The Van, Part 1 : Call me Headlamp

While at my parents house I took the opportunity to reprioritize a few things in hopes of saving both volume and weight. I succeed at the former, the latter not so much.  A major space saver was removing my hydration bladder from the pack. When full it takes up 2 liters of my 50 liter pack. It also was a pain to refill as half my pack had to be unpacked just to access it. Instead I go with two water bottles and a larger four liter reservoir that sits atop my packs interior space and is easily accessible when I need to filter of refill my water. The other large thing to go was my first aid pack. I took the few things that I need from it and placed them in a zip lock bag and pitched the bulky nylon pack. A small stuff sack I had been using as a pillow also went as well as a few extra shirts I hadn’t touched. All in all I freed up about five liters of space that made everything else fit better and allowing me the flexibility to carry more water if I needed.

On my first day out from a two day break with my parents, I must follow State Road 60 for 6 miles before entering the Three Lakes Wildlife Management Area. I then walk another 2 miles down a dirt access road before reaching the Three Lakes Trailhead. Toward the end of the access road I stop for a drink of water and notice a van approaching from behind. I step to the side of the road to let it pass. Instead, though, it pulls close and a fruit bearing hand extends out the passenger window. Inside, three smiling faces gleam at me. They seem glad, almost ecstatic, to see me, these strangers do. The three women inside explain they are also hikers and are meeting a group just a few hours back from me at the trail head just ahead. They motor on and I meet up with them once they have parked. Introductions proceed around.

There is April Showers, a 50 something blond haired woman, who is an experienced hiker and just out hiking the natural portions of the trail and skipping most of the road walks. The other two, Natalie and Bridget, are friends through their church (Seventh Day Adventist). They have both just finished major milestones in their young lives. Natalie has recently returned from a mission to Germany and Bridget just completed a master’s degree. So together they wanted a little adventure before "settling down". Natalie suffered some injuries to her shins early on and has not hiked almost since the start. She has been helping drive the van and offering moral support to her friend. Bridgett is a somewhat petite, somewhat stout young woman, who is very enthusiastic about the hike. She has had a bad bout with blisters so is mostly skipping the road walks like April. That is why they are all in the van together.

The van is owned and generally operated by one Chuck Norris (trail name), who is also the Thru Hike Coordinator of the Florida Trail Association. He and the van are playing a support role for a number of hikers that began the Florida Trail the day after I did. Essentially, the hikers leave most of their gear and supplies in the van while they hike. They meet up at designated spots to resupply and pick up gear when they need. This allows them to focus on the hiking and not be burdened by their packs. It also allows them easy access to resupply, as they can just drive to the nearest Walmart when necessary. This is called “slackpacking” rather than backpacking.  When I meet up with the van, though, Chuck is not at the helm. Since the portion of trail before here is a road walk, these three women have skipped it and can drive the van, which has allowed Chuck the opportunity to hike.

I actually met Chuck Norris last March at the Florida Trail Association’s annual conference and have corresponded with him via email a few times in preparation for my own trip. He had informed me that he would be starting out about the same time I did and had offered for me to hike along with them. So, I knew that they would be out on the trail, but figured that they would have passed me while I was on my 2 day break at my parents’ house. This seems not to have been the case. While curios to meet back up with Chuck, I also am not excited about hiking along a bunch of strangers.

I do not voice my hesitations aloud but chat generally about my intentions for the next few days as Bridgett and April prepare their packs for the hike into camp. Bridgett is emphatic that I stop at Godwin Hammock Camp where the group is staying and "meet everybody". Upon setting out this morning, I had intended to hike 22 miles and camp at Dry Pond. My dad had dropped me off at 8 am, far earlier than I am ever motivated to get going myself. Godwin camp would still give me a respectable 15 miles for the day, but I am hesitant to squander my only early start thus far on the trip. I decide to think it over as I hike in, and set off into the open grass and palmetto prairie that is the beginning to the Three Lakes Section.

