Photos: Along The Trail | Map: Track Mike

A Salt Marsh Holiday Hello, Hikers!

A note to you before I go. I’m minutes away from losing signal and human contact for the next few days so I wanted to give you a heads up on the future of bloggery on this site. For the next week, anyway.  And of course just give you a nudge and say hello.

My son, Ben, will add his thoughts this week.  I know you’ll enjoy his colorful way with our language as much as I do.  And do you know what?  He’s every bit as cool and as funny as his writing lets on. 

Also sitting at this virtual postcard counter will be my friend Robert Seidler.  Sopchoppy Robby is a man’s man, a talented filmmaker and a civic visionary in these parts.  Did I mention that he could find redfish in a bowl of soup?  The guy can fish.

My hike through the St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge is sure to be filled with mystery and discovery.  Human occupation of St Marks dates back centuries.  There is more mojo and hoo-dee-hoo out there than you can imagine.  Civil war salt works, moonshine stills, bootleggers, smugglers, pirates and brigands have all found refuge in the refuge over the years. 

Before the ancestors of these fellows even considered coming to the new world, St Marks fed and clothed generations of American Indians.  They too left their mark on these lands.  I hope to find them, and share them with you when I do.

Finally, thank you for agreeing to shoulder a pack with me over this magnificent trail.  We’ve done much, learned much and walked much.  I couldn’t have done it without you by my side.

Have a great holiday, a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hannukah and a killer winter solstice.  I know there are other religions and faiths and if you are a believer of one of those, I wish you a great celebration as well. Share the love, know what I mean?

May you have plenty of family, friends and food at your table.  I’m going home for a couple of days myself, and I wish I could take all of you with me.  We’d have fun,
wouldn’t we, though?  Woohoo!

Cheers from your Florida Trail, Mike

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Hi Ho Hikers!

We’ll I have a brief opportunity at signal so I thought I’d touch base with you before entering St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge.  Man, I am jazzed about that.  I had a couple of good days off the trail, much of which I spent with Sopchoppy, Florida filmmaker Robert Seidler, better known as Sopchoppy Robby, a fascinating artist and outdoorsman currently shooting an informational piece on the Florida Trail.

Seidler is one of the most talented and progressive people that I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.  A more in-depth piece featuring Robert and Blountstown filmmaker Elam Stoltzfus will run in the Tampa Tribune once I can finish and file it.  There’s a lot to say about these two artists and it’s all cool.  So it comes down to a Bob Seger-like “What to leave in and what to leave out.”

I spent one night in White Springs where I was invited to the Florida Trail Association’s staff Christmas Party.  Man, I’m almost embarrassed to tell you what a great time I had.  I stayed in the Adams House, a Bed-and Breakfast on the bluffs of the Suwannee River.  This jaw-droppingly beautiful home is surrounded by humongous live oaks, as big as any I’ve ever seen- bloody leviathans.

Morning came around at, ohhhh, eight-ish.  I awakened from my slumber on a bed roughly the dimensions of a residential swimming pool and padded down the oak-accented tile floor to grab a hot cup of Joe before heading out back to appreciate an overcast dawn over a mist-strewn Suwannee River. 

At the ring of the breakfast bell I dined on (Really, I’m not making this up.) a breakfast of fresh fruit, sweet potato pancakes with walnuts and cranberries all mixed up in ‘em, country ham and three choices of home-made syrup, including my new favorite – sugar cane.  Add OJ, ice water and coffee as invigorating and black as an Apalachicola night. 

Laying siege to my plate and reenforced by the crystal galsses were at least a half dozen silver eating utensils perfectly arranged on a color-coordinated linen placemat. They confronted me with an intimidating gleam, as if they knew that all I had to fight them off with was a coffee-stained plastic spoon. 

Now, all this is taking place in a room that looks like it’s right off the set of an Ivory-Merchant movie. I mean, I’m half-expecting Hugh Grant to sashay into the room. Are you beginning to smell what I’m cookin’? This place has wainscoting. Look it up. 

So, taking her place with me at this regulation-sized Brunswick dining room table is Sandra Friend, the Communications Director for the Florida Trail Association.  Sandra is the author of about a bizillion words on worldwide travel so she’s absolutely no stranger to these refined surroundings. She calmly talks me through it in her best air traffic controller voice.  Thank you, Sandy.

Of course, there’s more to come.  Later today… I promise.

Gourmet Cheers from the Florida Trail, there Hikers!

Note 1:  Those of you who read my first Tribune piece about this trek have been very kind not to mention the passage where I wrote that “I know I will always be hungry.” I hereby issue an official retraction of that comment.  I apologize for my foolishly presumptive journalism.  I’ll try not to do that again.

Note 2: OK, my hiking compadres, I hear you thinking that I should be on the trail instead of reclining on satin and growing food blisters on my body.  Well, friends, here’s the catch… The Adams House lies directly on the Florida Trail!!  Yeah, I know. Cool, huh?  Yes, I know that’s a technicality.  But as a technical backpacker I have the skills.  Do not attemp this stunt at home, it’s only possible on the Florida Trail.

