The big push out of Big Cypress (part 2)

I wake the morning of the 4^th to a one sided conversation.  “We’re on the Florida Trail in Big Cypress at Oak Hill Camp and the shoes of two from our party have fallen apart. I don’t think they can make it out of here. Duck tape is not going to work.”

Paul, the group leader, is on his cell phone with the park service dispatch (somehow he has enough coverage to make a call in the middle of the national preserve).  He is making a desperate attempt to get these two rescued. It is hard to imagine how they could possibly be “rescued” out here without a helicopter airlift. What we went through the previous night was epic, and the trail ahead passes through the “Black Lagoon” which is briefly noted in my guide as the “deepest water on trail in big cypress”. Despite this, the dispatch confirmed with him that they had the capacity to retrieve the two shoeless hikers, and that the other two should begin hiking out. So Paul and Nick pack up and hit the trail, leaving Blisterfoot and Nighthawk in wait of coming help.

Again I am slow in leaving camp. I first must filter water for the day ahead. Though surrounded by water it is mostly a muddy mess in the immediate quarter mile radius, so I end up filtering water from a two inch deep puddle.  This takes quite some time and once I return to camp, pack up and wish the two stranded hikers well, I am off to another late start. As my guidebook had assured me, the next portion of the trail is deep, almost to the knee. This honestly is not that bad to hike in because the footing is relatively stable compacted vegetation.  This, though, gives way to an open cypress strand that is bigger than any I encounter.  Imagine an open field as far almost as the eye can see, filled with 3-5 foot cypress trees devoid of any foliage. The footing is again deep mud and the trail shows of heavy use. According to my map I am headed at a diagonal from one corner of this massive strand to the next and I of course must trudge on.  Due to the poor state of the trail, many hikers have taken to forming side trails along either side.  I occasionally succumb to the temptation to follow these. These parallel trails assure better footing but no trees have been cleared and sharp cypress branches reach out to snag me and my pack with every step. So I am motivated to stay to the main trail, less by the ethic of Leave No Trace (to stick to the beaten path), and more by the desire to stay scratch free.

Within an hour of leaving camp I hear the sound of vehicles off to the east, and soon see two park rangers in ATVs slowly proceeding along buggy paths a quarter mile away. The rescue squad is on the way. Obviously there is more than one way into and out of Big Cypress.  Perhaps this portion of the Florida Trail is just like a Disney theme park for hikers. In the same way that behind the façade of castles and pirates, there exists a complex infrastructure to maintain the myth of Neverneverland is real, so the Florida Trail Association has chosen the deepest water and muddiest sloughs to send hikers into just to foster the image of Florida as a dangerous untamed swamp.  Regardless, I am glad to know that my two friends will make it out, for surely today is proving to be more difficult than yesterday, and I am sure they may have suffered some tragic fate had they attempted this sans shoes. This portion of trail is not for the faint or heart or weak of will, and most certainly not the poorly shod. The more casual recreationalist would be better off enjoying Big Cypress via an airboat or swamp buggy tour.

As I have mentioned my guidebook has pointed out that I must pass through the deepest water thus far. What it fails to mention is that this is the most consistently wet portion of the Big Cypress trail. It is perhaps cliché (however fallacious) to say that the Inuit have over 100 words for snow.  I wonder if the Seminole and Miccosukee have a similar number of words for mud. I only have one: frustration. I am slipping and sliding all over the place. I feel more like Paulie in Rocky IV when he falls over into the snow and less like Rocky as he shakes the KGB and runs off into the snow to summit the mountain in triumph.  You know the scene, right. It’s set to “Hearts On Fire” by John Cafferty. Ok so maybe you don’t remember that scene, but you’re going to now go look it up on YouTube... and somehow I think I’m going to regret putting this in my blog.

The day proceeds as such and I make slow progress until reaching more sure footing.  Late in the day I leave the cypress strands and progress into pine scrubs (tall pines, with low palm underbrush). With the sun retreating toward the west I pause and remove my pack for a welcome break on the dry ground. Cypress domes dot the horizons at each cardinal point. This is my last day in this portion of Big Cypress and I take a moment to reflect. There have been many extremes thus far. I have felt frustration and elation, fatigue and triumph, apprehension and curiosity. If I had to describe this moment, looking out onto pine and cypress, I would say I was at the exact middle ground of all of these emotions: contentment.

