Trip Reports -
Sandrock Nightlife

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

Before we continue I must stress that it is not my intention to promote nor perpetuate a certain stereotype. While my story may seem to revolve around the ignorance of others, it is through my own ignorance of the local law and customs that I came to find myself in a compromised situation. I relate this tale so as to educate those who may come after me and as a personal reminder of how small my world of experience is.

See larger view of rock formations at Sandrock

Located in the rural woods of northeast Alabama, miles form the nearest town of any significance, a grouping of large rocks occupies the southern cusp of Shinbone Ridge. Many of these great boulders are the size of multistory houses. The last vestiges of the Cumberland Plateau, they line the ridge for half a mile or so, looming silently over the valley below. For years they sat undisturbed, well camouflaged by the surrounding trees. Their recent presence was recognized only by the local hunters and woodsmen who entered the area. Also known as Cherokee Rock Village, the giant boulders and formations of Sandrock are rumored to have served as a ceremonial site for Native Americans for 8000 years past.

The hidden site was "rediscovered" in the early 1980's when an access road was cleared. It quickly came to the attention of sightseers, rock climbers, and the local populace. Because of the ease of access granted by the road, the once ceremonial area has become a "recreational" playground to the locals who use it's beauty in the celebration of their reverence for off-road vehicles, affordable libations, and as a conveniently located landfill. While the indigenous Americans left little trace, this current breed seems bent on insuring that they will be remembered long into the future through their primitive rock paintings, broken bits of "pottery" and the accumulation of great scatterings of refuse.

Rumor of the great rock climbing found here had drifted far and wide. Recognizing it as one of the closest climbing destinations to our homes in North Florida, DeDe, Jackie and I arrived Thursday evening, just before darkness fell to experience it for ourselves. We made camp in the woods nearby, and settled down for the night. We later discovered this night had been comparatively dull. We gradually adapted to the night-long arrival and departure of noisy pickup trucks in the parking area nearby, disgorging and reloading ATV's to the accompaniment of poorly amplified country ballads. After the obligatory race around the parking area, through the campsites and up and down the road, the riders loaded on their cargos of beer and tore off into the woods eventually returning when either they or their machines ran out of the juice that made them go.

View larger version of photo of criminals

We spent an enjoyable day Friday climbing and exploring the rock islands of Sandrock. As the day came to a close, we drove down the hill to refresh the ice in our cooler. Returning to our campsite as the sun set, we sat down for dinner. Though warm, dusk had brought on a throng of persistent mosquitos so I lit a small smoky fire to try to drive some of them way. After our meal, I sat on a stump by the mosquito fire sipping a on a cold beer as darkness fell. Jackie and Dede were enjoying cups of wine. We heard the trucks roar up, screech to a stop, and the usual door slamming and commotion of unloading and corralling the roaring 4-wheelers. Typical nighttime activity for Sandrock. 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 explored the contents of my truck. A giant man in a brown uniform, flanked by another, asked me if we had possession of any alcohol as this was a dry county and such was illegal here.

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. I though of the second six-pack of Guinness I'd just added to the others now that we'd been 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 recognized it when my hand failed to search the deep back corners of the cooler where I knew a few more lay. He corrected the discrepancy. 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 usual.

"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 elderly "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 they stepped away to discuss their options.

I seized on a plan. No evidence, no crime... I grabbed the opener and set to work. I had the tops off four beers before they noticed what was happening.

"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". 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, much of it into my shoes in the process, then quickly picked up all the bottles and tossed the dirty, pine straw 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.

We spent a nice day climbing again Saturday. Saturday night, it 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.

Tonight's 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 his 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. Perhaps if you run into this moron en masse, someone could talk some sense into him.

See larger image of DeDe on Wall of Horns

We packed up in the morning before we headed for the rock as did most everyone else, and climbed until noon. 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 down the graded road towards town. Turning back towards Atlanta, we emptied our minds for the long ride back home to Florida.

Sandrock Alabama climbing area page

How to send your Trip Report

Top of Page