The first few miles offer uneven footing over low mowed palmetto roots, with spectacular sight lines of the oak and palm hammocks on the horizon. Just before reaching the aforementioned hammock, three white tale deer bound out from palmettos 30 paces off the trail. I feel fortunate to have gotten such a close view, for certainly had I been hiking with a group, our collective noise would have flushed them from their roost far earlier. These are, in fact, the first deer I’ve seen on the trip, which most surely has much to do with the fact that it is hunting season. Upon reaching the edge of the prairie, I decide to pause for a quick break before entering the dense mature hammock. Here I find a tree stand set against a solitary tall palm. For those not acquainted with such a structure, let me briefly describe this for you, for I have encountered many on the trail thus far (perhaps also why I haven’t seen many deer yet). A tree stand in its most basic form is a ladder attached to a platform that is braced against a tree, thus allowing it’s occupant an elevated view of the surrounding environs. Sometimes they have a chair attached with a rail for propping a rifle on. This is a hunter’s tool, and most of the dozens I’ve passed are of sturdy welded steel construction, chained to the support tree. This one is an old rickety wooden contraption that has been nailed to the tree. Perhaps out of sheer curiosity of the view, I cautiously climb up and sit atop the crumbling wooden platform. Though the view is grand, I gain no new empathy for the modern hunter simply by walking in his shoes (figuratively). With my curiosity satiated, I climb down and proceed into the woods.

Just into the hammock I am again compelled to stop and climb. Just off the trail, and into the thicket, a large grapefruit tree stands tall with its ripe, bright yellow fruit well out of arms reach. With so few people who pass this way, and fewer so inclined to take to the thorn laden branches to gain this prize, I feel obligated to be perhaps the only human this season to taste this fruit. Shortly I am perched tenuously 8 feet up and am able to free five of the larger specimen, robbing gravity its eventual victory. I take all these indulgent distractions, as a sign of curiosity toward the group of hikers behind me and then decide to stop at Godwin Hammock Camp.

I reach Godwin by 4 pm, far earlier than any camp thus far. As campsites go, Godwin Hammock possesses none of truly functional elements I've come to appreciate: a picnic table, fire ring, access to water and cleared flat ground. What it lacks in function, it makes up for with setting. It is just at the edge of an oak hammock and an open palmetto prairie.

Being the first to arrive, I choose a spot close to a large fallen oak and set up. Bridget and April are not far behind and choose spots closer to the edge of camp. The next arrivals are a raucous pair. They introduce themselves in short order as Needles and Bush Whacker. Both appear to be in their mid to late fifties, with Bush Whacker the younger and Needles the senior, both bearded. Bush Whacker reminds me that I met his wife Lynne a few weeks previous at the Seminole museum. They are followed in short order by Headin Out, a man perhaps in his early sixties with a strong Michigan accent and a polite disposition. Jugglin June Cleaver arrives next. She is a semiretired school teacher from the Tampa area on her first such adventure. She is slight of frame, with short hair, and the most pleasant disposition imaginable (thus the June Cleaver name). Last to arrive is Max, a lumbering forty something just out of the Air Force and living in Delaware with near grown kids. He is also out long distance hiking for the first time. His hair is short and his face somehow amazingly shaven. Not having a trail name of my own, I introduce myself simply as Seth.

With everyone at camp and set about the same various tasks of making dinner and setting up tents, I take a moment to take in the group dynamics. Certainly Needles and Bush Whacker possess the strongest personalities, talking loudly directly to and for the others from their claim of the two small benches, the camps only real amenity. They make a big production of the fire and enjoy making friendly jokes about the others in the group. April is a go-with-the-flow gal; she’s relaxed and out to enjoy the experience. April and Needles engage in small flirtations, sitting shoulder to shoulder, brushing against one another occasionally, so that I mistake them as a couple. Contrastingly, Headin Out speaks sparsely, keeping to himself and retiring early to his tent. As well, Max is quiet, but seems to enjoy laughing, even if the joke be at his own expense. June is personable, engaging individually with seemingly sincere interest. She smiles and laughs easily, and takes no offense to the joshing from others about her mild mannered vernacular, her “golly gees” and the like. Bridgett, is talkative (mainly of herself) and takes the most direct interest in engaging with me outside of the group dynamic, perhaps because we are closest in age by some good two decades. Having met me first she seems to take pride in introducing me to each new arrival to camp. I make an effort to talk with each person individually at least briefly. All are nice and equally curious to talk to me. I, a solitary hiker, must seem as much a novelty to them, as they, a group of hikers living out of a van, do to me. Few linger around the fire much past dinner and the darkening of the sky, and we are all in our tents by 8pm.