Self (re)assured I proceed north to the junction with I 75. Once there I reach the rest stop and go in to fill up with water.  Have you ever seen a guy on the side of the highway, kind of scruffy, a little dirty, with a big pack on? You know the guy you’re not inclined to offer a ride to. Well I was that guy, right then. Today though, people are curious. The people filling the vending machines had seen many other hikers in similar states of unkemptness and wanted to hear my story. After chatting a bit with them with a couple of curious folks listening in on the conversation, I went outside to the picnic table to relax before heading back into the woods to camp for the night. A young couple approached me and said I looked liked I was traveling. They offered me a piece of cut melon and an apple, which I gladly took. We exchanged stories as I ate their generous offering. He was driving her back to Gainesville to begin the new semester and so had a long way to go that night, as the sun was just then setting. They were bright and hopeful and I was glad for their company. We parted ways and I proceeded under the overpass and back into the woods, encouraged for the journey ahead.   

The big push out of Big Cypress (part 1)

The next morning my camp mates are up and off an hour before I am. I enjoy my coffee, morning peanut butter and honey sandwich, along with a homemade fruit leather. Once off, I quickly notice that my pack and I aren't feuding as we had been the first few days. I make good time and overtake the group within two hours. I stop to chat and learn that their goal is to make it to Oak Hill camp, some 12 plus miles from our previous camp. Now my first day I did 9 miles mostly through heavy mud and shallow water. The second, I did around 8 on mostly dry ground. Given my late start I had debated whether to try for this same destination or stop at 13 mile camp a mere 6 miles off (you might have noticed these campsites bear no connection to there place along the trail). I decide the best option is to make the effort to get to Oak Hill, otherwise I would be spending an extra night inside Big Cypress.
Again, like the previous day, the trail is mostly dry and passes in and out of pine woodlands while skirting cypress domes along their perimeters. There are definitely portions of mud through the cypress strands (open groves where tree height is more uniform), but nothing so deep as to soak my feet.
At our first meeting along the trail today, my compatriots informed me of a critical shoe failure. My friend from yesterday, let's call him "Blisterfoot", had half the sole of one shoe come loose. Some quick work with a strap from a pack, and he was back in business.
Again I am off with a good pace and make it to 13 mile camp with my friends not far behind. There I read the trail registry and find several recent posts from hikers heading in the opposite direction as us. Apparently the trail ahead may be muddy. We leave off separately and I again pass them as they break from the trail further along.
When I come upon the more muddy portion of the trail, I grow disheartened at the prospect of soaking my feet, but it is an inevitability. The going here is like that of the first day, slow and difficult. The muck just doesn't want to let go of my shoes. Each step requires twice the effort. It goes like this: step into 6 inches of deep mud, then pull opposite foot out while trying to stabilize myself with trekking poles as now newly stuck foot slides into limestone pocket.
With my pace slowed and spirits dampened, I begin to question the feasibility of making it to Oak Hill, and so keep a look out for possible campsites. Although occasional pine islands appear in this vast sea of cypress strands, none are dry, flat or cleared enough. As noted in my day 2 post, mile markers are posted throughout this Big Cypress. As the sun begins to set just after 5:00,  I am still a mile plus off from Oak Hill. The trail is turning into deeper and deeper mud and appears to be heading into a fully flooded strand. Just as the sun sets below the horizon, I enter knee deep water. With darkness setting in all around me, I retrieve my head lamp and slog on. Soon the last bits of twilight are gone. No city glow on the horizon. Just me the stars and this light to guide me from blaze to blaze along this flooded path. Once resigned to the notion that going forward is the only option, a little of the fear subsides. There exist many tangible things to fear, but the unknown is often the thing we fear the most. Fear can be a positive emotion given the context. It helps set limits to our actions, allows us to know when we are in danger. If I saw a snake or an alligator in front of me, that would be one thing. Simply being afraid because it's dark, is fearing something that does not exist. At least that's what I keep telling myself as I proceed further into the night. After close to an hour of trudging through the dark night and deep water, the trail emerges again into a muddy strand, and angles sharply around a dense group of pine and oak trees. There before me is Oak Hill Camp. Relieved for dry ground, I duck in and head back 30 paces to find several flat spots for tents underneath the oak canopy. I set up my tent and begin collecting wood for a fire to stave off the night (there is only so much fear one can shuck aside).
It is only once I get the kindling going, that I recall my 4 companions. Surely they did what I should have and stopped earlier. As this thought occurs to me, I hear a call break the night, and I stop to listen. It is my name being called out loud and from a near distance. Abandoning my fire I run out from the camp and yell back into the darkness. A few indistinguishable responses later and I am again at the waters edge waiting on their approaching head lamps. As they draw near I can tell they are in poor shape. One, let's call him "Nighthawk" as he would prefer, is leaning on his friend, intermittently dry-heaving.
Apparently both Nighthawk's and Blisterfoot's shoes have fallen apart. One is wearing Nick's boots while he goes barefoot. Nick has taken charge and kept them going through this morass. Their call out to me was a last ditch effort to keep hope alive and it worked. We make it to camp and, though exhausted, they set about making a fire. They have more than just fear to stave off, they have their spirits to rebuild for the long trek out in the morning.

