Thursday—January 1, 1998
Trail Day—1
Trail Mile—8
Location—US41, Tamiami Trail, Oasis Ranger Station Picnic Area

Jon, my youngest son, has driven me here to the southern Florida National Scenic Trail (FT) terminus at Loop Road about 30 miles west of Miami. This trail certainly doesn’t lure you in. We stand and look at it; six to ten inches of water over silt-covered porous limestone. The trail begins here just off the shoulder of the road. We talk about whether this is really what I want to do. Jon was one of only a handful of people who knew my plan to attempt an incredible journey all the way to Mt. Katahdin by foot; hoping, God willing, to be there sometime in late September or early October, a full nine to ten months on the trail. Here we linger and talk about it some more. Then finally, fighting tears, Jon and I hug and I step into it. Fifty yards later I stop for the last time to turn and wave goodbye to Jon.

The next eight hours are impossible to describe. I've never hiked continually through anything even remotely like this. It would compare somewhat, I suppose, to going to the beach, wading out until you’re up to somewhere between your knees and hips in it, thence to turn and thrash along with it—the only difference being the fact that no tall grass, brush or invisible sharp-edged leg-swallowing holes are there to contend with along the beach. This season has been the wettest in South Florida since 1940. The record was broken before the beginning of the fourth week in December. September, I was told, had been the wettest on record. El Nino was certainly making its mark. Nina Dupuy, FT1 Section Leader had told me the trail was impassable and that it was technically closed. FT1 runs some 38 miles through the Everglades, beginning near the Miccosukee Indian Reservation in the Big Cypress National Preserve to proceed basically north on a beeline to Alligator Alley. I did not know, but certainly I should have suspected, that I was entering some of the most difficult, nerve-wracking and dangerous treadway that I would encounter during the entire “Odyssey of ‘98.”

New flagging leading to the nearly flooded old tramway dike saves me getting lost. I encounter a really scary section at one of the tramway cuts. There are no bridges at these cuts and at this particular one the tannic, coffee-looking water is blasting through with boiling, rolling force. There is no way around, just through! An old blowdown snag is lodged in the cut blocking my passage. As I grope to get through the tangle I lose my balance. I have been taught and have read in most every book I’ve ever picked up on hiking and backpacking that the proper technique in negotiating turbulent water is to release your hip belt and sternum strap and loosen your ladder straps. This allows quick exit from your pack should you stumble or get swept down, time being of the essence for survival. This rule I dutifully follow before entering the turbulence. What is not addressed in this rule, the last item being omitted, is how to hell you’re supposed to continue surviving without your pack! As I grab for a limb on the old snag, it breaks and I lurch into the driving torrent. I am jerked and thrown violently and my pack is thrust away from me into the flush. It is fortunate that I had not cut the excess tail from my hip belt strap, having forgotten that task in the last hectic minutes of preparation. As I lunge for it I am able to clutch this trailing bit of pack stern as we both are swept swiftly along. With luck, I am able to grab other flood tangle and get stopped. My heart is pounding in my throat and my head is spinning. I have no idea how long I cling here heaving my nervously eaten breakfast, but it is a long time. Had I cinched my ladders, sternum and hip belts snugly, this whole life-threatening ordeal would never have happened. Folks who camel full expedition loads on their backs, as most backpackers are inclined to do, may need to heed this rule. It does not, however, apply to me. So now I am immediately set full with anguish and frustration in realizing that I must reassess all the other rules I’ve ever learned or have been taught.

Dragging mud, water and grass step after step, mile after mile totally saps me. I cannot recall in my memory not being able to maintain at least a two-mile-per-hour pace. Here, I’m hard-put to make just one. I hadn't considered this possible consequence in planning my itinerary for this first day, the intent being to hike the eight or so miles to Tamiami Trail and high ground at Oasis Ranger Station. Toward evening and as the shadows lengthen and the patchy, bleached blazes become increasingly more difficult to follow, and as the treadway keeps gradually but steadily submerging until I’m up to near my hips in it; comes the realization that there is no way I am going to get out of here before dark descends. I become terror-struck as the hot, humid, heavy air of the day drifts and gives way to the cold chill of the evening emerging from the shadows. I hear the sounds of the night beginning and I tremble with fear. I have lost the trail, what little there is of it, along with the occasional coin-sized remnants of blazing. I stumble through the cypress knees, the tangle and the brush. I am rushing now, pell-mell, totally exhausted. I know not in what direction or to where I am racing. As I pause, clinging to one of the gadzillion cypress trees, gasping for air, I realize that if I cannot quickly compose myself and get my wits about me, that this journey is going to be over before it ever begins. As my chest quits heaving and my heart quits drumming in my ears, I am able to slowly coax myself into analyzing my predicament with some degree of rational judgment. I know that Tamiami Trail is running east and west somewhere north of me and if I head in that general direction I will eventually reach there. That is, if I don’t end up going in clear over my head in a gator hole. I begin to tremble again. “Calm down, calm down, if you must stay out here all night it won’t be all that bad,” I try reassuring myself. As I hang my pack on a broken cypress limb I realize this is the first time it’s been off my back, save the tramway incident, since I shouldered it from Jon’s tailgate. I get out my flashlight, my compass, and a Snickers bar for a much-needed boost of energy. The water bottle I’m carrying in my belt pouch is empty, so it is that I break one of my cardinal rules on my very first day. But, has not one of my rules already forsaken me? So what the heck, I dunk my empty water bottle into the murky sink that surrounds me and drink my fill!

With much trepidation I hoist my pack, turn my flashlight on and head out on compass bearing 360. The depth of the murk and slosh I’m pushing along climbs up and down my legs but stays below my belt as I stumble along in the dark. Nighttime in the swamp is a very alien, eerie and forbidding place to be. Grotesque shadows cast by my little flashlight beam and the night sounds of the swamp conger up images as horrifying as the bogeyman, which most surely lurked under my childhood bed. I grope from tree to tree to keep from going down as I trip over the submerged cypress knees. I know that a great distance yet remains to Tamiami Trail, yet it seems as though dark has become near eternal.

For the longest while I think I am seeing things, but I finally realize that way out somewhere ahead blinking in and out and playing hide and seek through the endless maze of cypress trees—there’s a faint light! At first its presence is fleeting, I can see it only momentarily, then it’s gone. Even when I stop I cannot keep its presence fixed. But it is there, and as it becomes more visible I abandon my compass bearing and head straight for it. It is yet another hour, as this elusive light seems to retreat with each unsteady step I take, until finally the night lights at Oasis, which have been my land beacon, guide me as I stumble onto the roadway at Tamiami Trail. I am totally exhausted, in a lather and covered with mud, but thankful to be out of it. I drag myself to the picnic benches over by the public telephone. It is 9:00 p.m. and there’s no one here at Oasis Ranger Station. No cars have passed since I emerged from the bowels of the earth. I set up my little tent and try to dry myself off before rolling in.

So ends this incredible first day of a planned odyssey that I now wonder will ever come to pass. If what I’ve somehow managed to endure and survive today is any indication of what’s ahead, what’s really in store for me, I know I’ll never be up to it. But I am too tired now, to exhausted to care and I’m immediately in dreamland as I fall into deep, restful sleep.

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step”

Friday—January 2, 1998
Trail Day—2
Trail Mile—20
Location—Lost Dog Prairie SE, Cabbage/Pine Hammock

I’m up, out of my tent and moving around at first light, a little stiff but otherwise feeling good. I think my feet will become a problem before I’m out of the Everglades. From the time I stepped into it yesterday until I emerged here at Tamiami Trail my feet were constantly submerged. The Swiss-cheese limestone and the cypress knees, invisible below the gumbo-like silt makes every step a new adventure. The doggies are definitely in for a pounding. I also have a hunch that having all of my clothing and everything in my pack totally soaked all the time may also take a little getting used to, and I haven’t hit the rain yet!

There was very little traffic during the night and only an occasional vehicle breaks the morning silence. A chain link fence encloses a small drainage pond only a few feet from the little picnic area where I pitched. I glance over that way while whipping together a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast and I quickly see the reason for the fence. Gators! They’re no more than twenty feet away from where I bedded down. Over by the public telephone is a small pedestal with a trail register. I head over to sign in/out and see who’s been through. What a wonderful and uplifting surprise to find a note at the bottom of the register page from Jon. He had gone on west on Loop Road yesterday to where it loops back to Tamiami Trail and then came back east to stop at Oasis on his way to Miami. He knew I’d be coming through here! His Note: “Good luck Pop! Love ya, Jon." The only other entries over the recent past were a couple of folks headed north for Seven-Mile Camp.

My itinerary shows this being a 16.4-mile day into Thirteen-Mile Camp. That distance would be a piece of cake almost anywhere else. But I know, as I look at my map that there is no way to make this distance. A short jog to the left around the landing strip and I’m right back in it again. It doesn’t take much slogging this morning until I’m totally exhausted. As I pass a little four-by-four patch of dry ground between two pine trees, I pull off.

I’ve got a little homemade hobo “handy dandy” wood burning cook stove and I get it out, break off some dry palm fronds and fire it up for some hot lunch. I figure I’d better have my warm meal now, as this may be the last high ground I see all day. Well I must tell you, this odyssey isn’t starting out quite the way I envisioned. For, during the next few minutes I’ve got enough excitement on my hands to last me the entire journey. With noodles cooking nicely on my little stove I move off a short distance to filter some water. When I return, my noodles aren’t the only thing cooking. The little patch of grass around my stove is cooking and my pack, which I’ve laid right next, is also cooking! When nylon really get going you’ve got a very hot and dangerous fire on your hands…literally on your hands. As I slap in desperation at the flames I get the melting, burning nylon all over me. I give my pack a kick into the water and manage to douse my hands at the same time. I stomp at the grass fire and in the process my stove, pot, noodles and all go flying into the Everglades! As I watch my stove go down in flames on one side of the island, I turn to see my pack pop back up on the other side belching black billows of smoke. I slog back over there and give it a stomp back under as it hisses and belches more black smoke at me. I then drag myself, coughing and gasping, back onto the charred patch of ground, collapse against the pine tree and…cry.

I don’t know how long I sit here with my head stuck between my knees, sobbing uncontrollably, but I know it’s a good while longer than I hung on in the backwash of the flood throwing up yesterday. I finally manage to compose myself, but not before my eyes are nearly swollen shut. I begin the damage control check as I look at my hands. Miraculously, they’re okay! Black carbon patches of nylon are vulcanized to my fingers and both my palms but there is no pain or redness. I go to where the noodles are bobbing in the water and retrieve my pot and stove. Back again to the other side of the island I drag my pitifully charred, waterlogged but still smoldering pack back to the equally charred ground. I am soaked and covered with soot. I’m afraid to even look at this mess. I start sobbing again as I flip it over with my foot to see what’s left of the other side.

I find the right shoulder pad completely gone, and the ladder strap burned through, save a few threads. My sleeping bag stuff sack is destroyed and my sleeping bag is little more than a black gooey char the consistency of playdough. I don’t need to unzip my pack to get in it anymore. There’s a saucer-sized hole in the right top. A garbage bag wadded in the top of my pack saved most of the contents. I lost a pair of wool socks and I’ll no longer be able to be seen in public with my other pair of nylon pants. There’s enough left of the burned ladder strap to hold the weight of the pack. I cut up what’s left of the wool socks and manage to construct a halfway functional shoulder pad. I pull out another garbage bag, shove what’s left of my sleeping bag into it, shoulder the whole pitiful mess, point the compass back at 360 and head on north.

