Photos: Along The Trail | Map: Track Mike

Red, white and blue Hello! Hikers!

Hey! I’m back!  Actually, I’ve not actually been away, just my means of communicating has!  Thanks to the fine folks at Best Buy and the Geek Squad, I am once again connected to the outside world. 

The interruption has been a bit of a blessing.  There were a few pressing personal matters that I needed to see to.  To be candid, I put my personal life on hold while hiking this trail. Maybe we can have a glass of tea and compare notes about all of that one day.

But then, of course, we all know mid April can be like that, can’t it?  Heck, talk about unprepared.  I didn’t even REALIZE it was tax time.  It is seductively easy to lose track of things like that on the trail.  Then “ding dong, it’s the taxman and ... BAM!”

Write this down: You are never farther from the trail than you are at tax time. 

I understand the importance of paying taxes, but I’m baffled by the process of doing it the way we do it.  There just has to be a better and easier way for Americans to pay our fair share of the tab.  Honestly? , this last evolution has driven me to the edge of depression. Could it be more complicated? 

I get to listen to a lot of NPR on the trail. Regular readers of this blog might remember that.  Have any of you heard of a thing called a National Sales Tax?  Boiled down, it proposes that we buy stuff and pay our income taxes at the same time.  No filing, no receipt saving, no ruining a perfectly good April on the trail.  Personally, I’m pretty much in full agreement with that approach.

Might you please permit me one minute more on the tax soapbox?  Thank you, I’ll be quick.  You might not remember that the National Scenic Trails of the United States are on land owned and overseen by the US Forest Service.  A very – and I mean VERY - small percentage of our tax dollars actually goes directly to the care and feeding of the Florida National Scenic Trail and by extension, the Florida trail Association.

I decided yesterday to write each of my state and federal representatives and communicate to them that I’d like to see them voting to send a few more of my chips to the National Scenic Trail and National Historic Trail programs at the US Forest Service.  Hey, it’s my money that I’m shipping off, isn’t it?  It ain’t much, but hey, it’s me holding up my end of the bargain with Uncle Sam.  And that got me to thinking… what’s his end?

You see, it occurs to me that our civic duty is not only to pay taxes.  That’s just the first part, isn’t it, hikers?  The second part is when we exercise our right as taxpayers to see to it that the dough we’re sending our government is spent on things we, as individuals, deem worthwhile.  If our representatives hear from enough individuals on the same issue, they tend to act on it.  America the beautiful, eh, my friends?  God, I do so love this country.

A few emails – altogether maybe 30 minutes of work - short and sweet.  Do you care about trails and the conservation of our natural and historical resources?  Let ‘em know!  Call me old-fashioned, but I believe in the power of the people. 

Or.. to paraphrase the English philosopher Austin Powers, International Man of Mystery – “It’s a very groovy and American feeling, baby.  Yeah! “

Star-spangled Cheers from the Florida Trail!  Mike

Ohhhh no, don’t you get cynical on me.  In the coming blog I am going to introduce you to the most magnificent example of the power of one single, ordinary American.  Her name was Marjorie Harris Carr, and she, my brothers and sisters, was the real thing.

So much to get you up to speed on.  I can’t wait!  It’s good to be able to talk with you again. See you in a minute.

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A 16 penny salute, hikers!

I’ve spent a good bit of time with a friend I made out here.  His name is Jack Mullins.  Jack used to live in Lakeland, where he worked for Publix Supermarkets.  He moved to forest in 1991 and never looked back.

When he moved out here, he bought the 88 Store and much of what it is today is attributable to his toughness and creativity.  Although he bears these traits in spades, his generosity and immense heart is what will always make Jack my friend.

In search of bear, we trolled these woods like Frank Buck.  I so wanted to make some bear pictures for you, but not so much as one bear showed himself.  It wasn’t for the lack of our trying, I can tell you that. 

He knows every joke there is and is a master in the telling of them.  He’s never met a stranger and likely never will.  He’s married to Barefoot Annie, a wonderful woman who never failed to see that I had a delicious dinner and every last measure of that incomparable Mullins hospitality. 

Jack and I built a deck together.  It was good to use those upper-body muscles again.  I shot a 16 penny nail through two of my fingers on that job.  Nailed the bastards together I did.  I pulled it out with my teeth and spat it onto the ground and kept working, not thinking at that rather surprising moment that I might want that nail as a souvenir.  You don’t know the meaning of surprise until you nail your fingers together. 

Jack and Annie’s grandson Chris went out looking for the offending fastener and danged if he didn’t find it.  Jack calls it my “fingernail.” I laughed so hard at that that I might have cracked a rib, I’m not sure about that, but it still feels like I did.

And might I mention that Jack is about the bass fishin’-ist man you’ll ever meet.  His ability to catch the biggest and baddest bass in the forest is legendary in these parts. We spent several mornings fishing Lake Kerr and never failed to boat our limit.  To actually catch bass while relying on technique instead of pure, dumb luck was a revelation for me.

In fact, that’s how I first met Jack.  He pulled up in front of the 88 Store with George Jones on his Jeep stereo asking “Who’s gonna chop her kindling when I’m gone?” I looked up from my laptop to see him haul an immense black bass from the live well.  It ended up going just over 11 pounds.  And he got it honestly, no lilly-livered mealy mouthed bed poaching, hikers, Mullins has his poop in a group and his thoughts regarding bed poaching are unprintable here..

As some of you know, before I left for this trail I wrote a weekly freshwater fishing column for the Tampa Tribune.  As bass anglers go, I was certainly the least qualified for that job, and I readily admit it.  How I managed to get lucky week after week astonished me.  Out here, under Jack’s patient tutelage, I caught six and seven pounders as if they were starving and confined to a barrel. Before fishing with Mullins, I considered fish of this impressive size to be bona fide wall hangers.  This is no longer the case. And we used artificial lures all the way, we didn’t use live shiners because there’s just no reason to. 

And lest you think Lake Kerr is easy pickin’s, think again.  We’d meet other anglers who were coming off that lake day after day with nada, nuttin’, zip, zilch, zero.  Wildman, another angler buddy of Jack’s was one of the few exceptions to that rule.

Here was my chance to learn from the Zen master.  And learn I did.  Now, I’ll never be a Frank Sargeant or a Mark Cook, but I’ll do OK. I learned to use a baitcaster, which requires about the same degree of coordination as hitting a three-iron. Well, those who have had the comedic pleasure of watching me play golf know that I possess no trait that would ever be mistaken for coordination.

Hell, that’s why I’m a backpacker, I can walk all day with heavy stuff as long as I don’t overcomplicate the process by chewing gum.

Oh, and one more thing while it’s on my mind - should you ever get the chance to hear the Salt Run Band, don’t miss it.  Those boys don’t just play bluegrass, they grow it and mow it.  They have a CD out and they gave me one to listen to on the trail, As soon as I figure out how to send some of their music to this blog site, I’ll do it. Woohoo, let me tell you something, hikers, these boys can flat bend some strings, now.  Folks come from miles and miles around to here’em lay it down.