Day 2

In my hurried retreat from Oasis the previous night, I did what I had planned to all along, which was for fill up with 4 liters of water. I had assumed this would be enough to cook and clean with and still leave me 2 plus liters for water for the next days hiking. This was a wholly incorrect assumption. To start the day I have just shy of 1liter. My next potential water source is at Seven Mile camp, some five miles ahead. Alternatively, I could stash my pack out of plain site and backtrack a mile to fill up at Oasis, adding 2 miles to my day. Given the soar state of most my body, I opt for moving on, knowing I will run out of water well before I reach Seven Mile Camp. Before embarking, a group of four hikers pass by my camp and we exchange hellos. As I set out, my pack seems heavier than yesterday. I am definitely soar and moving slow. I keep apprised of the time to measure my pace. Through this portion of Big Cypress (south of I 75), cumulative distance is marked every mile with trail markers that also indicate GPS coordinates and elevation. The trail on this side of Oasis is notably drier than that to the south. The elevation yesterday was 20-21ft, today it is between 24-25 ft. While this, perhaps may seem nominal (certainly those more familiar with more mountainous trails may scoff) this little bit of difference is enough to keep my feet dry and the trail more consistent. The trail here is mostly through tall pine forests with low lying palm bushes. The footing is still limestone. So although more solid underfoot, I must still exercise great caution. The limestone pockets here are much deeper and often covered with pine needles. Stepping into one would, at the very least, result in a severely sprained ankle and a rather bruised shin. After 2 miles my pace is determinedly quicker at 2 miles an hour. This is enough to keep my spirits up despite my body's protestations. After only a brief while, I come upon the group that had passed me earlier. They are splayed out across the trail and looking tired. I gathered from a brief Q & A that they have started at Oasis and headed to I 75 and that their destination tonight was the same as mine. Not wanting to dally, I push on.
Keeping to my pace I am making good time. At points the trail joins with broader swamp buggy roads. The are often deep, muddy and rutted lanes as wide a standard dirt road but only passable by the vehicle that created them and for which they are named. If you have never seen one, a swamp buggy is an impressive sight to behold. They are like monster trucks without the truck. Tires 3-4 ft tall with an even larger suspension, so that the driver and passengers may sit 8ft or more above the ground.
It is on a buggy road that I happened upon a rather large rattle snake. At least 5 inches in diameter and I'm guessing 6 feet long. It was curled up on the edge of the road, and when it felt me coming it started to-a-rattle. Generally I expect smaller creatures to be more fearsome of larger ones. When I see a bear, I try to keep my distance (after I've taken a few photos of course). I suspect that is what all the rattling is about. It sees something more imposing than itself and puts up the defenses. Rattling is its first line of defense, biting and injecting poisonous venom perhaps its second. I was really hoping that slithering away was higher up the list, but this snake is staying put. I step back a few yards to assess if there is another way around. Sure enough I could trudge through the palm bushes and low hanging vines (which are sure to snag my pack), creating all kinds of noise and vibrations that this snake is sure to appreciate, and at the same time eliminating my first line of defense (which is to run). After about ten minutes of deliberation I go for it. Slowly I step into the woods, keeping my eye on the rattler the entire time. The closer I am to him the faster his rattling gets. Then all of a sudden... I get beyond the snake and don't look back (well actually I did, a lot). That episode behind me I can focus on getting to my destination.
As I had anticipated I ran out of water 2 miles from 7 mile camp, so when I arrive I am parched. My book indicates that water is accessible from the cypress dome nearby. Still not certain what that is, I look around me and notice a broad grouping of cypress off to the west. Surely that must be it. As I make my way toward it I take note that trees to the periphery are smaller while those toward the center much taller. This is exactly why they're referred to as domes. Inside the dome water abounds. When I was preparing for this adventure, I had to choose between water treatment versus filtering. I will not bore you with the details of that here. One thing, though, that helped me make a decision to filter was what my coworker Fred said. He pointed out that it can be kind of zen. It forces you to be right there in the moment. You can look around you and notice all that's happening. In a flooded cypress dome so much is happening. Each step I took closer to the waters edge, sent another few water fowl flying up to the branches above, until in one great flurry, several dozen birds took flight. Many stayed above as I completed my task. It is quite remarkable the impact just the presence of one human can make upon such a place.
Once done filtering water, I returned to the camp and allowed myself the simple luxury I had denied myself at breakfast; a cup of coffee. I then rested a bit longer, starring up at the tall pines and the bright blue sky.
I finished the final 3 miles to ten mile camp and set up my tent. The group that I met earlier in the day arrived later and we all prepared our meals together. I was able to gather a little more about them as we ate around the fire. Apparently two of them had done this portion of the hike while the other two had not. They were each carrying 4 gallons of water (that's 32 lbs) and estimated pack weights at somewhere around 70 lbs. One of the rookies approached my tent later to ask if I had advice on fixing blisters. He had worn his Timberland construction boots and cotton socks and was obviously suffering for it. I offered him some supplies from my first aid kit and wished them all good night. I had no way of knowing this was just the beginning of an epic adventure for this rag tag group.