I run into three army fellows near Barnes Strand in full (face) camo and at Seven-mile Camp, I meet Gary, his son and friend. Gary has been hiking into SMC for the past 20 years and claims he’s never seen it this wet. I manage to get no further today than the first northwest leg near Lost Dog Prairie. I’m lucky to find dry ground on the southern tip of a small pine island. The entire day, save a few hundred yards has been in twelve to eighteen inches of water and mud. What an unbelievable day. I am so thankful that I am able to go on.

“If you are ready to leave father and mother,
and brother and sister, and wife and child and
friends, and never see them again…then you
are ready for a walk”

[Thoreau]

Saturday—January 3, 1998
Trail Day—3
Trail Mile—32
Location—Old Truck Island

It took me over an hour last night, in the light of my campfire, to salvage what was left of my pitiful sleeping bag. It was a synthetic bag, which is basically all nylon. The bag outer fabric and the filament comprising the loft were hopelessly stir-fried together. I used my pocketknife to try and strip away the countless lumps and webs of homogenized goo and petrified char. When I finally completed the bagectomy I seriously considered throwing the whole sad mess into the fire to save it any further misery and embarrassment. But, I needed the dear battered veteran to keep me warm last night, as the temperature really plummeted once the sun went down. By covering my sleeping pad with my towel and my clothing and using the remains of my sleeping bag as a blanket I was able to stay warm and I slept in reasonable comfort. My emergency pack repairs seem to be working fairly well and by making do with what’s left of my equipment I’ll be able to stay on the trail until it’s more convenient to get to an outfitter.

I’m up at dawn this morning. Everything I have is soaking wet. I'm trying very hard, but I don’t know if I’ll get used to this! Cold, cold wet socks. Cold, cold wet boots! My feet are really shriveled up but otherwise they seem okay. I’m off to a clear sunny morning to continue the slog. With water everywhere, there is no treadway to be seen and I’m almost constantly off the trail. By zigging and zagging I am able to keep picking up the little specks of faded orange paint and the small tatters of bleached flagging. But, I get lost many times and must turn and retrace my steps through the wake. Just north of an old sagging and rusted fence line I enter another really scary area. The water and mud keeps getting deeper and deeper and the cover is changing from dwarf cypress to the taller and much larger bald cypress. Once inside this dark, dungeon-like place a lagoon opens, covered with broadleaf waterplants, a sure sign of deeper water. I’m already in up to my hips. Surely I must have missed a turn. Backtracking a short distance I see a waving bleached remnant of flagging. I look and look in every direction, but the little strip of flagging is the last trail marker I find. The patchy blazes have led me right into this God forbidden place and looking at the compass bearing I’ve been running it appears I must go through.

So, with much doubt and hesitancy I head on in. I’m immediately up to my waste in the murk and slime and my pack is submerging. Having my pack in the water is very unnerving. There is an incredible jumble of submerged logs, brush and cypress knees. I keep searching for another paint speck or a little strip of flagging, but there is none. Surely I am lost. I hear a loud splash on the far side of the lagoon. What should I do? I struggle to keep my wits about me. I look again at my compass. I’ve been running a pretty steady bearing just off north all morning, so I decide to stick with it. The water is holding at my hips and I’m getting through. I must concentrate and take much precaution with each step to keep from going down, as the footing is treacherous. The eerie lagoon and the waterplants finally give back to closely ganged cypress. There is no evidence of a path through here anywhere and there still are no trail markings. Finally the bald cypress thins out and my pack begins lifting out of the murk as I emerge from the dungeon-like bog. I am feeling a little less anxious now, but I’ve been running totally on fear the last two days and it’s really starting to take a strain. Fear, it seems, has become my constant companion. I begin zigzagging again in an attempt to find the trail and as I look back…there it is! A small speck of orange paint. I heave a great sigh of relief. Thank you Lord, I’ve made it through and I’m back on trail!

The remainder of the day is uneventful and I settle into enduring the monotony of the pulsing sounds of water as I push rhythmically into it. By evening I arrive at a place that I have dubbed “Old Truck Island.” The little island/oasis isn’t ten yards across, but it’s a mountain in the muck, towering over two feet. One hundred yards northeast of this little island, lie the remains of an old truck, resting on its back in very ungraceful fashion as it attempts to endure the ravages of time. The old truck is noted in the trail mileage data and fixes my position at milemarker 32. In all this day I have covered just 12 miles. As the cool of the evening descends the mosquitoes arrive in waves. These critters usually cause me little annoyance, but with my nerves totally uncoiled I have no tolerance for them. I pitch my tent quickly and roll in. It is my plan to venture out later, get a small cooking fire going and have a warm meal…but I never make it.

[N. Nomad]

Sunday—January 4, 1998
Trail Day—4
Trail Mile—50
Location—Kissimmee Billie Swamp Safari

I am up at dawn. The mosquitoes have launched a full squadron to descend on me as soon as I emerge from my little Slumberjack. It appears another fine day is shaping weather-wise. I break camp and head on north without breakfast to escape the relentless air attack. In a short while I find a small Cabbage Palm Island and pull off to study my maps and trail data and to have some breakfast. The day is warming nicely and the mosquito air squadron has returned to base. I decide to try and make the remaining 6 miles to Alligator Alley plus the 11.5 miles to Kissimmee Billie Swamp Safari before dark.

I am in water to my knees all morning, dragging oatmeal-looking silt and grass the whole way. The flagging and blazing are easier to follow and I am off trail much less. I hit the fence at the I75 Rest Stop around 1:00 p.m., literally hit the fence. It is a chain link barricade ten feet high. The gate, which provided passage before Alligator Alley became limited access is gone, the hole wired shut. Old blazes still remain on the tree on the other side. The rest area is about five hundred yards to the west and the fence fortification appears to continue all the way around it with no way through. I head east along the fence and find an open gate, which provides access to the woodsroad I had been hiking earlier in the morning. I am able to pass through the fence onto the paved service road. Here I heave a long sigh of relief. I have successfully made it through FT1. Nina Dupuy, I thank you my dear friend, you and all the folks with the Big Cypress Chapter, FTA have made a tremendous effort to get this trail through the Everglades. It just appears to me an impossible task.

I am tempted to take a break, get a coke and some snacks at the rest area and make a few phone calls, but there are many miles ahead of me today so I head for the break in the fence on the north side of the interstate. I will be hiking most the remainder of the day across lands of the Seminole Indian Nation, only the second to do so. The trail here is now opening up thanks to Ken Carpenter and the folks with the Seminole Chapter, FTA. Rick Vagabond Guhse was the first to hike this section only a few months ago and he has provided maps and data to get me through. Steve Bowers, with the Seminole Nation, has granted me permission to cross the reservation. It seems my feet survived the endless submersion with little consequence, but to my dismay, as I follow the canal spoil-bank road north I haven’t gone a mile with dry feet, dry socks and dry shoes until I feel hot spots developing everywhere. I pull over and unload on an old blowdown beside the canal. It is here I meet one of nature’s little delinquent troublemakers…sandspurs! I sit square on one, the experience of which, if duplicated and studied under laboratory conditions would most assuredly unlock the secret to solving the Alzheimer’s riddle, for this is definitely an experience that will never be forgotten! My laces are also full of the natty little spike balls. It’s an impossible task to eject them without becoming totally impaled. These little nasties, I truly believe are one of the most aggravating of nature’s little bad guys.

My premonition about my feet has come to pass. The swamp water has basically melted my skin. As long as my feet remained in the cool water, friction was not a problem. But the tough skin and calluses that had developed over the years now just peals right off! Fortunately I have a pair of polypro liners; so I dust my feet good with medicated powder, and put on the double socks. Another five miles and I am suffering again. I drop my pack and remove my shoes once more to find my feet covered with blisters. Now, I almost wish to be back in the muck, but I know that I must adapt my feet to this dry, hot environment. So, I pop the blisters, adhesive tape my toes and duct tape my heels and Achilles. I eliminate the liner socks and find that I do better with just the wool rags. It has been such a joy to be able to move out and do some truckin’, which has no doubt exacerbated the blister problem. I must slow down to reduce the heat and friction.

This little-used woodsroad along the canal this afternoon must certainly be called either Gator Road or Turtle Road. Constantly, and all along ahead of me is the repeated and resounding splash of the gators plunging and diving into the murky canal water, or the huge, basket-sized turtles tumbling from logs or their coquina rock sundecks. I’ve seen some very big gators at Gatorland but nothing to compare to some of these guys. I’m sure you won’t believe me when I tell you that the girth on some compare to a 55-gallon drum flattened out! Well, okay, I’m going to bring my camera along next time!

My shadow ventures out far ahead of me on Snake Road as I head east toward Kissimmee Billie Swamp Safari. As I enter the Gift Shop at Safari Village a beautiful young Seminole girl greets me. I have been advised by Vagabond to make sure and tell the folks here right away that I am hiking the FT. Oh, yes, was this certainly the right thing to do! For, as I inquire about accommodations for the evening the young lady tells me that I will be staying in one of the Chickees, a small, elevated, rustic thatched-roofed hut. And in her words: “You can have it for…well, you can have it for…well--you can just have it!” And so, here at Kissimmee Billie Swamp Safari, my first contact with anyone off the trail since leaving Loop Road, I meet my very first “Trail Angel.” The first as it turns out, of countless hundreds that it will become my pleasure to meet all along the trail all the way into Canada, one of the absolutely magic things about being on the trail! I am able to take a luxurious shower, have a delicious meal in the village restaurant, make a few phone calls and get a much welcome warm and dry night’s sleep.

[Shakespeare]

Monday—January 5, 1998
Trail Day—5
Trail Mile—68
Location—Second Pumping Station, C-1 Canal Road

It is first light and I am sitting alone under the large tribal Chickee at Kissimmee Billie Swamp Safari. No one else is stirring yet and it is quiet. The moisture-laden air of the night has not yet yielded to the morning, its chill still present. I am thinking about these first three incredible days spent in the flood of the Everglades. I submerged at 12:30 p.m., Thursday, New Years Day at Loop Road and did not really emerged again until Sunday afternoon at 1:00 p.m. at the fence at I-75 rest stop. And the trail? The trail was not pleasant by any stretch. In fact, it was grueling. Fully 36 of the 38 miles were submerged. Had the trail been frozen I could have skated most the entire thing. The footing was treacherous, a combination of holes, ledges, voids and cracks in the "Swiss cheese" limestone, interspersed with roots, stumps and cypress knees, all invisible, covered by six to twelve inches of gumbo-consistency silt. Blazes and flagging were difficult to follow, nonexistent at times, requiring almost constant compass use. Orange, it would seem, would be a great color for blazing, but it really is not. What occurs, as the merciless tropic-like sun works intently and relentlessly, is rapid degradation of the blaze patch to little more than splotches which resemble the millions of other chips of bronze-shaded bark on the longleaf pine. And the orange and red flagging? That should work great, wouldn’t you think? But it does not. For the sun and the rain quickly bleach it slate gray to match the millions of lichen attached to each of the gadzillion cypress trees. Only with luck and a breeze does the flutter of the tape show the way.

