The Cascade Mountains and the Iron Goat Trail in Stevens Pass near Seattle--A Great Hike

Just outside Seattle rises the iconic Mount Rainier, dominating the city’s panorama. To its south stands Mount St. Helens. These two peaks are part of the Cascade Range and the Ring of Fire, which stretches from British Columbia to California. The range earned its name from European explorers, inspired by its many waterfalls. Together, volcanic activity and abundant forests make the Cascades a dramatic landscape of fire and ice—an ideal setting for challenging hiking trails.

One such trail is the Iron Goat Trail, located in Stevens Pass near Gold Bar. Its name comes from the Great Northern Railway’s corporate symbol: a mountain goat standing on a rock. Built along the former railway grade, the Iron Goat Trail officially opened to hikers on October 2, 1993. There are three trailheads: the Scenic, the Martin Creek, and the Wellington. We chose the Martin Creek. The Martin Creek Trailhead consists of an Upper Grade Trail and a Lower Grade Trail totaling 6 miles, both with a gentle 2.2 percent incline. The trail marks the site of one of America’s most tragic train disasters—the 1910 Wellington Disaster.

In the early 1900s, the Great Northern Railway constructed a system of tunnels and massive concrete snow sheds through the mountains of Stevens Pass, connecting the route to Seattle. In the winter of 1910, Washington State’s Cascade Mountain Range was struck by an unusually long blizzard. Previous clear-cutting and forest fires had stripped the slopes above the tracks, creating ideal conditions for an avalanche.

On March 1, 1910, following the nine-day blizzard, rain and an electrical storm besieged the Seattle Express No. 25 and the Fast Mail No. 27 trains, which had been forced to stop en route to Seattle. The winds, thunder, and lightning threatened the stability of the varied layers of snow on the mountainside. Either thunder or lightning triggered a break in the integrity of the heavy top slab of snow; as the weaker layers below gave way, the enormous slab began to slide down the slope, carrying everything in its path. The avalanche hurled both trains 150 feet down into the Tye River Valley, where the cars were buried in snow and debris. Ninety-six people died—thirty-five passengers and sixty-one railroad employees.

The Iron Goat Trail commemorates the construction of the railway and memorializes the disaster that occurred on its mountainside. Retaining walls, culverts, bridges, and waterbars were built, along with spur trails connecting the upper and lower paths, making this history accessible to intrepid hikers and their cameras. You can walk alongside the aging, massive two-mile-long concrete walls where thick-timbered snow sheds once covered the tracks, shielding trains from falling rocks and debris. Connecting these sections of wall, long tunnels were blasted through the mountain to allow trains to pass. You can stand at the tunnel openings, feel the exiting cool air, peer into the darkness, and wonder what remains inside. For your safety, however, entering the tunnels is strongly discouraged—bears and pumas inhabit the mountains.

The scenery along the Iron Goat Trail is stunning, the history intriguing, and the hike challenging—especially the spur near the Windy Mountain Tunnel, where the trail narrows and steep drop-offs demand caution. As you walk, stay alert: remnants of the avalanche, old buildings, and fragments of train cars lie hidden among the rocks and underbrush that has grown since 1910. A parking area with facilities and a museum marks the beginning of your journey. Enjoy the rugged beauty of Stevens Pass and the majestic Cascades near Seattle.

Iron Goat Trail - Martin Creek Trailhead

Directions:

Take Highway 2 toward Stevens Pass, to milepost 55. Turn left onto the Old Cascade Highway. At the junction with FR 6710, take a sharp left onto FR 6710. In 1.4 miles reach the trailhead.

Point Sur Lightstation--A Mystical Sentinel Located High on a Big Sur Rock

Lighthouses are mystical sentinels, charged with a singular purpose: to guide passing ships through treacherous waters into safe harbors. They stand in solitude, often perched on remote cliffs amid hostile environments. They emanate a haunting splendor and evoke fascination through the many stories told by the men and women who lived the keeper’s life.

The beautiful California coastline is dominated by towering cliffs and rocky shores. Navigating the Pacific Ocean’s treacherous surf along its jagged shoreline was a formidable challenge for mariners. Point Sur Lightstation in Big Sur is one of those mystical sentinels, commissioned to guide the state's merchant traffic safely to their destination.