Day 1

I am not known for early starts, as many of my climbing partners may attest. The morning of the first of January, 2011 sees me up by 5:30 am, and my dad and I are driving south by 6:00. What we think is around a 3 hour drive takes well over 4. This is mainly due to the last 15 miles. Loop road is a deeply rutted dirt road, on which we can not often reach, let alone exceed, the posted speed limit of 15 mph. Our instructions are vague about how far we must travel down this poorly maintained road to reach our destination, the southern terminus of the Florida Trail. What is clear though, is that once there, a new destination awaits me.
We arrive just before 11am (a downright late start). At this point there are no more adjustments to make, no loose ends. I put my pack on, say goodbye, and start walking north. The section that passes through the Big Cypress National Preserve is often wet. Depending on how much rain has fallen the previous year, it is not uncommon to expect to be in hip deep water. The first portion of trail I encounter is definitely wet, but it is more mud than standing water. With these conditions I manage to keep my feet dry. The going is by no means easy, though. My feet sink into three inches of thick mud that grabs hold of my shoes. Each step seems to take more effort than the previous. After two and a half miles it is obvious that I will not be able to do this without thoroughly soaking my shoes and thus my feet. The trail is flooded and so I step off into ankle deep water. I intentionally did not bring waterproof footwear for this reason. Water more than 8 inches deep would render even the most water tight lined boot a wet weight. The trail's shoulders are a mess of muddy tracks. Apparently those who've passed before, have seen fit to take whatever route involves the least trudging through of water. I occasionally follow their lead, but try to keep to the beaten path.
I pass through open cypress groves, with bleach white bark, and knee high grasses sparsely spread between. No tree seems to stand above eight feet tall. This is very unfamiliar terrain to me. The trail does occasionally give way to tall pine forests with low palm bushes and the occasional fern grove. In these spots, it is more obvious the geology underfoot. I am treading directly atop limestone, very uneven limestone. Large gaps, or pockets, abound, requiring more measured foot falls.
As the day progresses I am more and more aware of my pack. We do not agree on one basic thing: this is supposed to be fun. I want to dash about unencumbered, and it, well it wants to constantly remind of everything I'm hauling. Thus, I am constantly adjusting straps in an attempt to find the right balance.
By mile 4, I enter a deeply wooded hammock, where mature cypress and pine islands coexist. The water is spectacularly undisturbed with just a bit of tanic coloring. Here I must wade through calf deep water from island to island. I balance on logs when I can, but mostly move quickly for fear of whatever reptile might be close by.
It is one leap of faith to step ankle deep into water where you can very easily gain solid ground with just a step or two. It is another one altogether, to step into knee deep water that spreads out all around you as far as the eye can see. This is where I find myself after emerging into a large cypress grove. It seems the trail has brought me inch by inch, to this moment. There is no turning back, no alternate route, only the path before me. I step off into the cool tanic water and for the first time today, I have found a rhythm. Unlike the previous portions of trail, underlain with limestone and covered in mud and muck, here there is vegetation underfoot. I make my pace with the shlish shlosh of the water I am trudging through.
This gives way to the most unbearable of slogs. Deep mud, past the ankle. It takes me well over an hour to make the next mile. Frustrated and tired, I am uncertain I will make it to the Oasis Visitors Center, where I plan to camp just beyond an airstrip to the north. I trudge on and soon am met by a volunteer from the Florida Trail Association, here to do maintenance the following day. We chat for a bit and he assures me of my proximity to my goal. Both his camaraderie and reassurance raise my spirits as I sludge through the final half mile.
It is after 4:30 pm when I emerge onto. Tamiami trail and cross over to the visitor's center. The map shows there is a potential campsite just past the airstrip. When I reach this area all I find is a dry marsh with no cover. I am certain this is not the spot, but daylight is fading fast. Ahead I can see the trail enters a pine scrub forest and decide to move on in search of a better spot, risking having to set up in the dark. Sure enough, a small side trail to the east opens to a perfect campsite; flat, dry ground with a fire ring. After a little scavenging, I have enough wood for a modest fire. I remove my soaked and muddy shoes, and set about making camp. After dinner I crawl into my tent, slip on my wool long johns and it's off to bed. So ends my first day on the Florida Trail.