I was filled with elation on first spotting the rest area buildings at Alligator Alley, only to clutch with disbelief at the ten foot high chain link wall, like an animal in a huge cage, peering at civilization on the other side. What an incredibly agonizing moment as I pondered not being able to get through. I had just passed the trail register, a wooden box-like affair hanging loosely by a couple of nails from a pine tree. The lid was gone, the rusting spiral ring all that remained of the register book. No hikers had been that way for a long, long time.

I stoke up on a fine breakfast at the village restaurant, and upon returning to my Chickee to do damage control to my poor war-torn doggies I’m greeted by many Seminole, both young and old. None can believe from where I have come, the lands of the Miccosukee, their neighbors many miles to the south, and that I have walked through the Everglades to get here. They’ve never heard of such a thing. Most just turn, to glance back occasionally in disbelief as they walk away! Before departing I go to see the two Florida panthers. They have been caged all their lives, yet they pace, as if looking for a way to the wilds and freedom just a pounce or two away. As I stand here looking at these strikingly handsome animals I have a sense, from my recent experience, just how they must feel trapped behind bars. After stopping in the gift shop to thank everyone I head back out on Snake Road.

Today is a roadwalk for many miles almost due east through Seminole Big Cypress Village and the wide and expansive countryside of the Seminole Indian Reservation. Their lands are professionally managed with large cattle ranches and endless expanses of citrus groves. I am in rain off and on for the first time today. Folks along the way gave me all courtesy and I am offered many rides. I was looking forward to seeing the beautiful new Seminole Museum but it is closed on Mondays.

By early evening I reach the C-1 canal and finally head north again. I make the mistake of hiking too long into the evening, for as the evening cool descends I am attacked without warning by clouds of mosquitoes. I hurry on to the second pumping station where there is a wide spot in the canal road and pull off. I throw my pack down and feverishly work at getting my tent set up as I flail helplessly at the angry little spitfires. I quickly grab my pack and roll in, clothes and all. Looks like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich night tonight! As I lay back to swat the mosquitoes swirling around my nostrils I feel something on my leg…and then a hot jolt, as if someone had poked me with a flaming match. I get my flashlight out and look at the floor of my tent in disbelief and horror. The whole place is moving! In my haste to get my tent up I had haplessly tossed my pack into a bed of fire ants. They apparently were all over the bottom of my pack when I threw it in my tent and now they’re all over me! I thought sandspurs were a very nasty thing, but having these little demons all over me is like a living nightmare. At least with the sandspurs I had the option of sitting and pondering my next move. With this army of flame-throwers, I have to move! As I start to unzip my tent screen I notice that it is literally a black mat of mosquitoes! Aww, I can’t go out there, I’ll be carried away. Two more hot pokers jab my leg and my back. I’ve got to stay in here and go after these guys. I start slapping and pounding at them with all my might. And then…my flashlight goes out, I bang and hammer at it in desperation but it is dead from the hours of use in the Big Cypress Swamp. I have little branding irons stuck all over me now. All I can do is fight back as they come after me. The attack is relentless. It is 3:00 a.m. before I finally drift off in total exhaustion. The PBJ will have to wait till morning.

“I will forget the happenings of the day that is gone, whether
they were good or bad, and greet the new sun with confidence
that this will be the best day of my life.”

[Og Mandino]

Tuesday—January 6, 1998
Trail Day—6
Trail Mile—85
Location—Sugar Cane Field By CR835 East of C-1 Canal

The mosquitoes are still around this morning as I roll out around 8:00 a.m., bur there are fewer to contend with and they aren’t as vicious. I make note of the fire ant bed and give it plenty of room as I finally fix my PBJ sandwich and break camp. The hike today is a full day on the canal spoil-bank road as I head north toward Clewiston. As I proceed I quickly realize that this roadwalk has absolutely no redeeming value, other than the fact there are no vehicles whizzing by. I have entered the land of sugar cane and for miles in all directions the tall green cane is all that can be seen. Daydreaming along I walk straight up on a pigmy rattler and he startles me out of my wits with a surprising lunge. I let him have his ground and pass well to the other side!

As I hike into the heat of the day, and with no shade anywhere along the canal bank the sun is starting to work me over pretty good. I stop, put on my long sleeved shirt and get my towel out to cover my head. Then it’s beat a path down through the weeds to filter some water from the canal. I am hoping to be granted permission to cross U.S. Sugar Corp. lands today to avoid hiking on dangerous CR835, but a call from a construction trailer just off the canal road brings the bad news that they are burning cane and I’ll have to take to the road. I find a spot just off busy CR835, in a cane field, to pitch for the evening. I prepared a warm meal and retreat to my tent just as the first scouts come to check me out. As I zip up my screen the entire mosquito air force is descending. I still have to pulverize a fire ant or two as I try covering myself with my pathetic sleeping bag.

[Anon.]

Wednesday—January 7, 1998
Trail Day—7
Trail Mile—100
Location—Uncle Joe’s Fish Camp, Hoover Dike

Empty sugar cane trucks make an incredible amount of racket. They’re carrying large metal cages on the back of flatbed semi trailers and these guys haul. CR835 is rough and full of patches and has taken an incredible beating from the constant cane truck pounding. This racket starts right after first light this morning and I’m up and out with it. The roadbed is crowned up, very narrow and in some places the shoulders are almost nonexistent. There has been much erosion all along and each step requires attention lest I turn an ankle or stumble in the ruts and washouts. I am walking facing oncoming traffic and when no vehicles are approaching I sneak onto the edge of the road where the going is much better. The traffic that I cannot see from behind is a full lane away and I pay little heed to what is whizzing past me in the northbound lane. What I hadn’t accounted for was the possibility of passing traffic coming up from behind. As an empty cane truck goes rattling past heading south, I start to move back up on the road edge. I assume all the racket behind me is from the southbound truck, but just as I’m taking my last step toward the roadway it happens. A loaded cane truck is passing a slower vehicle from behind and as I turn I can see a flash out of the corner of my eye. At that same instant I feel the percussion. To this day I am unable to reconstruct what happened. The next thing I know I am lying in the weeds way down by the canal ditch and my pack is twisted around at an incredible angle. I lie there for what seems a very long time, afraid to move for fear of what I would discover. No one has stopped and I can hear the trucks roaring by. I reach down slowly, unbuckle my hip belt and carefully roll out of my pack. So far, so good! I finally manage to pull myself up. On closer inspection I find not a bruise or a mark on me anywhere. All the moving parts are working! Thank you Lord! What a lesson learned…and what a way to learn it!

I am seven days on the trail, and with the exception of a few items that I’ve purchased in a little store while walking Snake Road through the Seminole Reservation and the two meals at Kissimmee Billie Swamp Safari, I have relied on what I have been carrying in my pack. So my provisions are getting pretty slim. There’s a store on the south side of Clewiston and I head in for supplies. I am anxious to get to the Hoover Dike for my first look at Lake Okeechobee, but once there I am immediately disappointed to find that the view for the most part is blocked by a wall of Australian Pine, which stretches to the horizon along the dike as I look to the north. I arrive at Uncle Joe’s Fish Camp by late afternoon, pitch my tent on their neatly manicured lawn and head for the bar…Mich. Light $1.25!

The hike in FT2 through the Seminole Reservation was most enjoyable, but for the remaining near 45 miles north of there and into Clewiston it was a matter of knocking it out. Ken, I know that you and all the folks with the Seminole Chapter FT are working very hard to get this section up and going. I sure hope you get it off CR835 soon. I wish you all the best!

[Johann Wolfgang von Goethe]

 

Thursday—January 8, 1998
Trail Day—8
Trail Mile—121
Location—Harney Pond Canal RV Park, Hoover Dike

I break camp in the dim shadows of early dawn. My tent is wet with dew, usually the sign of fair weather for the day…but not today. Vagabond and another great friend and FT thru hiker who has helped me immensely in planning this odyssey, Joan Hobson, have both told me that the place to go in Moore Haven is Wilma’s Restaurant, right on the trail. So there I head, and indeed once seated I am kindly served a tank-stokin’ breakfast.

Then it’s back on the Hoover Dike again to pound on north. The vantage from the dike, being at a considerable elevation above the surrounding countryside provides a splendid view of all there is about, with the exception of the lake! Shortly, to the west and approaching rapidly from the horizon I can see an ominous black wall. In moments, becomes visible the huge curtain of water hanging and descending from it and almost instantly the storm is upon me and I am totally engulfed in its rage. Fortunately, for some reason there is no accompanying electricity, just driving sheets of water. There is no retreat, so I push on through it. I am instantly and totally soaked as the pounding rain strikes like millions of darts being hurled at me. I finally bail off the dike to the lee side to cower in the sandspur-laden grass. This anger continues for over half an hour. The rain is not only driving hard but it is very cold and as I lie in the grass I feel the initial stages of hypothermia descending as my inactivity and the cold driving rain cools my body. I manage to get my pack open and pull out my already wet tent and roll myself, pack and all up in it. The storm continues as my body temperature improves. I finally manage to uncoil somewhat from the fetal position and get my pack around for a pillow. Here I remain rolled up in my tent, totally soaked but reasonably comfortable as the exhaustion from fear overtakes me and I fall into deep sleep, to dream of the days of adventure that lie beyond the horizon.

I have not a clue how long the driving rain continued. I finally awake to find the storm gone, save for drizzle and the sky is beginning to brighten from the west. I meet my second Trail Angel today as a

Lockkeeper hails me and hands me an ice-cold bottle of orange drink. By evening I manage to make it to the RV Park on the north side of Harney Pond Canal. Here I pitch my tent under the palms behind their propane tanks. There is a new and very clean bathhouse and I’m able to get a warm shower. I hang and sprawl all my pitiful wet gear in the little screened room adjacent to the showers and manage to work on my journal entries well into the evening. A couple of cool frosties (synonymous with dandy cold longnecks), some Buffalo Wings and a double order of fries really brings the day back around!

[Ralph Vaull Starr]

Friday—January 9, 1998
Trail Day—9
Trail Mile—138
Location—Kissimmee River Dike North Of Okee-Tantie Recreation Area

A long day today, but a short entry. Here I go again, back up on the Hoover Dike. Every year, a group of folks get together and hike clear around Lake Okeechobee on this thing. I have absolutely not a clue why, other than the fact there are some neat out-of-the-way places to party when you pull off in the evening. But you gotta be a better man than me to want to do much partying after a day up here getting whipped around by the wind and having your feet and brains fried by the unmerciful Florida sun! Please forgive me Paul (Paul Cummings, FT3 Section Leader), I’m sure all that do the “Big O” have a grand old time. It just isn’t my bag!

By early evening I’ve covered 17 miles and have reached Okee-Tantie Recreation Area at the Kissimmee River Bridge. This is a beautiful and very popular facility, which I find crowded with RVs and family-sized tents…kids whooping and running everywhere. It’s really out of the thru hikers price range with the fee running the same to roll out your sleeping bag under the stars or roll in wheeling your three hundred thousand dollar mobile palace. I look the place over and then head for quieter, less pricey real estate. It doesn’t take me fifteen minutes to find the perfect camping spot as I head on north on the Kissimmee River Dike. I pitch for the evening along a lovely canal where the bank apron has just been freshly mowed. Here it seems I’ve got the whole world to myself! I douse the fire from my poor, hot, blister-covered doggies by dunking them in the canal as I enjoy my evening meal.