I rouse myself in the morning to the sound of goodbyes, and by the time I am out of my tent around 8, only Needles and Bush Whacker remain. They admittedly like to have a “morning fire” and so usually start later than the rest. They inform me that the rest of the group is heading to Chuck’s aunt’s house for a fish fry and will be camping out on her lawn. They intend to camp at Three Lakes Camp, 17 miles ahead and meet up with the group the next day.  So it seems we will be campmates again this evening. After their departure I go about making breakfast and packing up. Around 9, as I am almost ready to leave, another hiker appears and introduces himself as Speaker. At 22, he is the youngest hiker I have met on the trail. Just last year he completed the AT and so is strong and hiking at a ferocious pace of 3 ½ miles an hour. He knows of the van group and is in fact chasing them down, in hopes of some company and support. Soon he is off and shortly too am I.

The day quickly turns hot as I start out.I stop 8 miles out at the Lake Jackson boat ramp to filter water. Though the lake is remote and undeveloped, a boat ramp is not an ideal place to collect water. Unfortunately though for me the water levels are low and the surrounding banks are muddy and too shallow to access without making a mess of myself and quickly clogging my filter. With this chore complete, I head north toward the next major section of trail. Today I will leave the Kissimmee region and begin the traverse around Orlando. This transition takes place just beyond the Prairie Lakes Trailhead. When I reach the trail head I encounter a day hiker rapping up an 8 mile loop and about to take off in his car. He engages me eagerly in conversation, for as a thru hiker, I am most certainly a novelty to most FTA members and hikers. So few people do what I am doing each year on the Florida Trail that coming across a thru hiker, must be like seeing a bear or an owl. I can hear him now “Guess what I saw today?” Just as he is now a part of my story I am now a part of his. It turns out that his son is also named Seth, a point we do not linger on. He offers me a beer and departs before I can finish it, leaving me to think aloud “what do you want me to do with this bottle!?” Thankfully he returns down the drive to inquire if I need any water. I tell him no, but ask that he remove me the obligation of carrying this bottle around for the next 70 miles.

After this encounter with the day hiker, I cross a barbed wire fence and continue northeast in an uncelebrated split in the trail. A laminated piece of paper stapled to a fencepost at hip level, announces that this is where one either heads east or west around Orlando. This is no mild decision, as it affects the next 200+ miles of my hike. I have decided to head east, primarily because it involves less road walking and will, at its northern point, take me through a larger portion of the Ocala National Forest.

 On a nearby fence post I find a note inside a plastic bag inscribed to Chuck Norris from Billy Goat, something about missing him on the trial again this year. Three miles after I begin this new section of trail, I pass through a broad pine and palmetto prairie, skirting cypress domes to the east, and then pass underneath Florida’s Turnpike. The Sun is fully below the horizon by time I accomplish this and because I am trending east do not fully take in the sunset. I do take note that the remaining light seems to linger and not fully fade into night for quite a while after sunset. This is due to the rising near full moon to the north and east directly ahead of me.  Because the moon is so full and the trail is following a dirt road I decide to walk as long as I can aided only by the moonlight. I do so with caution, making sure to keep an eye out for the blazes. On two occasions, though, I miss turns and decide to finally get out my headlamp. Within an hour of passing the Turnpike, I see the glow of a campfire and hear the muffled sounds of conversation. It is in this way that I reach Three Lakes Camp and rejoin with two of my previous night’s companions, Needles and Bush Whacker. They greet me warmly, and stoke the fire to celebrate my arrival. These two are true companions to each other, coequal sidekicks on the trail. They joke and laugh and self-medicate as I set up my tent and make dinner.