Hey, have ya’ll ever watched “Slingblade”?  Well, after a beer or two Jack can talk just like Carl.  It cracks me up. Turns out he was stuck in his cabin on a mountaintop in Tennessee for seven months and “Slingblade” and “Lonesome Dove” were the only movies he had to watch up there.  If you can imagine having a conversation with a guy who has blended and mastered the speech and colloquialisms of these two films, you may begin to understand how one might heartily enjoy the company of Jack Mullins.

And Jack is the owner of Elvis, the 1200 pound boar hog that drinks beer and chews tobacco.  I think you might read about him one of these days in the Tribune. But just in case you don’t have the pleasure of subscription, I’ll get some shots of “the king” up on the gallery. Nuff said about that, just stay tuned to tbo.com.

I reckon it’ll be on there one day, mm-hmm.

“You ought not talk like that, you’re just a boy,” Cheers! From the Florida Trail.  Mike

PS.. With the exception of Jack and a few others, no one around here is called by their given name.  Instead there’s Wildman, Croc-daddy, Cat, Painterman, Snakeman, Skeeter and Barefoot Annie among other such colorful monikers.  I’m known here as the Tampatribuneman.  As in – Hey, yall, the Tampatribuneman nailed his fangers together with a nail gun and kept workin’!

Respect is hard to earn in these woods.  I recommend that you take an easier and less painful approach. But honestly, I wouldn’t have done it any other way.

I aim to writecha soon, mm-hmm.

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Reflective greetings, Hikers!

What a weekend!  I actually got to spend some quality campfire time ( two fingers of Kentucky-aged quality) with Mr. Fred Mulholland, one of the original Florida Trail crew.  And man, what a man!

It was fascinating to hear how this amazing footpath through our state got its start.  A few people and a big, seemingly impossible dream..…

Fred was having fun doing all this new trail stuff, he told me, so he let on to founder Jim Kern that he’d be willing to serve as a Section Leader for five or so miles of trail.  Kern handed him the proposed map for TWENTY-FIVE miles of trail stretching across the northern half of the Ocala and then said “Thank you very much, Fred!”

Well, hikers, there wasn’t the first orange blaze on any of that mileage, not the first hint of trail tread. I mean there was nothing but miles of deep, dark Ocala National Forest. It was in Fred’s hands to do, and that was that.  Did I mention that Fred lives in Tampa??

He and his wife and a handful of hardy souls would drive to the Ocala and carve a bit of trail on the weekends.  Oh, they had a lot of fun, Fred tells me. A bottle of wine uncorked among trail amigos at the end of the work day to christen a half mile of newly minted trail was as good as it got.  And hikers, it still is. 

There were quite a few trail plank owners at the conference and all are hardy, healthy souls.  To meet each of them was an honor for me.  I’m walking the trail they built, pitching my tent in the camps they selected and cleared, and drawing my water form the sources they scouted.  I am reveling in their legacy.

Thank you, Fred.  Thank you to all of you who made the Florida Trail.  You are the real thing and I am in awe of you and I shall forever be in your debt.

Heartfelt and Inspired Cheers! from the Florida Trail, Mike

P.S.  Another more personal highlight of the Florida Trail Association conference?  I met Nimblewill Nomad, which is the nom de trail for Eb Eberhart, the author of Ten Million Steps, one of the great hiking epics of this epoch.  From time to time, Eb has been kind enough to send me words of inspiration as I hike along the trail and write of it. His thoughts are always on time.  He’s been in my boots. He knows like few others what happens to a man’s soul once he has lived out here. 

Let me just say this – There is no cooler, more centered man on this planet than the Nimblewill Nomad. He drove me back up to the 88 Store after the conference and along the way we sealed a friendship that I pray will endure as long as I live.  I read his book - the very copy which occupies a place of honor at the 88 – before I attended the conference.  He wasn’t scheduled to be there, and one reason for his appearance was to meet me.  I have no words to describe how humbled I am by his interest in my hike and my work.  He is a hiker poet without peer and a singularly brilliant and soulful human being.  It is an honor to know him and a privilege to call him my friend. 

We parted in agreement that it is impossible to hike this trail and remain the person you were before you took that first step.  It changes you, this vast natural world does.  You contemplate it, love it, curse it, and long for it when you are apart from it.  You become as never before a part of it, and it becomes a part of you. 

And now, after learning the lore and the lure of the Ocala, I’m back in the woods again.  Each time I return to this trail I feel a sense of happiness that even the company of good friends and loved ones cannot match, and I am a man who enjoys immensely blessings such as these.

Leaving for the woods isn’t just about leaving the comforts of the town behind for the scenic wonders of nature.  It’s about embracing the uncertainty and unpredictability of life that defines the wild places. In the wild one is compelled by nature herself to submit to a different set of rules than that which govern life in civilized society. 

Certainly, the prepared among us enter the woods with the knowledge and equipment that, in the best of fortunes, may spare us the harshest assaults of nature and her consequences. 

But we are constantly reminded that the wild is the province of creatures far better suited to it than we. And we, by virtue of our adaptation to comfort and security, are little more than fleshy tourists at the mercy of a place absolutely devoid of such lofty concepts. 

The very being of wild serves no greater purpose than to survive the moment, because in the wild that’s all there is.  You are a link in the food chain and that is all you are. You can -and just may - be eaten.  You are food.  Evidence of this is everywhere you look; in the cautious darting about of small animals, in the talons of the raptors, and in the sharp, ripping beak of the vulture.  In the wild, life and death happen more usefully, gracefully and beautifully than in any other place. 

And that, hikers, is a comfort no town can offer. Becuase in the wild, you always know where you stand.

A Lighthearted Cheers! from the Florida National Scenic Trail in the Ocala National Forest, the hallowed home of the first orange blaze.  Mike

PpS - At the FTA Conference awards ceremony, I accepted the Florida Trail Association Pathfinder Award on behalf of The Tampa Tribune for t’s journalistic contribution to enhancing the public’s awareness of the Florida Trail.  I am so proud to be writing for one of America’s greatest newspapers. It’s a dream come come true.  Life, hikers, Printed Daily

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A plush accommodations good evening, hikers!

This one comes to you from the Florida Trail Association Conference at the Florida Elks Youth Camp in Umatilla, FL.  I’ve still no signal, but that doesn’t stop me from giving you a quick lowdown on what’s going on around here.

You see hikers, each year as many members of the Florida Trail Association that can make it comes together with their hiking friends and fellow members to get in to a mass trail groove.

I met so many people today, my head is spinning!  There’s a campfire tonight, and my plan is to bust out a quick OORAH to my virtual hiking friends before I head down the hill to take in the fire.

For me, the highlight of the evening was a talk by noted outdoors writer Johnny Malloy.  Johnny backpacked the Florida Trail a couple of years ago and in his talk with us shared his thoughts and images on the experience.  He called it “The Good, Bad and the Ugly,” but I found his recollection of his Florida Trail experience to be quite positive.  He’s an entertaining speaker and a good guy. 

The trail staff has fixed me up with a beautiful room, and it’s really weird to have so much room.  The shower is incredible!  Had I stayed in there as long as I wanted, I would have personally hastened global climate change by 20 years.

Well, I have to give a photo class tomorrow and I need to prepare.  I’ll tell you about the campfire if I make it!