“Because we live in a world that values activity and
noise more than solitude and silence, we may not
understand the life sounds deep inside us which could
give directions to our lives…”

[Paula Ripple]

Saturday—January 10, 1998
Trail Day—10
Trail Mile—156
Location—High Ground by Cattle-Watering Trough, Yates Marsh

As a thru-hiker I'll be the first to cover new ground today on the Florida Trail. Vagabond has prepared maps to assist me in getting through. Instead of continuing on the dike at the lock, the new trail goes north on Lockkeep Road to cross SR70 and then onto Gache and Platt’s Bluff Road. I’m in cattle country now. As I hike on this old “Cracker” sand road in the interior or Florida I am also hiking back in time. I’m a sucker for nostalgia and I really enjoy these kinds of places. Yates Marsh is mainly fine old cattle grazing lands now owned by SFWMD. I soon leave the sand road and enter the open fields. By late afternoon I am near the campsite as marked on my map. I’m unable to make it all the way back to the designated campsite, as the hammock past an old cattle-watering trough is underwater. I pitch by the water trough on higher ground and have a very attentive audience of about forty of the locals (cows) circled ‘round to hear my poetry recital.

Today was a pleasant hike and the roadwalk presented little traffic. I saw Indian Rosewood trees and Sandhill Cranes along the Kissimmee River Dike. My feet though, are another matter. They are covered with open sores and are incredibly tender and painful. Before rolling in I jot a little note of thanks to Doug McCoy and the Tropical Trekkers for their fine work on this new section of trail; seal it in a ziploc bag and tie it next to one of their bright new orange blazes in a nearby tree.

“The man is richer whose pleasures are the simplest.”

[Thoreau]

Sunday—January 11, 1998
Trail Day—11
Trail Mile—175
Location—Canal Bank, Hickory Hammock North

I’m up and out at first light. The cattle are over by the fence on the far side. There is no treadway on the new trail north through the fields and pastures, but the bright orange blazes are very easy to locate and follow. Soon I am in sight of Kissimmee River Lock S65D. I had stopped yesterday at Lock S65E and had a long chat with the Lockkeep and some of the local fishermen. When I mentioned that I would be crossing the river tomorrow at Lock S65D, up came the Lockkeep’s eyebrows! “What time will you be crossing?” He asked, “As best I can figure, right after sunrise.” Was my reply. That’s when the Lockkeep informed me that the gate at the lock is kept locked and that the lady managing Lock S65D is not always the easiest person to get along with. He then opined that shortly after sunrise on Sunday morning might well be one of those times! I am standing now on a canal bank which I can take generally north to the railroad grade and cross the river on the trestle…or I can cross the canal, follow the orange blazes and get the Lockkeep up at sunrise on this Sunday morning! With not a moment’s hesitancy I head toward the railroad tracks!

In a short time I am standing on the east side of the trestle looking across. It surely is a long way to the other side. Trains had passed at regular intervals all through the night and one had just passed again as I reached the grade about half an hour ago. I listen intently for the longest time, for whatever good that can possibly do. I have severe tinnitus and my hearing is most-near shot. I finally convince myself that I really can’t hear a train coming and venture onto the narrow trestle. I am no sooner committed to this ordeal than I hear something. At least I think I do. Half way across there is a small platform where I can step off. I hurry there in a fright and get off the tracks, just in time it seems to avoid the inevitable calamity. When I turn there is nothing, and I hear nothing save the gentle sound of the water lapping at the pilings below…way below, and my heart pounding in my ears. It’s then it dawns on me that if I get caught out here with a fast-moving train coming through I’ll get blown clear into the river! I hasten back onto the tracks and run pell-mell, pack lurching, to the far side.

I was told that new treadway was being cut on the Bassinger Tract, taking the trail from the shoulders of busy US98. But I can find no evidence of any trail work here on the south end so I take to US98 for the roadwalk to Istokpoga Canal.

Hickory Hammock is just that, a long and beautiful hammock of climax-growth stately old knots. The trail to the ramshackled farmstead is the most beautiful section of trail so far. Here I finally meet another hiker on the FT. Steve Barbour from Yellow Gap, TN is out enjoying the day on this magnificent section of trail. After the old farm buildings, the treadway becomes overgrown and pretty much peters out. I manage to stay on trail to high ground near a drainage culvert and pitch for the evening. I snap some palm fronds and build a hasty fire to help ward off the cloud of hungry mosquitoes. My feet are stable—stable meaning they are no worse.

“[God] is always whispering to us, only we do not
always hear, because of the noise and distractions
which life causes as it rushes on.”

[Faber]

Monday—January 12, 1998
Trail Day—12
Trail Mile—188
Location—High Ground North of Hicks Slough Boardwalk

On arising this morning I must do immediate battle with the mosquitoes. I’ll fix breakfast later. I’m out of here! I immediately begin churning through a quagmire along a new fenceline. The cattle have turned the entire area into twelve to eighteen inches of rolling mud. That’s the only way I can describe it. As I try moving through, the mud just seems to roll up and come along! This persists for over two miles and progress is incredibly slow as I grope along the fence. I can see the trees along Bluff Hammock Road in the distance, where I’ll pull up out of this mudbog, but it takes me over an hour and a half to get there!

Bluff Hammock Road is a pleasant roadwalk. The trail then follows along the Kissimmee River Dike to enter the Air Force Avon Park Bombing Range. There is a stile to cross and a trail register Kiosk. No one has been this way in a long, long time. Here begins the Kissimmee River Section of the FT. And indeed it is a beautiful and secluded place. One majestic boulevard-like stand of oak could just as well be the grand promenade to Tara. And yet it is all Mother Nature’s design! This is one of the best-maintained sections hiked so far. It was a pleasure talking and corresponding with Jim Pace, Section Leader. These folks with the Heartland Chapter of FTA take great pride in their work and it truly shows.

I talked briefly today with two fellows from The Nature Conservancy. They were on the bombing range doing a bird count. This organization is doing a remarkable job all over the globe. The success they have achieved in preserving habitat…even to include vast bioregions, while at the same time working hand-in-hand with local enterprise to maintain and create new jobs in those regions, to me, is a truly remarkable success story. I have found many sour orange trees all along the trail this afternoon and have eaten my fill. Once I manage to get my pucker up they don’t seem to taste all that bad! The trail today has taken me through a veritable wildlife haven. I have seen numerous deer and turkey, along with many snakes, an otter and countless birds. I pull off to overnight at a lovely grassy spot just north of Hicks Slough. I find the mosquitoes much less troublesome and despite the incredible mudbog earlier today my feet are none the worse for wear!

“Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings
when the dawn is still dark.”

[Rabindranath Tagore]

Tuesday—January 13, 1998
Trail Day—13
Trail Mile—207
Location—Trailhead Parking Area near River Ranch Resort

All along the trail today are signs of man’s long-past connection to the river. Many sour orange trees, the remnants of long forgotten groves; dwelling foundations crumbling into the earth; old pitcher-pump wells, some, remarkably still working; and an interesting cattle-dipping vat. One is immediately set to pondering how effective that vat had been since the next landmark passed is Tick Island Slough! There’s Fort Kissimmee (long since gone with the river trade), Ice Cream Slough (I guess they dreamed much as do we hikers), Rattlesnake Hammock (no doubt appropriately named), Orange Hammock (more sour oranges) and the mysterious little ghost village of KICCO (an acronym which I finally figure must stand for Kissimmee Island Cattle Co.). And further north; Wildcat Hammock, Sheep Hammock and Buttermilk Slough.

The Florida Trail Guide describes the Kissimmee River Section as “…one of the Florida Trail’s most remote areas.” So, where once there were many farms, groves and villages, thriving and bustling with commerce and activity…today, long since abandoned and forgotten, their scant ruins and remains languish, to molder in the sun. And this old river? Ahh! This grand old river just keeps rollin’ along!

My pitiful feet. It is impossible to keep them dry. They have turned to raw, oozing mush and I am wracked and tormented with constant pain.

“I gits weary and sick of tryin’;
I’m tired of livin’ and scared of dyin’
And Ol’ Man River, he just keeps rollin’ along.”

[Jerome Kern/Paul Robeson]

Wednesday—January 14, 1998
Trail Day—14
Trail Mile—224
Location—Godwin Hammock North

I’m back on the road this morning. The trail goes right by Oasis Marina where I again cross the Kissimmee River. I need provisions so into the little mom-n-pop store I go. It’s 50 miles to SR520, so I’ll need supplies for about three days. In case you’re wondering; there’s certainly nothing magic or the least bit exotic about my trail diet. I’ve never gotten into the food-drop thing, but have simply relied on catch-as-catch-can as I trek along. A tad of coffee, a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a chunk of cheese, a can or two of sardines, a little rice or right-angle macaroni and a few Snickers bars, whatever’s available, goes far (no pun intended) in propelling me right on up the trail! And perchance, these little crossroads-store proprietors have an ice cream case…Well, my friends, check out this smile, for it will quickly reveal that I am indeed in hiker heaven, blessed with another perfect day! Oh, and should this ration sound a bit unappetizing and a mite sparse to you, please consider that my weight usually varies less than five pounds on one of these extended jaunts. Most long distance backpackers I’ve talked to loose upwards of 20 pounds!

The roadwalk on SR60 this morning is no fun by any stretch. The eighteen-wheelers are coming at me heavy and hard. I count an average of five every minute barreling down on me southbound. The shoulder is narrow and rutted and I must move along dangerously close to harm’s way. Every ten seconds I brace and bow down against the shuddering blast of the desert-like, sand-driven gale. I have a soft spot in my heart for roadwalks and usually enjoy them immensely; however, this chopping and dicing today is sorely testing my level of joy for it. It takes me nearly three hours to cover the four-and-one-half miles on this brutal grinder. Finally, mercifully the trail turns north to enter the Three/Prairie Lakes—Bull Creek Wildlife Management Areas.

A “Cracker” road leads along for a short distance and then the trail pulls off to follow a fenceline. After no more than 200 yards it becomes painfully evident what will be in store for the next near forty miles…mud and water, with plenty to go around! As I step off into it again, and to my surprise, comes immediate relief to my poor aching feet. The cool mud and water actually feels soothing and I am able to make better time through this mire than was possible along the roadway. I am usually able to tolerate the worrisome presence of mosquitoes as long as I keep moving, but here with my pace slackened, they form a veritable cloud-swirl all around me. Flailing and slogging along, I finally reach Godwin Hammock. I had envisioned a tranquil setting, peaceful and…dry. To my dismay, as I enter the Hammock, I find neither. The entire Hammock is underwater, save one small area in the scrub on the north end. I quickly pitch camp in the twilight caused by the waning hours and the storm of mosquitoes. I roll in and settle for a couple of cheese and peanut butter sandwiches for my evening meal.

“Where you end up isn’t the most important thing.
It’s the road you take to get there.”

[Tim Riley]

Thursday—January 15, 1998
Trail Day—15
Trail Mile—246
Location—Three Lakes WMA Game Check Station, US441 and Williams Rd.

