Photos: Along The Trail | Map: Track Mike

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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Godfather of Soul Greetings, Hikers!

Do you want to know what feels really good when you’re thru-hiking the Florida Trail? 

Reaching the Suwannee River.  I’m talkin’ pure, unvarnished JOY. 

Wanna know the weirdest name you’ll never forget?  Winquepin. 

No, I can’t pronounce it, but I can darn sure walk it.  And so will you if you’re a southbound thru-hiker in search of what is likely the most famous river in Florida.  No southbound sojourn on the trail comes to Suwannee serenity without enduring a dusty Winquipin Street saunter. 

One nice thing about it though, four miles of walking gives you plenty of time to chew over all of the possible pronunciations of a road named either for a Native-American or an RV manufacturer in Wisconsin.  As you can see, hikers, I’ve narrowed it down for you.

I reached the river at the sun-soaked hour of noon, an ideal time to unlace and unwind for a minute or two.  The bar was open so I ordered 100 ounces of hand-purified Suwannee River water to chase the Winquipin Street dustburger I had for brunch.

Last night was clear and icebox cold.  I (with an urgent nudge from my bladder) forced myself from the toasty embrace of Big Agnes and was none too happy about it.  The sun doesn’t actually get over the tops of the pines until 9-ish.  On days where water is plentiful, you might just wait for warming rays to dry your tent and pack up.  But I wasn’t exactly flush with water.  I burned through a bunch of it last night as I rabidly concocted emergency hot chocolate beverages as much to warm my hands as my innards.  Ergo*, the inevitable early morning exit from Agnes. 

* Note:  My use of the word “ergo” may be entirely inappropriate as I am Latinly-challenged.  Feel free to come on up here and correct me in person.  Just know that if you’re not carrying a large combination pizza with pineapple and extra cheese when you get here, they’ll never find your body. 

It’s a weird feeling to cross a paved road in the middle of nowhere and so it was on SR 53, or as I like to call it “the road Florida built just for the hell of it.”  All of the sudden it’s there.  No cars, no sign of occupancy at all, just a dadgum road.  Kinda cool, huh? 

Have you ever seen “The Omega Man”?  It’s a movie about the last guy on earth. It’s a freaky Charlton Heston flick that I dug heavily back in my youth.  Well, standing in the middle of a road upon which there is virtually no sign of human presence is a bit like that, with the exception that there isn’t a cult of toxic mutants trying to kill you.. and as Martha Stewart likes to say “ That’s a good thing.”

I’m in Twin Rivers State Forest just north of Dowling Park, Florida (Motto:  It’s on MY map!)  The forest is beautiful, acres and acres of oak trees, big ole’ pines and a mossy river that’ll be my constant companion for days to come.  Today I begin a part of this trail to which I’ve looked forward for four long days… and .. in the words of the Hardest Working Man in Show Business – the immortal Mr. James (Heh!!) Brown.. “ I Feel Good!”

Easy Living Cheers from the Florida Trail!  Mike

PS.. Now you tell me, hikers.  Where else are you gonna find a Winquipin, the Suwannee River, Martha Stewart, a life-saving pizza pie and the Godfather of Soul all on one page???  Right here, babies, right here with me on the Florida Trail! 

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Que paso, Hikers?

If you’ve been with me since I first set foot on the trail (OK wiseguys, I know what you’re thinking!) then you will recall Econfina Creek and the proper pronunciation of same -  EE – con- FINE – uh.  Remember? 

Well, just when you think you’re fully steeped in the language nuances of north Florida, they’ll turn around and change the pronunciation of a river whose name carries the identical spelling.  Econfina – as it relates to the river originating in the wild, wooly wetlands and pine forests of San Pedro Bay is pronounced ECK-con-FEENA.  Go figure.

The trail through San Pedro Bay Wildlife Management Area follows a series of rambling forest roads carved through countless acres of planted pine and boogery wetlands.  For the most part, it’s a beautiful walk.  The roads are in great shape, good enough – I think - for a wheelchair-bound hiker to roll up more than a few orange blazes. 

There has been some settlement of these woods. I spotted several agriculture and logging operations from the road and a few “Keep Out” homesteads tucked into the occasional clearing (check the gallery for the unusual sign announcing one such hideaway).  I just minded my own business and cranked out the footsteps… all the while looking for something that resembled a “Bay.”  I mean, after all, the place IS called San Pedro Bay, isn’t it?

Well, two days worth of dirt roads later, my map indicated I was but a couple of miles from leaving the San Pedro section – and me still with no solid indication of anything remotely resembling an alleged “bay.”