All together now Cheers! From night one of the Florida Trail Conference, Mike

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Cuban cuisine and Calhoun Cheers!, Hikers

What a weekend!!  It began on Friday when Trish, one of the lovely women who work at the 88 Store informed me that my buddy Terry Foster had called and that he was on the way.

Now, I haven’t had cell phone signal in weeks, and somehow Foster had divined my geographical location and was headed up to hike with me.  In tow was Karen Jacobi, a fellow scout leader and her son, Jammin’ Jake.  Jake got that name while a student in my climbing and rapelling class.  A fearless little dude, he is, and a real good kid.

Well, no sooner had Terry and Co. settled in than in walks Janette Davison, who also somehow had sniffed out my hideout.. it was turning in to a dadgum mini FTA convention.  But not so fast, there was yet another visitor on the way, Marti Vickery, Grand Poobah of the Calhoun County Chamber of Commerce, arrived the next day for some Florida Trail R&R.  We had a grand time.  I’m still trying to figure out how they found me.

If I had to choose one highlight, I think everyone present would agree that Karen’s backpacking cuisine swept the blue ribbons.  She came loaded and seal-a-mealed for bear with delicious Cuban offerings loaded with roast beef and yellow rice.

We got in some good hikes north and south, some awesome scrub jay pictures (gallery) at Grassy Lake and a pile of laughs and fellowship.  Jammin’ Jake built and tended a safe and outstanding fire and everyone else supplied the Class A camaraderie that made every minute of their stay a blast.

And just as quickly as they got there, they were gone.  My camp site, which looked like Woodstock the previous day, was bare but for the sturdy form of Big Agnes.  I’m still shaking my head, wondering if all of this happened.

But I know it did, and do you know how?  Karen hooked me up with all of her leftover meals, an act of charity and kindness that has earned her a permanent spot in my last will and testament.  I can’t wait to eat some of that chow on the trail.  OORAH! 

Well, I’ve got to get to work.  I’ve been trying to find an internet connection around here but folks in these parts care little about the world outside of the Ocala National Forest. I find an odd comfort in that but I’d give a kidney to see a bar or two on my aircard.  Connectile dysfunction I think they call that now.  Jeez, there’s a term for everything, isn’t there, hikers? 

Spoiled rotten, full-bellied Cheers! Live from the 88 Store on the Florida Trail, Mike

PS – Thank you Terry, Karen, Jake, Marti and Janette for your kindness.  You guys rock!

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A Greenway Good Morning, hikers!

I slayed it yesterday, hikers.  If I still had my official FTA data book, could tell you exactly how bad I slayed it, but I left that rascal with Tom, along with a ton of other paperwork and references I accumulated over the trail.  My well rested eyes tell me I easily busted 20 miles fully packed yesterday, and that’s what I’m talking about. 

And it was a swamp thing, yall.  Wet pine forests, low, low, wetlands and a an endless supply of orange blazes are all a man needs to keep going until he finds some high and dry terra firma. 

And when I did, I found myself near one of the great engineering debacles in Florida history, the eastern end of the Cross Florida Barge Canal.  Believe it or not, someone thought it might be a good idea to dig a damn canal across the peninsula to accommodate barge traffic from the Gulf Of Mexico to the St Johns River.  I’m serious.  Excessive drinking (and, obviously, this mass imbibing took place without a letup in the highest offices in the state and federal government) is the only explanation I can conjure that makes idiocy of this magnitude remotely fathomable.

Well, it seems someone finally half-sobered up and, at seeing a couple dozen pieces of big iron digging a hole up across the state yelled out “What in the hell are we doing here???” This exclaimed interrogatory must’ve awakened everyone else, and, as they emerged bleary -eyed from beneath the plans table, and swallowed down a couple of very strong cups of coffee – they called their wives and lied about how many fish they caught on their trip and went home.

What they left behind was the Rodman Reservoir, which forms a good sized lake bristling with bleached white tree snags and pleasure boats loosed into it by pink people hauling boat trailers with out-of-state tags. 

Well, my oatmeal dinner -I just couldn’t eat anything else tonight – and a warm sleeping bag awaits my tired and nonsense writing head.  I could sleep on a bed of nails right now.

Low battery, Shut-eye Cheers from the Florida Trail.  Miguel

PS- You know, writing this blog is like talking to you.  Even though you aren’t walking this trail with me, when I write to you, it’s like we’re sitting in front of our tents laughing about the day we had together.  Now all I have to do is find someplace to send all this stuff to you so you can actually read it. 

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Soirée salutations, hikers!

I eased through the gates of Gold Head Branch State Park accompanied by Tom Griggs, who, back when the solar system first was formed, once took a date here.  Well, it wasn’t that long ago but GHBSP is one of the state’s oldest parks.  It was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Depression as one of FDR’s New Deal projects. 

My first contact at the park was Ranger Renee Rau, yet another of the truly amazing people who see to the beauty and health of our state park system.  Statuesque and bright, Renee makes me want to be a Park Ranger, too.  In fact, she has that effect on a lot of people.  Tina and Carmen know what I’m talking about, don’t you?  Are you still hitting those push-ups and sit-ups, Carmen?  You can do it!

On that topic, might I opine for a moment?

Hikers, I have had the pleasure of meeting many of the rangers, specialists, technicians and managers that make our visits to the state park system a pleasurable –and educational – experience. They are “Highly motivated and truly dedicated” as we used to say on the Isle of Parris.  I have come to believe that these people are the best of the best that our state government has to offer its citizens, and I am very thankful for them.

And by the way, hikers, they ain’t exactly getting rich at it. They’re in the park profession for one reason; because they love the lands we have so wisely left in their charge.  They do it because they have a passion for the natural and cultural history of our state.  Man, what a great bunch they are.  I just love ‘em.

Do me a favor, won’t you?  The next time you visit one of our state parks, stop in and thank the folks who keep “The Real Florida” real.  You’ll meet some damn fine people when you do.

My stay at Gold Head Branch was loaded with highlights.  It began with a weekend visit by my Venture Crew, Crew 610 of St. Stephan Catholic Church in Valrico, Florida.  We try to camp one weekend every month, a tough task since I’ve been on this odyssey across Florida.

I miss my crew, a killer group of Scuba Divers, rock climbers, shooters and adventurers between the ages of 14 and 21.  Erin, Brian, Casey, Andrew, Alice, Chris, Andew II and Anthony, you guys ROCK.  And so does last but by no means least, my amazing Co-Advisor, Nancy Cline. 

Speaking of Nancy, permit me share something with ya’ll about her, there, hikers.  Nancy works about a bazillion hours a week as the Director of Marketing for Get Motivated Seminars, a Tampa-based company that stages motivational business seminars from coast to coast.  More times than I can count or even know of, Nancy drives straight from work to be there to open the doors on time for crew meetings (8pm – 9pm every Tuesday).  Like many Scout leaders, she does so happily and untiringly.  They don’t make them any better than Nancy Cline.  Thank you, there, Nancy. 

We all saddled up and hiked the park together.  Alice, our newest member, filtered water for the first time (brings a hiker’s tear to your eye, doesn’t it?).  Together we found and followed the orange blazes that carried us to the indescribably scenic Ridge Trail and deep into the ravine from which the crystalline flow of Gold Head Branch seeps through waist-high ferns growing beneath a double canopy of every tree you can name in 15 minutes time. 

