Saving Lighthouses & Fire Towers

 

 

By Tom Poland

 

 

Windmills? They Lack Star Power

Growing up landlocked in eastern Georgia, the coast seemed as far away as the Keys. I might as well have fantasized about going to Islamorada. And a lighthouse? What was that? I have no memory of the first lighthouse I saw. I’d guess it was the black-and-white beacon at Tybee Island, Georgia since early family vacations took place at Savannah.

Had I lived in the Lowcountry, I’d have seen lighthouses for sure. As a boy sitting in the backseat of Dad’s car, I actually looked out the windows. I didn’t have handheld digital devices or “in-flight” movies, so it was my privilege to watch the rural South slide by and one day as it passed in blinding bursts where sunlight filtered through a forest, I saw an iconic structure: a fire tower. In open pasturelands I saw another icon: windmills. Both added rustic beauty to the land. Both spoke to man’s resourcefulness and yet were so simple. Of course, as a boy I didn’t grasp that yet but nonetheless they fascinated me. They were the most unusual structures, the most beautiful structures I had seen outside of churches and courthouses.

 

Lonely Sentinel   (Photo by Robert C. Clark)

Late September. The seasons turn and Hunting Island lighthouse catches gold-burnished light beneath a cloudless sky. An empty path hints of desolation as wind fence shadows render a patch of sand blanket-like.

Summer’s throngs are gone, and grain-by-grain, winds carry their footprints away. Beautiful solitude—all in all, it leaves one a tad melancholy. Henley captured what fall’s arrival means. “Nobody on the beach. Summer’s out of reach.”

These lonely sentinels now witness passing seasons and beachcombers, not schooners nor clippers, as they serve time: Life without light. Steeped in romance, lighthouses linger, outcasts from another time. Towers whose beams warned mariners of danger, lighthouses served as symbols of hope, beacons of mighty candlepower destined to become true Americana. Among their ranks remains this elegant lighthouse down St. Helena Way. Looming 133 feet over the continent’s edge, it slung sweeps of light out to sea every 30 seconds.

Closed in 1933, it robbed the night sky of pulsing white light. Changing times, however, would elevate this romantic loner to a place of myth beloved by painters, photographers, and star-struck couples. Now the lighthouse awaits the arrival of winter. And the trees? They beg the lonely sentinel to stave off winter’s blue, cold light. 

 

 

As I aged, I became aware of how we change the land, how we discard the old for the new, and it dawned on me that these iconic landmarks were disappearing. I could find a few fire towers and windmills here and there, but I had to know where to look. I just didn’t stumble across them like I once did. And then I ended up in South Carolina where trips to the Lowcountry revealed lighthouses, those sentinels that have long brought a picturesque touch to the coast. Artists paint them, and photographers love ’em. I’ve not seen that many paintings of fire towers and windmills, though. Photographs, yes. When it comes to structures that tower over the land, lighthouses loom big among artists, photographers, the romantic, and those who want to save these great beacons. (If you’re a lighthouse-loving artist in South Carolina, you have plenty of subject matter: Bloody Point Lighthouse, Hunting Island, Haig Point [Daufuskie], Charleston Lighthouse (Sullivan’s Island), Hilton Head Rear Range, Harbour Town, Governor’s Lighthouse, active, Cape Romain, Morris Island, Georgetown Lighthouse, and Parris Island.)

While legions of fire towers and windmills have fallen to changing times, lighthouses endure. In fact some have foundations whose mission is to preserve them. Save The Light Inc. seeks to save the Morris Island Lighthouse from coastal erosion.

As for fire towers, the peak of their reign was 1953 when 5,060 towers looked out across the land. The Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) built a lot of good things for the country, among them, fire towers where life was lonely at the top. Well, to be a fire tower today is to be lonely. Offhand I know of about a dozen scattered across Georgialina, the combined region of eastern Georgia and South Carolina. Others proudly stand. It’s just that I’ve yet to find them.

 

A Proud Survivor   (Photo by Tom Poland)

 

Thankfully, people are making an effort to save fire towers. According to Preserving Fire Towers, “Across America, groups of fire tower enthusiasts are joining state and federal forest agencies to rescue these remaining symbols of forest preservation. At their peak (literally) in the 1940s and 1950s, some 8,200 lookouts watched over our nation’s forests. By the 1970s, aerial surveillance and satellites began replacing the role of fire spotters. And the towers came tumbling down.”

What about windmills? Who’s saving them? No one save a rare determined owner I’d say. Windmills just don’t have the star power that lighthouses and fire towers have. I’ve seen windmills with their blades missing. Even seen decapitated windmills with nothing left but the support tower. This past spring while exploring the Janet Harrison Heritage Preserve I came across the windmill you see in this column. No one looks out for it and vines are taking it over. Someday their weight will pull it to earth. This windmill and its brethren are endangered species. That’s a shame because they touch the land in a lovely way. Quiet except for a squeak now and then, windmills long worked with nature to give man the most reliable, most efficient pumping machine ever invented.

 

Its Fate Sealed By Vines And Electricity …   (Photo by Tom Poland)

 

Windmills survive. Here in Columbia, if you know where to look, you can find a fine windmill in a surprising place. Here’s a hint. It’s near Boozer Shopping Square.

When you travel I-20 West to Georgia look for a small farm on the right about 40 minutes out of Columbia. As long as I can remember a windmill has stood there overlooking a small pond. So far it’s standing up pretty well to the winds of change. I have no idea if it gets maintained or if it’s just a stubborn survivor. I know that one day it will be gone and that stretch of road will be diminished. Like a fine old oak that long stood, once it’s cut, newcomers will have no clue it was there. That’s the fate windmills face. Their destination is a place called obscurity. We’re still not that good at protecting old things. Can you imagine Holland tearing down its windmills simply because newer technologies work better? I can’t either but over here that’s how we do things.

 

 

Visit Tom Poland’s website at www.tompoland.net
Email Tom about most anything. [email protected]

 

Tom Poland is the author of eleven books and more than 1,000 magazine features. A Southern writer, his work has appeared in magazines throughout the South. The University of South Carolina Press has released his and Robert Clark’s book, Reflections Of South Carolina, Vol. II. The History Press of Charleston just released his book, Classic Carolina Road Trips From Columbia. He writes a weekly column for newspapers in Georgia and South Carolina about the South, its people, traditions, lifestyle, and changing culture.

 

 

 

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