Stumphouse Tunnel has an interesting story:

The tunnel was first proposed in 1835 by residents of Charleston, South Carolina as a new and shorter route for the Blue Ridge Railroad between Charleston and the Ohio river valley area which until then was only accessible by bypassing the mountains entirely to the South and then traveling up north through Georgia and middle Tennessee. In 1852, 13 miles of tunnel were proposed to cross the Blue Ridge Mountains through South Carolina, North Carolina, and into Tennessee. Construction on the railway was begun in the late 1850s and was successful through most of South Carolina until hitting the mountains around Wallhalla in Oconee County. There Stumphouse tunnel along with three other tunnels was to be built.

Construction on Stumphouse tunnel began in 1856 when the George Collyer Company of London brought many Irish workers into the area for this project. Many of the workers lived in housing on top of Stumphouse mountain called Tunnel Hill. By 1859, the State of South Carolina had spent over a million dollars on the tunnel and refused to spend any more on the project, therefore the tunnel work was abandoned.

The tunnel is pretty imposing, especially when you consider that it was excavated largely by hand:

There are all kinds of ghost stories associated with the tunnel. Most of them are contrived at best, but that didn’t stop me from reciting them all to my wife before we entered the crypt-like cavern. She didn’t seem to bite on the ghost stories, but she really got scared when I casually noted that there could very well be a wounded animal in there, frightened, and ready to lash out at any threat. She grabbed the flashlight with one hand and my arm with the other. We entered at our own risk:

After you get about 1600 feet in, the remaining tunnel is blocked by an old, rusted gate. Standing alone in the dank darkness, I was reminded of Poe’s Cask of Amontillado. This is the view from the inside:

There are supposed to be graves on the mountain above the tunnel, but we hiked all over the place and didn’t see any marker stones. After hiking back down, we wandered across the park to Issaqueena Falls. Here’s the story behind the name:

[The] falls were apparently named after an Indian girl who discovered her tribe planned to attack a nearby community of white settlers.

She quickly dashed away on her horse to warn the settlers of their peril. During her ride, she named the places she passed – such as Mile Creek, Six Mile, Twelve Mile, and Eighteen Mile – until she finally reached the threatened settlement now known as Ninety Six.

Learning of her betrayal, Issaqueena’s tribe chased her to the falls, where the young maiden pretended jump but hid behind the wall of water instead. Assuming she was dead, the tribe called off its search and Issaqueena was able to make her escape.

This is one of the few waterfalls we’ve visited where you see the falls from above. You hear the roaring water as you approach and there’s a viewing area off to the side where you can take in the falls:

If you look at the picture above, you can see the hidden ledge just below the top where the water falls straight down. We wanted to hike down to it, but it was too muddy. We’ll get a picture behind the water wall next time we’re in the area.

Post Script: Lunch in Walhalla

On the way back home, we stopped in Walhalla for lunch. We’d heard good things about The Steak House Cafeteria, so we gave it a try. We each loaded our trays with fried chicken, mac & cheese, rice & gravy, iced tea, and my wife got a dessert. Everything looked good, but I couldn’t help but wonder how long the food had been sitting in steam trays. When it was time to pay, I was stunned by the check-out lady’s rudeness. She could give the Soup Nazi a run for his money. There was no one else in line except for the two of us, but she acted as though the queue was winding out the door and we were the wrench in the cogs. It’s almost as if her job was to spot the out-of-towners and harangue them until they retreat outside the city limits. When she rang us up, the total came to more than twenty dollars. 20+ dollars. A third of the food order was rice!

Although the price was shocking, we were even more surprised by the taste of the food. The rice was mushy and the gravy was bland. How do you screw up rice and gravy? The mac and cheese was average, with overcooked noodles and not enough salt. The chicken was okay, but not ‘$20 good’ if that makes sense. My wife ate two bites of her oreo-crusted dessert and put her fork on the table. I asked if she wanted to take the rest home and she responded with a terse “no.” I honestly think that was a first. I should mention that I actually liked the unsweetened tea, but then again, I like really weak tea. The man who attended to the dining room was polite, but adequate tray removal service doesn’t make up for lousy food.

We’ve driven by The Steak House Cafeteria on Sundays and it’s always packed. I don’t get it? Either toxic drinking water has dulled the townsfolk’s taste buds or the restaurant had a really bad day. Either way, the only way I’ll ever step foot in that place again is if I’ve sinned and am in need of severe penance.

We moved away from DC just before the stadium was built and were amazed by the development in the surrounding area. Although still in the early stages of gentrification, the neighborhood is much nicer and more developed than it was when I lived there.

I used to go to a Taco Bell on South Capitol, about four blocks from where the stadium now sits. You had shout your order through three inches of Plexiglas to workers who were exemplars of incompetent disrespect. Once you placed your order, you waited 20 minutes to hear your number called. If you were lucky, you only had to entertain one or two con stories from panhandlers who lurked among the customers.

