Up Da Creek

Canoe on down and climb on up for a night in the wilds,
spent tree-house style along the banks of the Editso River.

Written By Melissa Bigner
Photographs by J. Savage Gibson

Bird's-Eye Hideaway:  Nestled among the branches of evergreens, the tree houses offer privacy, shade, and an enviable view.

If you've ever pictured yourself living it up à la Swiss Family Robinson, perched in the treetops, head north on Highway 61 'til you hit Canadys, about an hour out of the city. There, on a stretch of the ever-winding Edisto River, Scott Kennedy has built the ultimate quick getaway for outdoor aficionados - a pair of tree houses set on the edge of his 150-acre refuge. Flanked by vast spreads of hunting property on either side, the camouflaged cabins are tucked into a wild woodland, hidden year-round by cypress, holly, and a host of evergreens.

Because Scott outfits his charges in canoes and puts them in about five hours upriver; because only a few, quiet hints of humanity can be witnessed while paddling downriver, and because the accommodations are reached by paddling up to a set of stairs, the whole experience has an other worldly remoteness that charms to the core. And, like most well-spent outdoor adventures, it yields that disproportionate rest ratio: Even one short overnight can leave you feeling as if you've been gone for a long weekend.

That's exactly what I was craving - the chance to wear myself out in the fresh air, spend some time where my cell phone wouldn't work, and play like a 12 year old. Having just met a stack of deadlines, the timing was perfect - there's nothing like a little methodical paddling to force a wind-down and bring on a recharge. Along for the trip was a longtime pal - Beaufort photographer Josh Gibson - who, courtesy of 10 years of us working together, made for the perfect partner-in-crime.

Thanks to the summer of monsoons, the Edisto was swollen and bloated. Her waters overshadowed the natural shoreline and masked the sandy spits that typically make for good rest stops. With no true breaks, we cruised down on the water that was nine feet high at points, almost double the norm, and twice as fast, too, at four miles an hour. Josh guided us through a maze of felled trees, sagging under their own bulk in the soggy ground and collapsing into watery graves like weary giants.

Room to Spare:  The larger tree house sleeps up to eight easily, six comfortably.

The effect was bizarre. As the current pulled and tugged, submerged branches bounced and bobbed everywhere. Little corner-of-your-eye movements had me feeling as though we were surrounded, and each limb seemed to have its own personality. One danced, its leaves shimmying like tassels on a dress; another, this one claw-like in shape, beckoned - whether as a wave or a warning, I'm still not sure. Every now and again, we caught a trace of wildlife. But because terra firma was shadowed and out of site, (a by-product of the overflowing waters), we spotted only a turtle or two, one gator, and no snakes. Instead, we heard them as they splashed into seclusion.

By the time we eased up to our accommodations, just past a pole-mounted neon-painted paddle and can't-miss-it sign reading "Up Da Creek," both of us were pretty darn whooped in that deliciously good way you get from O.D.ing on the outdoors.

Scott had sent us to the bigger of the two tree houses, and in kidspeak, it was utterly cool. "When I first started building them," he had told us, "a hunter motored over and said, 'That's some stand you got there!'" Now we knew what he meant. At water level, a dining platform awaited us with a gas grill, picnic table, and benches, all bordered by citronella tiki torches. One flight up, the cabin was hooded in greenery. Accessed by a civilized staircase, its porch was dressed with a washtub bass and a pair of laid-back rocking chairs.

After tying off and wading over, we headed up and into our treetop abode. Carpeted, with futons and screened windows, a sleeping loft, and mini-kitchen, it made for the perfect clubhouse. A Scrabble box sat in one corner, and small oil lamps waited in anticipation of the coming night. Stacks of blue enamelware promised meals to come, and someone, as a subliminal nature lesson, had smartly framed and labeled seven varieties of oak leaves. We nosed through the log of past visitors till exhaustion, humidity, and the white noise of rushing water sent us snoring on our respective couches. Deep into one of my harder naps of the year, I woke when Scott came trudging in. He was there to stock the cabin with breakfast, having hiked in on the trails that cut through the refuge.

Treetop Ramblers:  Scott and Hunter, on the flute and washtub bass, entertain Chase.

A soft-spoken fellow who discovered this area nearly 15 years ago, when he organized the Navy's outdoor education program, Scott carried a few flutes in his hand. Smiling almost sheepishly, he sat down and told us about how he got into playing music after spying a recorder at an art and flower show a while back. He taught himself how to play out here in the swamps and now makes his own instruments from bamboo and the like.

Rotating the selection from time to time, he keeps both tree houses well-stocked. "People like to play them out here", he said, "and the gators seem to like them, too. Especially the Japanese shakuhachi flute. It has a low, bellowing sound like the gators' own calls. I've played it out here before, and they come right on up. A ring of them circled me once, looking out see what was going on."

Scott told us about the gators, saying that if you spend enough time out there, you get to know each of them - the mamas, the bull, the babies, and the teenagers, all. Talking about them as such made the primeval creatures seem more like extended family, and I guessed that's how it goes - once you learn that everything can bite but probably won't, getting together gets easier.

Gas grills and cookstoves, here with CHO co-owner Scott Kennedy and his daughter-in-law and grandsons.

Scott's daughter-in-law and grandkids joined us for dinner and then headed back home, somewhere on the other side of all the cypress knobs. Josh and I continued our childhood regression-fest and auditioned for the Darwin Awards by swimming in a rain-and-lighting storm. We played a bent-rule round of Scrabble, one that allowed for slang, proper names, and foreign words. In the tradition of slumber parties past, we crashed for the night and filled the silence by offering up riddles to each other in the dark. (For the record, he hammered me at every turn.) At who-knows-what o'clock, Josh was snoring triumphantly, and I broke out Harry Potter to read by Mag-Lite.

That night, the rushing water had a narcoleptic effect, and I woke only once, mostly because of the dazzling full moon. Thankfully, come morning, I had snoozed well past my usual up-with-the-birds hour. Snuggling down into the covers, I saw something slip out of sight by my head. I lifted up the pillow and a gorgeous, slick skink peered back at me. Black with cobalt-blue markings, he spent the night all toasty warm as my clandestine bedmate. Normally, I would've screeched; but there and then it didn't seem to matter. He slithered under another pillow and I hunkered down and dozed off again.

No Electricity? No Problem:  Journals, books, and board games rule this roost.

After breakfast we packed up and headed downriver. We had another four hours or so to go, Scott had told us, before we'd see his house-slash-outpost just past some power lines and just before a small bridge. "Pull on in there; I'm not sure if I'll be around or not," he had said. That was his style throughout the trip: Sign the release, here are a few tips, and off you go. With me being a moderate paddler and Josh being a pro, Scott made for the perfect chaperone - present but unaccounted for. We always had an out, too, as we knew there was a road an eighth of a mile behind the cabins, one that could take us out of any trouble we may have found.

As we fell back into automatic paddle mode, I started thinking about the best tree house I had built as a kid. Inspired by a Messy Marvin commercial, I erected a little platform in our backyard trees, a lopsided architectural feat fashioned more of nails than wood. To complete the look, I painted the trunks white with red stripes and tagged the area with "Red Devils' Den" and "Keep Out" signs. Back then, deep in a Neverland mentality. I considered growing up a curse. But homeward bound on the Edisto, the adage about men and boys and the size of their toys came to mind. I thought about Scott and how generously he shared his tree houses, and that growing up might not be so bad after all.