A row of rental canoes lays unlocked and belly-up on the bank of the swamp canal at Stephen C. Foster State Park at the southern edge of the Okefenokee. Whoever left them that way seemed to assume that no one in their right mind would take a joy ride in one of them, much less haul one off in the back of a pickup truck. “Proceed at your own risk,” they seem to warn to any fools dumb enough to try and venture out in a stolen swamp boat. The presence of the crane seems to offer one final chance to turn back, until it takes flight from the water’s edge, a trail of swamp water falling from its drooping feet, as if washing its hands of the world to come. We read this like a telegram: “You’re on your own, brother.”
Foster's Children
Foster's Children
Foster's Children
A row of rental canoes lays unlocked and belly-up on the bank of the swamp canal at Stephen C. Foster State Park at the southern edge of the Okefenokee. Whoever left them that way seemed to assume that no one in their right mind would take a joy ride in one of them, much less haul one off in the back of a pickup truck. “Proceed at your own risk,” they seem to warn to any fools dumb enough to try and venture out in a stolen swamp boat. The presence of the crane seems to offer one final chance to turn back, until it takes flight from the water’s edge, a trail of swamp water falling from its drooping feet, as if washing its hands of the world to come. We read this like a telegram: “You’re on your own, brother.”