Day Ten, 15 miles (Vilas Camp)
Like clockwork, a storm arrives loud and ferocious. I happily sleep in, cozy since the only women here in my own space on the nursery floor. But the weather is supposed to clear, so I’ll push on by mid-day. Pastor Wilt offers to drive me the 30 miles (!) of road, even stopping at the grocery store to resupply for this final section.
The men tell me they’ve all had near misses with distracted drivers on the road. One tells me he’s only walking for his ego, but he too happily accepts a ride when offered. The best part about meeting these guys is the conversation. We share our life stories, have good laughs, plus give beta on the upcoming sections as we are walking in opposite directions.
And what’s coming up for me? Bradwell Bay.
Sounds innocuous enough. But not so much. It’s A 12-mile walk through a swamp. Bay is less coastal than a forested basin “titi” swamp, dense with vegetation and dark, thigh-deep, tannin-stained water. Now I’ve done this kind of thing already last season when I started at the Southern Terminus and needed to slosh through 30+ miles of in the Big Cypress, careful not to lose a foot in one of the limestone solution holes.
But Bradwell Bay has its own ethos. You can’t just venture into the water and figure you’ll move through only getting a bit damp. Not at all. Here you need to watch out for deep mudholes that can suck you in to your bellybutton and refuse to let go. The men give me the secret to survival: tree hugging where fewer holes are formed. But in all likelihood, I’ll be in the “Bay” by myself.
That’s not for a few days so I try and put set my anxiety aside . Today, the guys suggest I only hike as far as lovely Camel Lake and camp with the RVer’s. The day is cool and crisp as I immediately meet mud and ankle-deep water, sort of a practice session I decide. Crayfish dug mud chimneys and pitcher plants litter the trail. A kite soars above, his forked tail silhouetted on a sapphire sky. It’s so lovely and I access that grounded bliss I seek every time I walk.
And that’s when I take the wrong turn.
It’s not as though I get really lost, or anything. But in the forest, everything looks the same and it’s tough to determine directions. That’s why I always take two forms of navigation that offer alternatives like forest roads. I walk a bit out of my way, but arrive at Camel Lake soon enough.
The men were right, it is lovely here. Grassy campsites shaded by tall loblolly pine and superb facilities including hot showers! But it’s too early to stop at 3:00. When we crossed the wide Apalachicola River, we entered the Eastern Time Zone, so it’s a very early 3:00 and the day is glorious. The men were happy to get here after the swamp, but I decide to put myself closer to the swamp and take advantage of the day.
It’s easy walking in forest covered in wild azaleas. An Eastern Fence Lizard hangs out on a rock seemingly waiting for me. I reach a tiny campsite in the forest, but move on to the next one. There will be a big detour due to rebuilding the Shuler Bay Boardwalk, so it’s mostly a forest road now.
I meet two men along the way, single hikers, and wonder why I never see single women. The road goes on and on and on and I begin to wonder if I’ll make it before dark. Just ahead, I see a highway I’ll need to cross and Vilas Campsite is just beyond less than a mile. I will need to walk the shoulder to New River, but the one car I see gives me loads of room.
Vilas is totally empty, sitting under enormous pines and surrounded by low-lying palmettos. The best site has numerous freshly dug holes which I block using pinecones. I’m sure their tenants have alternative exits to the bottom of my tent.
It’s the coldest night on trail and I zip up the foot box and wear a warm top. The sun turns the forest fringe yellow than pink and soon the sky is ablaze with stars.
Day Eleven, 21 miles
My tent is soaking wet per usual. This is a daily occurrence in Florida, but this morning is chilly cold and I can see my breathe — plus a bit of frost on the ground. There’s no water at camp, so I’ll need to pack up and make coffee at the next source which appears to be a culvert next to a forest road.
The water here is “black,” slow-moving, acidic and stained by tannins from decaying vegetation. From above it certainly does look black, but once I snag a bagful to filter, it looks as rich as A&W Root Beer. I hook the bag on a conveniently located post, screw on the filter and attach my bottle. Within four minutes, I have clear, sweet water to drink.