Every day spent along this magnificent footpath brings us new joys, doesn’t it?  Grab your pack and get up here.  But don’t forget your collared shirt, you’ll want to look good when Hugh shows up.

Extended pinkie Cheers from the Florida Trail!  Mike

Oh yeah.. Note 3:  Thanks to those who expressed concern that I may have bitten off more than I can chew by takaing the decision to carry on the trail my latest literary acquisition “Priceless Florida.” Well thanks, but please don’t worry.  I’ve decided to eliminate an item of similar weight from my kit – my food bag.  I can’t eat another bite.

And one more very important thing: To all my hiking buddies in harm’s way.  A day doesn’t pass that I don’t wish it were you instead of me on this trail.  I’m so proud of you, be you soldier, sailor, airman or Marine. Hell, we all are.  And we look forward to seeing you safe, back home and on whatever trail you’ve long since earned the right to choose.  OOORAH!  Semper Fi cheers from the Florida Trail. Mike

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Midnight greetings, hikers!

I’m curled up with a book I bought in Sopchoppy yesterday.  It amazes me with every turn of the page.  So much, in fact, that I’ve taken the decision to add it to my pack.

Now, my hiking friends, you already know that I’m packing some weight on this trip, every ounce of which I’ve carefully considered.  After I found the book - titled “Priceless Florida, Natural Ecosystems and Native Species” by Ellie Whitney, D. Bruce Means and Anne Rudloe - I planned to give it a quick looking over and then send it home for a more in-depth read after I concluded my trek.

Nothing doing, my friends.  Even though this book tips the scales at something in the neighborhood of four pounds, I can’t imagine not having it at my fingertips as I explore the trail.  It is superbly thorough, well organized, clearly written and artfully presented. I will be a better correspondent to you from this trail for having it along.

I haven’t yet decided what I’ll give up from my existing kit to facilitate this new addition, but whatever it turns out to be, it’ll be worth it.

In case you’re interested, it’s published by Pineapple Press and sells for 25 bucks.  Just make sure the stocking in which you plan to stuff it is a burly one.  This thing is a beast.  Ugh!

Cheers from the two-footed library of the Florida Trail! Mike

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Long-time-no-see, Hikers!

Last time we saw each other, I was heading in to the Apalachicola National Forest.  I had much to think about.  The Blountstown experience was cathartic in many ways.  I entered the forest as a man more connected to the land and its history. 

The Apalachicola National Forest covers every bit 565,000 acres of northwest Florida and the Florida Trail cuts right through the center of it. If time to think is what the doctor ordered, then Apalach is the place to fill the prescription.  It is miles upon miles upon miles of forested solitude.

My first day in the forest was the weirdest day of all.  For the preceding week I’d had the pleasure of a constant stream of visitors, many of which would stay and talk awhile.  I actually find myself with quite the social calendar.  As warm and pleasurable as my stay with the settlement had become, I missed the wide-open freedom and wild nature that only the Florida Trail could supply. 

And then, suddenly, I was as alone as a human being can be.  No one - and I mean NO ONE -around for miles.  I entered the forest on the day before hunting season, and after considering my timing, decided it wouldn’t be the least bit premature to don my seasonal orange ensemble.  I was right about that.

Shots rang out with regularity, each reverberating across and endless expanse of pines and wiregrass.  I wondered if it’s true that you don’t hear the sound of the one that gets you.  Such was the conventional wisdom passed along by the combat vets I’d known in the Marines.  Then I wondered how they knew.  I wondered why I didn’t ask them that question.

Take all the time you need to think about things in the Apalach, hikers.  For these are thinking woods. 

When is the last time you had all the time you needed to think about the things that comprise the meaning of your life on this earth?  Hikers, I mean time to think about everything?  About your life, your love, your family, your work. About your beginnings and your endings. About God. About your honor and your civic duty and your legacy?  Just think about that for a minute.  A minute isn’t enough, is it? And yet most of the time, a few fleeting minutes is all that you get. There’s stuff to do, people to see. 

Not out here.

Cheers from the Florida Trail, Mike

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An 8 x 10 howdy, hikers!

While in Blountstown, I had the pleasure to meet photographer Zach Tatum.  After viewing his work, I asked if he would consider sharing his camera with you.  He graciously agreed. 

I have added his work to the Adventures on the Florida Trail SNAP gallery. I think you’ll enjoy the view from his camera as much as I do.  See you on the “Apalach.”

Cheers from the Florida Trail, Mike

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It’s a Good Day, Hikers!

My pack is packed and my food and water supplies are replenished.  The Trail has been forced to wait too long and I am glad to be on it. . 

But before I vanish into the signal-poor woods, I am compelled to share with you something about the community of Blountstown and the indelible impression it has left upon me. 

Blountstown lies against the west bank of the Apalachicola River about an hour’s drive west of Tallahassee.  It is the seat of government of Calhoun County.  Like many small panhandle towns, it is a community that has come to a fork in the road.  If my words ring familiar, it may be because you once heard words like these twenty or thirty years ago from a Hillsborough or Pasco County native who knew well the land before the bulldozers came to call.