In another sense, this visit was a bitter sweet one.  It was Anthony’s last trip with us. Anthony is Nancy’s eldest.  She and her husband Scott know a thing or two about how to raise sons. 

As I write this, Anthony is on his way to serve his country as an Airman in the United States Air Force.  I have had the privilege to know this young man as he grew from a gangly teenager to a strapping Eagle Scout and athlete and every minute has been a blast. The Air Force is one better today.

We had party for him there, in the beautiful primitive campsite of Gold Head Branch.  We had cake, we sat around a roaring fire and, just for a brief minute in the fire light, Anthony was a boy again. 

It is said that time waits on no man. Well hikers, let me tell you something.  Time has even less patience with the youngest of them.  I know that’s good, but I’ll never get used to it.

Another top shelf highlight of my Gold Head Branch stay was a great party that was put together by Clay County tourism diva Eve Symanski, the Gainesville staff of the Florida Trail Association and the staff of Gold Head Branch State Park. 

They streamed in, each bearing food.  We actually had to put two picnic tables end-to-end to contain it all. We grilled out, relaxed around a roaring fire (made even more enjoyable by a cool night) and enjoyed each others company under a sky of flawless celestial diamonds.  Eve is a bundle of energy and Clay County’s most energetic advocate.  Nice as she can be, too. 

I met one of the volunteers who make the trail through Camp[ Blanding and the park the great hike that it is.  You understand why the trail is so perfectly maintained when you meet Janie Hamilton.  If you want to know what she looks like, look in the dictionary under “irrepressible.” If her picture isn’t in there, call Webster’s, because it should be.

And why we’re on the the topic of the people who make this trail what it is… allow me to present some of the FTA staff guests who were in attendance that night.

Judy Trotta, a calming and soulful woman who knows where everything is, regardless of what you’re looking for.  She’s an organizer, a planner and, like her comrades, is possessed of a deep and abiding love for the Florida Trail. Instantly likeable, truly remarkable and Mediterranean beautiful..that’s Judy Trotta.

There’s Deb Blick, a smokey, sturdy blonde, who, I suspect, ( and she neither confirmed or denied this) has worked for several national intelligence agencies. Deb has walked, mapped and measured every last inch of this trail.  Those trail maps we FTA hikers use with such great confidence are Deb’s work, and they are superb.  Lets just hope that CIA, NSA, NRO, DIA doesn’t call her back in or we’re sunk.  Of course, we might be sunk if they don’t….

And then there’s hiker, author, world traveler Sandy Friend.  Sandy is a writer’s writer and serves as the FTA’s Communications Director.  She can hike, shoot and write like nobody’s business and is the author over a dozen books about Florida and how best to experience it.  Sandy is incredibly generous with her talent, her time and her knowledge and she has been a great mentor and example of excellence to me.  I like the hell out of her. A cool girl, Sandy.

Yup, that evening at Gold Head was one unforgettable night spent in the company of fine, fine folks.

And that, my friends, is what life on this amazing trail across Florida is all about.

Missin’ yall Cheers! From the Florida Trail.  Mike

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A Scooby Snack howareya, hikers!

It sure is good to write to you again.  I’m writing you from Gold Head Branch State Park in lovely Keystone Heights, Florida.  The name of the park derives from the name of the crystal-clear creek that springs from beneath a limestone cliff before meandering through the park for about a mile before adding its flow to a scenic, sky-blue swimming lake. 

The cabin from which I write this sits on the high bank of the lake, and the view from this porch is the stuff of which the dreamiest memories are made.  It’s simply and naturally enchanting.

It’s been a week of hustling for me.  I’ve been slack-packing.  Slack packing is a gift bestowed upon a hiker by a dear friend who will take the time to drop you on the trail in the morning and pick you up 20-ish or so miles later.  A really good friend will pick you up just before happy hour. Such a friend I have in Tom Griggs, Sgt.Maj. USMC (Ret).  Yes hikers, he’s the very same salty got-your-back Marine who was kind enough to drop me at the northern terminus of this great trail on the Florida-Alabama line when first I began this hike.

Slack-packing with only water, camera, a smattering of emergency supplies and dog kibble to carry, I felt as if I was flying down the trail.  What’s that look on your face I see?  Ohhhhh, you’re wondering why I’ve added dog food to my kit, aren’t you?  Well, it’s light, delightfully crunchy and packed with protein. 

And Tom’s dog, Ranger, is nuts about the stuff.  Yeah, I took Ranger along on my high-speed hump, and folks, hiking with that dog was SO much fun.  I now know why some hikers choose to share their trail experience with sturdy, loyal dog. It is a unique joy.

If per chance we are reincarnated after this life, I want to come back as a dog, a mutt, a four-legged 57 hound dog of the Heintz variety.  Just when I thought I was having the time of my life, I’d look down at ole’ Ranger and witness a level of wide-open enjoyment that exceeded my own by an order of magnitude.  No easy feat, I assure you.

When we’d come upon a swamped section of the trail, I’d naturally seek the highest of the low ground. Not so ole’ Ranger hound.  He’d plunge right in with more gusto than a beer commercial. Ranger’s paws are of impressive dimension, hikers, and as a result, each of his steps sounds like a big rock dropped into a deep well.  The sight of his tongue hanging like a pink wash cloth from his toothy, perpetually smiling muzzle is one I’ll never forget.  That was one deliriously happy canine. 

We traversed the Lake Butler forest together over many miles of planted pine and hunt clubs.  Far be it from me to be judging what others do for fun, but I gotta tell ya, the style of hunting in this forest should be called “fish in a barrel” or “taking candy from a baby” or “that’s just plain sneaky.”

It works like this.  A half acre plot of grass as lush and green as the 17th hole at Augusta National is planted by the hunter in the middle of a dark, barren pine forest.  Next to this oasis of delectable greenery, a feeder full of corn hangs suspended from a tree at about deer mouth height.  Then, in one corner, is a platform built that resembles a machine gun tower in Stalag 17.  Now, from this lofty battlement the “hunter” enjoys a 180 degree field of fire overlooking the golf course and the snack bar.  His longest shot isn’t over 50 yards.  He can’t miss.

Now, I make mention of this scheme as a public service to the deer out there who might be tempted to taste that greener grass on the other side of the fence.  Don’t do it ya’ll.  Just say “no.”

Lake Butler is a small, pretty town and the trail leads right through it.  There’s a road walk on the back side, and that’s the price one pays to get to Keystone Heights and the scrublands of the Camp Blanding section that ultimately deposits one at the picturesque limestone gate of Gold Head Branch State Park.

My evenings with Tom after he fetched me from the trail each evening were a cornucopia of experiences.  I met Dave and Carol, Dave was one of Tom’s midshipmen back when Tom used to train officers in the ROTC program at the University of Minnesota – back in the Vietnam War days, too, hikers.  It took stones to be in ROTC in those days, and Dave is loaded heavy with them.  What a guy.  Griggs actually interviewed Carol to see if she would be suitable bride material for Dave.  Talk about whole ‘nother story.. Jeez there are so many…

There’s Brother Tim Futch, the Pentecostal minister who, when among close friends is quiet, even reticent.  But like Clark Kent after a quick stop in a phone booth, Brother Tim is Superman in the pulpit.  I was his guest at the Lake City Church of God one evening and I can testify that a more thunderous and spirit-filled sermon I have never witnessed.  Rocked this Catholic boy’s world, it did.  “Can someone say “Amen.”