I am out this morning in the dark and in the gloom. I have been in rain off and on the past fourteen days, but it looks like today may well be the day I really slam into it. I find the trail through Fodderstack Slough and into Kettle Hammock nearly impossible to describe and most nearly impossible to negotiate. What Mother Nature, through her prodding of El Nino, hasn’t seen fit to churn under, the feral hogs and the hunters on quad-tracks have pretty much finished. The sky darks completely down, the wind comes up and the rain sets in with chilling permanence around eleven. I brace and trudge on into it, soaked to the bone.

By mid afternoon I reach the concrete tunnel under the Florida Turnpike and heave a sigh of relief as I pull in out of the hammering deluge…only to find the wind whipping through with such force to nearly pick me up, and in just moments the chill of inactivity starts setting in. So reluctantly I push on through and right back out into it again. The trail is now following a well-crowned and ditched graded road, but even here, much of the road is totally submerged and pure mush. In a short while I come across a pickup mired clear to the axles right in the middle of the road. The driver’s door is open and the water is lapping and pulsing in waves across the floorboards. While in the tunnel I had taken a look at my map and noted that the trail leaves the graded road shortly…to, as the trail guide describes it, “cross through [a] wet area.” A wet area, indeed! I have been in it up to my butt off and on today and this is the first mention of any “wet area.” This seems a pretty good clue that it would probably be wise to steer clear of the place, so I stay on Williams Rd. and hoof it on toward US441.

It is late afternoon now. The rain and wind have been relentless, are steadily gaining in intensity and it is turning cold. I try increasing my pace but I am near exhausted from churning through it all day and I can feel the initial stages of hypothermia descending. What a relief to find the Game Check Station open and still manned at the Three Lakes WMA entrance near US441. Here I meet Paul and Doris Adams. Doris takes one look at me and runs for a towel and some dry clothes. In no time I am dry, warm and comfortable. These kind folks hover over me, give me food and provide a place to stay, dry and out of it for the night. What a blessing! Thank you Lord, for these generous and giving trail angels! And thank you, Paul and Doris Adams!

“The rain keeps constantly raining,
And the sky is cold and gray.
And the wind in the trees keeps complaining,
That [winter is here to stay.]”

[William Wetmore Story]

Friday—January 16, 1998
Trail Day—16
Trail Mile—256
Location—Crabgrass Creek Campsite

Paul said the hunters usually start early, so he has to get up early. Sure enough, I hear him enter the check station shed just before 6:00 a.m. He must have been up even earlier, for to my delight he greets me with a hot egg sandwich and a brimming cup of steaming hot coffee! Soon comes Doris and these kind folks then invite me into their cozy camper. They have offered the use of their phone so I can call Ron Julien, the FTA liaison with the Deseret folks. Ron has been working on getting permission for me to cross the Mormon property and I was hoping on some word…but no luck. I then try calling Hood Goodrich, FT6 Section Leader. Hood had updated my maps and provided information, not only on the Three/Prairie Lakes FT Section but also on Bull Creek. This data was put together for me months ago as I prepared for my FT thru-hike. I was hoping for an update, but no luck here either. As hunters start coming, I bid these trail angels goodbye and head on up the road. Thanks Paul and Doris!

I am soon on US441. I have a 2.5-mile roadwalk this morning to get back to where the trail crosses north of here. The traffic is light, the roadwalk enjoyable. Soon it is decision-making time. Should I take the chance that permission has been granted me by the Mormon folks and go ahead and enter their lands here at Fontana Lane or continue on north on US44l a fair distance to where a connector trail crosses the Broussard lands? Both provide access to Bull Creek WMA. I know I have permission to cross on the Broussard property. I decide to head on in and take my chances. I vividly remember the old saying, “Don’t do as I do, do as I say!” So, as you read this, I know I am setting a very bad example…just don’t do as I do!

The gate is secure, and on it, a sign with these greetings, “No Trespassing, Tom and Tina.” But this does not deter me and over the gate I go to enter Fontana Lane…at least I think I’m entering Fontana Lane. I haven’t gone a quarter-mile until I see a vehicle approaching. My first reaction is to dive into the bushes and wait until the car passes, but I decide to stay on the little narrow road and take my medicine. I have been told the Mormons carry large calibre center-fire magnum handguns. These folks are the largest single landowner in the state of Florida with vast-reaching cattle and citrus holdings. Apparently they learned the hard way many years ago that the constant, never-ending job of protecting their lands against trespassers and poachers was a job that they had to tend to themselves. So here I stand, thinking, “You dummy, you don’t know if you’re been granted permission. Why did you come in here? All the FT literature and all the kind FTA folks you have talked to cautioned you against this.” The FTA (literally) walks a fine line with these private landowners. It is through their kindness and civic-minded spirit that perfect strangers like me are permitted to tramp around on their property. It only makes sense that there would be certain imposed restrictions. The Mormons have their restrictions. One is; you’re not supposed to be on their land during hunting season! Seems a reasonable restriction, wouldn’t you say?

I am glued in my tracks. I couldn’t move now if I wanted to. Visions of seeing the inside of a cell at the local clink flash through my mind. The car stops. Down comes the window…and I meet Tom. He asks, “Are you supposed to be in here?” To my surprise, Tom is a kind-looking old gentleman with a pleasant countenance, not a gun-wielding, tobacco-spitting cowpoke my mind had wildly conjured up; and his voice is not threatening. I sigh a deep inner sigh of relief. I am less frightened. Stuttering, I manage to get out who I am and where I’m headed. And I tell him that I will turn and leave the Deseret. Tom then explains that I am on his land, not on Deseret; that their land is in the swamp on the other side of the fence and that I probably couldn't get through there anyway because of the high water. He sizes me up for a moment and then tells me to continue on his road east to the gate where I can cross on reasonably dry land into Deseret. He says it is only a short walk from there to the fence at Bull Creek WMA and that there is no one back there. He then bids me farewell as he drives away. My legs are rubber. I stand in perplexed amazement…trying to get off the adrenaline-pumping and wildly slamming emotional rollercoaster of these last few minutes. In just moments, Tom returns. Apparently he just went to his mailbox. Rolling his window down again as he passes, he waves to me and wishes me a safe journey! What a true trail angel! And what remarkable trail magic!

In a short time I am over the next gate and into Deseret. The woodsroad passes their beautiful hunting lodge and as I bushwhack south I soon find the familiar and welcome orange FT blazes. The trail crosses a stile into Bull Creek where I sign the trail register. From here the trail continues in two directions known as the East Loop and West Loop Trails. I decide to take the Ease Loop Trail, as this is the much shorter route. I remember Joan Hobson telling me that this loop would probably be more difficult to negotiate and that I would certainly run into water. Was she ever right! The trail starts out pleasant enough, passing along a lovely sandy woodsroad through a tall sand pine grove. But soon the trail reveals its true identity as the sand ridge gives way to an incredible bog. At Yoke Branch I really get into it. I thought I had gone through the ultimate bog in the Everglades, but the trail there pales in comparison to this incredible place.

It takes me well over two hours to go less than two miles. I push through a veritable tangle of brush and blowdowns along an old tramway, often submerging to my armpits in the water and slime. I stumble through the invisible obstacles of logs and stumps below as I push away or climb over the flotilla of brush and debris above. My pack becomes completely waterlogged from submersion, cutting into my shoulders as though a ton. The rain comes again in a steady downpour making this dark, forbidding-looking place even more ominous and scary. I try managing my fear and apprehension by exclaiming to myself, “Nomad, you’re already soaked to the bone…So what if it’s pouring!” I must take all precaution with each floating log as the slithering swamp folks have taken to these retreats and I must keep my hands and other vulnerable anatomical parts from harms way. Apparently there are bridges at each of the tramway cuts, but I’m not only unable to tell where the cuts are, but also where the bridges might be. Some I find by bumping into them with my legs. On these I can get down on all fours, keeping my head up out of the water and crawl across. In other places, where I most certainly am missing the bridges I submerge to very scary depths before rising again

I have at least been blessed with fair blazing and flagging through this place and as the trail finally turns I begin emerging from the depths of it. In the next hundred yards or so the water drops from my hips to my knees and in a short distance, as I am again churning through ankle-deep mud, I pass many canoes and johnboats chained and padlocked to the cypress! It is dusk as I near Crabgrass Creek Campsite and I am thinking how difficult the task must be for Hood Goodrich and all the great folks with the Indian River Chapter, FTA to maintain these last two trail sections. I have been a member of FTA for many years. The Indian River Chapter is my home chapter, and although it seems I know all its members personally from reading their great newsletter, I have never attended a single function. Thanks Indian River Chapter for helping to make this incredible journey possible!

What an absolutely bewildering and amazing day this has been. I had reckoned for excitement and adventure on this odyssey, but there is just no way I could have envisioned its coming with such profound intensity, nor could I have foreseen the physical and mental challenge that it would bring!

“All you need in this life is ignorance and
confidence, and then success is sure.”

[Mark Twain]

Saturday—January 17, 1998
Trail Day—17
Trail Mile—277
Location—Son’s Home, Jay and Theresa Eberhart, Port St. John

I’m batting a thousand with the Mormons, so I decide to cross US192 and head on north on Levee 73. This eliminates a dangerous roadwalk along this busy highway and is a shorter distance to CR419 where I’ll be hiking later this morning. I’ll be able to cross over from the levee a little farther north. Anyway, this is the designated route for the FT. I haven’t gone a mile along the levee when I hear ORVs in the distance. It’s definitely time to blend in and I pull over in the tall weeds. In a moment two hunters emerge on a high point on the levee and stop. From there they pan the area with their binoculars. Both are carrying large, high calibre rifles with scopes. After about five minutes of this it becomes apparent that these fellows are in no hurry. Even though they’re over a quarter mile away it’s only a matter of time before one of them spots me, and I need to get moving. So before I can talk myself out of it I stand up, get their attention and head toward them. Arriving at their location, I am greeted cordially. Neither of them challenges me as to why I’m in here. In fact, both are intrigued by where I’ve been and where I’m headed. I keep the conversation short and head north, counting my blessings on the way. I don’t know if circumstances over the past two days qualify me as living a “Charmed Life” but the description seems appropriate. I head over to CR419 at my first opportunity!

This is a respectable roadwalk today, around fifteen miles, but there is little traffic, the day is clear and cool and there is no wind. Along the way I see Sandhill crane, wood storks, great blue heron, cattle egrets, a covey of quail and many cattle. At the Orange County line it’s decision-making time again. I can continue on north on the county road to SR520 or head east on the trail across the Mormon land about a mile, to enter the southern end of the Tosohatchee Reserve. What to do? Oh yes, I head on east! The hike across the Mormon land is uneventful and I soon reach the fence at south Tosohatchee Campsite. From here the trail is well marked to Taylor Creek. As I near the creek I find the entire area flooded. Proceeding I am quickly submerged in two-and-one-half feet of water and mud. After a hundred yards I can see a rope bridge. Here the water is running very swift and as I stumble in to near my hips I can feel the force of the fast-rushing stream. I have never crossed a rope bridge before, and as I take a glance at this confusion I quickly decide that I’m not interested. The Boy Scouts, I am told, built the bridge. I’m sure it’s fine for their agile little bodies. I’ve got other plans. I grab the lower footrope and try fording the creek, but I don’t get far with this grand idea until the bottom quickly goes where I don’t want to go. Backing up, I realize I’m going to have to get up on this cobweb contraption.

