creek that ran under the parks best known feature, a swinging bridge.
I've never met a swinging bridge I haven't liked.
I left Tishomingo accompanied by the satisfied feeling of having collected what would hopefully be some nice looking images. A big part of photography for me is that search for an image worth looking at later. Something worthing looking sharing with the people I care about.
Woodall Peak is the fourth smallest state high point in the country (I really eased myself into the trip with all these little guys early on). A small suburban neighborhood leads to a mile long dirt road that goes to the summit. I perused the area the near the bottom of the road, seeking parking spot for Bucket. Finding none, I figured there may just be a pull-off area on the beginning of the road. Now this road was far from wide, I actually don’t know how it would have gone if a car was coming in the other direction at any point, my guess is it would have gone abysmally. If I tried to turn around it would have resulted in a 300 point turn that would have involved coming awfully close to the edge of the steep hill that made up the sides of the road. Bucket’s tires sank into the greedy soil of the road which was still damp from that morning’s fog and dew, forming what I’m calling ‘Mississippi Quicksand’ (which is also a good name for a band.) Bucket is far from an off-roading vehicle (he’s barely an ‘on-road’ vehicle) so tensions were high as we tried to avoid getting stranded deep in the bowels of Mississippi which would have been the stuff of nightmares. At this point I was more or less locked into driving to the top. Bucket climbed the last portion of the road which ended in a clearing, the last remnants of fog, some deer, and the typical highpoint commemorative items (a bench, a plaque, and a notebook full of signatures as well as both quirky and lewd comments.)
A lot of stress in my life derives from things not going right. From adversities, be they big or small; life’s ‘hiccups’. Often looking back, these occurrences that seem like the end of the word at the time are really not big deals, sometimes laughably so. Woodall Mountain presented me with a bit of a hiccup. I could find nowhere to park that didn’t seem like it would attempt to consume poor Buck, I had already been to the peak, and worst of all: it was putting a conviction I’ve held for years to the test. I’ve strongly held onto the thought “why drive to the top of peaks when you can walk”.
I did a trip to Acadia National Park back around 2015 or so and while there I did my first sunrise hike. My friends and I woke up at 2 in the morning, after the long drive up to Maine and 10 o’clock bedtime the night before. We had a bite to eat at our campsite in those dark woods before walking down a long road that led to the trail head for Cadillac Mountain, whose peak affords views of what is often the first sunrise over the US. We huffed and puffed our way up the side, as the sky slowly began to lighten. The trees gave way to open skies when we were nearly at the peak. It was tranquil, our low conversation and the crunch of our footsteps the only noises, that is, until a car drove by. The trail ended in pavement and (for me) disappointment. There was a parking lot full of people waiting for the sun to show up. Generally I’m fairly level-headed and easy going, this is less true after four hours of sleep and ~4 miles of sleep-walking up a mountain. Maybe if I knew there was a road that led to the top it would have been an easier pill to swallow. Instead what happened was me pacing the mountain-top ranting and raving to my friends about how “those amateurs didn’t earn this” whilst gnawing on a Clif bar. I was a bit cranky. I vowed never to drive a mountain when I could walk it. And I stuck by that vow. For years. Until Mississippi.
I sat at a stop sign in the small neighborhood that beset the road to Woodall, my thoughts a storm of unsure-ties and enough angst to make a teenager proud. Eventually after a chat with my guardian angel (Mum) I realized, that I was probably the only person would consider this a big deal at all and that stress was not only not helping, it was actively making something out of nothing.
Ironically enough that situation parallels writing this post.
I’m quickly finding out that writing for other people is a whole different animal than writing just for myself. Making Florida’s and Mississippi’s high points seem interesting for you, my dearest reader, seemed like an excessively tall task, like, NBA player tall. But I like to think if this trip has done anything in terms of building character it’s that I’ve learned small lessons. Such as don’t stress too much over things that aren’t life threatening/legitimately a big deal or spend as little time in Mississippi as you can because it’ll both scare you and have you breaking your convictions in under 24 hours.
I’m not in the habit of giving advice unless it’s asked for. I am too aware of how little I know to go about passing out ill-informed suggestions. But if there’s one thing to take away here it’s to not hassle yourself over things that ultimately won’t effect your life. We’ve all got our little roads in Mississippi, it’s just a matter of how you deal with them. Sometimes it’s ok to just drive away.
I drove off. I had been to three high points in two days and had more to check off while I was deep down in the South. Revisiting these memories and writing this brought about the thoughts of not walking up that road, but beyond that it hasn’t crossed my mind, there’s been too many obstacles and adventures in the meantime. So let’s move on to talking about those.
If you made it through this and didn’t enjoy it much, well, just tell yourself it built some character. That’s what I would do.