My last night was spent at the monthly meeting of the Marine Corps League in Wellborn, FL.  The MCL is a charitable organization of former Marines.  They invited me to give a brief talk about the trail.  What a great bunch of people, they raise money to build special tricycles for disabled children, collect Toys For Tots each Christmas and engage in a host of other good works as well.  Sharply uniformed and over all these years still representing the finest traditions of the Corps, including that of plenty of strong, black coffee on hand.  Semper Fi, you Wellborn Devil Dogs, and thank you for your service.

An across the miles Cheers! From the Florida Trail! Mike

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A Rebel Yell welcome, hikers

Once I was properly equipped to die for the cause, Cpl. Mouser took me over to the Corporal whose task it would be to train me. 

Corporal Mat Sturman is a trim, bearded and – like the rest of the Fighting 7th Florida - is totally in to the art and theater of reenacting.  A retired Navy Master Blaster, Sturman now serves his profession as an instructor at the Explosive Ordnance Disposal School in Pensacola, FL. 

Together we set up my quarters, a period pup-style tent.  Cpl. Sterman helped me spread straw beneath it for insulation.  For warmth Sterman issued me one blanket.  5-Star luxury, nothing but the best for the 7th’s newest shavetail Private.

The day and a good part of the night was spent learning the basics of handling the musket, both in battle and while marching.  I worked hard at it and there was no shortage of my fellow soldiers who gave generously of their time to help me.  Most important was the Manual of Arms, which is somewhat different than that I learned at the feet of my Drill Instructors lo those many years ago.  The Enfield is every bit of a foot longer than an M-16 and three pounds heavier.  Add the pig-sticker bayonet and you’re talking a weapons system that measures over five feet in length. 

We practiced by the light of the campfire.  “Po-art.. Arms!” Snatch, snap, pop!

“Right Shoul-der.. Arms!” Pop, snatch, snap, pop! You catch my drift.  And ohh yeah, I was diggin’ it. 

The firelight casts long shadows.  Some of my companions huddled around the fire while others gathered around me to lend their help. Some had their faces wrapped in woolen scarves, others turned up their collars against the bracing chill of night. 

I’ll be dipped in grits if we all weren’t as authentic as we could be.  Modern conveniences such as flashlights and wristwatches and the like are strictly forbidden inside the boundary of the camp.  Such contrivances are called “anachronisms” and one sees no such thing here. 

I carried my musket everywhere. I strived to prove myself to be worthy of the 7th Florida.  I felt a genuine sense of pride at their cautious acceptance of me and I feared letting them down.  And of course, there was no friggin’ way that was going to happen.

Like the Civil War paintings in the history books I read as a boy, I wanted to BE one of those countless anonymous faces in that long grey line of fixed bayonets and hanging gun smoke.  If this be the War Between the States, and be these excellent men to my right and left, then let me selflessly and bravely serve the cause.  That’s what I was thinking, even more, that’s what I was feeling. 

The next morning we formed for “colors,” the morning flag ceremony.  We formed up and marched to the memorial obelisk in the park.  We synchronized perfectly the strike of our left heels on the roadway with the cadence of the drum corps.  We were four abreast, shoulder to shoulder, and armed to the teeth. And guess what we passed as we marched to colors.  That’s right hikers, we marched passed the beautiful orange blazes of the Florida Trail.  Woohoo!  (and just a little freaky).

Colors was colors.  It was the leaving of colors that stands out in my mind.  The order came to forward march. As we passed, the band struck up “Dixie.” The hairs on my neck stood at attention and I felt the unmistakable surge of honorable purpose.  It was at that moment that I knew I had been fully sheep dipped into the Military Order of the Orange Blaze, C.S.A., Nomenclature Mk 1 Mod 1.  Somewhere back in camp my hiking gear was squirreled away in the quartermaster’s tent.  Just few hundred yards away, it was.  But right then, right there? Well, hikers, it was every bit of one hundred fifty years away.  And I was, too.

After colors, we boarded a convoy of buses for Lake City and marched in the Battle of Olustee Parade. As we stood at ease waiting for the parade to commence, I heard my commanding officer, Lt. Van Leuven call Cpl. Sterman into his presence. 

“Corporal,” I heard the lieutenant say as he drew on his pipe, “Ask Private DeWitt if he would do us the honor of joining the company in battle today.”

Hikers, it was all I could do to calmly accept Cpl. Sterman’s offer.  Inside that scratchy jeanscloth uniform I was exploding with pure, unvarnished glee.  I was gonna be runnin’ and gunnin’ with the boys today!  The Saturday battle, hikers, the one emphatically denied to this boot Private over and over again.  Now I would be in the ranks.  I would fight.

General Jessee - our supremely authentic and photogenic commanding general - mounted his beautiful horse and led our grey legions down Main Street…And the crowds cheered us.

Note:

There is something I want to add here so that there is no misunderstanding of the reenactment hobby.

Reenacting is a dynamic display of living history.  Although I requested to serve with the Confederate forces for my story in the Tampa Tribune (after all, I live in Florida and am hiking the Florida Trail), virtually all of the reenactors of the 7th Florida come to each event fully prepared to serve as Union troops.  They pack Union uniforms and learn to portray the Union cause with the same commitment they bring to the Confederate reenactment.  The term for this is “galvanizing.” This term comes from the Union policy of allowing Confederate soldiers to repatriate themselves under the Union flag by agreeing to serve in the Union Cavalry out west.  As a rule, galvanized soldiers did not serve in the Civil War - for obvious reasons. 

The point of battle reenactment is to bring alive a time and place in history to the benefit of those who are interested in learning more about it.  Just a few months ago, several of my comrades of the 7th portrayed Union captives at Andersonville, the notorious Confederate POW camp in Georgia.

During my time at Olustee I heard no racial slurs and no discussion of reviving the secessionist movement.  Reenactment is historical theater played on a grand scale. These men and women strive mightily to portray as accurately as possible the life and times of those who were called to fight the Civil War and the families they left behind.  The scale is decidedly human, not political.

And I have a confession to make. I have been incurably bitten by the Civil War reenactment bug.  The men and women who participate in these events are as fine a people as I have ever had the privilege to know.  They spend vast amounts of their time and money to bring alive this period in our history with an excitement and scale that no museum or book can hope to muster. 

If you haven’t yet attended a Civil War reenactment, I recommend it highly.  Heck, you never know… the bug just might bite you, too.

White Elephant cheers from the Florida Trail ! Mike

PS.. What’s a white elephant in Civil War-speak?  I’ve left you some homework, haven’t I? 

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Napoleonic Greetings, Hikers

You may have heard that back in the 1860s there was a bit of a rumble between the southern and northern states of this nation.  For reasons that to this day are the subject of heated debate, the southern states took the decision to secede from the Union, the result of which was one hellish war.  It was America’s War Between the States, more commonly known as the Civil War.