Point Sur Lightstation is literally located on a solitary 361-foot volcanic rock connected to the Big Sur coast by a short strip of sandy land and rocks. Money was allocated for Point Sur in 1886 to build the light station. Three years later, on August 1, 1889, the light station keys were turned over to the first keeper. He and three assistants staffed the lighthouse and fog signal 24 hours a day.

The four keepers and their families lived an isolated life. The trail to Monterey was long and often treacherous, so trips were rare. The U.S. Lighthouse Service provided a horse and wagon to get mail and supplies from Pfeiffer's Resort. Each family was allotted a garden area for fresh vegetables. Bulk supplies such as coal, firewood, animal feed, and some food came on a lighthouse tender' about every four months. One function of these long, broad ships was to service remote light stations inaccessible by land.

Like most remote lightstations, Point Sur was very self-sufficient. As the years passed, life became increasingly less isolated at Point Sur, specially following the completion of Highway 1 in 1937. Two years later, the U.S. Coast Guard assumed responsibility for all aids-to-navigation. Lighthouse Service employees were absorbed into the new program and allowed to become either members of the U.S. Coast Guard or remain civil service employees.

In the 1960s, the U.S. Coast Guard began automating lightstations in an effort to make more efficient use of their personnel. In 1974, the last keeper left Point Sur. Today a U.S. Coast Guard crew services the lighthouse regularly.

The Point Sur Lightstation originally contained a first-order Fresnel lens. Light from Point Sur's Fresnel lens was visible for 23 nautical miles. The lens was in use until the 1970s when it was replaced by a modern aero beacon mounted on the roof of the fog signal room. The lens remained in the lighthouse tower until 1978, when it was disassembled and transported to the Allen Knight Maritime Museum of Monterey for display. The aero beacon was later moved into the lighthouse tower. The aero beacon was eventually replaced by an LED light presently mounted on the outside rail of the lighthouse and flashes every 15 seconds.

The tour operates on a first-come, first-served basis. Admission is $20 for adults. Visitors enter through a gate on Highway 1, opened by one of the tour guides. The view of the massive, distant rock crowned by the light station is spectacular. After passing through the gate, you drive down a long road flanked by a beach on one side and rocky terrain on the other, arriving at the base of the rock where you park your car. The guide begins the tour here and, following opening remarks, leads the group up the winding road that ascends the rock, stopping at select locations to discuss its construction and share stories of its formidable history.

On the ocean side of the rock, the road splits—one branch leading to the lightstation complex atop the summit, the other crossing a bridge to the lighthouse perched on the edge. The lighthouse was our first stop. As we stood beneath the towering beacon near its entrance, overlooking the ocean crashing far below against rocks teeming with barking seals, the guide described the light keeper’s duties and the operation of the Fresnel lens. We entered and ascended the circular staircase to the lantern room, where we gathered for more historical insight, then stepped onto the lantern deck outside for a sweeping 360-degree view from the top. After descending and exiting, we entered an adjoining building that housed a museum.

We then followed the guide up a long stairway to the summit, where we found a large barn, a building filled with carpenter tools and a blacksmith shop, a water tower, a garden area, and two houses—one for the keeper and his family, and the other, larger house for his three assistants and their families. We toured the keeper’s residence but did not enter the assistants’ quarters. The guide informed us that the assistants’ house was haunted, and that every Halloween it is decorated and opened to the public for a good scare. The lightstation is also one of the best places to view the whale migrations, which include the giant blue whale at 110 feet. After paying the $20 in the gift shop, we descended the long road back to our cars.

The tour’s history is intriguing, and the panoramic views from both the lighthouse and the summit complex are spectacular. The ascent up the 361-foot rock is challenging—best suited for the sure-footed and hearty—but well worth the effort. The guides are personable and informative. The tour lasts three hours and is packed with rich detail. The light station embodies everything one might expect from a California lighthouse. The gray, cement-blocked lighthouse structure exudes a mystical presence, and the surrounding complex carries a haunting allure.

Points of interest:

Notable shipwreck - Ventura 1875. Notable wreck - the dirigible U.S.S. Macon crashed and sank.

Admission:

Adults - $20, Ages 6-17 - $10, Ages 5 and under free.