The residents in Calhoun County number less than half that of my home town of Temple Terrace, Florida, a small city on the outskirts of Tampa.  Calhoun County is unapologetically rural.  But for Blountstown and few smaller hamlets, it is largely undeveloped. This is a curse in the sense that well-paying jobs are scarce, and a blessing in that its rivers and landscapes are almost as pristine as they were on the first week of creation. 

But more and more Americans are moving south to stay, and it is a certainty that Calhoun County will not escape the notice of developers who are all too happy to accommodate them.  It is no longer a question of if, but of when - and more importantly, of how.

During my week-long stay in Blountstown, I was privileged to meet with many of the county’s civic and government leaders.  All of them expressed a vision of a county with a thriving eco-tourism trade that will bring good jobs and well-heeled visitors to a picturesque Main Street with rustic, red brick warmth emblematic of Blountstown’s river town past.

Already in place is the Blountstown Greenway, recently blazed as a spur of the Florida Trail.  Its smooth asphalt surface connects the Panhandle Pioneer Settlement to Main Street and the Apalachicola River.  It is the centerpiece of Blountstown’s blueprint for the sort of town that everyone wants to live in.  And that brings Calhoun County to the fork in the road.

Our Sunshine State is littered with counties that failed to anticipate the impact that a “come one, come all” approach to development would have on their infrastructure, their landscape and their quality of life. 

If I have learned anything from walking this trail, it is that Florida in its most natural and historic state is its most enchanting attraction.  The panhandle counties are one of the few areas left in Florida where such beauty is virtually everywhere one looks.  It is an increasingly rare coin, a diamond in the form that Mother Nature herself sculpted. 

As the leaders of Calhoun County stand at that fork in the road, I hope they choose carefully their path.  The easy road leads to paved fields, bulldozed woods, overcrowded schools and roads forever clogged with carloads of people wishing they were someplace else.  I know this because my home is on that road. 

For all of our sake, I pray they choose the road less traveled.

100% All-Natural Cheers form the Florida Trail, Mike

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Late night greetings hikers!

It’s going on 1am and I’ve just finished uploading photos to tbo.com.  It’s a very slow process, one I began four hours ago.  The temperature has now dropped below freezing and I’m pretty much wearing all of the clothes I have. OoRah!  Good stuff.

I hope you like the photos.  More to come tomorrow, as is another blog.  There’s so much left to tell.  But first, I need to get some sleep.  I’m baked and I’m frickin’ freezin’ in here, Mr. Bigglesworth.

Have a great night, hikers.  And cheers!  From the Florida Trail.  Late night greetings hikers!
Mike

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A below freezing Good Morning, Hikers!

I apologize not being in touch sooner.  It’s been a week of incredible experiences, the telling of which was hobbled by an unforeseen and totally unknown technical issue.  But hey, water under the bridge now.  We’re back on line and I have some cool things to share with you.

I’ve spent this week as a guest of the Panhandle Pioneer Settlement.  Ok, ok, (I can hear you now, “Hey there, Mr. Trail Hiker, aren’t you supposed to be hiking the trail??”

Well guess what?  The trail passes right through this enchanting step back in time and anyone who walks by this place without unlacing their boots and taking a day or two to experience it is missing one of the true gems of the Florida Trail.

Imagine a place where you can experience the life of an early settler in the untamed lands of Florida BEFORE it was a state.  Live in an authentic cabin, furnished with furniture and bedding and a wood burning stove, the very some ones these early settlers used. 

Ordinarily, a visitor to this charming settlement tours the cabins and is provided a glimpse into the pioneer lifestyle.  I was invited to stay in one, as you already know.  Hikers, I lived it as authentically as possible, and hikers, I loved it.

I had the experience of crafting three batches of sugar cane syrup, a laborious process that takes a full day’s work to accomplish.  One ton of can produces just 13 gallons of syrup, and this ton of cane is ground up one stalk at a time.

Actually it’s more of a squeeze than a grind.  The cane is pushed between two tightly- positioned rollers and crushed as flat as a sheet of paper.  Not a place you want to accidentally put your hand.  And yes, that’s happened before.  When I asked my hosts about it I received a sober, wincing nod in reply. They then added that it is impossible to extract yourself until someone turns off the grinder. There was nothing more to say except –be very, very careful.  I was.

The juice squeezed from the sugar cane is filtered through a burlap screen and collected in a tank.  It’s a water-like pale green liquid and its taste is sweeter than the sweetest tea you ever sipped.  Part of the process is to taste a sample of the juice, because each batch of sugar cane has a slightly different taste.  Some people use the juice to sweeten their drinks and to make homemade sugar cane wine. 

The juice is pumped into a huge cast iron cauldron where it is slowly brought to boil. The boiling process takes about three hours.  This removes most the water, reducing the liquid to syrup.  It’s a fascinating and beautiful process.  It fills the rustic cypress sugar house with an aroma that carries a faint hint of caramel.  It bubbles golden and hot, mesmerizing all who tend to it. 

Once it becomes syrup, it is scooped out with buckets on long, wooden handles.  It is poured through a burlap filter and in to a tank to cool.  The lime green juice has been transformed to deep amber liquid, steaming and sweet.