Until my days on the Florida Trail, my knowledge of Civil War battles fought on Florida soil was sketchy at best.  When I hiked near Woodville, the locals filled me in on the Battle of Natural Bridge.  That fight began with an amphibious landing by federal troops near the lighthouse in the St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge.  Over the next few days the battle raged north, stopping finally at a strip of exposed limestone under which a river flowed.  This place is called Natural Bridge and is today the sight of a state historical park.  Anyhow, in the ensuing battle the Union forces lost six men for every Confederate casualty.  The Union withdrew, bloodied and beaten.  They then retaliated by burning and destroying everything in their return path south to Apalachee Bay.

But that, hikers, was not the largest or the bloodiest of the Civil War battles in Florida.  That, my footloose friends, happened just east of Lake City, Florida at a small railroad stop named Olustee. 

And in every way possible for a man of my tender years, I was there.

It began with a favor granted by Ben Harris of Suwannee River Wilderness Park fame.  (see Lost and Found).  When I expressed an interest in participating in the reenactment, Harris put me in touch with Elaine McGrath, who oversees all of the folk life and historical events undertaken by the Florida State Park Service.  McGrath in turn connects me with Mitzi Nelson, her deputy in charge of the Olustee Battle Festival.

We’re on a roll, know what I mean?

The Florida Trail passes right through the battlefield.  All I had to do was get there on time.  This was not a problem.  I walked in to Olustee a couple of days later and a couple of days too early.  A Ranger named Frank let me camp out there.  Preparations, in the form of giant piles of firewood stacked just about everywhere I looked, were well underway. Signs directing the impending hoards of visitors, reenactors and camp followers to their pre-determined campgrounds were already in place. These were flanked by rows and rows of nice, clean portable toilets.  These betrayed unmissable clues about the number of visitors the park was expecting.  Thousands, hikers. But on this shadow laden evening, I had this phalanx of portable modern convenience all to myself.  Luxury, hikers.  Pure, hygienic luxury.  An embarrassment of dadgum riches, some might rightly opine.

The next day I called my buddy Tom Griggs, who just happens to live nearby.  We had a civilized bite to eat and hatched a plan by which I would slack pack farther down the trail by day and crash at his place at night.  Get some miles in, know what I mean?

And so I did.  I’ll get in to that experience later.  It was fun.

My orders were to report to an outfit called the 7th Florida Infantry Regiment on the Friday morning of the battle festival weekend.  I was able to chalk up some fun miles in the three days before reporting for duty as a private in the army of the Confederate States of America.

It was during one of these hiking days that I was able to actually check my phone messages.  One of these was from a fellow who introduced himself as the adjutant to General Jessee.  He called himself Captain Roger Statzer and the tone of his message was very formal and supremely Captain-like. 

“Whoa,” I thought to myself, “These guys are really a bit TOO in to this Civil War thing!” But hey, the guy was a bona fide Captain and even after being out of the Marines for almost 30 years, I am still unable to overlook the orders of a superior officer.  Its true what they say.  The change is permanent. Believe you me.

So, I dutifully returned his call and spoke with the good Captain.  He briefed me in no uncertain terms how things were going to be.  There would be two battles, not just one as I first believed.  Neither Harris nor McGrath had let me in on the Saturday battle scoop, known to the reenactors as the “tactical battle.”

‘The tactical engagement is too dangerous for the new men,” Statzer explained.  “It’s run and gun, and you need to know what you’re doing or you can get seriously injured or killed out there.”

“Seriously injured???,” I thought to myself.  “KILLED????????” No wonder this guy sounded so serious.  He went on to explain the various safety pitfalls of having a rank amateur such as myself on the field of battle with seasoned troops.  I was disappointed, but then, I had to admit that he made several valid points.  In retrospect, it was the death thing that figured most prominently.

My arrival on Friday was prompt.  I followed the signs to the Confederate reenactor camps, which are painstakingly created to correctly portray military life in the 1860’s.  My first encounter with a real life reenactor occurred at the camp gate, where I met “Pops.”

Well, as kindly and grandfatherly as such a nickname might imply about its holder, ‘Pops” was not a man to be trifled with.  A plank owner of the USAF Air Combat Controller profession, Pops was the camp Provost.  The Provost keeps order in the camp, a duty that Pops could manage with a single look from his chiseled granite eyeballs.  A real teddy bear, ole’ Pops.

He welcomed me cautiously, but after we exchanged secret decoder rings, we got along famously.  He gave me a primer on the reenactor lifestyle, a hobby which he and his family have enjoyed for years. 

I hung out with him until Captain Statzer dropped in by the fire to take me to Corporal Russell Mouser, the Quartermaster of the 7th Florida.  Another nice guy who couldn’t do enough for me, he brought me to one of the many white canvas tents that served as the shelters, command posts and hospitals for both sides in the Civil War.

As I stood there, Mouser held up trousers to my legs and jackets to my torso until he found those that would provide a passable fit.  To this he added a long sleeve shirt (one size pretty much fits all) and two ankle high shoes.  Not a left shoe and a right shoe, mind you, just two black shoes. “Back then you just picked two shoes out of a barrel of shoes,” he explained, “There was no right and left.”

The jacket and trousers were sewn from jeans cloth, a combination of wool and cotton with a tan color and the abrasive qualities of a pot scrubber.  My few Irish-German freckles would doubtlessly be gone by the end of the battle, I thought to myself.  And if that’s all, I’d consider myself lucky.

For my cover, Mouser provided me what is known as a foragers cap.  This style of cap was worn by the Yankees, and the legend that went with mine was that I souvenired it from a Federal who would no longer have use for it.  Its odd name comes from its secondary duty.  When the cap is turned upside down, it becomes a container with which one can temporarily store the nuts and berries for which a hungry soldier might forage in the field.

Then he handed me the best part of my Confederate battle equipment – my musket.  It was a replica of the British-made Enfield, Caliber .577, one serious smokestick capable of sending a serious chunk of hot lead downrange.  I smiled broadly. I was ready.

You see, I was starting to feel it, hikers, down to my bones.  I’d walked in that tent a hiker and departed it a Private in the Army of the Confederacy.  Oh yeah, hikers.  This was going to be way cool.

More to come.  I gotta get hiking.

Private cheers from the Florida Trail, Mike

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Long lost greetings, Hikers!

I apologize for not writing to all sooner.  For the past 100 miles I have been in the clutches of whimsical nature of Alltel’s signal, which is, as you know, my sole means of contact with the outside world.  Trust me, if you ever grow weary of the ring of your cell phone; take yourself a hike through the Osceola National Forest and points south.  Quite the “Forest of Solitude,” it is.  I swear, one time I looked for the signal bars on my phone and instead there was a single blinking word: Fuhgeddaboutit

I learned yet another little known cell phone weakness.  When you’re in the remote land of Analog it sucks the life out of your battery like right now.  I’m talking overnight, hikers.  Don’t leave your cell pone on up here. That’s good intel for those looking to hike around here.

So, instead I keep a journal.  I crawl in to Agnes at night, switch on the head lamp and pen a few notes to myself so that I’d remember what to tell you about.  So, as I did last time, I’ll break it up so you can stay awake through this. Here goes..

After polishing off a cheeseburger and a night of camping at Milton’s Store, I headed in to the Osceola, a 26-mile trail that cuts through the forest’s plantation pine heart. It is in these woods that you get a sense of how these plantations were used to drain the lowlands that surround the inland basins – often referred to as bay’s- into which rainfall and seeping springs drain.  As you know, growing pine trees was and still is big business around these parts.

