I've put several of my first articles in blog format. One of my first, and definitely one of my favorites, is about my daughter, Monica, and a canoe trip we took on January 2nd, 1987. She was 15.
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Monica
and I arrived at the West Lake boat ramp in the Everglades National
Park over an hour later than planned. We were late getting up having
spent the day before, New Year's Day, eating and watching football. Even though we packed my pickup truck the night before, we didn't get
to the park office until
well after sunrise.
My daughter and I usually headed south to
Everglades National Park every Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, while many of our friends crowded to
Dadeland Mall for the annual shopping frenzy, but not this year. The
day after New Year's
was our first opportunity to canoe the park and camp overnight. We
hoped we would have the vast National Park to ourselves once again.
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| Loading the canoe at West Lake Boat Ramp |
The
park ranger at the main gate advised us our destination, the
primitive campsite at Alligator Creek, might be awash and probably not usable.
He called the park office to check and they advised us not to plan on
camping due to recent incredibly high tides. They had not issued any
permits for over a week because lunar and solar alignment had caused
serious problems as far north as the Carolina coast. The high tides
had receded in the last several days however, and the rainy weather
that spoiled everyone's Orange Bowl parade had finally dissipated.
Bad weather wasn't due again until Sunday, two days away, so it
was go now, or wait until my next time off in April. I convinced the
ranger we could arrive at the campsite and have time to return to the
facility at West Lake if indeed the site proved "uncampable."
Everyone liked that idea and we were given the permit with the
ominous warning, "WARNED OF HIGH WATER AT CAMPSITE" printed
across the space for destination.
We
wanted calm water to cross the first three open miles of water at
West Lake in our fully loaded canoe. The first mile was no problem
and we enjoyed the quiet lake taking time to just adjust to our cramped canoe. The
calm air lasted until we were exposed in the center of the lake. The
first ominous "cat's paws", the innocuous and slight
changes in water color caused by the first minute ripples, the first
gentle hint of wind, were beginning to scatter around us from the
north. At first I was glad they weren't coming out of the east as I
have no great love for paddling into the wind. It only took fifteen
minutes and the waves were rolling against us, almost as high as our
gunwale. We timed our strokes so the crest of the waves arrived as we had the port side as high as we could manage without rolling the canoe. For once I wished the wind were head on instead of dead abeam, or broadside.
Luckily, the wind didn't get worse, and the waves held at less than
white caps. Monica started facetiously singing about it being a
pirate's life for her as we worked toward the far side of the lake.
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| Entering Long Lake |
As
we took our first breather and coasted up to the white plastic PVC pipe used to
mark the trail at the end of West Lake, we noticed the old wooden
marker was still in place. We had canoed West Lake before and knew
the marker was the beginning of a short, twisty creek through the
mangroves that leads to Long Lake. We usually turned around here on
our day trips, this would be our first paddle all the way to the end
of the trail
Heading
into the shade of the mangrove canopy meant break out the industrial
strength bug repellent. This is one routine we have down pat. We
always wear long sleeve shirts, light cotton ones as much for the sun
as for the bugs. We cover everything plastic we ever want to use
again, from plastic sun-glass lenses to watch crystals, because the
insect repellent will destroy most plastics. Then we spray each other
down, buddy style. It doesn't pay to have your buddy upset with you
or he or she may leave insidious gaps in your chemical armor. Today,
however we are pleased by the comparative lack of mosquitoes. We have
been here in the summertime, called the "off season", and
paid dearly for it. Not just with mosquitoes but also horse flies and
what we used to call deer flies. I'm sure they have a different name
down here. Probably alligator flies.
We
took it easy through the first creek and I checked the time. It was
10:35 a.m. We had shoved off shortly after 9:00 o'clock and had
worked hard the last hour. We paddled the creek slowly, waiting for
the hordes of insects we knew were waiting for us. We broke out
into the northwest corner of Long Lake and searched down the lake
with our binoculars for the next marker. The marker sits ominously in
the middle of the next section of the trail. We picked up the pace
again and watched a lone egret off against the western shore of the
lake. The wind didn't effect the narrower, more protected lake as
much as the first one, and we paddled without the constant fear of
being swamped. We were between being quiet for the sake of seeing
wildlife and the need to be as quick as possible with a full canoe.