In this more intimate camp setting, I inquire about the origins of their trail names. Having not yet encountered other hikers before this van group along the trail, besides in passing, I hadn’t put much thought into a trail name. Also not being really fully immersed in this subculture that is long distance hiking, not knowing its bylaws, I wasn’t sure if one names oneself or if it bestowed upon you. Not wanting to leave it up to some relative stranger, I put a bit of thought into how I might like to be called. Must a trail name reflect some essential element of ones self or personality or could it simply refer to your style or just be a clever turn of ones given name? Not wanting to give too much of myself away or take this too seriously, I decide to go with the style tract. So how then am I different from most hikers I’ve encountered? Let’s see… I’m a newbie… nothing there. Had I seen some uncommon fauna, like a bear or panther?... nope. Well I do get a late start and so end up hiking at night a lot… that could be something… “Headlamp”… that’s it! Call me Headlamp.

Before we all retire for the night, I inform Bush Whacker and Needles of my chosen name. I take their chuckling as approval and wish them goodnight.  A few things lead me to believe I may not see them again. Tomorrow they are meeting up with the rest of the van crew, which is slackpacking and moving generally faster than me. Also they all tend to get started earlier than I, so I figure that they will quickly outpace me. I am actually a little relieved at this. One of my major motivations for hiking the Florida Trail was to step back and gain a little perspective. The thought of constant company along the trail runs counter to this for me. So, though I am glad for the company this and last evenings, I go to bed comforted by the thought that soon I will again have my solitude. How wrong I was.

The Wandering Son Returns (with fruit)

Hiking north out of Hickory Hammock camp, I encountered some of the most pleasant and poorly maintained trail thus far; stunning live oak hammocks juxtaposed with trampled tall grass floodplains. It is my intention to hike 19 miles per day for the next two days to reach River Ranch Resort, a modern day working tourist ranch. It is at River Ranch that my dad will meet me for a two day break from the trail.

My goal for the first day is to reach Fort Kissimmee Camp, a popular hunt camp on the Avon Park Air Force Range. It is hunting season and the Air Force leases much of the land not only for cattle grazing, but also for hunting. This means that I may only camp at the designated campsites, for my own safety I am sure. The trail here follows the Kissimmee River along the western bank, though rarely within close enough proximity so as to really see the river much. Throughout the day I am variously in an out of striking shade hammocks. I occasionally emerge into open pine scrub stands but mostly am close to the oaks. Like much of the land I encountered the day previous, this is cattle land. The greatest contrast lies in this. The broad oak hammocks present a very intimate shaded space ideal for hiking. The cows have provided a minefield of droppings that are a constant distraction from the beauty of the oaks, as I am most often staring at the ground to avoid them.

Like I have so often come to do, I end up hiking well past sunset and into the dark of night. Though this is not a new experience for me at this point, I still must quiet my own fears that naturally pop up. At twilight I still have 4 miles to reach my camp. Upon setting out each morning it has not been my intention to hike past dark, but my mileage goals demand it. Still I do question my motives for continuing on in the dark. My heart races, my eyes focus on the trail ahead, my ears attune to the slightest sound… The thought occurs to me that I may just be an adrenaline junkie. I hope that this is not the case and proceed. Eventually I reach a dirt road that will take me to Fort Kissimmee Camp, and within an hour of reaching this I see a fire flickering off to the right of the trail. Because it is hunting season and because this is the designated hunt camp, I expected company at the camp. I draw near the fire and find two 60 something hunters encamped. All of the camps I have encountered thus far have been intimate spaces; maybe a picnic table and maybe a fire ring, a little flat space and that’s about it. This seems somewhat larger as these two have spread out to utilize every inch of the camp with their tents, coolers, generators and lights. They ask if I am lost, and I explain my situation. Hiking the Florida Trail, 1100 miles, looking to cook my dinner and hit the sack… blah, blah, blah. They seem curious and inquisitive, but not wanting to share the space.  They inform me of a pavilion up the way with a “wouldn’t you be more comfortable up there?” So I wander off into the night to find, said talked about pavilion. I soon realize that this is not a camp like any I have yet encountered. There is a veritable city of hunters at every turn, with every available space occupied. I settle for a space right next to a large oak in and adjoining field. After clearing a few dried cow patties, I make dinner and set up my tent eager to get into my tent and not be noticed. At no time more than now, have I felt as much an outsider.

