Years ago, it wasn’t there. Years ago, when the lake was much larger and had not yet begun to fill in with silt, what is now a patch of land, heavy with trees of many shapes and sizes, was once clear lake water, reflecting blue sky. But when upstream silt flowed downriver and filled in parts of the lake, when that silt rose up above the water and slowly turned into fertile soil, when the weeds sprouted, when the bushes began to grow, when the trees took over and blotted out the sun for all the underbrush and smaller plants, what once was water became a forest, thick with natures proliferation of scraggly scrubs and sturdy structures reaching for the sky.

Probably an old access road, created back in the early days of Lake Conestee, and now a part of the park’s trail system, this sandy pathway curves through an open field on the edge of the forest and then curves back into the woods, headed down toward the lake, or what is now a remnant of the lake.

Back in 2014, on an early morning in late Spring, I, with my camera at my side, walked the trails at Lake Conestee. The sun was behind me as I parked my car. And it was bright. I had driven past the old dam and turned onto the narrow road through the large brick structures that used to be a working mill alongside the river. The parking area was empty. It looked out over the remnants of what once was a great and massive lake, or so I’ve heard. I never saw Lake Conestee in its heyday.

I had my camera with me, but my expectations were quite low on this cold December morning. As I climbed out of the car, I questioned whether I should put on a knit cap that I could pull down over my ears. I decided my hiking hat would be fine. I did take my gloves, stuffed in my pocket just in case; these old hands get cold. I wore a heavy gray jacket, with a dark cotton scarf around my neck.