Moonlight Tours - $30

Halloween Tour - October 18 and October 25, 2025 at 5:30pm

Tour Schedule:

Saturday and Sunday - 10am

Wednesday - 1pm

Information:

(831) 625-4419

Summerville, August 31, 1886--A Haunting Tale Amidst an Earth-Shattering Cataclysm

The day’s oppressive humidity lingered, even at this late hour. Lost in thought, I found myself reflecting on the troubling peculiarities that had unfolded. There was a strange quiet—not among the people I’d encountered, but in the behavior of the animals. The usual chatter of local birds had vanished. In fact, I couldn’t recall seeing a single bird all day. The carriage horses had been unusually skittish, and even the dog at the train depot seemed unnerved.

A sharp blast from the train whistle jolted me from my reverie, signaling the final call for departure. A cloud of hot steam billowed into the air as the locomotive lurched forward, then gradually eased away from the platform. The final leg of my journey had begun.

I checked my pocket watch: 8:50 p.m. Charleston lay ahead, with an expected arrival around 10:30. I had been looking forward to my stay at the elegant Charleston Hotel on Meeting Street with eager anticipation.

As a writer and publisher, I enjoyed certain privileges when it came to reading material. In my possession was a cherished collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s works. Settling into my seat as we pulled away from Branchville, I recalled that Poe had once been stationed on Sullivan’s Island, a barrier island near Charleston. I planned to visit several places tied to his legacy—Fort Moultrie, and the war-scarred plantations along the oak-lined Ashley River Road. Runnymede, in particular, had been a favorite haunt of his.

I peered out the window and stared at the passing trees. Moonlight filtered through their branches, casting a soft, dancing glow onto the low-growing bushes. The visual effect was as shadowy as the writings I was about to immerse myself into. The rhythmic clickety-clack of the heavy steel wheels rolling over the tracks informed me that the train had reached full throttle. Around me, some passengers had drifted into sleep, while others quietly read—much too late for conversation. I flipped open the cover of the dossier resting on my lap and began reading The Gold-Bug. For an unknown length of time, I slipped into the reality that was Poe.

Suddenly, a thunderous explosion rocked the train, jolting me from my seat. For a brief, surreal moment, I felt weightless—levitating above the cushion—before crashing down with a spine-jarring thud. The violent motion repeated again and again, each impact more disorienting than the last.

Piercing screams erupted from the compartment as passengers were tossed about, helpless against the chaos. An ungodly hissing sound accompanied the relentless jolts—up and down, back and forth—like a beast thrashing in its death throes. Through the window, I glimpsed a geyser of water erupting from the earth, shooting skyward. The train’s forward momentum sputtered violently. I sensed the engineer was desperately trying to slow us, but the effort seemed futile. Prayers filled the air, whispered and shouted alike.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the upheaval ceased.

Miraculously, the train remained on the tracks. Dazed passengers began to assess their condition. Aside from bruises and shaken nerves, it appeared no one was seriously injured. Another sudden jolt startled the already traumatized group—but this time, it was the familiar lurch of a train decelerating. We crept to a halt.

I retrieved my pocket watch, its glass shattered, the hands frozen at 9:50 p.m. Around me, pages from Poe’s dossier lay scattered like fallen leaves. I gathered them up and stepped off the train.

An eerie orange glow bathed the night sky. Fires burned in the distance, and uprooted trees lay strewn across the landscape like discarded matchsticks. Ahead of the smoking engine, flares cast flickering light over the scene. We had stopped just short of what appeared to be a depot.

Straightening my disheveled clothing, I made my way to the front of the locomotive. The engineer was deep in conversation with a man I didn’t recognize. Steadying my nerves, I approached and introduced myself. I asked what had happened—and where, exactly, we were.

The man turned to me and offered his name, “Frank Doar, the stationmaster.” As we walked toward the depot, he began to recount a most unusual story.

Frank began his account with a steady voice, though the memory clearly weighed on him.

“It was 9:45 p.m. The inbound train had just passed Jedburg. I was sitting in my chair at the depot, drifting in and out of sleep, when I was startled by the sudden appearance of an elderly Black man on the platform. He seemed to materialize out of nowhere—filthy, drenched in sweat, breathless, and visibly agitated.

He told me, in a rush of words, that he’d run several miles up the rail line from a section where the tracks were severely bent. He urged me to release warning flares immediately to alert the incoming train of the danger ahead.

Now, I know everyone who works this line, and I thought I knew everyone in the community—but I’d never seen this man before. The moonlight caught the sweat on his head, giving it a strange halo-like glow. Under normal circumstances, I might have been wary of such a demand. But something about him—his urgency, his eyes—made me trust him. Without hesitation, I deployed the torpedoes.