I awake to the sound of gunfire. Though startled, I am not surprised. It is Saturday of Martin Luther King Day weekend and this is the day of all days this long weekend for hunters to be out. The two hunters from the night before informed me that it is mostly bow hunting for deer and bird hunting with shotguns that is in season now. This is a relief, as neither present great or grave dangers at long distances.

I pack up and go down to the banks of the Kissimmee to filter water for the day. Here are many fishers set about their trade. I am glad to get a glimpse of the river, as today will be my last day in this region. Once leaving the bombing range, I will be on the old Kicco Ranch, where my grandfather once worked and my dad and uncles spent some of their youth.

All day I hike through undeveloped cattle land. That is essentially, open oak hammocks with sometimes dense and sometimes sparse understory. In daylight the marked trail is easy enough to follow. Several elements aid my progress. There is the dollar bill sized orange blazes. Also there is the beaten path. When the understory is dense, these two things conjoin to form an unmistakable trail. When it is sparse, I must rely mostly upon the blazes. One thing further complicates this. Cows tend to create their own paths through this space as well. Several times throughout the day I get off onto a cow trail and am forced to backtrack to regain my way.

One such diversion lands me smack in the middle of a wild orange grove. From experience, I know that most of these are too sour to pallet. Before returning to the trail I spot a solitary lemon tree and decide to try one out. It is remarkably good, as lemons go and I decide to pick a few to take home to my parents that night. In my excitement I collect 18 baseball size lemons. Because I have eaten most of my food I have the luxury of space to accommodate such a load. This new weight does well in slowing my pace but I am 100% confident in my timing and have planned out each break during the day so that I arrive on time. I am supposed to meet my dad at 8 ‘clock at River Ranch.

When I reach the old Kicco town site I am a little disappointed to find it is mostly unrecognizable as anything other than what it now, a campsite. So denied my grand vision of a reconnection with my familial past I set out along the access road and eventually rejoin the wooded trail as dusk sets in.

In the daylight hours the cattle trails were a mild annoyance. With only my headlamp to guide me, they are major problem in the more open portions of trail. I get off the main trail no fewer than 4 times. Backtracking is not a problem, as I do not go far without the aid of a marked blaze. It is finding the correct path that will lead to the next the blaze that proves challenging, and frustration begins to set in. This is mainly because I have an appointment to make, and I don’t want to leave my dad waiting or worrying. It is after dark and his youngest son is out wandering in the woods somewhere.

Letting go of someone that you love, requires a degree of trust. Trust that they know what they are doing and will eventually find their way back. This is not the first time that my parents have let me go. When I went off to college at FSU, my dad drove me up to Tallahassee with all my stuff, helped me unload and left that very day. Then, though, he knew that I had my two brothers close by and several friends from my hometown in my dorm. There is also the structure of an academic environment to calm ones worries. Driving your son into the Everglades, where snakes and alligators reside and leaving him there to fend for himself must take a great deal of confidence that he knows what he is doing.

All of this I am aware of as I stumble around in the dark. I have yet to get lost on the trail, and with only one hour and 2 miles left before I am to meet my dad, I can’t seem to stay on the trail. This is perhaps the greatest reason for my growing frustration. I do manage to find my way though and right on time. There my dad is waiting for me in the prescribed place with a warm meal from my mom to melt away all the frustrations I have allowed to build up. We hit the road and within 45 minutes I am resting comfortably in the familiarity of my parents house. Home!

