🌊Where the Water Remembers

We just got home from a short weekend trip to somewhere new. This past weekend, we drove to Pendleton, South Carolina, to stay at Twin Lakes Campground on Lake Hartwell. I had passed by it many times on my travels south along I-85 but never had the chance to stop. This time, something

pulled me toward it—the promise of lakefront serenity and the chance to swim right from our campsite.

We brought Levi, our dog, along for the adventure. I imagined him paddling through the water, tail wagging, ears flopping, and packed his doggie life vest with hope. We loaded the RV with everything we needed, including swim gear and snacks, hearts light with anticipation.

I had learned that the campground locks its gates at night, and once closed, there’s no getting in until morning unless there’s an emergency. That detail stuck with me, so I made sure we hit the road early enough to arrive before the gate shut. When we pulled up, the man at the gate greeted me by name before I could even speak. "How did you know?" I asked, surprised. "You’re the last one on the list," he said with a smile.

Setting up camp in the dusky twilight was effortless. As the sky deepened into night, we sat outside, listening to the distant hum of boats on the lake and watching stars blink into view.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of jet skis and boats skimming across the water—a sound I hadn’t heard in years. It transported me back to my childhood, to the lake house where my dad lived. I used to sleep with the windows open, letting the waves and boat motors lull me into dreams. That morning at Lake Hartwell, those memories came rushing back, bittersweet and beautiful.  

We spent the day by the water, coaxing Levi into the lake, cheering him on as he learned to swim. I floated on a raft I’d brought from Aldi, ears submerged, letting the distant hum of boat engines and the rhythm of the water carry me away.

As evening fell, Josh built a fire in the ring, and we grilled chicken and corn on the cob. We ate dinner watching the sun melt into the lake, crickets singing in the background. It felt like the kind of day you want to bottle up and keep forever.

The next morning came too soon. We packed up slowly, reluctant to leave. Lake Hartwell had wrapped itself around my heart—the quiet, the water, the memories. Twin Lakes Campground was peaceful and gentle, and I know we’ll return. Maybe next time, we’ll stay a little longer.

On the drive home that Sunday, cruising up the highway, we passed a tractor trailer that caught my eye. It said MVT on the side—Mesilla Valley Transport. The name stirred something in me. MVT is based out of Las Cruces, New Mexico, the town where my aunt was born and still has family. It felt like a small nod from the universe, a reminder of roots and connections stretching far beyond the weekend. Funny how a simple logo on the side of a truck can carry the weight of memory.