As I finished placing the last device, I turned to speak to him again. But he was gone. Vanished. As if he’d dissolved into the night air.”

Frank paused, then pulled out his pocket watch.

“The whole encounter—his arrival, the warning, the emergency preparations—had taken only five minutes. It was exactly 9:50 p.m. Just then, an eerie hissing sound swept through the town, followed by a deafening explosion. The ground shook violently. I heard walls and chimneys collapsing, trees groaning as they were ripped from the earth. A massive earthquake had struck Summerville.”

His story left me spellbound.

Passengers had begun to disembark, gathering at the station in search of answers and a way to continue their journey. Whispers of Frank’s account passed from one traveler to another, each person trying to make sense of the mysterious warning.

Soon, a message arrived. Farther up the line, between Summerville and Ten Mile Hill near Woodstock Station, the quake had twisted the tracks into a serpentine curve. A train that had departed Summerville for Charleston derailed during the earthquake. The engineer was critically injured. A crew member had been killed.

The flares Frank deployed had saved our train from the same fate.

Yet one question lingered: how had the old man known? He had vanished without a trace. No one ever saw him again. No one ever got the chance to thank him.

As for Frank Doar, though he was the one who placed the flares and prevented disaster, he refused to take credit. He believed, with quiet conviction, that the old man was an angel.

At least, that was the story Frank told.

Visit Summerville

Somewhere in Time--A Stay at Summerville's Pine Forest Inn

Shrouded in a final blast of steam, the Summerville Short eased into the station—a small, elaborately decorated Victorian-style structure. Stepping onto the depot platform, I glanced at my pocket watch. The bright Lowcountry sun reflected off its glassy face. It was 2:05 p.m. 

"Right on time," I whispered.

A plume of black smoke billowed from the locomotive's smokebox and was quickly whisked away by the warm, early afternoon breeze.

Horse-drawn carriages awaited arriving passengers. I surveyed the depot area for my reserved transportation and spotted a group of coachmen. One among them held up a piece of paper with my name on it. I approached the smartly dressed gentleman and identified myself.

"Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Summerville," he said.

His words were tainted with a quaint accent, quite different from what I was used to back in Ohio. He handed me a newspaper dated April 9, 1902. I stepped aboard the carriage. With a gentle tug on the reins by my experienced driver, the carriage eased forward.

The downtown district was crowded with people. Rumors that President Roosevelt and his entourage were in the Summerville area abounded—a bit of information I had overheard while on the train.

To the left of our advancing carriage was a fenced-in square, landscaped with rows of live oaks and a diamond-shaped walkway where children were at play.

On the opposite side of the square stood a row of wooden buildings, dominated by a nearly completed triple-arched façade bearing the designation Arcade Theater. To our right, a few gentlemen standing in front of a pharmacy hospitably tipped their hats as we passed.

Turning the corner at an intersection, I asked, "What is the name of this road?"

The coachman replied, "Main Street."

I followed with an additional question. "The tall building on the right with the bell tower—what purpose does it serve?"

"Town Hall, sir."

Leaving the town square behind, we passed a white directional sign covered with wooden pointers bearing the names of various inns and hotels located throughout Old Summerville. Then came several large homes bordered by white picket fences, each richly adorned with a profusion of magenta-colored flowers noticeably common to the area.

We entered a thick stand of tall pines intermingled with aged, moss-covered live oaks. Clusters of wisteria dangled freely from some of the branches. I inhaled a full breath of air—it was distinctly laced with the refreshing scent of pine.

Winding through the shaded canopy, it wasn't long before we came upon a broad, brick-paved drive flanked by huge white urns containing plantings of the same flowers growing throughout the town. We passed under a columned gateway surrounded by beautiful gardens—more wisteria and azaleas.

At the end of the driveway, rising four stories high into the needled branches of the tall pines, was the castellated center rotunda of the Pine Forest Inn—my accommodation for the next couple of days.

My carriage pulled up to the Inn's steps. Five horse riders sauntered past. I stepped off, paid the gentleman, and ascended the flight of stairs.