We
were startled by a Great Blue Heron that made great squawks as it
jumped from the overhanging foliage just a few feet from our port bow
as we passed to the right of the first mangrove island. We saw no
more wildlife for the next hour as we worked our way down an
appropriately named lake. The mangrove islands make it a little more
interesting than the first lake. The National Park
Service has done a well thought out job and there is no need to take
any maps at all as long as you follow the trail markers. Anyone could canoe
this trail without any serious detours into never-never land. They
might complain about the endless mangroves, perhaps, and maybe about
the lack of convenience stores for beer or soft-drinks. They would
most certainly complain about their bladders. There is no solid
ground on this 8 and a 1/2 mile trail and endurance here is a
necessity. We carried bottled water as we stay away from soft drinks
especially in the sun.
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| Red Mangroves at Long Lake |
As
we approached the end of Long Lake we were startled by the sudden and
dramatic change of water color; It turned red. Not clay red or just
reddish, but blood red. Monica suggested it was probably from 'gator
feeding. The color was from decaying red mangrove leaves. It is
startling, none the less. Oddly enough, it was the only place on the
trail that was that color. By the time we had paddled on another five
minutes, the opaque water again turned a brownish color.
After
a short, wide creek came a sharp left that skirted the edge of a wide
pond that is actually Long Lake. The turn takes you into a mangrove
canopy that is so thick the overhead foliage does not belie the
presence of the shallow, wandering trail. If it weren't for an
occasional tree limb obviously cut with a saw you would think you had
made a wrong turn at the last pond. We startled a small green heron
into flight. It flew down the creek with nowhere else to go but along
the creek.
We
took another breather, this time a little more seriously, and in the
silence we're soon startled by voices coming from further down the
trail. As we emerged out into the next lake, called the Lungs, we
surprised two men fishing from a blue canoe tied to the trail marker.
They appeared as startled as we were. We exchanged small talk. While
we were talking one caught a salt water catfish. The other held up a
stringer of what appeared to be good sized drum. When we told them we
were going to Alligator Creek campsite they told us it was muddy, but
usable. I was relieved to hear we would be able to pitch our tent but
I was still concerned about conditions.
Monica made another crack
about a pirate's life for her and we started across the last long
stretch of open water. There are three markers in the Lungs, one at
each end to mark the creeks, and one where the trail bends to the
west about halfway across the lake. The wind was at our backs for the
first time since we started. We talked about the return trip and
decided this would be the hardest part of the return trip if the wind
didn't clock around on us.
We
started the next creek surprised by how much wider it was than the
earlier ones. The foliage changed, too. Buttonwoods and hardwoods
covered the banks as we realized this was more than just mangroves.
We startled flocks of tri-color herons and egrets of all sizes as we
worked slowly into the narrowing creek. As the noisy herons settled
down it got quieter and quieter. Soon, not a sound could be heard.
Not even our paddles softly pushing us further and further into the
overhang made any sound. After five minutes or so, we stopped
paddling altogether just to marvel at the stillness. We glided
silently along the creek, neither of us paddling. My ears began to
ring as I looked around the creek. Monica sat motionless. Our creek
had become an environment neither of us expected.
There
are times in your life when you forget what quiet is. Really quiet,
absolute stillness, when your visual senses become so heightened you
think you've lost your hearing. When you experience it again you are
amazed by the impact of silence, a feeling of almost deafness. Our
incredible stillness exploded when a large alligator crashed through
the creek overgrowth inches from our bow and crashed heavily into the
water almost hitting the side of canoe. The spray from the splash got
Monica more wet than me. She sucked her breath and pulled her paddle
tightly across her chest. We sat motionless for a few moments as the
entire experience slowly evaporated back to the silence that allowed
us to hear our own heartbeats.
Monica
finally exhaled, still clutching her paddle across her chest. We
watched the trail of bubbles that marked the alligator's path through
the brown, murky water. After a few moments we paddled on, neither
saying a word. I noticed Monica wasn't taking a full bite with her
paddle. The gator was at the bottom, below us somewhere, waiting for
us to leave. We have startled alligators completely out of the water
with our paddles before, and seeing the size of this one, I didn't blame her. I hit one in the back with a paddle accidentally while pushing through a slough at Noble Hammock and scared it as badly as it did us when it jumped high out of the water alongside our canoe. Monica had been sitting in the middle of the canoe between my brother and me and got to see the white underbelly as the gator flopped back into the water.
