We were standing on top of a small hill, looking down at a full-scale invasion. There were lights, machinery, and people moving about in all directions. We were miles from pavement on the most remote corner of Clay’s massive property, and besides the four of us, there shouldn’t be another soul for miles. Yet we were looking at an active construction site, one that drew more questions the deeper you looked.
“Clay-bird, you seriously didn’t know about this?” Mark said. Clay said he was just as shocked as we were. Excavators were running back and forth in every direction, having already completely leveled a tract a quarter mile long and as wide as five football fields. Massive light towers were everywhere – on the ground and in the air. Between the bright moon and the stadium-sized lights, the site was lit up like it was the middle of the day.
Flanking the large clearing to our right was a sea of structures and large, green, army-style tents. There were mobile bunkhouses and restrooms facing us, clearly marked in English and another language none of us recognized. The bunkhouses were mobile homes converted into what we’d later learn were eight-man sleepers. I counted four army green tents, each measuring over 50 ft. in width, lined up opposite the bunkhouses. We were facing the backside of the tents, which were enclosed, so we were unable to see what was inside of them from our vantage point.
The structures sat on top of freshly laid white gravel, which helped amplify the brightness from all the lights. Gravel was also laid about 150 yards away from the structures, to our left, and served as a road for logging trucks hauling fresh timber and dump trucks filled with more evidence of the unyielding destruction. We were just beyond the end of the gravel road, facing east, watching the trucks disappear into the night as fast as they appeared.
Clay suggested we make our way to the guard station, which was located next to a mobile home marked as “Aid,” also in English and the mystery language. The guard station was an old shipping container that had been painted green and white, adorning a “Sheriff” sign above the entrance. The Sheriff even had his own side-by-side parked in the single parking space allotted for his building.
On the walk into the encampment we hypothesized about what exactly it was that was being built out here and who owned it. Clay was insistent that there was no way the older couple he knew as the owners would be undertaking a job of this scale and magnitude – and for what? Was this going to be some sort of resort out in the middle of nowhere? A golf course? Nothing made sense.
By the time we reached the guard station, our initial shock had worn off and turned into anger and concern. Expansion out here was supposed to be something the great, great grandkids would have to deal with, not now. And it wouldn’t stop. One development becomes two and then ten and eventually, you have a new town, with new people, new customs, new values and traditions, and an existing population that’s outnumbered, outvoted, and overruled. It didn’t matter what was being built. The damage had already been done, and this piece of land, and all that surrounded it, would never be the same.
The massive oaks and hickories were gone, not selectively managed, completely gone. The forest floor had been scraped clean, then pounded into submission by one piece of heavy equipment after the other. What was once a beautiful forest was now a sunbaked parking lot.
As we made our way onto the gravel path that split the tents, bunkhouses and bathrooms, we were able to see for the first time what the large green tents were hiding. The first tent we passed on our left was full of wooden boxes measuring about 5 ft. long, 3 ft. wide, and 2 ft. tall. Box after box, stacked up five high. There was a bathroom on our right, directly across from the tent, followed by two shower stations and the clinic. The next tent was more of the same, large wooden boxes, a few fork loaders, and various hand and power tools. There was a group of five or so men in the distance walking in our direction down the makeshift road, and one man exited the bathroom station as we walked past, paying no attention to us or the hounds.
Mark said he thought it was odd that we were able to just walk right in, but we reasoned the developer probably wasn’t expecting many visitors all the way out here. It was another stark reminder of how unfathomable this all was. Who would build anything this deep into the woods? And why were they working at night? We were approaching the Sheriff’s office, and Clay said that we were all about to find out as he knocked on the door of the converted shipping container.