The Kissimmee River

The mouth of the Kissimmee River, where it empties into Lake Okeechobee, is not as spectacular a place as I had envisioned. A campground, public boat ramp, park and large parking areas are all that is there. Here I take the opportunity to fill up with water from the municipal source and dump all the filtered water from the lake. I have come to prefer the taste of filtered water I collect from the various surface sources I encounter (lakes, streams, springs, swamps), to the treated municipal water sources. Even though the filter I have cannot remove the tannic coloring from the water from many of these sources, it does remove all particulates and bacteria, leaving no distinguishable taste. The treated municipal water tastes, well, treated. Because of the potential for herbicidal treatments along the banks of the Okeechobee and also the Kissimmee I’ve learned about, I opt to use the municipal water at the Okee-Tantie Recreation Area.

It is also here that I find I have cell phone reception for the first time in several days. My 3 days on the dike around Lake Okeechobee have left me mostly unconnected. Upon checking my voice mail, I learn that a member of the Army Corp staff has tried to contact me regarding my inquiry about these herbicidal treatments. I return the phone call then, and the man I speak with assures me the chemicals are only active when they are exposed to the leafy matter of plants, disperse once contacting the water, and perhaps most encouraging not in wide use this year. This is the answer I had been hoping for, and because I am no chemist, I can only take his word.

Newly reassured, I proceed north along the Kissimmee River. Here too, I had envisioned more. Rather then walking along the banks of the river, I am disappointed to find that I must mostly walk relatively far from the river on the levee that parallels the river.

As the sun draws lower in the western sky, I decide to try my luck with my fishing pole. It is along the Kissimmee River that I caught my first fish as a child. My dad took me to one of the many locks and within minutes of casting I had an 8” catfish dangling from my pole. I guess I had hoped that I would have as easy a time now as I did then. That was not to be so. Mildly disheartened, but knowing full well that fishing requires patience, skill and time, none of which I offer in my effort, I look for a place to camp for the night. Finding a flat secluded spot just next to the river proves easier than my last endeavor. I settle in for my first night on this new section of trail, along the banks of the Kissimmee River.

Many decades ago, the once broad and meandering Kissimmee River, was dredged and straightened into a deep canal with many locks to control the water levels. This drained much of the surrounding land allowing for more reliable agricultural use. What is now happening is that the Kissimmee is being restored to a more natural path. Levees and locks are being removed and more natural bends and flood plains being restored. This has required that much of the adjoining land be impounded from private landowners. I am uncertain of how this process works, but believe that people were compensated for loses, and much of the land is still leased for cattle grazing. This is the land that I hike through in the initial trek north along the Kissimmee once leaving the dikes.

The land here has been used for decades for cattle grazing and it shows. I must keep a close watch of each footfall so as not to land in any of the ubiquitous and giant cow pies that dot the pastures. Beef cattle abound in these undeveloped cow pastures and I learn quickly that they spook easily. All it takes is me walking anywhere within close proximity to them and they take off running in the opposite direction. These are large creatures, these cows are. The adults stand shoulder to shoulder with me and easily outweigh me by several times. I have never considered cows to be dangerous animals. Observed from a passing vehicle they appear placid almost to the point of sloth. Seeing them up close, how they gallop off and cluster together when stricken with fear, makes me consider the dangers that they may present. A herd of scared several hundred pound animals charging across the trail that I must pass, seems dangerous no? Besides the danger of stampede that the masses of cattle present, there is also the matter of the male variety. The bulls are not as inclined to take flight when I get close. They, in fact stand their ground. Oh, and they have rather large and very pointy horns. I am not trained in animal husbandry not do I have an extensive background in animal biology, but I can guess what those horns have evolved for. Though many stand and stare none decides to charge. Still, hiking much of the afternoon alongside them is unsettling.

