Photos: Along The Trail | Map: Track Mike

Photos: Eglin low water route

Hola Hikers,

I’m not sure whether you’re seeing compu-gibberish, a link or an actual photo above this line. Ms. Natasha DelToro, my wingwoman at tbo.com is giving up her formerly peaceful Sunday morning to lead my Neanderthalic brain through the process of giving you some cool stuff to look at.

While i’ve got you here, there’s something i wanted to run by you. many of you have posted comments that i would like to reply to via email. Unfortunately, I’m unable to do so because I don’t have your email address. The only means I have to reply to you comes only when you email me. Thank you for your comments, and please don’t stop because i really enjoy seeing them. But if you have a specific question or if you want you want to meet me along the trail, I need your email address to send you a reply.

Please keep in mind that my internet connection is wholly dependant on the whimsical notions of the Alltel Aircard diety. That means it might be a couple of days before can send a reply back to you.

By the way.. if in fact there is a picture in this heading, it’s of the wicked cool low water route in the Alaqua section of the Eglin Air Force Base segment of the Florida Trail.

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Happy Veteran’s Day, hiking buddies!

It’s been a great couple of days since last we spoke, hasn’t it?  When last I wrote to you, I was writing from the aft deck of FTA section leader Bob Deckert’s waterfront home.  Thank you again, Bob and Mary, for your superb expression of hospitality.

Bob dropped me off at the Alaqua trailhead in the Eglin AFB section.  Tom Daniel was waiting for us. It was these two with whom I spent a whole day deciding the route that the Florida Trail will take through the Nokuse (pronounced no – go – see) Plantation.  The plantation is a 53,000 acre privately-funded conservation effort by local-man-done-good (reeeeeal good, actually) Mr. M.C. Davis.  Nokuse means black bear in the language of the Creek Indian tribe.

A quick word about Tom Daniel - I spent that day with him and his FTA peers and no one mentioned that Daniel was honored last week with the American Trails Award for Trail Worker of the Year in the State of Florida.  I wrote a bit about Tom in my story for the Tribune this Sunday.  He’s a retired criminal investigator for the IRS and serious guy.  His primary bailiwick in the FTA is the miles of Florida Trail that follow the northern boundary of Eglin Air Force Base.  I finished Eglin yesterday.  It was a thoroughly wicked hike.

My favorite piece of it was the 15.2 mile Alaqua section. The hands-down highlight of this trail is the lowland magnolia forests that surround Alaqua Creek. I spent my first night on this trail at the Alaqua Campsite, a spacious, pine needle-carpeted campsite 3.4 miles east of the trailhead where I seeya-latered Bob and Tom. 

You’re probably thinking “3.4 miles?  What kind of kinder-hiking is DeWitt doing?
Well, there’s a good reason that I didn’t exactly slay the miles that day.  I didn’t want to get blown up.

That’s right, hikers, blown up.  I was about a half-mile away from the campsite when I remembered that I was supposed to check in with Eglin and inform them that I, a thru-hiker, was on the reservation.

The lady who answered the phone told me to STOP RIGHT THERE.  She followed with something like this - “There is some unexploded ordnance about a mile to the north of you. All the roads are closed. It’s being dealt with right now.  You should be alright where you are, but please don’t go any further until you here it go off.”

Is that just way, way, way cool, or what??

She didn’t know what kind of bomb it was.  So I hopefully assumed it to be a big one.  I stretched out and pulled my cover over my eyes for a nap.  I was awaked about an hour later by the rumble of an explosion.  This is not uncommon at Eglin.  Distant sounds of small arms fire and various and sundry explosive ordnance, all functioning as advertised, make for an interesting and unique soundtrack to the hike.

The bomb-delay put a serious cramp in my distance plans.  Daylight begins to abandon the panhandle at about 1630 and twilight is a very brief affair.  I ambled in to Alaqua Camp feeling fresh and froggy.  I put my energy to work collecting firewood.  The campsite has a fire ring and I decided that after having probably….almost….well, maybe…OK, slightly avoided a horrific death, I deserved a fire.

And a great fire it was. I sat on the bench nearest it and wolfed down one of my backpack pot roast dinners chased by a cup of instant green tea.  The food was delicious and the service was exceptional.  As deep black darkness closed around my solitary, fire lit form, I was once again reminded of how much I like being alone in the night woods under a what Tom Waits calls “a pin cushion sky.”

A cup of hot cocoa later, I decided it was time to check my eyelids for cracks.  I slept very well, serenaded with a lullaby of low-flying helicopters and the muffled thumps of far-off high-explosives doing what they do best.

The next morning came early.  I tore down a bag of oatmeal, packed my trash and made a canteen cup of seriously strong Tang (man that I am) and raised a toast to the 231st birthday of the United States Marine Corps.

November 10 - Marine Corps birthday- is a memorable date in the mind of every Marine. For those out of harms way, it is a day of lavish balls, many raised glasses and great camaraderie.  Those that have served in harm’s way tell of Marine Corps birthdays when a helicopter loaded with steak, baked potatoes and cake would land – often under fire- to bring the celebration to their remote and dangerous area of operations.  No Marine is forgotten, and no Marine forgets.  I took a few minutes to remember the Marines serving courageously in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Corporal Justin Chacos and Sgt. Davin Ernsberger are two leathernecks that come to mind.  OOORAH!  Get home safe, Devil Dogs, the rowdy lot of you.

