Greetings from Crestview, FL!

It’s been a wonderful week.  I apologize for not writing to you sooner but the Blackwater River Forest isn’t exactly a signal-rich environment.  That is the only criticism of this 200,000 acre wilderness area that I can think of. 

Where to begin?  I keep a daily journal, and to be fair, I should provide you a few passages from it to give you a real time feel of my travels through this remarkable forest.

Oct. 29 – I’ve just discovered to my horror that I left my original journal, a leather-bound climbing notebook at either Best Buy or Alltel while securing my replacement laptop.  I regret getting in that much of a hurry, it was a cherished gift from a good friend and I’d been waiting for an opportunity to put it to the best use.

To the rescue – again – comes Jimmy Freeman.  He rummages through his trailer and arrives at my tent with a wonderful replacement.  It is hard-bound, and on the cover is the “Footprints” story about a fellow who had a dream about walking along the beach with God.  In this dream, segments of the guy’s life flashes before his eyes, each ending with a scene of two sets of footprints on the beach – one his, the other set, God’s.

Well, the guy notices that during the worst parts of his life, there is but one set of footprints.  So, he’s kinda bummed that God wasn’t around when the going got rough, so he asks God why he bugged out on him when the chips were down.

“My son,” says God, “My precious child, I love you and would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.”

I regret the loss of my notebook, but as the saying goes – One door closes and another opens.  Believe whatever you believe in, but believe in “trail magic.” That stuff is real.

Oct. 30 – Only one of the Dutton gang was able to make it.  Chris woke up sick and had to beg off.  Clay came down with a buddy named Austin Nelson, a good guy who shares Clay’s passion for backpacking.  They are students at Auburn University.  Clay plays War Eagles lacrosse.  He’s an Eagle Scout and a sturdy young man.  It’s been a few years since last we spent time together. 

The weather was as clear as a mountain stream and we said our good-byes to Jimmy and headed down the trail.  We hadn’t gone far, maybe a mile or two, when we reached the Kennedy Bridge over the Blackwater River.  It was a warm day, and one look over the railing told us the water below was deep enough for a bridge jump to be totally makeable.  That’s all we needed to know.

We eased our way down to the bank and checked the water temp.  Colder than a pirate’s heart it was.  Aye, matey.  There was a flash of uncertainty among the lads, but as the elder of the tribe, I began to shuck my shirt and boots for the swim.  They needed no further encouragement.

The jump into the spring-fed waters sucked the air from our lungs, but once in, the water was bracingly refreshing.  Locals were stopping on the bridge and shaking their heads in disbelief.  You get a lot of that around here.  These are sensible folk.

We continued down the trail, seeking out the two inch by eight inch bright orange blazes that show the way south.  After a couple of miles these led us to a bluff along the banks of the Blackwater that is thick with cedars.  It was along there that we stopped to have a quick lunch of Cliff bars and water.  You just can’t beat lunch on the trail.  The atmosphere of a forest footpath transforms a simple energy bar into a six-course dinner.  The food tastes better, the jokes are funnier, and the stories more interesting.  A shared trailside repast makes acquaintances into friends.

A few miles later we got in yet another swim.  We crossed the Blackwater at Peadon bridge.  The river makes a sharp turn here, and over the years it has carved out a small lagoon just right for a swim.  The river bottom is white sand, and the iced tea waters herebouts render it to a shimmering translucent state.  It beckons like a siren to the sweaty and trailworn.  Resistance was futile. 

We trekked on, finally coming to Otahite Cemetary.  Within it’s grassy half-acre lie several ornate stone grave markers dating to back to the early to middle 1800’s.  We walked among the markers, pausing at each one to read the 150 year-old inscriptions.  It contains mostly the graves of women.  We wondered if they died as widows, their men lost in service to the Confederacy. 

This segment of the trail is known as the Jackson Red Ground Trail.  General –and later, President – Andrew Jackson marched 1200 men from Apalachicola to Pensacola on the very ground beneath our feet.  It took his force 18 days to cover that distance.  Such a feat impresses this backpacker greatly.  No high speed fabrics, no Gore-Tex.  Wool, cotton and leather, folks.  Natural.  Natural and bloody hot.  I take my weather-beaten, rip-stop USMC boonie cover off to them.  I do not believe I am made of such sand and grit as they.

We hit Rt. 4 at dusk, delighted to see Clay’s pre-positioned truck parked off of the shoulder near the trailhead.  We made a quick drive in to Baker, Fl where they gassed up and I replenished my Camelback and water bottle.  I couldn’t resist adding a microwavable refrigerated steak and cheese sub to my purchases. Nuked for one minute, that babydoll tasted better than anything you’ll find on South Street.  Trail magic-chef?  You bet.

I bade the lads farewell.  Auburn University requested their presence at Calc II class at 0900 and it’s a three-hour drive to the territory where the War Eagle rules supreme.  As I watched their tail lights disappear into the night as the temperature dropped around my tired, aching shoulders.  I was struck suddenly by the realization that I’d left my trekking poles in the bed of their truck. 

Too bad - so sad, Mr. Mike.  And adios, boys.  I crawled into my tent. 

On the negative side -No signal, no trekking poles, and no choice. 

On the positive side - A belly full of steak, peppers and cheese and sleeping bag that would keep my turbo-charged digestive tract warm throughout the chilly night. 

OoRah!  That’ll work.