The front piazza was impressive. Wider in the middle, it extended out on each side of the rotunda the full length of the building and ended in a hexagonal shape at the corners. Patrons were scattered about the piazza on chairs, enjoying the southern exposure and their afternoon tea—likely made from tea leaves grown locally at the renowned Pinehurst Tea Plantation of Dr. Charles Shepard. I had read about it in a magazine on the train. A tour of the Pinehurst Tea Garden was scheduled for tomorrow.

Upon entering the impressive building, two smiling ladies curtsied as I passed. I acknowledged their genteel gesture with a smile and a tip of my hat.

The front entrance hall ran the full length of the rotunda. It was majestic. Arched walls set upon pillars divided the rotunda foyer from other sections. A grand staircase led to the upper floors, where thick wooden handrails wrapped around the open galleries. As I walked it, I estimated it to be forty-seven feet from front to back.

Large, oak-mantled fireplaces with marble hearths and exotic plants were placed strategically throughout the spacious lobby. Rocking chairs were scattered about. At the rear entrance, another long piazza served a huge three-sided courtyard.

I checked in at the desk. A double-chinned, spectacle-wearing hotel clerk greeted me with a smile and a Southern, “Good afternoon.” I informed him of my two-day reservation. After signing the necessary papers, he rattled off some of the amenities.

“There is an Amusement Hall with a bowling alley and billiard tables, two lawn tennis courts, croquet grounds, an 18-hole golf course, a swimming pool, and a livery with sixty horses.”

I touched the brim of my hat and nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” he replied, then added, “Would you like some help with your bag, sir?”

I declined the offer. He then directed my attention to a tray at the end of the counter holding crystal glasses and a matching pitcher filled with an iced, amber-colored mixture.

“Help yourself to a glass of freshly brewed Summerville sweet tea, sir.”

I poured a glass and took a sip. “Interestingly tasty,” I corroborated.

I turned and boarded the electric elevator that serviced the three upper floors—each with its own lobby and its share of the 150 suites and singles. As we slowly ascended, I engaged the elevator operator in some small talk. He willingly and gladly complied, offering a few quick tips about Summerville.

I was assigned a single on the second floor at five dollars a night.

I entered the room. Large windows bathed the interior in warm sunlight and provided an excellent view of the grounds below. Steam  radiators lined the exterior walls. A painting of Drayton Hall hung above an elaborately carved mantle.

I placed my suitcase next to the open fireplace and set the empty crystal glass on a marble-topped table beside the room’s large cherry poster bed. The comfortably appointed room also included a private bath and an electric bell connected to the general office for personal service.

I emptied my suitcase and freshened up a bit before setting out to further familiarize myself with the Inn’s appointments.

After another short ride on the elevator, I returned to the main lobby. I curiously peeked into the adjacent dining room. Paneled in Southern curly pine, the complementary woodwork was elegant. Divided into three sections by wooden arches and comfortably filled with beautiful table settings, it seated 250 people. An American flag hung from the chandeliered ceiling.

It was near 3:35 p.m., according to a nearby grandfather clock. The brunch crowd had already dispersed to other suitable areas. The dining room staff was busy making preparations for the evening meal.

Other common rooms included a large main-floor parlor; ladies’ private parlors with toilet rooms; reception rooms; a library; reading room; sun parlor with exotic plants; wine and smoking rooms; and a Rocking Chair Room. Similar to the dining room, all were paneled with Southern curly pine.

Women sitting in the sun parlor engaged in chit-chat centered around their families and social events. Some rocked baby carriages with their feet while doing needlework. They all wore fancy hats and long, lacy dresses—the ankle reveal was socially frowned upon.

Gathered in the wine and smoking room, men in suits debated the latest news and talked about their golf game.

The Rocking Chair Room fascinated me the most. I could never resist the invitation of a rocking chair. I would venture to say there were about a hundred chairs—thirty, by my estimation, presently occupied. It was the right occasion for some self-indulgence. The seconds quietly ticked away with each back-and-forth motion. The seconds ticked into minutes. I pulled out my pocket watch. It was 4:45 p.m.

My restful thoughts turned to dinner. I contemplated the pleasure of indulging in the highly acclaimed, blue-ribbon cuisine the Inn was famous for. The first-class chefs were advertised as preparing their culinary delights with ingredients gathered from local gardens, along with meat and seafood delivered fresh by train from Charleston and New York markets.