The bottles are filled from a small spigot by hand while the syrup is hot.  As the level of syrup in the tank is lowered, it leaves behind a gooey, nougat-like substance called “polecat”.  It is pale yellow, very sticky and difficult to scrape from the sides of the tank.  But the effort is worthwhile.  Imagine taffy that tastes like the inside of a Milky Way bar.  Well hikers, it’s much sweeter, stickier and tastier than that and believe me, kids of all ages – even say…48, go nuts for the stuff.

The cauldron used in the syrup making process here is over 150 years old, and once served to boil salt form seawater.  Salt was a valuable commodity that was made just down the Apalachicola River from here in the port town of Apalachicola.  Salt was used to cure and preserve food – remember, there wasn’t ice in the south back then.  So vital was salt to survival that during the War Between the States that the Union army launched attacks against salt works in towns along the Gulf of Mexico – including Tampa – to starve the Confederate Army into submission.

As much as the syrup-making process is a rewarding one to those who do it, it is also a social event.  Many people here in Calhoun County grow small plots of cane just so they can participate in the fun and social interaction that accompanies the work.  Stories are retold, and this anecdotal oral history is woven into the fabric of the next generation.  It isn’t unusual to meet three –or more – generations at an old-fashioned syrup making event.

And that’s what it is, an event.  And we were invited to be a part of it.  Lucky dogs, we are, no?

Polecat-sweet Cheers! from the Florida Trail, Mike

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Mornin’ Hikers!

For those of you following the blog – I slept like a baby.  And this despite the grim, tortured eyes staring out from the portraits that hang on the wall above my bed.

And what of my bed?  It is an original fixture of this cabin, built by Henry Hamilton Wells a century and half ago.  It’s “box springs” are made of rope, strung beneath the mattress in a checkerboard fashion.  Firmness is adjusted by tightening or loosening the rope. 

The rope supports a mattress stuffed with horse hair.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, was wasted back in the earliest days of Florida’s pioneers.  The big surprise is that this bed is more comfortable than that upon which I sleep at home.  The expression “sleep tight” comes from these very beds.  Tightened ropes beneath the mattress keeps one from rolling to the middle.

Next to the bed is a fireplace with a huge hearth.  I build a fire in it an hour or so before I plan to sleep.  It does a nice job of warming the room. Next to the hearth is window which opens on to a wood scaffold.  It is upon this that the firewood to feed the hearth is stacked.  Open the window and grab some split logs for the fire, easy as can be.  This arrangement also meant that the Wells family didn’t have to go outside for wood at night, a good thing, given the dangers that once lurked in these woods.

There is a coffin three feet from where I lay my head. It sits upon a sandbox, rough hewn box designed to keep the sand from filling the freshly dug grave until the coffin is interred. These were built by a 92 year-old man by the name of Preston Nichols who once served as the town’s coffin maker. It is upholstered in white linen.  Coffins were built from the straightest of boards.  In fact, the sawmill operator would take his finest boards and stash them up in the loft above the sawmill to season up - nothing but the best for the dearly departed.

Back in the day, there was no need for a funeral director.  The deceased where washed and laid out in the home.  It was here that friends would visit and share memories.  They’d bring with them food to tie the family over until they were back on their feet.  Families depended on each other back in those days, and the whole community mourned the loss of one of their own.  The mourning was not only for the lost life, but also for the loss of that individual’s contribution to the well-being of the community.  So important was every pair of hands.

For warmth, my bed has three quilts.  Quilts and their making is an art born of necessity.  When clothes finally wore out, they were not thrown out.  Nothing, absolutely nothing, was ever thrown out.  Pioneers were our first recyclers. 

No, the best of these tattered clothing was sewn in to quilts.  The worst of it was twisted and made into rugs.  As a guest of the long-dead Wells family, I sleep beneath those quilts, and step out of my boots on those rugs.  I am as grateful for their warmth as they must have been a century ago. 

Just a short piece down the way from me is the Sexton cabin.  Its sparse furnishings make my place look like a palace.  It has but one room and it’s not much bigger than a one-car garage.  The Sexton’s conceived and raised sixteen young’uns within those four log walls.  The kids slept in the loft above the room when they grew old enough to ascend the ladder to it.  There were 15 Sexton sons and one daughter.  The Sexton family would host a “frolic” now and again.  Young people would come from miles around to dance and play music.  When they got thirsty, they’d dip a ladle into a cedar bucket on the porch and have a long drink of water.

I was introduced to fellow named Jerry Neel, 76, who told me a passed-down story about a Sexton frolic.  Seems that one ole’ boy switched out the water in the bucket with moonshine.  According to Jerry, that started the “frolic’n” in earnest. 

I am awakened by a choir of roosters each morning here.  My first order of business after dressing is to barefoot my way into the kitchen and kindle a fire in the wood burning stove.  I head out to the well behind the Yon place to draw my water from an old pitcher pump there.  It is cold and clear and sweet.  I fill the kettle and place it on the stove.  In less than a half hour I’m sipping the day’s first cup of coffee.  I add just a touch of cane syrup.  That’s how one does it here.  The amber sweetness of this home-made syrup favors the black coffee with a dash of Florida that no Starbucks can approach. Indeed, it is the taste of our history.