That is until I picked up a glinty reflection out of the corner of my eye.  Water…shining skinnyly just beyond a stand of pines cleverly planted via black helicopters flown by the by the New World Order for the sole purpose of obscuring a stand of cypress trees from Florida Trail thru-hikers.  (That one was for all of you conspiracy theorists out there.  You’re welcome.)

Anyhow, I shed my pack and weaseled my way past the “pines” and in to the cypress.  A minute later I was standing at the edge of what could only be the source of the Econfina River - San Pedro Bay.  But my smiling face was met with a reaction that rocked me back on my heels - a mass flight of sandhill cranes which before my I-Come-In- Peace arrival had been doing whatever these beautiful, long-legged birds do when we’re not around.  They were vocal in their marked displeasure at the interruption, I can tell you that for sure.

After emergency takeoff, they gathered into a formation of what must have been one hundred six foot tall, irate birds.  It was as if a phalanx of pissed-off B-52’s were circling over this becalmed expanse of whiskey-hued, cypress-studded water.  had they been loaded with bombs, this blog would not be. They scolded me with avian profanities that would make a pirate’s parrot blush, conveying their revulsion at my company, my ancestry and my choice of photographic subjects.  I mean, they were some grumpy dudes.

You know, I’ve always gotten on well with sandhill cranes.  I have some righteous history with this great and beautiful creature and I’ve the photos to prove it.  So what’s the deal with these surly sandhills of San Pedro?  Scientifically speaking, I can only theorize that these birds belong to some sort of ill-tempered sub-species not found in the literature. 

And I’ll bet you anything you want that the pronunciation of their name is completely different.

Audubon Cheers from the Florida Trail, Mike

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Geological salutations, hikers!

I headed in to the Aucilla River section with no idea what to expect – that’s because this section of the Florida Trail defies the imagination.  Straight away, permit me to salute the FTA volunteers who blazed the trail through this magical place and those who keep it so nicely maintained.  I am in your debt more than I can ever repay.

There are many beautiful places along the Florida Trail.. many, many, many.  But hikers, this may be not only the coolest five miles on the Florida Trail, but just possibly the coolest five miles on the planet.  I’m referring to the Aucilla Sinks.  Huge primordial sinkholes dot this beautifully forested landscape.  Winding through it all is the tar-black water of the Aucilla River, which appears and disappears several times as it flows from sinkhole to sinkhole.

As you hike here, you almost expect to see the beasts that roamed our state during the last Ice Age, and in a sense, you can.  Bones of camels, tapir, bison and mammoth have been discovered here.  Imagine such a thing..

Every step in the Aucilla Sink trail is a step into history so deep and mysterious that it overwhelms the senses.  To stand at the edge of a cliff beneath which a fully-grown river is noiselessly vanishing haunts the mind.  Images of these immeasurable caverns effortlessly swallowing a bazillion of gallons of water as easily as you and I sip from a cup of coffee brings one as close to a galactic black hole as this lifetime will allow.  Mind-bending stuff, hikers, and all of it right here. 

And “the sinks” have its share of hikers, the first of which are thought to have made camp here about 13,000 years ago.  They were Paleo-Indians, stone-age Floridians who recognized prime hiking and camping real estate when they saw it.  And yeah, they did it before Gore-Tex, Big Agnes, and, by the way, just about everything else.  These were some tough hombres, no doubt.

I dearly love places such as this.  Show me some rock and I’m a two-year-old in a candy store.  This is a land of deep, dark caves, gnarly-shaped rock formations and giant cracks in the earth that will suck the light right out of your headlamp.  Caves and disappearing rivers and crazy jungle trees crawling with sinewy serpentine vines thick enough to pull of a decent Tarzan act; all smack dab in the ethereal gloom of a “Land that Time Forgot” meets “Jurassic Park” terrain that just turns me all the way on.  I was shucking my pack every five minutes, crawling over, around or in every cave, cranny or cavern I could squeeze in to.  Cold, dark tunnels to the netherworld…who could resist that?

OK, yeah, sometimes it amounted to some creepy stuff… but I figured, hey, what if that whole thing about China being on the other side is true?  Coupla more steps ans shimmys and I could be ordering the No.3 with an extra egg roll. 

Yeah, the food thing again.. it’s unavoidable. 

Ancient caveman chopsticks Cheers from the Florida Trail, Mike

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Top o’ the bone-chilling morning, hikers!