After dinner, perhaps I would share a glass of wine with Florence Nightingale Graham in the wine room, shoot some billiards with Dr. Shepard, or discuss literature with Edna St. Vincent Millay in the library. Tomorrow, attend a fox hunt on Ingleside with Teddy Roosevelt.

After all, this was the illustrious Pine Forest Inn of Summerville—where the imagination had no boundaries.

Visit Summerville SC | AT THE HEART OF IT ALL

Pine Trace Natural Area Ribbon Cutting Ceremony--Join in on the Fun

Nestled in the heart of South Carolina’s Lowcountry, Summerville is a town that seamlessly blends southern charm with progressive community development. Known for its blooming azaleas and historic streets, it's now blossoming in new ways—through a series of thoughtfully designed parks that offer residents and visitors more opportunities to connect with nature, play, and unwind. Summerville is redefining outdoor living one park at a time.

The 306-acre hardwood mixed forest at 303 Chandler Creek Road off of Miles Jamison was purchased in 2011. On March 15, 2021, County Council approved of a master plan for the property. In 2023, The Town of Summerville Design Review Board approved of the plans for Pine Trace Natural Area to be located on the property, and on March 9 of that year, Dorchester County Parks held a groundbreaking event to begin construction. I have followed its progress since with great interest for the past two years in anticipation of finally playing its featured 18-hole disc golf course. Finally, the ribbon cutting ceremony for the park will be on Thursday, August 14 at 9:30 am, and you are invited--admission is free. 

Along with its challenging disc golf course, Pine Trace features an extensive 10-mile trail system, 6-acre fishing pond, observation deck and fishing pier, SUP and kayak launch, picnic shelters, large playground, and dog parks. Facilities include a Guard House at its entrance, spacious Welcome Center, kayak rental and concession stand, and restrooms. Everything will be free--frozen treats, kayak rentals, and golf disc rentals.

Pine Trace Natural Area is another fantastic outdoor recreational space offered by Dorchester County Parks and Recreation and the Town of Summerville. Whether you’re a longtime Lowcountry local or just passing through, it is a fresh breath of adventure and community. Don’t miss the ribbon cutting—come celebrate nature, recreation, and the spirit of Summerville.

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The Summerville Light--A New Argument as the Reason for the Mysterious Lights

Former Sheep Island Road

This article is for all residents of Summerville who remember and experienced the famous Summerville Light of Sheep Island Road—locally dubbed Light Road. Over the years, I’ve written articles about this ghostly phenomenon, and it remains the most popular and beloved ghost story in Summerville’s history. I received over 16,000 responses from readers who recounted their personal experiences with the Light, and a few who were skeptics—though they were overwhelmingly in the minority.

Legend has it the Light is the glow of a lantern guiding the ghost of a woman searching for her decapitated husband along a stretch of railroad tracks that once ran near Sheep Island Road.

Several theories have been proposed as scientific explanations for the Light and its unsettling physical effects—terrorizing motorists by violently shaking cars or inexplicably cutting power to their vehicles. Theories range from swamp gas and ball lightning to headlights reflecting off various road signs.

On Monday morning, July 14, the United States Geological Survey had confirmed reports of an earthquake in the Summerville area. Data from the USGS confirmed that an earthquake of about 2.2 to 2.4 magnitude occurred just before 10 a.m., about a mile east-northeast of the town center of Summerville near Berlin G. Meyers Parkway in Dorchester County. It had a depth of between about 3 and 5 miles, though officials are still working to narrow down the exact measurements of the quake based on the data received from several tools. This is not uncommon occurrence.

At this point, you may be wondering what the Monday earthquake has to do with the Summerville Light. Surprisingly, it may have a connection with another famous Summerville event that occurred in 1886, The Great Charleston Earthquake. A seismologist has offered these natural events as a scientific explanation for the floating orb: a phenomenon called, earthquake lights. Susan Hough of the United States Geological Survey published her earthquake idea in a research article late last month in Seismological Research Letters.

An article in the Smithsonian Magazine explained it this way, "Earthquake lights are mysterious phenomena that have been observed around the world, but scientists still don’t have a clear idea of what causes them. Some have proposed that seismic activity deforms minerals in the Earth, creating an electrical charge that can lead air molecules to glow. Another theory is that they’re related to the release of gases like radon or methane, which can ignite when they're exposed to a spark of static electricity. Hough believes the railroad tracks, in particular, are the key to Summerville’s ghosts."