And those ghosts I wrote of in my last blog?  They’re all over this home.  In the floors worn down by a century of walking and in the quilts still piled high after a century of warming.  I feel them all around me as night falls and I write in my journal in the light of an oil lamp.  It is through them that I have come to know this warm hospitality that is unchanged since the first settlers carved a living and a state from these forests.

It’s here, in the Panhandle Pioneer Settlement, that these old ways remain alive and well. The settlement began as the dream of a man raised on a one-mule farm right here in Blountstown.  His name is Willard Smith, and yesterday we spent the afternoon together.  I’ll tell you his story, and more about this beautiful, peaceful dream of his, in my next blog.

But right now I’ve got a mess of eggs – I collected them from the coop behind my cabin just this morning – frying up in a cast iron skillet on the stove.  We’re going to eat good today, aren’t we, hikers?

Youbetcha, we will.  Cheers from the Florida Trail. Mike

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Evenin’ Hikers,

Man, I don’t even know where to start!

Do I start where I tell you that I’m writing this from the kitchen of a 160 year-old cabin in Blountstown, Florida?  And that there’s a coffin in my circa 1846 bedroom?

Do I start from where I was filling my plate with black-eyed peas, fried cornbread and collard greens – all nestled around some smoked sausage and washed down with home-made sweet tea… seriously….while a bluegrass jam session involving at least eight varieties of stringed instruments tore it up right next to me on the porch?

Or do I start with learning about and participating in the creation of one of Florida’s most delectable contributions to civilization as I hope you know it – the languid amber sweetness of 100%, no additives, no preservatives, as sweet as true love sugar cane syrup.

I’m gonna need a bit of time to sort it all out.  It’s all too crazy-good to write about coherently after the day we’ve had on this trail, isn’t it?

Let’s go to bed… or coffin.  I did mention the coffin, didn’t I?  Did I mention the urn in the room that I was warned to not even think about, so hard was the life of its long-dead inhabitant.  And the pictures on the walls, all of very grim-looking people who may or not be occupying the room, depending on your belief in ghosts?

This trip just gets cooler and cooler, doesn’t it?  Ooooo, wait a minute! What was that chill that just passed through the room….even more coolness, that’s what.  I’ll fill you in on the details in the morning, OK?

And cheers from the Panhandle Pioneer Settlement along the Florida Trail! Mike

PS - If you guys don’t hear from me again, don’t worry… I’ll be lurking for you*….

* Thanks for the memories, Dr. Paul Bearer, WTOG Channel 44 “Creature Feature”

Good night.

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Happy Thanksgiving, Hikers!

The turkey and ham came through the door in yard-long aluminum pans and their much-anticipated arrival instantly put the finishing touches on the mouth-watering Thanksgiving aroma that had been wafting through the Midget lounge since the first pot-luck sides began to land upon the banquet table.

That delicious dinner, enjoyed in heaping hiker platefuls in the company of 50 good people, is one that I’ll remember always.

Until the dinner bell sounded, I’d spent the day with my gear spread out on my poncho.  Thanksgiving Day brought with it the first warm and sunny day in weeks, and I happily took advantage of it to inspect and maintain the contents of my pack and, just as importantly, the feet that carry it down the trail.

I hope your Thanksgiving Day was just as good.

But hikers, Thanksgiving is not the theme of today’s blog. No, this turns on my time with John “Happy” Fenn.  I referred to him in my most recent post as the man who once worked as Mick Jagger’s bodyguard. 

He wanted to share his story with me, and invited me into his home for the night.  “You need to write a book about me,” he boomed. “I’ll tell you some stories you won’t believe.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. And I look forward to writing that book.

Gruff and hard-edged, Fenn is an unlikely poet, but a poet he is. One of the best I’ve ever read.  His words are tightly-issued in ball point pen on lined, dog-eared paper.  They are his tears and his blood rendered with unflinching honesty into gritty, rhythmic verse. 

A lifelong musician, Fenn has put a few of is poems to music.  The gentle notes of his six-string cannot mask the pain of a life that has left Vietnam, his wives, his health and his fortunes in its two-fisted wake.  He accepts my praise with an uncharacteristically shy shrug and a beer.

He unfolds his 6-foot 4 inch frame and heads for the kitchen to make us a steak sandwich on toast piled high with grilled onions and mushrooms.  An unapologetic Yankee from Branford, Connecticut, he doesn’t just make sandwiches, he crafts them. He makes three, including one for his dog, Bear.  The three of us eat together.  I am a firm believer that you call tell much about a man by how he treats his dog.  ‘Nuff said.

Tomorrow I head for Blountstown, but I now know that I will return to this place, which Fenn calls “a paradise for underachievers.” That leaves nothing else to write but..

Cheers, from the Florida Trail, Mike

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See Econfina Waterfall video

Keepin’ warm, hikers?

I unzipped my tent this morning and for the first time in three days a sheet of ice didn’t drop into the spacious vestibule of Big Agnes.  I popped out of the other side of Econfina yesterday afternoon.  What a place!!!

It has been said that the Econfina section is the beautiful part of the Florida Trail.  After three days of living within its lush confines I can understand that point of view as clearly as Econfina Creek’s spring-uttered waters.