It is in these wet, secluded bays that the prettiest parts of the forest can be enjoyed.  In the bays grow the cypress trees, their knobby knees jutting from the dry, dormant earth of winter.  I love cypress knees.  I don’t know if you’ve ever had the chance to visit Tom Gaskin’s Cypress Knee Museum on US 27 in south Florida.  Heck, I don’t even know if it’s there any more. It’s an old-time roadside attraction dating back to the days before interstate highway systems and everyone being in a rush to get somewhere on them. 

Tom Gaskins was the real thing.  With a sheath knife on his belt and square miles of cypress swamp to roam and explore, Mr. Gaskins would discover cypress knees that had gown to all sorts of interesting shapes.. Marilyn Monroe, Coca-Cola Bottles, Abraham Lincoln.. know what I mean?  Mr. Gaskins had a humorous eye.

I met the son of Tom Gaskins, a real gentleman he was.  Tom Sr. was in a nursing home, the infirmities of advanced age having stolen him from the woods he loved.  I regret that I never had the chance to shake his hand.  I know we’d have gotten on well.

The Osceola section of the trail ends at the Olustee Historic State Park.  And hikers, that’s a whole ‘nother story. 

But before I leave you, let me share with you a few of the things that I’ve come to appreciate about life on this magnificent trail.  These are in no particular order. I keep a list of these small pleasures in my journal and from time to time I add to it.

1. Solo hike mornings
2. The way Terry Gross says “Fresh Air” on NPR
3. A sparkling, diamond-studded forest after the rain
4. Clean socks
5. Blue skies and sunshine after days without either
6. Hot apple cinnamon oatmeal and coffee on a polar-frigid morning
7. Arrowheads and Pottery found and left behind for a 10 year-old to discover later
8. Small towns right off of the trail
9. Florida history
10. The first glimpse of dawn taken in from the toasty confines of my sleeping bag
11. Signal. Oh yes, hikers.  Signal is good.
12. Stars.  In the complete absence of ambient light, lie back on your poncho and look deep into the heavens.  Watch satellites pass overhead.  Try wrapping your mind around the vastness of the universe. “Bil-yuns and Bil-yuns” quoth the late Dr. Carl Sagan.  I like to think about the whole light years concept in times such as these. Realizing that I’m an insignificant speck of humanity in the cosmos, and loving it.

Cheers, my friends, from the Florida Trail, Mike

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What’s in a name?

I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. DeWitt by way of the missing hiking poles blog.  Being a hiker, I immediately understood how the aforementioned accidental pole abduction would make the journey harder.  I’m from Tampa myself, and around the time of the missing pole blog was headed up to the Panhandle to be a part of the Monkey Creek Bridge project, which Mike has also previously blogged here.  Reading the blog, my immediate image was that I’d be sitting in camp after a pleasant day’s labor, and in would stagger this bedraggled, exhausted hiker struggling under his over laden pack.  I would have suffered eternal torture if conversation had turned to “I wish I would have known you were coming up from Tampa, you could have brought my spare poles.” If he had spares, then I could bring them, if he had none then mine would have been willingly contributed to relieve his load, and share the journey, though I had not originally intended on carrying them up for the Bridge project.  I emailed Mike to find out if I could assist in the problem, and meet up somewhere to deliver replacement poles.  It turns out that offer was not needed, but did result in Mike and I meeting at Monkey Creek and sharing trail histories over coffee and maybe a few adult beverages, and committing to hike a section together when he reached a more easily accessible (for me) part of the trail. 

Weekends are my hiking time. I work full time Monday through Friday, preferring not to waste weekends on chores if I can help it.  As well as a hiker, I’m a spreadsheet and data geek, so I keep a calendar spreadsheet of proposed and completed weekend trips, mileage, etc.  In an attempt to figure out when Mike would hike within range of Tampa, and ensure that I kept a couple of weekends free to honor my commitment to hike, I calculated his average trail mileage to date.  This was around the middle of December.  Average mileage was somewhere in the region of a whopping 36.25 miles per week.  Applying that mileage to the approximately 1100 mile distance of the trail would put him at the Southern Loop Road Terminus sometime around Memorial Day 2007.  Now forgive me if I’m wrong, but in the “About the Project” side bar on this very page there is a reference to a “2 1/2 month journey”.  I’m neither a journalist nor a math major, but October to May seems a little in excess of 2 ½ months!

A series of emails between Mike and I followed.  The initial email, with a slightly sarcastic tone, but which I knew would be understood, was entitled “or should we call you Mr Mileage?” During the exchange, Mike very eloquently imparted his Florida Trail hiking philosophy to me.  Imagery of the trail, anecdotes, and analogies all described how he felt about this journey, and took me away to a trail I already knew I wanted to hike, but now through the eyes of a man who is living the dream that I can’t currently consider myself; thru-hiking with the time to do it right, and the aptitude and desire to experience it all, in every conceivable way.  In his own words “it is not the miles that count, but the SMILES.”

This past weekend, I finally had the opportunity to hike with Mike as he exits the Panhandle and entered my weekend territory (within three hours drive from Tampa).  We talked initially of hiking around 20 + miles over the weekend.  Plans were made.  When I reached White Springs, the plan changed to less than 20 miles; enough to satisfy the mileage craving, but also allow some time for my conversion to smile counting.  By the time we eventually set off late morning (yes, a LATE morning start) on Saturday, the mileage goal had changed again.  This man, this living embodiment of my fantasy thru-hiker, had converted me already by his words, enthusiasm, actions, and smiles to the goal of “let’s just see where we get to.”

And so we walked, and talked.  We photographed.  We wandered the Florida Trail through the woods and beside the river, listening, watching, talking some more.  We stopped for frequent breaks, and sometimes in mid-stride just to make a point in conversation, or to discuss a blaze, a sign, a flower, a bridge. And we smiled.  I have to admit, for the time we were together at least, I was a true convert to the “smileage” philosophy.  Our final weekend mileage tally?  Well, OK, it was only 9.5 miles over two days.  Admittedly, that’s less than I’d usually hike in a single day, but the smileage factor was definitely in force, and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of every mile (and there were a lot of minutes per mile!)

And so, to the point of my blog.  Mike has been asked several times about his trail name, and didn’t have one to give.  With his permission and approval I have established a trailname for our esteemed Hiker.  (My apologies to my fellow countryman Shakespeare for altering his immortal words):

‘Tis but thy name that is the enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a thru-hiker.
What’s thru-hiker? it is nor trail, nor foot,
Nor time, nor distance, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name

What’s in a name? that which we call a thru-hiker
By any other name would hike so thoroughly;
So DeWitt would, were he not thru-hiker call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Thru-hiker, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all the Trail.  Take the trailname “Mr. Smileage”

So it is official; Mr. Smileage he has become.  Mike was duly baptized on Sunday afternoon, with cool, fresh, filtered, but still tannin stained, Suwannee River water on a trailside picnic table overlooking the river and bluffs.  The sun broke out in blessing as the ceremony was attended to. 

That’s “Smileage” to his friends, of which I hope to be one for a long time.  Hike on Smileage!