Brandon Mack was 47 years old and wore his Sheriff’s badge with pride, though he was actually a security guard for a firm called Backcountry Security based out of Batesville, MS. He had a wide smile and looked you right in the eyes as he shook your hand. He was about 5’10”, in good shape, clean-shaven with a buzz cut. He opened the door, took a quick glance at us, and said, “Well, hello gentlemen. Those dogs look like they’re ready to chase some coons. My name’s Brandon,” as he extended his hand to Clay’s. “I’m Clay, pleasure to meet you, Brandon, and sorry to barge in unannounced.” We shook hands all the way around. Clay told him we’d treed just over the hill on his property and couldn’t help but notice the lights and the sound. We were curious, so we decided to take a look. “You mind if I ask what it is I’m looking at here? Do I have new neighbors, Brandon?”
“I tell you what, I’ll do you one better,” Brandon said. “I’m about to make my rounds, and I have a new pen around back. I’m bringing my walker hound out here in a couple weeks. You’re welcome to leave the dogs here, and we can all hop on the side-by-side.”
Brandon pulled onto the gravel drive in his 6-seater Polaris and began his well-rehearsed overview of the massive compound before us. “Mess hall on the left is open 24/7, best in town.” We could see rows of tables and chair set-ups, along with multiple buffet-style stands along the back wall of the tent. He said he loved every dish, but he also didn’t have any other options.
Brandon told us there were sixty laborers on rotation, another twenty handling food and maintenance, and twenty more in front office roles on-site at all times. The deeper we drove, the bigger the place felt. We were in what they called the west end, and even that looked like a small town. Rows of bunkhouses lined one side of the road, shower stations and restroom trailers tucked between them. On the other side stood large green army tents, blocking the dust rolling off the clearing behind them. Everything was ordered, and deliberate — it looked like a military encampment. Brandon said the supervisors stayed up ahead in a section they called “Manhattan,” and he grinned when he said it. “If any of you boys need the facilities,” he added, “they’re the cleanest in the state.”
We made it past the west end section of the compound and the sides opened up, allowing us to get a closer view of the clearing operation taking place to our left. We were separated from the gravel highway running parallel to our gravel road by 150 yards of recently cleared land. Logging trucks and debris loaders would fill up and head east on the makeshift highway, to where we had no idea.
Brandon paused long enough for Clay to cut in. “We appreciate the tour,” Clay said, “but we still don’t know what we’re looking at. What are you fellas building out here?” Brandon apologized and said he wasn’t allowed to say, adding that technically he wasn’t even supposed to be showing us around. He’d already worked out a cover story in case anyone stopped us, and he told us to just go with it, whatever that meant. The more we drove, the bigger it felt.
“Manhattan” was 200 yards from the west end, far enough to be out of sight if it weren’t for the lights. It was smaller than the west end, but it looked and felt different. The buildings were spaced out, string lights ran along the gravel road, and potted plants framed the entryways of every trailer. A few golf carts sat parked out front. This part of the compound felt more laid-back and comfortable. As we drove past, we got a few second glances, and Brandon must’ve caught it, because he slowed down, made a quiet U-turn, and told us if we kept heading east, it’d lead us straight to the exit.
I asked Brandon if he’d ever worked on something this big. He said he’d been on a dozen similar projects, but nothing anywhere close to this size. Clay didn’t miss the opening. “My property starts just past the west end,” he said. “You boys planning to head that direction?” Brandon shook his head. “Can’t get into specifics.” Then he glanced back at us and added, “By the way, you’re missing a fifth dog. A walker hound named Banjo. Took off this way. That’s the story if anyone asks.”
Clay apologized for pressing him and said he was just trying to make sense of what he was looking at. He cracked a joke about ignoring any future questions from us knuckleheads, and that seemed to ease the tension. Before we made it back to the west end, Brandon slowed the side-by-side and pulled off the road. When we stopped, he turned in his seat so he could see all of us. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, lowering his voice. “If I were in your shoes, I’d want to know. I’ll tell you what I’ve heard, but it doesn’t leave this site. And when I bring my dog back after my next stint of R&R, you let me tag along on a hunt or two with you fellas.” Clay didn’t hesitate. “You’ve got a standing invitation with or without the dog,” he said. Brandon nodded once and said, “Alright then, here’s what I’ve heard.”