I apologize for not posting this sooner, but I’ve been where cellular signal dare not go. In those places where it did manage to sneak in, it just wasn’t strong enough to keep its grip on my aircard.  But my, oh my, the places we’ve been!

I’ve been taking notes, I have.  Those among you lucky enough hear the satisfying thump of a Tampa Tribune hitting your driveway may know that I write a weekly story from the trail.  I’m grateful to Alltel for supplying me adequate signal to file my story.

The bloggery works somewhat differently.  To post a blog, one must log on to a special program.  Well, my aircard and tbo.com were having words (or more accurately, weren’t having them).  Certainly the weather has been a factor, the cloud cover up here has been as impenetrable to cell signal as it has been to sunlight. 

So there was little I could do but keep moving, and that’s always a pleasure when you’re on the Florida Trail.

I arrived in White Springs a week ago after an incredible trip through San Pedro Bay, the Twin Rivers State Forest and the incomparable bluffs of the Suwannee River.  Even on those days when the sun was shining, the temperature refused to exceed 50 degrees F.  Now, this is excellent backpacking weather…as long as you don’t stop.  Stopping encourages every molecule of perspiration on your body to go cryogenic on you.  N-n-no g-g-g-good can come from that. 

The savior?  Oatmeal.  Yep, you are looking at the oatmeal poster boy.  I’m going to buy me one of those Quaker hats just as soon as I find a Quaker re-enactor specialty store!  Quick to fix, scar-leaving hot and a failsafe rib-sticker, a zip-lock freezer bag of oatmeal warms the hands, the belly and the attitude.

My long-time favorite elixir for warding off chill is the Shackleton, an oatmeal beverage I named for Sir Ernest in honor of the drink that sustained his crew during their epic voyage – made in a couple boats not much bigger than a Jon boat - from the Antarctic ice shelf to St. George’s Island.  My Florida Trail version of that drink is concocted by adding water and wee dram of powdered milk.  Restorative doesn’t begin to describe its effect.  I raise my WWII vintage canteen cup to the Endurance and to her intrepid crew!  OooRAH!

But I digress… food’ll do that to you out here.

Here, on a chilly, sun-bathed edge of the Osceola National Forest, the weather has cleared and my connection to the World Wide Web is 21st Century good.  I am smiling as wide as Texas and anxious to share a few trail tales.

Read on, hikers, they follow this entry. 

Beautiful sunlit Cheers from the Florida Trail!  Yahooooo!  Mike

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Econfina RIVER greetings, Hikers!

That’s right, RIVER.  You’ll recall a while back that I wrote to you of Econfina Creek.  Well, if you walk far enough in an easterly direction, you’ll find the Econfina River.  Confusing?  At first, yes.  But then when you consider the Swiss cheese nature of the geology in this region, it all begins to make sense. 

I’m writing to you from the municipal meeting hall of the town of Shady Grove, Florida.  How, you must wonder, did I get access to such an important and influential venue from which to write to you? 

Well, I did it by showing up to the Shady Grove Grocery (established 1936) yesterday evening around six.  The grocery is, in fact, the town hall, and it’s in session at 0600 daily.  The elders gather here every weekday morning without fail, coffee cups in weather-beaten hands, their Stetsons set as square as their jaws.  Theirs is a routine pleasure, a pleasure woven from generations shared triumphs and sorrows.  There is a feeling of warmth and familiarity among them that kindles a pathetic envy in uprooted and transplanted humans such as I.  Before I die I want to know just one person as well as these men know each other. 

I came to be at the grocery after a long day on the trail.  It was one of those days when daylight and temperature compete to see how low they can go.  Trust me, hikers, the smart money was on Frigid Fahrenheit by a chilly nose.  FTA Map 12 depicts a store at Shady Grove, just a few asphalted miles north of the trail.  I was headed there for reprovisioning, refitting and, by the looks of things, a satisfying thawing.

And that’s when I encountered Mr. Albert O’Quinn.  Mr. O’Quinn is what they call a level-jawed man, that is, a man whose chewing tobacco juice creeps from both corners of his mouth in equal measure.  He’s one of those ageless people with whom encounters are always interesting and educational.  Yeah, he’s old, but he’s strong and hard-working and possessed of a good sense of humor.  That sort of comportment has the effect of slowing down the aging process, or so I’ve lately come to notice.

I heard Mr. O’Quinn coming before I actually saw him.  You see, he was at the helm of a motor grader, a substantial piece of Peoria Cat iron that can render smooth the most impassable roads with single pass of the massive steel blade slung beneath its skeletal frame.