The bridge consists of three ropes, a lower footrope and two handrail ropes; all three lashed together at five to seven foot intervals. The footrope is also tied off to surrounding trees with lateral stabilizers. Once on this bungee I seem to be doing quite well until I get just this side of center. I’m not even over the fast-rushing current yet and the bridge is getting very shaky and unstable. Here there are no lateral stabilizers and the footrope definitely doesn’t want me here! Every time I try putting my foot forward I am violently pitched either right or left. This is scary! I finally find that by crouching I am able to inch my way across. Before I reach the other side my arms and legs are aching and my nerves are totally uncoiled…but I make it! There is another near quarter mile before I finally pull up out of the bog. From here the hike is pleasant to SR520.

It is nearing dusk as I reach the highway and most vehicles already have their lights on. I’ve got a roadwalk of about a mile to the St. Johns River and Lone Cabbage Fish Camp. There is much fast-moving traffic but I make it in good order. The treadway north of here for most the entire Tosohatchee is gone. The St. Johns River floodplane is being restored. The mosquito and flood control dikes over which the FT passed have been pushed back under, the trail with them. To get around now involves a long and not-so-pleasant roadwalk. During the planning stages for this trek, my Son, Jay had recommended a canoe trip down the St. Johns (the St. Johns River runs north) instead of the roadwalk…and he has a canoe! That was a great idea and that’s what we’ll do day-after-tomorrow. We’ll leave Lone Cabbage Fish Camp at first light and head north on the St. Johns a distance by river of some 20-miles, to Midway Fish Camp at SR50. From there a roadwalk west will put me back on the FT in the little town of Christmas.

On reaching the fish camp I head for the pay phone to call my son. He lives about half-an-hour from here. So while I wait I have no difficulty putting away a hot dog and a couple of frosties. I also take time to think back over this day. I have now completed another section, FT8, the section known as Deseret. It has been almost entirely a roadwalk. I previously talked and corresponded with Ron Julien, FTA Liaison with Deseret and also with FT8 Section Leader, Wiley Dykes, Sr. The trail through here is either on Mormon lands or otherwise it is a roadwalk. Folks around have told me that, over the years, relations have been strained between the Mormons and those wishing to access or use their lands for one reason or another. My impression from talking with these two gentlemen is that FTA has suffered as a result but is not party to it. I also believe that they are men of diplomacy and that there is a good line of communication between the Mormons and the FTA. I hope my passing has not created a problem for them. Thanks Ron and Wiley! Jay soon arrives and we're off to his lovely new home. This has been a very fine day!

[Edward Young]

January—18,1998
Trail Day—18
Trail Mile—277
Location—Winter Home, South Lake, Titusville

Today is a day of rest from the trail and the miles. I’ll be spending the day with wife Sharon, her sister Joyce and brother-in-law Ken who are down from Michigan for the winter, and my younger son, Jon David. This is my first opportunity to see an outfitter since the near-trip-stopping fiasco on the second day. There is a wonderful outfitting store in north Orlando called Travel Country Outdoors. These kind folks have been much help over the years in assisting and getting me into the proper gear. Here I am friends with Mark McLusky who is an expert in the backpack/tent/sleeping bag area. Jon and I head for TCO first thing. Mark and all have a grand chuckle as I relate the story about my bag-burning incident. Looking back now I realize how very fortunate I was to get through that day, and indeed all the days since, with no serious repercussions. I have an inner contentment and faith that the Lord will provide me safe passage and see me through to the end of this odyssey and that is how I go day-to-day. Yet, human nature being what it is, there are always those moments of hesitation and doubt. The trauma caused by the fire and recovering from it was one of those moments.

Mark always has a laundry list of questions before making his recommendation on any particular item of gear. So it is with replacing my dear war veteran, the sleeping bag. Knowing that I’m headed for the southern Appalachians, and being the klutz that I am pretty much limits and settles the choice for my sleeping bag! He pushes away the rack of down bags right away. Down, being a natural insulator is the very best (it seems nature’s way is always the best), however, the drawback with down is its loss of insulating ability when wet. And Mark knows that if it’s possible for the old Nomad to get his bag wet; well we look at the choices in synthetic bags. A synthetic bag will be a little more bulky when stuffed, a little heavier and won’t have quite the equivalent insulation rating as a down bag…but it will keep me “warm-when-wet.” There are many choices and Mark patiently advises me as we work our way through the selection. I settle for a very fine three-season Mountain Hard Wear “Crazy Legs” design. The pack decision is easy. I simply replace my Kelty Redwing, a grand old workhorse. It really isn’t an “expedition” pack, more in the “weekend-warrior” category, with less than 3000 cubic inches of capacity, but it’s lightweight and has an internal frame design which I prefer for bushwhacking. So the little Redwing is the hands-down choice. I have lower back trouble (who doesn’t!) and can’t carry a very heavy load with any hope of lasting long, so I must keep my total pack weight to a bare minimum. Thanks Mark and all at TCO!

My feet have really enjoyed this day off. They are trying to stabilize, but it is day-to-day and at times they are still very painful. I haven’t spent a day with younger son Jon for a very long time…too long, and we have a very enjoyable time together.

“The successful hikers are the ones who find goodness and joy
even in the difficult times, who see beyond the misery to the
beauty of nature and the comforts of trail society. They’re the
ones who know that the rain turns the forest into a magical
wonderland and provides the rainbow that caps the day.”

[Larry Luxenberg, GAME ‘80]

Monday—January 19, 1998
Trail Day—19
Trail Mile—294
Location—Son’s Home, Jay and Theresa Eberhart, Port St. John

It’s pitch dark when Jay arrives at 5:30 a.m. I load my pack and we’re on our way back to Lone Cabbage Fish Camp at the St. Johns River. As we put in, comes one of Jay’s good friends, Phil Sellers. Phil is pulling his Boston Whaler. Jay thought it a good idea to have a “chase boat” in case we needed assistance along the way. Obviously it had taken little coaxing to get Phil to come with us on the river today, this morning he is full of enthusiasm! We’re in the water, everything loaded, gliding under the bridge just after first light. It looks to be the makings of a perfect day...the sky is bright with stars and there is a cool, gentle breeze to our back. The St. Johns is very high, not at flood stage, but Phil just does have room to squeeze his canopy under the bridge.

It is so calm and peaceful here. As the swift current and the gentle breeze carry us along I take a moment to thank the Lord for this blessing. What a joy it is to be with my son and his very good friend; to be sharing the splendor of this new day. Then the sunrise comes to the river, likened to a symphonic hallelujah. For as the sun and river awaken to yet another day in their eternal lives; each of these ageless friends starts anew. And indeed for each of them it is a new beginning as it has been for all the dawns throughout time. The river and the sun arise to new life, all fresh and clean…the birth of another day! The voices of the water birds and all the other river residents now join in the happy chorus to greet this new beginning.

The most effort it seems we must exert this morning is the task of keeping the canoe to the current and headed downwind. By 10:00 a.m. we’re well over half the distance to Midway. We have seen many beautiful things on the river this morning. One of the local residents came to greet us, then to tarry along with us on effortless wing above, a very large and majestic bald eagle. My chest never fails to swell with pride when I see one of these grand symbols of our glorious free country…America, up there free on the wing! Though we can never experience the freedom, as does that ruler of the sky…we are free indeed!

Phil has dallied nearby the whole morning, hastening ahead only to pull up and try his luck at casting, our only communication being the full-beaming smiles displayed as we pass from time to time! After we drift under the Beeline Bridge, lunch soon becomes the task at hand. We come ashore and haul the canoe up on one of the countless islands in the river. This one has a fine little cabin, complete with screened porch; fully furnished with table and chairs. Here we have our lunch in the most leisurely fashion. The view from this elevated vantage is grand, the full sweep of the river and I relax and enjoy the company of my son and his (and now my) good friend.

The wind is picking up and seems to be swinging around ever-so-slowly from the west as we follow the lazy meander of the channel first east, then north, then west, and even occasionally, south. We continue to make good time and must exert only the least bit of effort for the last two miles into Midway as the wind now comes at us from the west-northwest. We arrive at Midway Fish Camp at SR50 well before 2:00 p.m. where I remain to watch Phil’s boat and the canoe as Jay and Phil return to Lone Cabbage for the vehicles. This odyssey is setting in to be a most-memorable experience!

I am the guest of my son and his wife again this evening and this night. And indeed the good times roll as we enjoy each other’s company.

[Edna St. Vincent Millay]

Tuesday—January 20, 1998
Trail Day—20
Trail Mile—307
Location—Mills Lake Park

These last two days have been a most welcome break from the trail. I have had time to spend with my family, time to get my gear straightened out and time to rest my poor aching feet. Jay gets me up a little after six and in just moments I’m sitting at the table in front of a full-spread ham-and-eggs breakfast! Yesterday we enjoyed probably one of the best times together ever as father and son. The day on the river was good for both of us. On the way back to Midway Fish Camp this morning we talk about many things, about the good times and the not-so-good times, all of which go to create, and then either weld or destroy the relationship between a father and son. I was always so critical, always so hard on him as a child. Those days and those times that were not-so-good were of my own making and had nothing to do with him. He knows that now. Jay has always been the one who has made and kept the weld between us over all these years and for that I am so thankful. I have two wonderful sons and I am so very proud of both of them. I think now, after these past few hours together Jay understands that a little better. We tarry long here by the river where we hauled the canoe out yesterday, content in each other’s company, sharing the joy of just being together as pop and boy again. It is very hard to say goodbye, but it is time to go our ways…he to his wife and his work and I to the trail.

Another in the long line of numbers that make up the sections of the FT is now behind me. I have completed FT9, the Tosohatchee section, without passing a single orange blaze. Doug Sphar is the section leader for FT9 and while preparing for this trek I corresponded with him. The Tosohatchee is a pretty unsettled place as far as the FT is concerned, what with much of the thru-trail treadway being lost to floodplane restoration. I became very frustrated and upset with Doug during the planning stages of this hike because of the problems here. But they are not of Doug’s making and I am ashamed now for some of the things I said in my letters to him. The day will soon come I am sure when the orange blazes will again lead the thru-hiker along the Tosohatchee, and when that day comes it will be because of people like Doug Sphar. These are the folks that make up the army of volunteers that work so diligently and with such dedication. They’re the ones that make this incredible trail experience possible for “Hiker Trash” like me. My apology Doug…and thanks!

North of Christmas is Seminole Ranch WMA. Here the trail is well marked and well maintained…and mostly out of the water! The rest of the day is a very pleasant roadwalk to Mills Lake Park in Chuluota; along Wheeler Road, Ft. Christmas Road and Mills Lake Road. The park is a delightful spot, right on the lake. I’m given a campsite close to the bathhouse. Plenty of hot water. I’ve a picnic table and grill and there’s a telephone less than fifty yards away! What do you want for five bucks! Oh, are my feet doing so much better now!

