Sandrock Nightlife

This story was part of a report from a climbing trip to Sandrock, Alabama in April of 1996.

The nightlife at Sandrock can be a bit to the extreme, but this weekend it proved to be a headlong plunge into the depths of the Alabama South. We came in Thursday evening, just before darkness fell. That night was relatively dull, just the intermittent buzz and roar of the ATV's all night long. You get used to them. We spent an enjoyable Friday climbing the rock islands of Sandrock, returning to our campsite as the sun set.

The show Friday night was rated at least 5.11. After dinner, I sat on a stump by the smoky mosquito fire with Jackie and Dede sipping a on a cold beer. We heard trucks roar up, screech to a stop, and the usual door slamming and commotion of unloading and corralling the roaring 4-wheelers. Typical activity. Then everything changed.

I was startled by quick, heavy steps rushing into camp. Two flashlights simultaneously ignited; there were ATV's coming through the brush, and more men moving around us in the dark woods. The first flashlight remained on me while the second, and maybe a third, swept the campsite and the contents of my truck. A giant man in a brown uniform, flanked by another, asked if we had possession of any alcohol as this was a dry county and such was illegal here. I realized the answer to this question was the crux move this evening.

Stupidity rushed forth, and for an instant I actually considered slipping the bottle of beer behind my leg, as if by making it disappear from view I could negate its existence. My bottle hand started slowly drifting southward until my eyes caught what was happening. Sanity grabbed a hold of reality, and I responded firmly,

"Yes Sir, I do."

"Do you have any more than that?" he asked, looking at the brown bottle in my hand .

Again, stupidity's hand shot up and waved frantically like a bladder busting 2nd grader. I though of the second six-pack of Guiness we'd just added to the others now that we'd run to the store for fresh ice. It goes for $9 a pop back home, and had been a substantial investment. Hated to lose that. Sanity screamed back that the beer was cheap compared to any penalty I was likely to incur, and if they catch me in a lie, it's not going to help.

"Yes Sir, I do, in my cooler in the back of my truck", sanity replied.

"Show me". His radioed crackled with the report that a church group was camped nearby, and the team was now sweeping on down the hill. As we walked to the truck, he commented that we kept a very clean campsite. I fished around in the ice filled cooler, quickly withdrawing the six fresh bottles from the top and sitting them on the tailgate. He'd seen stupidity's face now, and recognized it this time when my hand failed to search the deep back corners where I knew a few more lay. He corrected the discrepancy. Each time I pulled one out something cringed inside me, hoping this would be the last, but when the cooler was emptied to his satisfaction, ten brown bottles huddled in a wet shiver, a weight of evidence that seemed to make the tail end of the truck sit lower than normal.

"Is there any more?" he said seriously.

"No, I replied", as his partners flashlight swept over the truck windows again, pausing for a more thorough investigation of the contents of the cab.

"Are you going to write me a ticket?" I asked, hoping the willful suggestion of a light but expedient penalty would convince him to be merciful.

"Where did you get this beer?" he asked.

"Florida, we brought it with us", I compliantly volunteered.

"Then you've also transported it across state lines. There's been no Alabama tax paid. This is a dry county, and this is a jailable offense. $400 fine. I've got a Federal Alcohol Agent with me, It's up to him. I'll call him over."

He spoke into his radio, "We've got some beer over here".

The Agent appeared from the darkness a minute later. My fate hung with this man. I prayed he was in a good mood tonight. They inspected the evidence. There was quite a bit of low discussion as they turned the bottles over and over, a third officer joining in the curiosity.

"This is beer?" the agent asked, "You got any hard liquor with you?"

"It's Guinness, it's imported, goes for $9 a six pack back home" I reported, and watched as the information took them back a little.

"This is all I've got, no hard liquor". I saw the little $9 detail had put them off guard for a moment, and I seized on a plan. No evidence, no crime... I grabbed the opener.

"I'm sorry" I started, "I had no idea this was a dry county. I don't want any trouble, I'll do whatever you want, I'll dump the beer out, pack up and leave, whatever you want to remedy this situation, I am truly sorry to have been any trouble to you". I had the tops off four beers before he had a chance to reply, and the rest were open on the tailgate by the time he said,

"Dump 'em".

I spilled the contents on the ground two and three at a time, soaking a goodly portion of my shoes in the process, then quickly picked up all the bottles and tossed the pine straw and dirt covered carcasses noisily back into the cooler. The agent walked off, and the first officer spoke kindly to me.

"This is a dry county. This land is privately owned. We have a lot of trouble with drinking up here, though it's not with people like you. If you want to sip a beer, next time, put it in a cup and we'll leave you be.

I thanked him and commented how much nicer the area was after the recent climbers cleanup.

"Yes, it is a nice area, very popular. I hope it becomes a park someday". He departed, and the ATV's were loaded back into the trucks. They moved on. A sober quiet fell over Sandrock that night.

Saturday was back to the usual racing pickup trucks and screaming ORV's. I wondered, as one helmetless pilot pulled out sitting on a case of beer,  how many of those cans would shoot up his ass before he reached his buddies back in the woods. Tonights featured presentation was "The Drunk Next Door". Though we'd taken some pains to prevent contamination of our campsite by blocking both entrances, we acquired neighbors near enough to have the front row seats for the all night show. Screaming at the top of his alcohol fueled lungs, some intoxicant kept us awake most of the night with such prose as "BAMA!", and "WHOOEE!!!" which was occasionally echoed by some kindred soul up the hill. What bothered me most about the episode though, was that we all thought we'd seen climbing gear in their camp when we returned from the rocks. This clown, with his Ga. plates and red Mitsubishi is the reason we are losing many climbing areas to closure. I spoke the next day with a guide who had been real close to using his cell phone last night to call the mounties back up. When I mentioned I thought they were climbers, he was regretful he had not used it. Perhaps if you run into this moron en masse, someone could talk some sense into him. If you can't handle your liquor, stay home.

We packed up in the morning before we went climbing, as did most everyone else. I guess the hangover was a bit too much - our neighbor was gone when we passed by on the way out. "This place is pure Alabama", I thought to myself as we crunched along the graded descent road and emptied our minds for the long ride back home to Florida.

Wayne Busch
Gainesville, Fl.