The Pack is packed

I have just finished packing all of my gear, food for the first week and a days worth of water into my pack. It just barely fit (read: bursting at the seams, which hopefully won't happen). Grand total... drum roll please... 50lbs. Yikes! About 11lbs of that is food, 4 lbs is water, but still I was really hoping for substantially less weight. Over the next two weeks I will hopefully be able to figure out what it is that I do not need. At that point I will be able to drop off stuff at my parents house, only just to pick up more! Because this is a new endeavor for me I guess this is part of the learning curve.
Now it's off to bed for what I hope will be a descent nights sleep (please don't text me Happy New Years @ midnight. Seriously!). I will wake up at 5:30 am for a 6:00 am departure time. With luck I'll step off into the great unknown (kinda) by 10:00. This may be my last post for a few days... So Happy New Years!

Touch Down

As my plane descended into Orlando International Airport (MCO) tonight, a young boy seated behind me wondered aloud “Where are we?” “Florida” was the response his mother gave.  “This is Florida?” he asked staring out the window at the sea of lights below. To this she offered no retort, only letting her silence answer. For her, as for many, this uninterrupted chain of lights, this sprawl of roads and houses, this artifice of progress, this is Florida. Orlando is a giant of a place and daily stretches out in all directions, enveloping its neighbors in a net of pavement and electric wires. In Florida this is not unique to Orlando, though. Miami, Ft. Lauderdale and Palm Beach have long grown so close together, one can not easily tell where one ends and the other begins. People have been flocking to Florida for decades to enjoy the (sub)urban amenities offered by unchecked growth (to say nothing of the temperate climate).

This, though, is not all that Florida is and it is not the Florida I have come for. I have come to hike The Florida Trail. The trail stretches 1100 miles from the Big Cypress National Preserve, passes through the Ocala, Osceola and Apalachicola, National Forests, the St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge and ends at the Gulf Islands National Sea Shore. The next three months will see me though some of the most biologically diverse ecosystems in the country, but will also involve walking some 300 miles of hard pavement. This is how the trail exists today, but the Florida Trail Association is working to move the entire trail onto public land and eliminate the road walks as much as possible.  I am hopeful they will achieve this goal.

As we touched down, the plane’s wheels meeting with the tarmac, offered a sudden reminder of the physics of inertia. The boy behind me noted “We’re going fast!” his mother reassured him “We were always going this fast.” She was right this time. We are always going fast, running (driving mostly) from one place to the next, our vision clouded by a haze of schedules, itineraries and priorities. An ever ticking clock drives us from one task to the next, one box to the next.  

It is not my intention here to decry this fully, but it is my intention to slow down.  To notice the natural world and experience it at its own pace, will be my daily task. I will wake with the sun and not an alarm, I will rest when I am tired, eat when my body asks, and perhaps I’ll even catch a few fish.