An Eastern Towhee sings his name with a flourish of trills above my head as I pack up to head into my first swamp, Sapling Head. A bay is a lowlying wetland, while a head is a kind of island of vengetation surrounded by wetland, though somehow, it’s still wet and mucky.
That’s my entire day, to be honest, swamps one after the other in varying levels of mosit: Dark, Cypress Gum, Bay Creek, Titi and the Great Wall. I know, I know, you giggle at the word Titi. So did I. But it’s actually pronounced tie-tie as if you’re wearing a double necktie. Titi trees are semi-evergreen and very small, though they pack a punch in spring covered in fragrant and showy white flowers, vital for bees and other wildlife.
Butterflies flutter in an upward tornado under bright sunlight. A Northern Parula gives its clearing throat call. I’m so happy to hear him as he’ll follow me up to Northern Minnesota later this spring. I stop briefly to take a photo of a snake when a horsefly finds his opening and drills into my shin. Monster!
It’s not long before I arrive at Porter Lake. There’s an odd assortment of characters parked in this tiny spot ideal as a base for fisherman and boon-dockers alike near the Ochloakonee River and namesake Lake. I take water right out of the spigot and make dinner, pulling a few Lone Star Ticks off my scratched up legs, only crawling at this point.
A woman named Debra offers me water, suggesting I avoid the well or at least filter it, right after I’ve downed an entire liter. Another man older with a long John Muir-style beard tells me his name is Travis. I learn later he’s a bit of a hiking legend.
But again, there’s still plenty of daylight and I want to position myself closer to Bradwell Bay as I know it will significantly slow me down. But all that’s ahead is a dusty roadwalk and an historic pioneer homestead, the Langston House. Although my map app Far Out warns me camping here is NOT recommended (emphasis their’s) but others seemed to have risked in.
The house itself is pretty run-down and I can see right through its bare windows and doors, although someone put a metal roof on not too long ago and I imagine in pouring rain, the porch would be a nice respite from the elements. I opt for a flat spot under a sprawling oak tree. I collect water at a stream in the woods, then get myself settled and hope no one turns up.
Dogs bark and a few speed racers pass on the hidden highway. One 4×4 drives down the road, but doesn’t come near me and I drift off to sleep readying myself for tomorrow’s adventure.
Day Twelve, 17 miles
I get a late start, idling in my tent before setting off on another clear day. There’s been a drought in the Southeast and this affects water levels. Comments from only last year warn of walking through waist-high swamp, but if I can avoid the mudholes, I’m failry certain I’ll only get wet to my knees.
I’m not sure what possessed me to wear shorts. It feels a bit freer in this humidity, but ticks and biting flies annoy me all day. Also, I’m burned. Remind me never to do this again.
Droplets of dew cover spider webs as I work my way through a burn area and some mud. I reach the wee parking lot that marks the West boundary of the wilderness. It’s surprisingly dry as I come along a tramway, the closest loggers got to the prized virgin slash pines and cypresses now protected.
Getting my hopes up, I arrive at the heart of the bay and think, wait, this is it? Just a stretch of water surrounded by fan-bottomed cypresses. Bright orange blazes mark the way and I feel maybe a bit overconfident.
It’s dead quiet in here, not a soul today. Comments warn me about losing their way, not going it alone, to pack away anything that could be damaged if it’s submerged. But I remember what the men told me, hug the trees.
It’s not always easy to do, but rather than simply march into the water towards the orange blaze, I attempt to skirt around the deepest parts. This requires climbing over deadfall, avoiding errant branches that threaten to take out an eye and sometimes going off “trail.” I sit on a downed log and scoot over the deepest bits. Again, this is not about getting wet, but about not getting sucked under!
I should point out, there is no cell service in here. You want to ensure you carry a satellite communication device with an SOS or spot locator and that it’s fully charged. Somehow, I wind around, hold fast to the trees and never encounter the infamous sucking mud. The advice pays off and while not necessarily fun as it feels a slog deep in there with no sense of how far you’ve gone, it’s really not that bad.