It was on the chilly side.  Highs in the mid-50’s lows in the low, low, low 30’s.  The real crowd-pleaser was the wind.  Before it showed up I had the brilliant notion of taking the blue-blazed trail (leads to water) that showed a sweet campsite situated on a strip between Rattlesnake Lake and a sink-like smaller lake.  Wouldn’t you know that I’d chosen the windiest, coldest and – certainly – the most beautiful campsite on the trail?  I admit to a late start the next morning.  It took three cups of coffee to fully and properly thaw my enthusiasm.

I had a chance to re-flag a part of the trail as well.  As I headed toward Devil’s Hole, the trail emptied out onto a huge opening of clear-cut.  Clear cut is what is left after the timber industry harvests the timber.  All they left behind was a few spindly trees and the Florida Trail signpost.  There was no sign of trail beyond it.  This is why it pays to buy the Florida Trail’s maps and why it pays great dividends to know your way around a compass.

The map indicated the trail led east so that’s where I headed, flagging my route with orange tape I appropriated from my Nokuse expedition with the Trail Hogs.  I used it up on my way across.  Bob and Tom, there’s one blaze-able tree on the way through the wasteland. FYI

The GPS cords are –
West side – N 30 27.564 W 085 33.021
East side – N 30 27.508 W 085 33.170

I reached Devil’s Hole camp around mid afternoon, which means an hour before dark.  It is here that a prodigious spring boils from the limestone bottom of the Econfina, The volume of the creek appears to double as a result of its contribution, a feature that makes Devil’s Hole a favorite swimming hole among those in the know.  Like you.

The trail becomes Appalachian Trail-like once Devil’s Hole is in the rear-view.  Small, spring-fed creeks abound – one reason the Northwest Florida Water Management District has claimed these lands as a protected watershed.  Nice job, ya’ll. 

There are so many bridges in this section that I could almost write a coffee table book called the “Bridges of Econfina Creek.” From single-logs crossings to high-wire suspension acts, this place has them all.  What a blast!

The main attraction of Econfina is Florida’s only true waterfall.  I’ll post pictures of it and this beautiful section later today.  It lies surrounded by old-growth magnolia and oak.  It’s no tourist attraction by along shot.  No observation platform, no bench from which to contemplate nature’s miracles, nope, none of that.  Here you’ll find a steep, leaf-covered bank that prompted me to tie off my pack during the photo shoot to keep it from tumbling into the chilly flow of the Econfina.  I tried to shoot some video for you, and by crackety, I think I may have had some success, there.  I’ll leave it to brilliant technical capabilities of tbo.com to be the final judge of my decidedly amateur effort at film making.

A little over a mile later – I keep time by way of distance – an interesting development that I like.  It’s cool, isn’t it?  Yeah.

So that brings me to today.  Blogworthy all by itself, it is.  I awakened on private property about a mile north of the Scotts Road trailhead – the sad northern terminus of the Econfina section.  This forlorn trailhead gives absolutely no proper indication of the breathtaking wilderness that lays only a ten minute walk down a scrub-lined sandy trail.  Maybe that’s good.  The jury is still out on that.

Anyhow, I got at zero dark thirty to make sure I was un-trespassed before the locals found me out.  No coffee, no oatmeal – just the seabag-drag ASAP.  Light was breaking over the trees when I began my lonely 20-mile roadwalk to Blountstown. Bummer, huh?

NO WAY!  I’d gone about three miles and change when I stumbled upon Midget’s Lounge.  Yup, and it was open, ya’ll.  No kidding.  They were cleaning up and invited me inside for a cup of coffee.  Can you believe it?  Hot strong coffee made by new friend Dave Padelt, who cleans up after the night crowd.  Good stuff.

Well, let’s just say that they get started early around Betts, FL.  Just down the road a piece from Fountain, Fl. These “Fountaineers” –their term, not mine - are some good people and Midget’s Lounge is their headquarters.  Owned by Aretha Brooks and manned – or more precisely womanned – by her sister, Penny.  her husband, Big Al, a veteran of the Vietnam War will take over for her tonight.  Depending on the date and time of your arrival you might meet Ebony or Donna, two beauties who woman the counter from time to time.

Okay- can you stand another trail angel story?  Or have you quit believing in angels?  Prepare to have your faith restored...again.

They offered me their electric power, several graciously declined beers –jeez, it’s only 9am! – and a delicious chicken and rice lunch - oh man...cooked up by Aretha herself.  Too dadgum good, ya’ll. 

And that’s where I am right now.  Sitting nearest the plug at the end of the bar, writing you a tale of America at its best.  These are hard working, hard partying people who are exactly what you see.  They fuss at each other, drink with each other and look after each other.  Midget’s has a couple of pool tables, Ray Charles on the jukebox and a pot-luck Thanksgiving Dinner tomorrow - don’t forget that it’s Karaoke Night , ya’ll.

There’s Ron Padgett, the retired Air Force guy who just might buy a computer.  There’s Denise, a sweet woman who can dish it out with the best of ‘em.  There are at least three Mikes – all of them cool.  And then there’s John, a big, strapping, booming-voiced vet who was a body guard for Mick Jagger.  Believe it, it’s true. And then their Howard, a jovial sort and a descendant from one of the area’s first families to settle in these parts.