Brandon said he’d had lunch in the chow hall with one of the company executives when the project first kicked off. According to him, the former owners were getting up in age, facing higher property taxes, and had started talking about selling. The company was looking for land and sent a representative at just the right time. A cash offer was made on the spot, and the couple took it. They signed NDAs that day and were Floridians within thirty days. Brandon added that the original plans had the project starting closer to Clay’s line, but expansion in that direction wouldn’t happen until phase three.
Clay didn’t just ask — he barked, “Phase three? There’s more?” Brandon nodded and said there were four other large tracts on the list. The executive had told him to get comfortable because he’d be there a while. This was phase one of at least twelve. Phase one was solar panels — thousands of them. Phase two would be even larger, followed by battery storage, cooling facilities, and data warehouses. Then he looked straight at Clay and said he was sorry, but Clay’s property was guaranteed to be on that list.
Clay thanked him for the heads up and told him he was welcome to hunt with us anytime. When we made it back to the “Sheriff” station, Brandon and Clay exchanged numbers, and the rest of us thanked him again for his hospitality. We made our way up the ridge back to the side-by-side in silence, none of us quite sure what to say. What do you say when one of your good friend’s perfect pieces of paradise is about to disappear around him, slice by slice? That’s how these things go. Once the first one sells, it spreads. Whether the company in charge of this operation got all five tracts or just this one, the damage was done and would be felt by all of them for decades to come.
Clay broke the silence as we loaded the dogs. “You spend your whole life thinking if you’re lucky enough to own ground like this, you’ll defend it until the day you die. I never stopped to ask whether I’d feel the same if it didn’t have trees, or water, or coons running through it. If it was just dirt and sun, would it mean anything at all? That’s what this becomes. Once they start, it doesn’t stop. It’ll change slow at first, then all at once. What kind of legacy is that for the grandkids?”
Clay’s house call came two weeks later. The man and woman standing at his door were from Palmetto Land Partners, an investment firm based out of Greenville, SC. The woman introduced herself as Kathryn and extended her hand first to shake Clay’s. She introduced her partner, Chase, who shook Clay’s hand and apologized for stopping by unannounced. Clay invited the two in so they could sit on the back porch and enjoy the view of the pond and avoid the afternoon sun.
Clay’s wife Jenny brought out sweet tea for the group. Kathryn and Chase admired the view from the back porch, where the pond stretched out below them and the pines framed the far bank. Kathryn set her glass down and said she preferred to be direct. “Forgive me for asking,” she said, “but have you given any thought to selling your property?”
Clay said he waited to see if they’d try to lean on him and mention the neighbor who’d already sold, or hint that others had signed on and the train was leaving the station with or without him. But they didn’t. They just sat there. Calm. Patient. Like they were giving him room to talk himself into something he hadn’t planned on saying.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I have,” Clay said.
No reaction. Not a flicker. They sipped their sweet tea and waited. Didn’t rush him. Didn’t fill the silence. You could tell they’d been in rooms like this before.
Clay let the silence stretch. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and unfolded a small piece of paper he’d tucked inside. Kathryn sat closest to him, so he handed it to her. “Cash. Close in thirty days or less. After thirty, the number goes up 10 percent every thirty days. One stipulation — you designate a wildlife corridor connecting every property you purchase in this area. You coordinate it with the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources, who will compensate you on a per acre basis. If you need to review it with your team, we can meet again tomorrow.”
Kathryn had looked at the piece of paper while Clay was talking and handed it to her colleague, Chase. Neither showed any reaction, and Chase placed it in his pants pocket. Kathryn said, “That won’t be necessary. We brought our checkbook.”
On that short walk back to the side-by-side from the “Sheriff” station, Clay was able to see what the future held for his little piece of paradise and he didn’t like it. He’d moved a dozen times in his life for work and business opportunities and thought those days were behind him, but he was always up for another one. He had grandkids in south Georgia where some large landowners were selling off over 250,000 acres of Georgia pine country, in some areas as low as $2,300 per acre. On that walk, what Clay realized was that he didn’t need to spend the rest of his life fighting the inevitable, he just needed a bigger buffer, and that number guaranteed he’d have one beyond his wildest dreams.