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Friday, December 7, 2007 - Foscue Creek Park, Demopolis AL

Foscue Creek, Demopolis AL, December 12, 2007
Foscue Creek, Demopolis AL, December 12, 2007

Me being me, I chose the one farthest from town, went off 10 miles the wrong way, turned around and finally found the one, Forkland Park 12 miles from town - only to find, contrary to it's web site, it is closed for the winter. I hate it when that happens. Oh well, back to town I go - to the one, Foscue Creek Park, a mere 3 miles from the Wal-Mart I just left. This turns out to be a beautiful park, nicely landscaped, full hook-ups, a coin laundry, and I site where I can almost literally hang the rear picture windows of LD right out over the water. With my Golden Age Passport discount I get all that for a mere $9.00 a night. A nice find.

All was not lost on my ride out to Forkland Park. The ride took me through a bit of the rural south I hadn't experienced yet - some small cypress swamps and rural mobile homes perched atop concrete block columns to keep them safely above flood waters. Some of those columns are 6 feet high and look rather unstable. Then there is the absolutely fabulous field full of Jim Bird's hay creations.

Night camp

Site 22 - Foscue Creek Campground, Demopolis AL

It's No Use Arguing Tastes with a Cow

By what appears, furthermore, to be the compensating justice of Nature, the treasures of the earth are always hidden in the most unattractive, dismal, and dreary spots. At least all the mining places I ever visited are so located, and Bisbee is no exception. To get away from the cramped little village and its unsavoury restaurant, I established my first camp four miles south of it on a commodious and pleasant opening, where we could do our own cooking. But here a new annoyance, and rather a curious one, was met with. The cattle of the region evinced a peculiar predilection for our wearing apparel. Especially at night, the cows would come wandering in among our tents, like the party who goes about seeking what he may devour, and on getting hold of some such choice morsel as a sock, shirt, or blanket, Mrs. Bossie would chew and chew, “gradually,” to quote Mark Twain, “taking it in, all the while opening and closing her eyes in a kind of religious ecstasy, as if she had never tasted anything quite as good as an overcoat before in her life.” It is no use arguing about tastes, not even with a cow.

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