In order to get your food order, which was almost always wrong, the employees put the bag in a bulletproof compartment that had two doors. They couldn’t open their door unless yours was closed, and you couldn’t get your food until they secured the door on their side of the clear wall. Sometimes they left their door cracked and walked away to do who knows what in the back. If you tapped on the glass, the person working the register would shoot you a dark and piercing glare. The message was clear; “You just bought yourself another minute of waiting. Tap the glass again and see what happens.” You felt like a caged rat, wondering what trick you had to perform to get your cheese.

When the Gods of Taco Bell finally graced you with your grab bag of fast food, which may or may not include random side items from the KFC section of the menu, you had to run through a gauntlet of red-eyed bums to get back to your car. The whole endeavor was so bad that I eventually started driving out to Arlington to get my fix. That Taco Bell is now gone, and the whole area looks cleaner than ever before. I still wouldn’t want to be alone on the street after midnight, but the progress is impressive.

The hike to the falls is under 1.5 miles, but it takes about 40 minutes because the path constantly changes form a wide, canopied pathway to a a narrow, rocky ridge line.

It took us a little longer because several sections of the trail were covered in thick ice. The hike takes you alongside and eventually across Falls Creek, which I’m sad to say is more robust than downtown Greenville’s Reedy River:

The falls are about a hundred feet high and break in stages:

Because of the near-constant shade and the cool, moist breeze coming off the water, this would be a perfect hike for the dog days of summer when the smothering heat and humidity keep most people indoors.

When you factor in time, money and level of difficulty, is there any meal better than a shrimp boil?

You just throw everything into a pot of seasoned, boiling water and that’s it for the prep work and cooking. Then you strain it, dump it on some newspaper, and dig in. There are no dirty dishes and the whole mess goes straight into a garbage bag when you’re done.

In our travels, we’ve noticed that people in the north tend to use Old Bay in their boils while people in the south use Tony Chachere’s. We used both in this boil. Old Bay has a smoky flavor and Chachere’s is a little salty, so they both bring something to the party when mixed.

My wife and I recently stayed at the Jekyll Island Club on Jekyll Island, GA.

It was founded about 100 years ago as a winter retreat by our nation’s titans of industry:

At the turn of the century, tycoons, politicians, and socialites flocked to Jekyll Island to revel in their own luxury and America’s burgeoning wealth. Our historic Georgia Club was described in the February 1904 issue of Munsey’s Magazine as “the richest, the most exclusive, the most inaccessible club in the world.” Its impressive members included such luminaries as J.P. Morgan, William Rockefeller, Vincent Astor, Joseph Pulitzer, William K. Vanderbilt, and other recognizable names on the roster were Macy, Goodyear, and Gould.

Eventually, the state bought the island and opened it to the public. The historic district is really nice, but the rest of the island is an odd mixture of modern development, RV Parks and 1950′s nostalgia.

The historic district is the land surrounding the Club, which includes the many “cottages” built by wealthy families who frequented the resort in the early 20th century.

The whole place is bike and pedestrian-friendly, so we rode around half of the island and took in the sights. The island is covered with trees that droop to the ground:

We even saw an alligator just off one of the bike trails:

I named him Mr. Hyde. Naturally.

We took the trolley tour and learned all about how tea goes from bush to beverage.

Here are some details about the plantation:

Located 25 minutes outside of Charleston on Wadmalaw Island, the plantation produces American Classic Tea and offers public tours. Founded in 1960, the plantation hosts several hundred thousand tea bushes, which are descendants of bushes originally brought over from China and India during the 1800s.

According to our tour guide, the US government became concerned in the 1950′s that Soviet-allied countries would shut off tea exports to their NATO rivals. So the plantation was established to see if America’s climate can successfully support tea production. With the heat and humidity around Charleston, Wadmalaw Island seemed like a good place to experiment. As the cold war waned, the plantation fell into disarray until the Bigelow Tea Company bought and restored it a few years ago.

The restoration isn’t complete, but here’s a look at one of the mature fields:

There is only one species of plant in the world that makes true tea. It’s called camellia sinensus. Depending on how long the plant’s clippings are allowed to oxidize in the processing stage, the same leaves produce green, oolong or black tea. The plants are naturally resistant to disease and insects, so they’ll live forever as long as they don’t die of drought or root rot.

Here’s how it works… the tea bushes are carefully pruned to maximize leaf production. Once they reach the proper height and width, they are kept at that size forever. Clippings are then used only for harvest or for transplanting to new fields. When spring rolls around, the bushes sprout new growth on top just like your hedges at home. The new sprigs are cut and collected with this machine:

It’s basically the bastard offspring of a tobacco harvester and a cotton gin. The tea bushes are shaped and spaced so that the rows fits perfectly beneath this machine’s undercarriage.

Depending on the weather during spring and summer, there can be up to 20 harvests per year. The most sought-after tea comes from the first harvest of the season, known as the “first flush.” These leaves are more flavorful because they are filled with the nutrients the plant stored throughout the winter.

It was a pretty quick and enjoyable tour, even if it was a little pricey. We bought three jars of loose leaf tea – Plantation Peach, Rockville Raspberry, and Governor Gray. Click here for more: Charleston Tea Plantation