The initial exchange between he and I went some thing like this, when, as he pulled up next to me, he brought the grader to a halt. 

“What in the wor-ald are you doin’?  There was a squint to his ball cap-shaded eyes and the hint of an amused smile on his face.

“I’m hiking on the Florida Trail.”  I said this casually, matter-of-factly.  But it was all I could do to keep from laughing at the look of genuine puzzlement on his face.  My amusement at his query and his equal amusement at my reply caused him to shut off the idling diesel and climb down to my pedestrian level.

Weelll, one thing led to another and by the time we were done exchanging secret decoder rings he offered to give me a ride to the store at Shady Grove – if he could find me down the trail – once his day’s work was done.  I walked east and he kept grading west.

It all worked out, yes it did.. except that he gave me a ride to a different store, one in Erdu, Florida.  Kinda behind where I was headed, but still very appreciated.  But not to worry, ‘cause I hadn’t been in Erdu long enough to learn how to spell it before a fellow named Tony Russell offered to cart me back east again. 

Tony’s a Son of the Confederacy, a kind and generous family man whose roots run deep in the sandy soil of Taylor County.  We spoke of heritage and history and the confounding perceptions of both as they apply to the south.  He has one of those faces – it’s in the eyes, I think - that convey a look of sadness without respect to his mood.  He has a ranch where he breeds Belgians, a Clydesdale-type draft horse.  He’d whup me for making the Clydesdale comparison and I’m making it now only because virtually everyone knows what a Clydesdale looks like.  Well, imagine a Clydesdale after graduation from Marine Corps recruit training at Parris Island and you’ll get some idea of what a Belgian looks like.

Soooo, there I am, trailworn, shamefully gamey, feelin’ the hawk, and jonesing for a cup of joe.  You know, thru-hiking.  Well, it’s just about that time when the sparkling lights of the Shady Grove Grocery come in to view.

You know, hikers, how some places just have a friendly look about ‘em?  Such a place is the Shady Grove Grocery.  It’s a slice of heaven built of white clapboard and roofed in tin.  White icicle Christmas lights hang from the eaves, a Neon “Open” sign dangles in the window, a porch swing invites one to sit a spell and the always-on coffee pot makes it easy to cast that spell into second cup.

Unbelievably, those amenities don’t even hold a candle to the prettiest thing about Shady Grove Grocery (and Oasis). That would have to be Carrie Albritton.  She was holding the place down when I showed up and it was she who won my undying devotion by putting on a fresh pot of coffee when I, Swamp Thing, slimed through the door. 

Carrie is the drop-dead beautiful fiancée of the owner, Jason Heartsfield.  They are to be married in May, and they might just be the handsomest couple Florida ever produced; I know for certain that they’re the friendliest.  Carrie offered me all the land behind the store for my camping convenience and a last cup of coffee to heat my walk to the loving arms of Big Agnes. 

For a guy whose trail magic meter has stayed pegged since he stepped on to the trail, this is the sort of thing that bends the dadgum needle.  I’m gonna need to buy a new meter if I’m to survive this trip.  One that goes all the way up to “That’s Unbelievable!” or, “You’ve got to be kidding,” or “No Way!”

The urgent need for such a meter showed itself the this morning when Jason handed me a bag with a clean, springtime fresh towel and wash cloth.  Yup, they have a shower at the Grocery, and they really, really, really wanted me to use it.  OK, it had been a couple of days… yeah, yeah.. maybe a week or two…

Jason’s Mom and Dad invited me to wash my clothes at their incredible 100 year-old house across the street from the store.  His Mom slipped in one of those little papers that make your clothes smell really good into the dryer.  And she wouldn’t hear of me leaving the house until I agreed to take a smoked sausage sandwich with me.  Are you feeling the love?  Good stuff, ain’t it?

And now, it’s 1600 and here I sit.  Clean, pleasingly aromatic and delightfully caffeinated. Now that you know where I am, go get yourself a cup of coffee and come back.  I want to tell you of where I’ve been, because the last 40-ish or so miles have led me through some of the coolest terrain in the world.  Yeah, it’s that cool, hikers.  With apologies to Mohammed Ali and Joe Frazier, I can only describe it as the “Thrilla in Aucilla.”

You know, I should get a cup, too.  What’s that?  Jason’s mom is cookin’ up pork chops with greens and corn bread and is inviting me to eat with them? 

Yes Way!  And a country-fried, right out of the oven cheers from the Florida Trail.  Let’s finish this conversation after dinner, shall we?  Mike

….Man, I have got to get another magic meter.  This thing is toasted. 

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