This was our first 'gator on the trip but not our
last. We paddled another hundred yards and scared three more sunning
gators off the creek bank. They dove into the water one after another
as if choreographed. It was like someone throwing refrigerators in
the water one after another. I have been around alligators since I
caught my first one in a shrimp net when I was twelve. I don't fear
them but I certainly don't get careless either. They can be very dangerous, and can cause serious damage or injury even accidentally. I hadn't envisioned a startled gator crashing into the canoe, or worse yet, in it. I was curious about the
size of these guys, though. Usually we see smaller ones in greater numbers
than the big ones, but not here. We have seen only fairly big
alligators. None of the four we scared off the bank were under nine
or ten feet. We thought we had been observant before, but now we were really observant!
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The famous Noble Hammock trip with Dean & Monica
Taking a break after accidentally hitting an alligator. 1979 |
The
largest of the three arrogantly surfaced not six feet off Monica's
left shoulder. Monica started to raise her paddle and the 'gator
slipped quickly back beneath the surface. I told her he was looking
for a peanut butter sandwich. I'm sure that as remote as this seems,
the trail is very popular and I'm sure it had been fed before. Sort
of an odd comparison to the bears out in the western parks I suppose,
but the effect of free food can cause problems with any creature.
We
start around the very next bend, and because we are tense and
nervous, make a big mistake. We run up on one of the submerged logs
that are plentiful in this one section of the creek. Stranded! We
were stuck with our canoe bow wedged tightly in a submerged dead
tree. We paddled backwards, at first normally, then almost
frantically, but to no avail. Without speaking we stopped trying to
free ourselves. We sat quietly watching the tidal flow. Watching the
tidal flow for telltale bubbles. We finally spoke to each other and
decided to backstroke hard on the left side while we both leaned to
the stern of the canoe. One! Two! Three! and we were free. Traveling
quickly backwards, we shot into the overgrowth on the creek bank
behind us. After a few quick references to my canoeing ability,
Monica leaned forward and started her Mark Twain act and called out
the few logs and limbs we encountered as we slowly continued paddling
down the trail. We scared one more alligator off the bank before we
finally broke into a wide pond.
All
the breaks we took before were simply for sore arms and tired backs.
This break ranks in the Guinness Book of Records for total relief. We
were both exhausted, as much from the tension as from the physical
paddling. I checked my watch. It was almost one o'clock. We had
paddled almost four hours. If we couldn't stay at the campsite, we
would have to be back at West Lake ramp by sunset at 5:45 pm. I
checked my chart and was positive we were close to the campsite. We
decided to press on.
As
we started across the pond, I noticed a blotch of pink in a
buttonwood tree at the far end. I talked Monica into a short detour
to take a look. I managed several photos before the most beautifully
plumaged bird I have ever seen in the wild flew off giving the
appropriate noisy protests. It was a Roseate Spoonbill in full
courting colors. It circled the pond several times, and as we left the pond, returned to the branch it rested on before we disturbed it.
They are beautifully plumaged birds with an incredibly ironic twist;
Nature gave them heads that would make a buzzard wince.
We
pass a small island and start into the second half of Alligator
creek. It is narrower than the first part but still wide enough for
two canoes. We come across another large 'gator on the bank but this
one doesn't move. We watch it at eye level as we glide past not six
feet away. The lower branches of the overgrowth have eelgrass hanging
from them. The water had been recently very high here as the eelgrass hanging at eye level had only started to dry out. We pass a clearing on the north bank.
Camp site? No, no markers. We passed the remnants of an old
wooden bridge, left over from the cotton days back at the turn of the
century. It is at the end of the hiking trail that follows the old logging road.
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| Alligator Creek Campsite |
The camp site lays just a little west. It is not a primitive
campsite, it is a wilderness campsite. There is no chickee. There is
no platform. You can see Florida Bay from the landing. You can also see
the alligator lying not ten feet from the landing.
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| A ten foot alligator quietly watches from across the creek. Its head is directly above the bow of the canoe. |
This campsite has
a Macho Factor of 10. I was under the impression Alligator Creek was
a primitive campsite with a chickee, a chickee being nothing more
than a raised platform with a thatched, palm frond roof cover, it
isn't; it is a wide spot in the mud.
Obviously,
there is no decision to be made. We will be back at West Lake as soon
as possible. We will walk out carrying the canoe, if necessary. We
may even walk out without it at all! Monica states firmly that she
does not like being watched while she eats. We had to land the canoe.