The camp that I have chosen for tonight is right along the east bank of the Kissimmee River underneath sprawling live oaks. With their expansive low hanging limbs draped with spanish moss, these trees offer a wealth of shade in the daytime and an eerie air in the even’ time. The night air is seems decidedly cooler than any on the trip thus far. So after dinner and my fire begins to die down, I bed down for the night.

I awake just after midnight shivering. The temperature has dropped and must be well below freezing. I zip in as tightly as possible in my sleeping bag, but cannot manage to stay asleep more than what seems like 30 minutes, before being startled awake by my own shivering. After numerous spells of this, I ball up my jacket and stuff it into the only opening that will not fully close, the one reserved for my face. I curl up in the fetal position and continue to shiver off the cold.

In the morning I put on all of my layers and force myself out of my tent. The shade oaks have not allowed much light into my campsite and so I dash out into the adjoining field to gather my wits in the morning sun. To break camp, I make half a dozen trips to my tent to bring all of my gear out into the sun. I forgo my typical breakfast for a few frozen granola bars, because it is just too cold to take off my gloves.

Once packed and still fully layered, I proceed north along the trail.

My feet are still numb with cold and the ground is wet with dew. Within an hour I reach a sign that informs me that 4 miles ahead a 500 foot swamp crossing awaits. This is definitely a warning sign as it also indicates the depth of water is potentially waist deep and alligators may be present. There is no immediate go around. The other option is a high water bypass along two county roads. Given the temperature, I opt for the road walk.

The road walk goes quickly and right after I pass the swampy area on the main road, a white SUV with a yellow state tag pulls off ahead of me. A white haired man gets out and walks toward me. He extends a friendly handshake and introduces himself. Doug is a former section leader with the Florida Trail Association. He’s on his lunch break and offers to give me a ride up to the local convenient store for a quick resupply. While on the way in his vehicle we talk about the section I have just passed, the one I am headed into, and of course the weather. Apparently last night was around 25 degrees (the exact temperature rating of my sleeping bag). He also informs me that last year a man died crossing the same section of swamp that I just bypassed. It was similarly cold, and he got his leg caught in a barbed wire fence and went into cardiac arrest. Though a frightening and tragic tale, I felt reassured in my decision to bypass that area.

It is fortuitous that Doug passed my way as my provisions were stretched thin. I had intended to go to this same convenience store, but his ride saved me an hour detour.

Today I have an additional road walk ahead that will take me into Highlands County (the place from which I come) and to the Istokpoga canal. In total I will hike about 20 miles today.  When I reach the small park that adjoins the canal it is dark. Before proceeding into the woods I make a call to my parents to make arrangements for my dad to come meet me for my first break off the trail. The coming weekend is the Martin Luther King Day holiday and I intend to make a big push the next two days to take that Sunday and Monday off with my family. Once we’ve decided on the time and place, I head off along an old grade road canopied with live oaks.

The draping oaks offer an intimate space to walk, insulating me from the night. The trail progresses into a tighter corridor with saw palmettos lining each side. Though, they are dense, I do my best to not announce my position to whatever may be out there lurking in the night. Soon though my head lamps reflects off 6 distinct pairs on eyes set low to the ground. As I move ahead cautiously the little sets of eyes dart up a nearby tree. When I am close enough to make out their forms, I discover a little clan of raccoons. Not knowing them to be social or familial animals, I am a little surprised to find them so grouped together. Once the novelty of a roving band of raccoons stalking around the night has worn off, I make my way to the Hickory Hammock Camp. This is a large and charming camp nestled in, guess what, a hickory hammock. The closest water source is a dried up pitcher pump. Not knowing that the full and fowl smelling bottles of water at the base of the pump are actually used to prime it, I use my remaining water sparingly and decide to fill up at the next water source five miles into tomorrow. That night is cold but considerably more bearable than the night previous. With no water to spare I eat a cold meal and am off to bed, anticipating the two days ahead when I will pass more closely to my roots and eventually make it home for a well-deserved break.