Hough said in an interview with Post and Courier, "Historically, when rail companies replaced tracks, they didn’t always haul the old track away. So, you’ve got heaps of steel out there. Sparks might be part of the story. That could explain why so many ghost stories—even beyond Summerville—involve lights over railways. When you start looking around, it turns out there's any number of ghosts wandering around railroad tracks with lanterns looking for severed heads. There’s kind of an epidemic of them."

There you have it—mystery solved. Or is it? What say you, Summerville residents of the Summerville Light era?

An Illustration

The unstoppable freight train called progress changed the landscape around the same I-26 real estate, quite possibly closing the chapter on the era of the Summerville Light. The Nexton I-26 connector was constructed. The overpass that once led to the dark, overgrown, wooded hollow is no longer there. Only remnants of the once-haunted stretch of Sheep Island Road remain.

As you enter the Nexton Parkway exit off I-26 heading north, glance quickly to your right. You may catch a glimpse of the remaining tattered pavement. It briefly touches Sigma Drive before crossing Nexton Parkway, extending northward—parallel to the new Del Webb Community—then fading into obscurity.

It is gone, but not forgotten, as a growing Southern town 23 miles outside of Charleston reimagines itself, closing one chapter to open another.

Smithsonian Magazine article 

Visit Summerville

Fresh Seafood and More on Charleston's Scenic Waterfront--Fleet Landing Restaurant and Bar

For years a solitary eating establishment located along the Cooper River waterfront of Charleston, it has been fortuitously swept up into a bigger vision called The Cooper, Charleston's first luxury waterfront hotel, which will feature 191 rooms, infinity pool, spa, and event spaces slated to open in October. The hotel property will connect Joe Riley Waterfront Park with a water's edge scenic walkway leading to the Fleet Landing Restaurant and Bar located at its north flank.

Fleet Landing Restaurant is housed in a 6,000 square foot, hurricane proof, 1940s retired naval building. It juts out over the marsh on a reinforced pier and boasts oversized windows that offer an unobstructed view of the Charleston Harbor. Built in 1942 by the US Navy as a debarkation point for sailors, the building lay vacant after World War II until it was acquired by the South Carolina Port Authority in the 1960s and used for storage. The structure fell into disrepair. Despite its condition, it caught the attention of Tradd Newton who predicted, "One day, I'm going to put something in that building," and he did. Newton, with the guiding vision of Charleston architect Reggie Gibson and his wife/business partner Weesie, fulfilled that dream.

Food and Wine Magazine described Fleet Landing Restaurant's interior as "maritime chic." When you step through its doors, your initial impression is unmistakable. The interior is without a doubt very spacious with community tables and a long, running bar on one side. One wall is covered with orange life preservers and another with a glass door display of assorted wines. Beyond its large windows, there is plenty of outdoor dining on picnic style tables with orange umbrellas where you can soak in the harbor atmosphere.

Fleet Landing Restaurant is by and large a seafood destination, and one of the most popular. However, dinner entrees do include a Filet Mignon, Boneless Ribeye Steak and Chicken Piccata, while the lunch menu included an 8 oz Angus Burger, Grilled Chicken Sandwich, and a Fried Green Tomato "BLT". The seafood offerings are plentiful and diverse. It also has a Gluten Free Menu, both lunch and dinner. All menus offer a wide variety of selections.

We were there for lunch. We did not have a reservation, and the wait was about twenty minutes for outdoor seating, which we requested. For a drink, I am partial to pomegranate, so I selected the Pomegranate Mojito made with Don Q Passionfruit Rum and Pomegranate Juice for $13--a pleasing refresher. From the lunch menu, I chose the Fried Flounder Sandwich with pepper jack cheese, lettuce, tomato, and Cajun tartar sauce for $16--fish was fresh with a pleasant coating. Our server was helpful and efficient, visited our table often, and did it all with a cheerful smile.

Fleet Landing Restaurant and Bar is a quality seafood destination with a fantastic location, if you do not mind the pluff mud aroma at low tide, but that is all part of the waterfront experience. It lives up to its motto of having something for everyone. It is suggested you set up a reservation, especially for dinner sittings and beyond into the evening.

HOURS OF OPERATION:

Lunch: Seven Days a Week 11am-3:30pm

Dinner: Seven Days a Week 5pm-10pm

186 Concord Street, Charleston, SC

Phone: (843) 722-8100