I had to stand up and walk around. We landed the canoe and cautiously
stepped out into the wet grey marl that looks amazingly like someone
backed up a dump truck and unloaded several tons of modeler's clay.
Everything was wet. There was nothing to use as firewood. The twelve
footer had slowly turned itself for a better view of the newcomers to
what is without a doubt, his domain. We knew we were being watched as
we checked out what is really a great campsite.
We
checked the time. It was twenty minutes after one pm. We gave
ourselves ten minutes to stretch and eat. The eating didn't take long
as Monica never took her eyes off our host. The thought of sleeping
in the wet mud with no fire, separated from the inhabitants of
Alligator Creek by only the thickness of tent fabric was not
particularly appealing. I could have stayed home and watched Penn
State and the University of Miami go at it in the Fiesta Bowl. It was
time to go.
Monica
knew the return trip would not be fun. We have been canoeing for
several years and know when to switch sides, strokes, and even when
to swap insults. She starts singing jokingly but we are soon saving
our energy for the hard part. We are tired but not yet sore. The
spoonbill watched cautiously, but since we didn't come close this
time, decided not to fly off. I was sternly warned of logs in the
second half of the creek and we avoided any problems. We scared only
one gator off the bank during the return trip.
We met two young men
in a rented empty, aluminum canoe going toward the campsite just
before we broke out into the Lungs. They were German tourists and
naively wore only shorts. From what we could see, they had nothing
with them except one bottle of water. They asked us politely if we
had seen any alligators as they hadn't seen any. Not one! They were
unimpressed with our experiences, so we smiled, wished them the best
and pressed on. They probably paddled all the way to Flamingo without
seeing anything. I didn't know what their plans were but ours
included paddling hard for the next four hours.
Our
worst fears were confirmed when we broke out into the Lungs. We were
dead on the wind. It wasn't quite a mile but we couldn't pause even
slightly as the wind was causing us more grief than expected. The
blessed relief of the next creek, the overgrown one, was an
opportunity to catch our breath. The fishermen were gone. We had our
second wind as we started Long Lake, No jokes about the water color.
No jokes about how the lake got it's name. Just plain, hard work. The
wind was off our starboard quarter and while not helping any, it
wasn't as bad as the Lungs. We pulled up into the lee of one of the
small mangrove islands and broke out the drinking water. Our planned
ten minute stay lasted only a couple and we were again under way.
Monica had settled into the repetitious state similar to long
distance swimming. Stroke after stroke after stroke. As we passed the
last marker leading to the last creek before West Lake, we sighed
with relief. Just through the crooked path was West Lake and finally,
the ramp. Just three more miles to the ramp! We had been paddling
hard for over two and a half hours, but the knowledge of only one
last challenge, I believe the motivational books call it, brought
back the humor and the feeling of accomplishment.
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| West Lake |
We
headed into the lake with the wind from the north and still very
brisk. We stayed closer to the north shore and avoided the problem we
suffered when caught in the middle of the lake earlier in the day.
Pain had set in long, long ago, but if we knew if we kept up a
constant pace we would be back at the ramp well before dark. We knew
we didn't want to be in the canoe in the dark. We were in the lake
for an hour and ten minutes.
Making
the final right turn into the short, narrow channel to the boat ramp
was quiet satisfaction for both of us. After several hard strokes, we
silently coasted toward a group of tourists standing on the modern
concrete dock, intently watching a medium size alligator floating in
the water at the foot of the boat ramp.
He too, is looking for a
handout. The startled gator quickly disappeared and
the surprised tourists watched us in awe as we tied up and unloaded at
the dock.
I
am immensely proud of my daughter. She hasn't complained once. Well,
other than commenting on my canoeing skills. Nor has she quit. Monica
put in more than a full day's work, and she still smiles, helping pack away the gear and tie the canoe down on the truck. By 5:00pm we were
headed down the highway toward the campground at Flamingo. The last
time we camped there we suffered one of Florida's coldest, windy
April nights to watch Halley's comet at 4:00 a.m. But that is a
different story.
The
Coleman stove and lantern worked just fine. The tent was pitched and
no sooner was dinner finished and the gear washed than we were both
in the tent. Dry and somewhat warmer, we tuned a portable radio to
the station that would carry the National Championship football game.
Could Vinny Testaverde and the Hurricanes do it again? It didn't
matter. By halftime we were both sound asleep.
© 1996, 2014 George Mindling