[Psalm 26]

Wednesday—January 21, 1998
Trail Day—21
Trail Mile—327
Location—Powerline Easement near Rinehart Road

Chuluota is a quiet, peaceful little town now. In the delightful new book, From Here To There On The Florida Trail, written for thru-hikers by thru-hikers…my dear friends Joan Hobson and Susan Roquemore talk about the little town of Chuluota. Their description, “Chuluota was a Florida ‘Boom Time’ community in the 20s.” But as I pass here today it reminds me of the place where I was raised, a backroads community somehow passed over by time and progress. The trail goes right straight through the little berg. There’s a post office, grocery store, bank and fire station; my kind of trail town. I find now that I could have slept-in a little longer this morning. I need to get some mail off to friends but the post office doesn’t open until 8:30 and it is now only 7:30. I decide not to burn an hour here and head on out. The trail follows an old railroad grade out of town; straight for the Little Econ (short for Econlockhatchee). I can remember when the rails and ties were torn up years ago from the tracks that went through my little hometown.

Personal watercraft are quite the rage here in Florida and the Little Econ is the place to be on the weekends. My son, Jon, has one that will flat move. It’s quite an exhilarating sport. He and friend, Duke had been up the Little Econ just a few weeks ago. The river then was way out of its banks making it possible for Jon and Duke to run all around in the cypress. Jon said they jetted right over the center of the upper cables on the FT suspension bridge! So, as I head toward the river I’m wondering what’s in store for me. I’m prepared to get in it up to my butt again…but what else is new! Much to my surprise the treadway is not only out of the mud and water, but at the suspension bridge the river is nearly three feet below the deck of the suspension bridge. This makes the hike here this morning very pleasant.

By late morning there is more roadwalking. As the trail heads west through the central part of the state it is never far from a large metropolitan area. Here I am hiking just north of Orlando. This section, FT10, is also cared for by Wiley Dykes, Sr., and in a phone conversation with Wiley recently he recommended that I try the new rails-to-trails section just being completed on the other side of the beltway toll road, so over I go. There is construction equipment and material all along. At the neat new concrete bridge just being completed over Howell Creek I stop to chat with the construction workers and fix myself some lunch. These are all strong, tuff young fellows who relish in lugging and throwing railroad ties around. They all have to hear my story when one of them finds out where I’ve come from and where I’m headed. And they all get a hoot out of this bearded old fellow sporting his very cool Adidas and Oakleys!

Well, I’m not one who gets real excited about all this rails-to-trails stuff, but it’s a fine setup here today. As I hike along I pull off for a short break and treat myself to a fountain coke and an order of fries at the trailside MacDonalds! By afternoon I’m in the Spring Hammock/Soldier Creek area. Here’s a lovely section of trail, but the treadway is beat down by folks on mountain bikes and I most near get run over as one fellow comes blasting around a cabbage palm like he’s bent for hell. By early evening I arrive at Longwood Fire Tower. The tower is on well-kept, spacious grounds, so I decide to polish my Yogi-ing skills and try talking the folks into letting me pitch for the night. But after checking a number of buildings and knocking on the door at the residence and finding no one about, I fill up my water bottle and head on up the trail.

It is now late evening and near dusk as I head north on a wide double powerline cut. I find a nice place in the grass, pull off the two-track service road and start setting up for the evening. In just a few moments a couple of young fellows come across the easement from a gate on the other side. They stop and we chat for awhile. As usual I must explain where I’ve come from and where I’m headed. I think it strange when one of the kids says, “I wouldn’t camp here long if I were you,” but I soon dismiss it and put it out of my mind. In my little tent now and asleep for, I don't know how long, come voices and I am rousted. As a very bright light illuminates the interior of my tent I hear, “Is someone in there?” I reply, “Yes, what do you want?” And then, “Come out of the tent, sir, this is the sheriff’s department.” I roll out, squinting my eyes to the bright light, to be greeted by two uniformed officers. They ask for my identification and if I am carrying any weapons. I am then informed that I’m trespassing on private land and that a warrant is being sworn out for my arrest. Aww, Jeez! Now I understand what the kid was talking about! I try explaining that I am a member of the FTA and that the FT passes up this powerline easement…and that certainly it must be all right for me to be here. The officers would hear none of this, but one does suggest that if I pack up right away and move on that no more would probably come of it. I’ve never broke camp so fast before in my life and I quickly put some distance between me and this unfortunate awakening! I stumble along in the dark for another mile or two and find a place to pitch where I won’t be disturbed again.

What an evening this has turned out to be! But the night is cool and the stars still glisten just as brightly, as if nothing has happened. I am able to calm myself now as I lie back and stare up at the wonder of it all…to again delve into the mysteries of the universe.

[N. Nomad]

Thursday—January 22, 1998
Trail Day—22
Trail Mile—346
Location—Field near SR44 Trailhead, Seminole Forest

I am up and moving early. This powerline is a weird place. There are houses all along both sides now and the back yards from these homes extend into the powerline cut. So, this morning I am walking, under these huge high-tension lines, right through people’s back yards! I must step over their shrubbery and walk around all the little ornamental pieces of junk and other things that tend to accumulate. This is not a comfortable place to be and I can see people starting to stir as lights come on. So, at the first opportunity I try to get out of here. I go for it where there are no dwellings, and instead of meeting bowser I am greeted by a six-foot high chainlink fence. Once I heave my pack over I’ve got to get over. I’ve never climbed over a six-foot high chainlink fence before. I do manage, but if you’ve never done this little exercise yourself, don’t discount the consequence you may suffer in the process, should you so choose…especially if you’re near sixty years old! What I found out was this. There’s a reason the link-weave at the top of the fence is left open! I never really thought about it before. But since the family jewels aren’t that important anymore…anyhow, the delicate tangle I got myself into doesn’t really make all that much difference. The word, terror, however doesn’t even come close to describing the gripping intensity of the moment!

Once I manage to beat through some brush and tangle I’m out on one of the residential streets that feed to Rinehart Road. Once on Rinehart I am able to head north again. There is heavy traffic, what with folks heading in to work, and after a half-hour or so it’s done a job on my nerves. I soon see a Kroger up ahead and in I go for a few provisions…and free coffee! The trek along Rinehart Road, SR46A and Markham Road is not a fun roadwalk. I gave up on the rails-to-trails through here. That treadway is not cool (Just my opinion!). This area is incredibly congested. I absolutely cannot understand how folks can live through this roar and confusion all their lives. I was hoping to hike the nature trail through the Lower Wekiva River State Preserve, but a sign at the gate reads, “Closed due to Environmentally sensitive conditions.” I finally figure this must mean that Mother Nature has a headache!

Once I get off the busy highway and into the Seminole State Forest, conditions improve dramatically. Here I find some of the most pleasant treadway hiked so far. Bill Taylor, FT11 Section Leader had told me there would be some very enjoyable hiking here and his assessment is right on. The trail is well maintained and very well marked. I had planned to overnight at Sulphur Run Campsite, but arriving here, and even before the cool of the evening can bring on their misery in force, the mosquitoes are attacking me unmercifully. I usually can tolerate their annoyance but these guys have all taken advanced fighter pilot training. I reluctantly head on up the trail. Fortunately there is ample daylight to get me along until I am on higher ground and away from their incessant attack. And what good fortune awaits me as I find the most delightful spot to pitch for the evening, an expansive rolling meadow with interspersed longleaf pine and live oak. I pull in to one of these picture-postcard areas and set up for the evening…with not a single mosquito about!

Most of these days now involve hiking distances in excess of fifteen miles, some as high as twenty or more. My body has adjusted to this daily demand remarkably well. And my feet? After all the crushing and mushing they have endured, after all the abuse, I believe that my feet are going to be okay!

“Escaped from a heap of uncordial kindness to the
generous bosom of the woods.”
[Muir]

Friday—January 23, 1998
Trail Day—23
Trail Mile—357
Location—Clearwater Lake Campground, Ocala National Forest

No sooner am I on the road this morning than the bucket brigade starts. I stop, get my tent fly out and cover my pack. By the time I reach the register box at the beginning of Royal Trails I am totally soaked. Roadwalks in the rain are usually no fun and busy SR44 is no exception. It’s kind of like being at the airport or on the lake. The wind that invariably accompanies the onslaught is usually running either with the road coming straight at you, or at your back, picking you up and hurling you into the next county. Stir then into this maelstrom the fact that there’s no protection from passing vehicles. Added in now are these separate little monsoons. Semis bring on torrents more in the category of cyclones. At times it’s prudent to just turn from the blast, go down on one knee and wait.

At the trailhead register I am pleased to find there’s been some other hikers through this section recently. Most were southbounders lamenting their stories about getting lost. I sign the register and head on in. The rain finally lets up and the storm moves on through. Arriving at a gate, the blazing ends. I check the road in both directions but am unable to find the trail. In the process I find an old trail where blaze marks have been painted brown, indicating where the trail had been. I follow the brown blazes hoping to arrive soon at the new section. The trail here is overgrown and has not been used for a considerable time...and it goes on and on. Soon the brown blazes become difficult to follow and at an intersecting two-track I become hopelessly lost. Out come the map and compass and I “reckon” my way along. Through an ever-increasing labyrinth of mud and brush I arrive at one of the neatest old hunt camps I can recall in my memory; old campers and trailers and various sheds and shacks along with plenty of high rails on which to hang and dress the deer. Here is Tracy Canal. On the map I can now figure my location and in what direction I must proceed to get back to Maggie Jones Road, the current trail location…but I’ve got to cross Tracy Canal. The canal looks a little scary but at the spoil bank cut near the old hunt camp I head on in. I find the bottom to be solid and the water only four feet deep by the far side. As I follow my compass bearing and along old line cuts and two-tracks I pass many deer stands. Some of these are grand affairs. Deer stands are usually pretty spartan with generally no more than spikes to get up and a couple of boards nailed in the crotch of the tree, but here the stands are more like decks, some complete with railings and overhead canopies. Some are large enough to hold three or four hunters, with each able to scout a different direction. At Yankee Stadium, these would be the skyboxes!

The woodsroad I’m hiking now soon brings me to a large field and a fenceline. There’s a gate across the way and I head for it. Here I’m back on Maggie Jones Road and the fresh orange blazes. The trail soon heads back into the forest, past Pooh Bear Lake, La No Chee Boy Scout Camp and then on to Clearwater Lake Campground. For some reason I had been dreading this Royal Trails Section FT11N, but I have had a pure blast here today! Royal Trails is just that…Royal Trails! Thanks Bill Taylor and all the great volunteers with the FTA Halifax/St. Johns Chapter!

Clearwater Lake Campground is a very fine facility, complete with bathhouse and seasonal resident caretaker. I get my tent set up in short order and head out for the little village of Paisley. I’m a trail town boy and this little place is truly classic. It has just what every hiker needs, no more, no less. There’s a grocery store, a post office and a mighty fine restaurant…and that’s it! I arrive to find, to my dismay, that the post office closed just ten minutes ago. Dang! I’ve missed getting some postcards off again. The Paisley Inn is a grand eating establishment and I manage to do the “Grand Order of Hiker Trash” very proud! This has turned out to be a memorable day.

“By now I have learned to listen to silence. To hear its
choirs singing the song of ages, chanting the hymns of
space, and disclosing the secrets of eternity.”