Janette

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Piney Woods Howdy, Hikers!

I’m not sure whether you’ll get this blog or not.. I’ve about half a bar of signal, overcast skies and NOAA Jack tells me that there is another wet cold front on the way, and I mean COOOOOOLD front- 25F.  Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, they did!

I’ve been wanting to blog you about the Suwannee, but since my print story in The Tampa Tribune (which, as far as I know ran yesterday or today) should give you a pretty good idea of how sweet and scenic is that section of the trail.  For those unfortunate souls who, by a wicked twist of geography do receive the Trib, tbo.com carries the story, as well.

The trail is remarkable, a thread of tread that stretches along the high bluffs overlooking the Suwannee River.  It’s a hiker’s trail, ya’ll, dotted with scenic promontories, rustic bridges and deep riverside draws thick with lush plants. 

Even better is that one can access the whole thing from White Springs, which, with or without a trail hike is worth a visit.  I had the amazing pleasure of headquartering at the Adams House Bed and Breakfast.  The proprietor of this beautiful Queen Anne style home, Watkins Saunders, was the host with the most. 

This was no truer than on the night when Florida took that deadly battering from the skies.  We were lucky, having lost no more than a few hours of electrical service and gained a bunch of rainwater.  The good fortune of being inside on those couple of ugly days and nights - a safety extended graciously by the kind heart of Mr. Saunders - is unforgettable. That is one good man!

But the sun came out, just in time for F-Troop diva and veteran backpacker Janette Davison to join me on a trail hike.  Janette is English.  You know what’s cool?  Cool is an English accent attached to a woman who is smart and literate and happy to be wherever she is.  That’s what cool is.

We did a bit o’ trail, not as much as either of us would have liked.  But hikers, the weather was cold and the view from one particular picnic table was very scenic.  It was kind of late in the day, and I think, frankly, that Janette is accustomed to hiking with grown-ups.  I like to stop and explore cool places that might make for a great photo or story or blog. After all, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?

I’ll leave the rest of the story to Janette, who sent me a guest blog so that you might have her impressions of the trail as it is when corrupted by my participation. If you liked “Sense and Sensibilities” you’ll love Janette.  Her Kings English prose makes my literary efforts appear as if they are the product of a Neanderthal scribbling monosyllabically with a crayon clutched awkwardly in a filthy, hairy fist.  Hey, wait a minute…!

Geico commercial Cheers from the Florida Trail, Mike

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I hiked in to Stephen Foster State Park in White Springs, Florida.  White Springs holds the distinction of being the first of the Florida National Scenic Trail’s “Gateway Communities.” You can read more about this special designation on floridatrail.org.

The centerpiece of the park is the carillon, a graceful bell tower which plays the best of Stephen Foster’s work, including “Old Folks at Home,” the official state song of Florida. 

Well, I stopped to take some pictures of the tower (I posted one on the gallery, my friends) and then continued on my merry way stopping twice more; once at the park’s riverside pavilion and once at its scenic overlook.  That’s when I discovered that my watch was no longer on my wrist. 

I went to the Ranger station and reported it missing, even leaving a map with my route through the park.  I retraced my steps and came up empty.  I should mention that this watch has extraordinary sentimental value to me. 

I stopped at the headquarters of the Suwannee River Wilderness Trail, which lies just outside of the boundaries of the park, right there in downtown historical White Springs.  The head shed over there is a top-notch gentleman named Ben Harris.

Ben offered to drive me over to park in his truck and look the route over with me.  We walked it twice and still, “no dice.” We stopped in at the museum and the gift shop and informed them of my loss.  They promised sweetly to keep an eye peeled.  We checked in with Jeff, the maintenance tech, and he said he’d do what he could do.

I’d done all I could think of to do so I resolved to accept the loss.  It wouldn’t help to dwell on it anyway.  Such is life, from time to time. Right, hikers?

Well guess what happened after that?…The next day I get a call from Ranger Ashley Pass informing me that my watch had been found.  How about that????  Found, baby!

You see, the mowing crew was due to cut the grass the next day, and Maintenance Technician Jeff Niehaus took it upon himself to give the grounds along my route one last look for my timepiece.  Ranger Pass volunteered to join the effort, and it was she who found my watch in the shadows of the pavilion. 

With all the talk you hear about the death of customer service, these State Parks Department personnel set that assertion on it’s ear.  Thank you, Ben, Jeff and Ashely.  Thank you very much!

Lucky dog Cheers from the Florida Trail!  Mike

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A Rock and Shoal Hall of Fame greetings, Hikers

Let’s get this said right away, the sights to be seen along the Suwannee River aren’t just spectacular, they’re backpackular!  Man, what a trail!

Once you hit the Suwannee, the southbound hiker is rewarded with a north-northeast trek through the Twin Rivers State Forest.  It’s a wooded, shade-strewn walk, and a nice change from the miles leading up to it.  As the trail winds north, it skirts two parks, including Suwannee River State Park, whose amenities become a growing source of interest as one nears it. 

Personally, I was jones’in for a hot shower.  But hey hikers, it wasn’t meant to be.  The Florida National Scenic Trail will put you right across the river from the shower house.  Close enough to wave, in fact.  I was gamey and it was cold.  Oh yeah, hikers, it was cold out there. 

Probably the coldest I’ve ever been was the winter when I spent a few days on the south side of Detroit.  But it wasn’t just the single digit temperature, it was the relentless 5-mph breeze slicing its way out of Lake Michigan.  So, I know from cold and hikers, it was friggin’ cold.  I thought i was going to have to get out my long britches..

The second step down Weird Lane came when my wife shared that the weather in Tampa was unseasonably hot.  Have any of you hikers had a chance to see “An Inconvenient Truth”?  I try to keep an open mind about science.  I try real hard to see both sides of the climate change issue. 

When I take the sum of these weird seasons, crazy weather patterns and the cracks in Greenland’s gazillion year-old glaciers; and if I divide that sum the temperature of my flash-frozen kiester, I arrive at a solution that pursuades me to assign serious credibility to Al Gore’s climate change argument.

Also. along this river walk, I’ve been perplexed by what seems to be a premature spring bloom.  The locals have noticed the same freakish phenomenon.  Add to that their observations with regard to the increasing periods of drought and the noticible decreases in the flow of their rivers and springs.  These folks up here have lived among these waters all of their lives.  Take from that what you will.

Even in ice-cold, climate crisis mode, the Suwannee River segmant of the Florida Trail delivers awsome sights and sounds.  The well-tended trail leads - whenever practical - along the crest of bluffs that soar as high as 100 feet above the river.  The unusually low river exposes many features that typically lie beneath its Bourbon-esque surface.  Bone-white ledges of limestone protrude from the banks like embedded Frisbees.  Scattered among these are the fabled canoe-eating shoals of the Suwannee.  These semi-submerged rocks are as jagged as cross-cut saws and have eaten more fiberglass that a carnival geek.  Gracefully-sculpted cypress roots weave braids of wood along the bank, anchoring their own reflections on the river’s mirrored surface. 

Hikers, you need not journey to the Louvre when you seek to behold a masterpiece. It’s right here, right now.  And these people still like Americans.

Well, this scenery-studded trail leads to a damned good story.. I like to call it ……

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