So, coming to you live from Midget’s Lounge, an oasis of hospitality located at the intersection of CR 167 and US 231 and home of the Fountaineers ….

Cheers, and yes, I mean cheers, from the Florida Trail.

PS Hey Scout leader that I saw on the trail but you didn’t see me because you were too busy screaming at the kids.  Quit overloading your kids and quit yelling at them if you want them to enjoy backpacking.  They’re Boy Scouts, not grunts, you cement-headed wanna-be.  (Expletives deleted grudgingly by the author)

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Good Morning, fellow Hikers

With sincere apologies to Tom McEwen, I send you this morning dispatch over a zip-lock freezer bag of hot plain oatmeal and a steaming GI canteen cup of freshly French-pressed Starbucks French Roast coffee, all of which are being inhaled on a pine-dotted knoll in the middle of a sun-streaked morning forest.

Last night, as the twilight snuck behind the horizon to leave me in the company of a million stars in an infinitely clear heaven, I slipped into my sleeping bag after rather easy day on the trail.

I propped my head against my pack and looked into the sky, so happy to be enveloped in the magnificent isolation of the woods.  As is my habit, I slipped the earpieces of my small radio into my ears and pulled on my knit cap to keep them in place.  I switched on the power, delighted to find that I was tuning in the opening notes of the Prairie Home Companion on NPR. 

I lay there, laughing.  My yuks were probably the only human noise within miles.  Over the next moonless hour, I let my imagination be transported to the gloomy offices of Guy Noir, Private Eye and to the pastoral stoicism of Lake Woebegone.  It was heaven beneath the heavens.

So clear was the night and so deprived of ambient light was my camp, that I could easily see satellites rip across the sky at speeds that make the final lap of a NASCAR race look like a parking lot.  Garrison signed off, and so did I.

The noise that brought morning was one that I recognized but at first could not place in the fog of awakening.  It was a bird that discovered that the peak of Big Agnes made for a fine place to call to his brothers and sisters.  The first light of sun made little bird feet shadows that I could clearly see.  They made a scratchy noise as he balanced himself on the single aluminum pole just beneath the rain fly.  So close was he to me that I could almost hear him inhale between chirps. 

He flew away when he heard me stir beneath him.  He left with his mission accomplished, this avian alarm clock.  It was 0600 and time to get up. 

Another glorious day!  Every day a holiday, every meal, a banquet, All that was missing was my friend Gene McColgan’s Irish baritone belting out “Oh, what a beautiful morning.” Were he (and you) here with me, I guarantee you we’d have been treated to a verse or two of “Oklahoma”.  And Gino has some mean pipes.

Well, better pack up and hit the trail, there folks.  I’ll be passing a grotto which is said to feature Florida’s only true waterfall.  Visit floridatrail.org to see a picture of it.  I’ll post some more of them – and hopefully some video – when I can plug in.

Enjoy your Sunday, hikers- and have an extra piece of Cuban toast - liberally buttered and thoroughly guava’d - for me, will you, please?
Cheers from the Florida Trail, ya’ll.  Mike

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What a day for a hike, eh, hikers?

This happens to be one of those rare occasions when I can write to you from the trailhead of the Econfina (pronounced EE-con-FINE-uh) section of the Florida Trail.  Want to be laughed at instead of laughed with?  Pronounce it ek-con-feena.  Do that and you might as well have pulled into the parking lot driving a Lincoln Continental with Massachusetts tags and trunk-load of luggage fashioned from carpets.

Wow, it is so great to back on the trail.  Those orange blazes are like open arms after that layover in civilization.

But it was worth it, helping to build the bridge over Monkey Creek – sweating alongside those great and talented F-Troopers, SCA-ers, and FTA and USFS staffers – was totally worth the layover.  A tip to my blog readers: There will be a story in the Trib about the Monkey Creek bridge project one week from tomorrow (barring anything unforeseen editorial edicts).  On that day I will post a “companion blog” that will touch more deeply on a couple of cool things I learned while there. 

Teaser? OK, just one.

When you hike the Florida Trail, you are instantly appreciative of the trail workers who paint the blazes, mow the footpath and clear the obstacles.  Trail hikers would be trapped upon that proverbial fecally-challenged creek - sans paddle- without these rough-and-ready volunteers.

But behind the loppers and mowers is a chain of bright, passionate professionals – some volunteer, some paid – that strive mightily to capture more wilderness access and more resources for this extraordinary undertaking.  I want to introduce you to them. The shared a few things that might come as a surprise to you.  Suffice it say that I am hitting the trail jazzed with sense of renewed optimism about the future.

Okay- well.  Dang, it’s been fun.  How are your packs riding?  Good?  Great. Well, we’re getting ready to see some of the most beautiful sights on the trail. 

“Let’s do it.”

Cheers from the Florida Trail!  Mike

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Ahoy Hikers!

So where have I been?  Man, it’s been an interesting week.

I’m writing you from the intersection of SR 20 and SR 77, a fairly remote crossroads that lies between Freeport and Chipley, FL.  There’s a BP fuel station at the intersection, but really, it’s much more than that. 