[Kahlil Gibran]

Saturday—January 24, 1998
Trail Day—24
Trail Mile—374
Location—Buck Lake Campground, Ocala National Forest

One of the calls I made last night from the campground was to a good friend of mine in Rockledge, Florida by the name of Thunder Chicken. We raced off-road motorcycles together for years. One day I told him about the Appalachian Trail and that I had a little place at the base of Springer Mountain where that grand old trail begins. From then on, at every race, he would pick my brain about this Appalachian Trail. Next thing I find out he’s decided to hike it! And in 1997 that is just what he did…a year before me! Thunder Chicken had expressed an interest in accompanying me here but I’m unable to reach him. What a disappointment; for I was so looking forward to a grand time hiking with him for a few days in the Ocala…but alas, it was not to be.

As I head into the forest this morning I meet the first backpackers on the FT. Tented just off the trail and just rolling out to greet the morning are Richard and Maria Nicholl from Boca Raton. They are on a shakedown cruise in preparation for this year’s upcoming thru-hike of the AT. I wish them well as I tell them that I am headed for the AT and that I hope our paths will cross later this summer. As I continue into the forest I am surprised to see the condition of the south forest area. There are quad-trac ruts everywhere with the trail bermed up at every curve. This really breaks my heart because I enjoy off-roading just about as much as any one fellow can and I’ve always been disheartened by the bum rap the sport has received from environmentalist and others, but here’s a damn good example and reason why! The yahoos that have been ripping around in here have literally destroyed the treadway that once consisted of soft pine needles, duff and grass. Soon I also come by a pile of roof shingles and old tires lying near the trail! The forest wasn’t like this in the ‘80s when I last hiked here.

The mess on and along the trail this morning puts me in kind of a funk and I hike along most of the day with my own little stormcloud suspended above. It is late afternoon as I pull into Buck Lake Campground. This is a casual camping area, with sand roads, no resident manager and no signs. I soon realize I’ve made a bad choice in pitching here for the night. It’s Saturday and the weekend crowd is here in force. By midnight they’ve got a signal fire going that lights the entire sky; the whole thing’s off the ground, wheels up, with the roar and hoopla continuing well into early morning.

[Robert W. Service, My Trinity]

Sunday—January 25, 1998
Trail Day—25
Trail Mile—389
Location—Hidden Pond, Ocala National Forest

As I greet the morn it is quiet and peaceful. The revelers and the grand flight have crashed. I see why the roaring blaze last night. My little Campmor thermometer reads 35 degrees this morning. I quickly move out and on my way to get the old jitney up to normal operating temperature. This part of the forest is in much better condition, more like I remember from the past. I see numerous Boy Scout Packs and other day hikers today. It’s pleasant seeing others on the trail for a change. Those I chance to chat with most all end up with a somewhat quizzical, hollow grin when I explain where I’ve come from and where I’m headed. That’s usually also the end of the conversation!

The campsite that I have chosen for tonight is a much better choice than last. If fact, it is the nicest spot along the trail so far. Hidden Pond is a lovely little sink with a pure near-white sand bottom. I have the whole place to myself. I can’t resist the lure of the little pool and as soon as I have my pack off…off comes everything else and in I go! The air is cool, but the water is warm and I loll most nearly submerged for the longest time. There is plenty of firewood from old blowdowns lying about and I get a fine cooking and warming fire going. I am able to work on my journal entries well into the evening as I enjoy a warm meal. This has been a grand day. I am pain-free, very content!

[Thomas Merton, No Man is an Island]

Monday—January 26, 1998
Trail Day—26
Trail Mile—410
Location—Trailside, North of CR316

This is the day to cross the islands and prairies. The trail reveals only occasional glimpses of Juniper Prairie, but Hopkins Prairie is bold, main stage, front and center! The trail skirts the edge of the prairie on a long sand lead that follows the eastern then northern border. As the coves within the prairie basin undulate into the pine the trail follows, touching all points on the compass, meandering the long shoreline-like margin, first to and fro, then thither and yon. At the points where the piney woods project into the prairie do there open vistas most grand, extending great distances to the far wooded wall which becomes lifted, to then float on a mirage of vapor and haze. There are birds of all kinds and description, most which I do not know. The prairie is alive with activity. And to the prairie, from the surrounding wood come trails of another kind, laid down by the inhabitants around as they journey to the prairie from day to day. Here is one of the most delightful scenes to my eyes so far on this FT.

The islands? Well the islands are an interesting matter. The FT guide may say that I am crossing the south side of Pat’s Island, or the north border of Riverside Island, but there is no abrupt change in the landscape as with the prairies. If fact, I can seldom see even a subtle change as I pass onto an area noted in my guide as an “Island.” There may be very slight almost undetectable changes in elevation or the least noticeable change in the plant community. Perhaps most apparent is the enormity of some of the southern and longleaf pine that reside on the islands proper with the virtual open understory giving to the delightful pine needle carpet. And there may tend to be a little softer give in the sand as the trail makes it way across, but these islands have neither docks nor boat slips!

Toward late afternoon I take to a side trail to head for Store 88. Here there’s a bar, gas pumps and a super-dandy BBQ! I fill up on everything but gas! Late in the evening now and crossing CR316 I pull off in the scrub and pitch for the evening. This has been a “Gift to Hiker Trash” day; most rewarding, and as I pitch my little tent, I am immediately home again!

“When you have a backpack on, no matter
where you are, you’re home.”

[Leonard Adkins, GAME ‘82]

Tuesday—January 27, 1998
Trail Day—27
Trail Mile—425
Location—Cross-Florida Barge Canal Embankment

As I awaken this morning and bump my upper tent wall, strange little dandruff-like crystals descend in a shower inside my tent! As I roll out and my little thermometer adjusts to the outside temperature, the mercury doesn’t slow down until it reaches 30 degrees. The new and very plush Mountain Hard Wear sleeping bag that Mark has me in is working just great! The morning is bright and sunny and the day warms quickly, but as I near Lake DeLancy the sky “darks over” and as the wind comes up, comes also a cold, driving rain. I am really getting hammered hard, but there is nowhere to pull out of it and I must keep moving to keep my core temperature up. The storm finally passes and the day again turns mild.

I see countless scrub jays today. They’re supposed to be on the endangered species list. Ronnie, my very good friend in Live Oak had so many coming to his feeder, he couldn’t count them. One day he inquired to his neighbor about the nuisance the birds were causing and his neighbor said, "Aww, those are scrub jays!" Don't you sort of wonder about this entire endangered species hubbub sometimes? Like the spotted owl ordeal. The lumbering industry was all but shut down in the northwest because of the spotted owl. Remember? They said the spotted owl had to have the dark old-growth forests to survive. That area needed to be protected. It needed wilderness designation…and then somebody noticed a pair nesting in a K-mart storefront sign! On Springer Mountain there’s a plaque with these words engraved on it, "A Pathway for those who seek fellowship with the Wilderness." I have constantly chosen that path. This odyssey is for nine months. Few will enjoy more fellowship with the wilderness this year than this old man! The Juniper Prairie Wilderness is a fine place. There certainly needs to be a balance. I've seen areas virtually destroyed (for our lifetime) due to overuse and abuse. But, I think this wilderness thing gets tugged a bit out of whack sometimes. I believe the Nature Conservancy is going about this the right way! While everybody is flying all over the place on this issue, these folks continue on their way with cool heads putting ecosystem protection to work in a way that everyone can benefit. It is truly an amazing thing. I wish I could afford to be an Ordway Associate!

[Sara Teasdale, There Will Come Soft Rains]

Wednesday—January 28, 1988
Trail Day—28
Trail Mile—447
Location—Near Old Starke Road North of Rice Creek Sanctuary

I was disappointed when I found the Rodman Recreation Area Campground underwater. That was my planned destination yesterday, but as usual, things worked out for the better. For here on the spoil bank next to the canal has been a first class overnight stay. I seem to always enjoy camping by the water (as long as I don’t have to camp in the water!)

I departed the Ocala National Forest yesterday afternoon and since then I have been thinking about my hike there and the way I’m feeling now about it. I’ve also given it a lot of thought again this morning as I head east along the canal. Mother always told me if I couldn’t say something nice to try and keep quiet…but this is really bothering me. So I think I will write about the Ocala, for there is now within me a deep sense of sadness. In my memory are the hikes enjoyed here in the '80s. Back then the trail was well marked, and groomed to the point of being near a walkway rather than a pathway. Where the treadway wasn't mowed, it was a wonderful blanket of oak leaves or pine needles. The campsites and facilities were in top-rate condition. There was no trash or unkempt conditions, no evidence of vandalism. That was the Ocala of the '80s.

I was in the Ocala National Forest part of four days this trip. I didn't see one USFS vehicle, or a single person with the USFS. That may be coincidental, but I’ve also noted that the FT no longer belongs to the hiker or backpacker. Folks with quad-tracks, motorcycles and horses have found the Ocala National Forest to their liking and especially the Ocala Section of the FT. The trail through this beautiful area was once the "Crown Jewel" of the FT, but this is no longer true. I've heard few nice things ever said about quad-tracks or motorcycles, and seldom anything much bad said about horses. But, let me tell you this...If you want to tear up some trail treadway fast, you'd be hard put to do it any quicker or more thoroughly than with a couple of horses! The unauthorized use of the FT through the Ocala National Forest is evident for miles. The beautifully carpeted trail of the past has given way to berms and churned up sand. Trailhead barriers are knocked down, signage destroyed or molested and there it is for all to see. It saddens me, it deeply saddens me.

The canal spoil-bank is a pleasant hike. I am jolted back to where I am on the trail as I flush a covey of quail along the way. They scatter but don’t go far. I don't think anybody much hunts quail down here. Snakes are hard on dogs and you can't get through the scrub and palmetto, so the quail pretty much have their way. Dad would have gotten a "double" on that rise. I would have gotten some tail feathers…maybe!

I must cross one of the locks this morning to head north on the trail. As I approach the lock I find the gate secured. No one is in sight, so I push my pack through a crack in the gates and wiggle through behind it. The Lockkeeper is in his office (in the back of the building away from the lock, of course). We talk awhile but he never does ask me how I got across the lock! Heading into the afternoon the trail gets pretty soupy and I run into some slow, hard going through cut-over sections. I find a nice spot to camp just north of Rice Creek Sanctuary near Old Starke Road. A pretty much uneventful day for a change!

I think it not inappropriate to stop a moment here and make these comments: It is obvious Dick Wiseman took considerable pride in being Rice Creek FT14 Section Leader. I sensed this from a phone conversation with his wife, just most recently his widow who called me to respond to the letter that I had written to Dick just before he passed away. Dick left this section of the FT in fine shape. Volunteerism often receives little appreciation or thanks. My gratitude to you Dick Wiseman and to all the folks who worked untiringly by your side!

[David Sper]

Thursday—January 29, 1998
Trail Day—29
Trail Mile—470
Location—Gold Head Branch State Park

When I tried hiking this section back in the ‘80s I got hopelessly lost and never did see Etonia Ravine, so I have been looking to this day with much anticipation, for folks have told about the beauty that is here. It has been describes as a place not like Florida, almost gorge-like with deep sloping walls and the meandering Etonia running most-near clear as so many mountain streams much further to the north. The trail is well marked now and I am soon at the ravine. Indeed, I am not disappointed in what I find. It is certainly an area in striking contrast to anything seen to the south, rugged and picturesque. The only indications that this is a semitropical setting are the cabbage palms and the palmettos. Here is evi