Something’s Afoot in the Lowcountry: Nomads, poets and lovers at Lake Warren

Journalist, author and historian Michael DeWitt Jr. will be hiking the highways, byways, and waterways of lower South Carolina for his new health, travel and lifestyle column.

- DATE: April 2, 2025

- DESTINATION: Lake Warren

- DISTANCE: 2.46 miles

- STEPS: 5,005

- HYDRATION: Glaceau Smart Water Alkaline

- AUDIOBOOK: The Quiet Game by Greg Iles

Around the Christian world, people decorate trees at Christmas time. Here at this Hampton County destination, we decorate our trees year-round.

Anglers’ corks and bobbers of many colors adorn the bushes, trees and power lines at this oasis, with the added garnish of monofilament fishing line as tinsel –at once an almost festive testament to both man’s imperfection as well as his determination and resolve in the face of adversity.

If you have ever gone a’fishing, and you’ve found your hook, line and sinker firmly embedded in an impossible-to-reach tree top, forcing you to break off with curses on your lips, then you understand the hundreds of climactic moments that took place here.

On this journey I’m walking the public landings and fishing holes at Lake Warren in search of exercise, fresh air, insight and a connection with nature.

The Lake Warren spillway

The sound of roaring waters grows louder, then recedes, as I walk from the public boat landing past the dam spillway to the entrance of Lake Warren State Park. I won’t enter the state park interior – I’m saving that hike for another day.

According to the historical research for my first book, Images of America – Hampton County (2015) this dream of a man-made lake was conceived in the late 1950s by South Carolina Senator George Warren, who also served as chairman of the S.C. Wildlife Commission, and a friend, local farmer Murray DeLoach.

(South Carolina Senator George Warren)

A dam was constructed on Black Creek and the Briar Creek swamp area, once home to many discreet bootleggers, and the 200-acre shallow lake with spillway was completed in 1967 and the lake opened for fishing in 1970.

(An aerial view of Lake Warren in Hampton County.)

Land for the 440-acre Lake Warren State Park was obtained in 1980, and the area remains Hampton County’s only major fishing and recreational lake. Now, nature tourists hike where moonshiners once tread.

Wildflowers are blooming under my feet, and several birds appear to be stalking me as I walk the downstream spillway side of the lake. It’s a quiet day, and I only spot one fishing boat in the water and one angler afoot.

But the litterbugs have been here. If you have ever visited a public fishing hole, then you know to expect the occasional discarded worm cup or beer can. But someone has dumped several large black plastic bags of household garbage down the hill into the creek where the spillway overflows, providing extra work for the local park rangers.

I saw a suspicious white van parked nearby, but then a noticed an older person exit the vehicle with a spiked stick and a litter collection bag, ready to be a good citizen.

That’s the way the world works: some are out to trash, defile, and destroy, while others work to clean, protect and restore. We will never stop the litterbugs, but perhaps with enough hands on deck we can stay ahead of them.

(A free-flowing artesian spring at Lake Warren.)

Nomads, poets and lovers abound

The sounds of running water lull me into tranquility over on the upstream side of the lake during the second leg of my hike, but this time it is a free-flowing artesian spring. Nearby, hidden in the brush, is an old, almost forgotten family graveyard.

I left the dead to rest undisturbed, but I was tempted to drink from the flowing well, just as we once did as kids growing up around such springs in the Coosawhatchie swamp, but the pipe is covered with green, slimy algae, and I am not as reckless as the younger me. But then again, they say some of these springs have healing powers… perhaps I’ll return.

There have been visitors here as well, but litter is not the sign of their passing. During a scouting trip to plan my hike, I noticed a mysterious red truck with a camper shell on the back parked near a fishing pier early the day before, as if it had been there all night, its windows covered with cardboard adorned with handwritten messages such as “You are amazing!”

I’ve seen this truck before, parked at the public library in Hampton. The librarians couldn’t recall the occupant’s name but described her as an older woman traveling from Maine or Canada or some faraway locale. She had been gone for a while, perhaps to some other distant small town, but had apparently returned.

I had hoped to see the truck again on my walking day, and perhaps meet the driver and hear her story, but alas it was gone. Who is this mysterious traveler camping in her truck? Will I see this nameless nomad again on my travels? I hope so. If you know anything about her, dear reader, please drop me a line.

(Who is this mysterious traveler camping in her truck? Will I see this nameless nomad again on my travels?)

I travel away from the highway and deeper into the serene, slightly secluded public area. This area, and the state park in general, have long been popular spots for lovers to meet with hopes of privacy.

It’s been a while since I’ve visited this quiet corner of the lake. I was here decades ago as a lovestruck youth getting acquainted with a lady friend, when there came a knock on the steamed-up window glass.

It was the Park Ranger informing us that we couldn’t park on the grass. That was it: no threat of arrest or a parking fine, no promise to contact our parents or our pastors. Just a polite nudge to spare the greenery.

In the heat of the moment, I was inclined to drive a few feet over to the gravel portion of the driveway and continue my ambitious study of young love, but the embarrassed young lady insisted that I take her home at once.

I shake off the memories of youthful yesteryear and step into the primitive Lake Warren shelter. Other lovers have been here as well, indicate the crude carvings and graffiti that anoint this place.

“NOLA + SIMBA,” announced one sign, “MUDD & PUDDLE” another. Adam said he loves Ashley always and proclaimed themselves the “A Team,” while another scribe declared a vulgar love for a canine that violated both South Carolina law and God’s will.

Poets have been at work here as well, and their work is far from crude. Inscribed into a weathered wooden bench are the words, “The sun loved the moon so much that he died every night so she could rise and shine each morning.” Something to ponder, indeed, A Team.

I had forgotten that there was a fireplace here in this primitive shelter. I was so inspired by the verses I built a fire, pulled up my camping chair, and sat a while, jotting down my thoughts, observations and reflections.

I used a handful of junk mail and bill notices from the dash of truck as tinder for the blaze, and I found it fitting to burn such evidence of responsibility and obligation during a moment of freedom and relaxation. I wanted to stay awhile, and say to hell with the day that lay ahead of me.

But my peace was soon interrupted. A family member was texting, and they were having a bad day. An editor was calling, asking about a newspaper project.

I want to stay here, explore farther, evade stress and worry, but there are always obligations awaiting, always pressures of family and work, and never enough time.

A nearby sign urges visitors to “Leave No Trace,” so I double check to make sure my fire is fully extinguished, and I have left nothing behind.

But I will return.