Imagine a frontier trading post.  As the closest store within tens of miles, this place is where the locals shop not only for fuel, but for many of their household needs.  Additionally, the store serves breakfast and lunch, all of which are prepared right there at the trading post. 

Breakfast is an assortment of biscuits decked out in the inevitable bacon, cheese, egg and sausage combinations.  Available also is sausage gravy, a southern delicacy that the ladies behind counter manage quite well.

Lunch is basically fried anything-you-can-name.  Burritos, egg rolls, everything.  All fried to a nice shade of golden, artery-occluding brown.  I confess to having tried the burritos – once.

There is a small area in the store that has tables for dining-in patrons.  I have been able to commandeer the one farthest back next to the electrical outlets.  I was able to transform it into the Tampa Tribune Backwoods Bureau where I could caption my photos, blog, write my Sunday page, charge up everything and work out some technical issues with the lovely and talented Natasha DelToro.. 

I did manage to get away from the bureau for two days this week.  FTA legislative liaison Kent Wimmer picked me Tuesday to bring me to the Apalachicola National Forest where the F-Troop - the FTA’s hardest charging group of trail building volunteers from throughout the state– were assembling and placing an 80 foot bridge across Monkey Creek.  I’ve posted a SNAP gallery with some images from the bridge project.

They were supported in that amazing effort by a crew from the SCA – the Student Conservation Association.  What a bunch of cool people the SCA people are.  Consisting largely of college-age men and women, an SCA crew spends 12 weeks in the backcountry building trails and doing seriously hard labor conservation projects.

I was totally impressed with their outdoor ethics, their intellect, their positive energy and wide-open friendliness.  I’d love to spend twelve weeks on the trail with these people.  They are the best of their generation.

In fact, I’ve asked them to guest blog for me while I’m deep in the no-signal having boonies.  Won’t it be nice to read something written by someone with an education?  I just hope I have a job when I emerge form the woods!  Want to know more about the SCA and its remarkable service history?  Maybe you’d like to join their ranks or support them in some way.  http://www.thesca.org will get you up to speed.

Ramrodding the project was a fascinating character from Idaho named Ian Barlow. Barlow is a specialist in performing complex rigging operations using nothing but human power and mechanical advantage.  A modern-day Archimedes, if you will.  And a great guy to boot.

Want to know more about the bridge project?  If you’re a local, look in the Tampa Tribune a week from this Sunday.  If not, check out tbo.com on that same Sunday.  That 4000 pound bridge section that I helped install was moved into place without any motorized devices whatsoever.  It’s a great story about some amazing people.  Don’t miss it.

Until today, the half-dozen strong staff of the BP trading post has been kind enough to turn a blind eye to my tent, which I pitched out of sight behind a shed.  Unfortunately the owner got wind of my presence and insisted that I relocate off the property, They were very nice about it.

Thank you, kind and generous belles of the BP. 

You don’t know the meaning of the word stranger. Everyone is honey, or baby or darlin’ and you’ve called me all three. I won’t forget your old south hospitality and sweet dispositions.  Especially you, Theresa.  You, who invited this scruffy old hiker to wash his clothes and get take a SHOWER at your home.  You are a genuine trail angel!

Tomorrow morning I strike out for the Econfina Creek section of the Florida Trail.  Many consider this piece to be the most beautiful section of the trail.  Judging by the beauty I’ve witnessed on this remarkable footpath to date, I’d hate to have to choose my favorite section.  One thing is for sure, I’ve developed a serious case of cabin fever and I can’t wait to be among the sights and nights of the trail. 

On a different tack, I’ve received some comments and mail asking about the specific weighs of each piece of equipment that I’m carrying.  The truth is that although I take weight into consideration, I don’t get my knickers in a knot over it.

I chose each piece of gear in my pack based upon its historical reliability.  I can engage this luxury because I’m fortunate to be big enough and strong enough to carry a backpack of considerable weight without it affecting my speed or well-being.  Unlike the ultra-light backpacking set, I like a handle on my toothbrush and full-length tent stakes that keep Big Agnes firmly anchored in the event of a serious blow. 

Those full length stakes – driven to the hilt in this loose panhandle sand - came in handy last night when 80 mph winds ripped through here, accompanied by torrential rain and lightning. At one point the canopy over the gas station was in serious jeopardy but Agnes shrugged it off.  I slept warm and dry and so did my gear, there.  Such shelter comes with a few ounces of extra weight.  I happily bear each and every one of them.

Keep in mind also that I’m on this trail for at least three months.  90 days of open-close, zip-unzip, off-on and well, you get the idea.  Gear employed in an application such as this is subjected to a mush greater frequency of use as well as and occasional bashing or other mishap.  A lot of go-light gear, while functional, just doesn’t pass the long-term toughness test.  I know this because I have a utility room filled with broken and torn pieces of it.

I really enjoy your comments and emails.  It’s great to have you on the trail with me.  You’ll want to get good nights sleep tonight. We leave at zero dark thirty.

Cheers from the Florida Trail, Mike

PS Get well soon, Clyde.  I love you, man.

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