I add my own comments to the fear-mongering: Take your time, hug the trees, solve the puzzle and don’t fall in the mudholes!
In a few hours, the deep water gets shallower and less intense. I still step carefully as I come upon Bradwell Island and its wee emergency camp. Now is mostly mud which does hold fast to my shoes as I squish through. A side trail leads to a parking lot and ahead is Monkey Creek where I fill up on water and have a snack.
I did it! How on earth did I get through this notorious bit of trail, perhaps the hardest of all 1,500? Sure, the water is low this year but it has been raining torrentially, just not today. The advice about taking your time and hugging the trees was spot on and soon I’m out in the brilliant sun again, burning my legs and being chased by horseflies. The first thing I’ll do at camp is change into pants!
My legs are muddy and scratched up and it’s getting hot. There’s a shortcut on a road but I stay on trail and make a long upside-down V to Martian Camp, all alone again with my own bench and firepit. I pull off a few more crawling ticks, collect water from the Sopchoppy River, then make dinner earlier than expected allowing me time to zip into my tent bug-free and read a book.
A man drives over the bridge and on his return stops to ask if I’m ok. Wil tromps over dressed in camo to offer me a soda. I feel safe, though, getting a good vibe that he’s just ensuring all’s well. As the sun sets on an amazing day, a Chuck-Wills-Widow, a big-headed member of the Nightjar family, sings his bright, repetitive song and just as my eye’s close, a noisy barred owl joins in.
Day Thirteen, 14 miles
I’ve reached the end of my section-hike. I’ll be out of food soon and I figure I can get a ride somewhere from US 319. Besides, another enormous storm system is on the way again with the usual warnings of flooding, convection and tornadoes. It’s time to move on!
The sky is gray and foreboding. The forecast predicts rain still far off, but I get up and push on through a forest filled with wild azalea, all the showy blooms at eye level. Northern Parulas sing their throaty tune and a Red Shouldered Hawk screeches a warning.
I follow the Sopchoppy River all day, the black water lazily moving along over a sandy bottom. Cyrpress trees with fanned-out skirts show off their knees. I’m high up on a bank and look down on some with massive girth, and equally massive and complicated knees. It’s beautiful in here and all mine this morning.
I meet a huge footbridge just for hikers, seemingly unnecessary here. Even its exit leads to a well-built boardwalk. I really could have used something like this yesterday, but then I couldn’t brag about how I managed to slog through Bradwell Bay on my own!
The trail is lovely through forest and along sand roads. No more mud or water now, but when I sit under a tree for a snack, the ticks find me quickly even though I’m wisely wearing long long pants today with my socks tucked into them hem.
My last water source has dried up, but there’s a puddle in the road which suffices and I filter my last bottle. Not far now to the road. But again, this is not a place where people pick up hitchhikers. I try and look nonthreatening and smile, hoping someone might stop. The cars going the other way honk and yell at me,
Oh geez, this is going to be awkward.
My friend from high school whom I met last year on trail, plans to meet me up here so we can be tourists for a few days before I fly out of Tallahassee. But he won’t be here until tomorrow, and I’m not up to sleep out in a dangerous thunderstorm.
So, per usual, I start to cry. A man stops his car and asks if I’m ok. He can’t pick up, he explains, but can offer me a soda. I’m certainly grateful and wonder if walking the few miles north to Medart might improve my chances. To be fair, I’m not really sure where I’m headed. Inside will be best, and there should be somewhere along the way to lay my head.
Just then, that same car reappears. The man seems to have had second thoughts and offers to drive me to Medart. He’s a locksmith and headed to a job in Monticello. I check out where that is and see it’s just north of I-10, east of Tallahassee — and magically on the way for my friend.
There’s a motel at the freeway and not out of the way for this lovely driver who tells me his wife would be furious he picked up a hitchhiker, but he saw me crying and looking a bit lost. He also gave me his last caffeinated soda and having someone keep him awake on the drive is worth it.
And just like that, the hike is over. I check in, wash my clothes and myself, then grab dinner before the sky goes black and the rain pounds down.