I honored the day by setting out on my longest hike (fully loaded) to date.  It is thirteen miles from Alaqua Campsite to the trailhead at US 331 located nine miles north of Freeport, FL.  I was determined to get it all.  What I didn’t know was that this trail segment traverses some of the most gnarly terrain and eye-popping landscape that you can imagine.

The trail where it crosses the Alaqua Creek floodplain stands out most in my recollection of the hike. This three-mile snake of trail can be impassible in the rainy season.  To keep trail traffic moving, the FTA has mapped a second, higher ground detour.  Because it’s been relatively dry around here, the lower, much wilder main trail was wide open for business…. and I had a packful of money to spend.

You don’t absorb the landscape here, it absorbs you.  As you descend from the high, pine studded sand hills, the air begins to cool and you quickly find yourself immersed in an immense forest of magnolia, holly and gum trees.  Narrow spring-fed creeks, their banks thick with lush flora, split the landscape. 

It takes a sharp eye to stay with the trail.  It is the land of “Florida Switchbacks” – abrupt turns signaled by double blazes of orange.  Failure to notice the doubles can easily start you on a path to you-don’t-wanna-know.

The trickiest part of the trail is traversing the log that crosses Alaqua Creek.  Burdened by the manatee strapped to my back, I admit that it got a wee dicey.  Luckily, some thoughtful soul installed a steel cable hand line above the log. 

Gravely-voiced announcer:  “Hand line installer .. this Bud’s for you.”

So unusual and grand is this antediluvian forest that you feel pangs of sadness when at last the trail begins its uphill route to the higher climes.  I hit the Eglin Portal campsite at 1400.  A Cliff bar lunch and a fresh-squeezed quart of water later, I began the last three miles to the trailhead, barely resisting the tug to dip just once more into all of that dark, wet green. 

I hit the trail head just in time to rendezvous with Mr. Michael Knox, my long-time pal.  Surprised you, didn’t I?  Didn’t see him coming, did you? Well, it turns out he that couldn’t stand the idea of me celebrating the Marine Corps birthday alone.  That, hikers, is a true friend.  We made that nine-mile road walk in ten minutes and we were seated in the homey dining room of the Freeport Café in twelve.

I was still wringing wet with sweat when the perfect waitress, Dee, took our order.  Two sweet teas later, the lovely Dee returned with two heaping plates of brown-gravied, French-fry-sided slabs of country fried steak ….and her home-made slaw … and a salad with her secret recipe Thousand Island dressing.  We went through that chow like Grant took Richmond, leaving no meaningful work for the dishwasher.  Thank you, Dee.

We camped in the woods that night in a small makeshift campsite near an electrical distribution easement.  We offered many toasts, Mike suffered through a thousand thank you’s and we fed the fire until the libations were exhausted and the soporific effects of diner began to sandbag our eyes.  I crawled in to Big Agnes and slept the sleep of the protected.  Good night, Chesty, wherever you are.

A better Marine Corps birthday I’ve never had.  Thank you, Mike Knox, Gulf War veteran, USAF Explosive Ordnance Disposal.  And Happy Veterans Day to Mike and to all men and women who have worn this nation’s uniform.

Happy trails, indeed.  Cheers from the Florida Trail.  Mike

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Howdy hikers!

I promised you a gear blog.  At the same time I’m going to try to answer a few questions with regards to that which I am carrying on the trail.  Some of you are going shopping, some of you going camping and some of you, I guess, are wondering what you can get me for Christmas.

First, the weather.  The weather has been magnificent.  The mercury dipped in to the high 30’s (F) a couple of nights, but for the most part I’m sleeping in the 50’s at night and hiking in the 70’s during the day.  But for a couple of days of rain, my days have been clear, crisp and bathed in sunlight. 

And the rain? There are just a handful of things in this world that are more beautiful and fragrant than the forest after a rain, none of which are not on the trail.  But the forest seems to like nothing better than a good drenching. It perks up, green and luminous. 

I’ve seen very few mosquito’s so far.  I’ve sustained no mosquito bites and have yet to apply the first squirt of repellant.  I’m very OK with that.

The gear?  Well, I’m carrying my load in a pack made by The Works at Mystery Ranch.  Mystery Ranch is Dana Gleason’s (formerly the Dana in Dana Designs) new company.  My pack is the G-6000 model and it’s an amazing load bearing system.  Rides like a Cadillac on chrome. 

My stove is a Coleman duel-fuel (white gas and unleaded gasoline) Exponent.  It is stable on all kinds of surfaces and virtually bomb-proof.  Have had it and used it mercilessly for two years. It has never failed me.

My boots are all-leather, no frou-frou HiTechs.  These boots are more comfortable than going barefoot on Bermuda grass On the trail, nothing is more important than your feet and these wafflestompers have my best interests at heart.  I Aquasealed and seam-sealed them before I left for the trail.  They stick to the trail without leaving ruts and I’ve had several occasions to immerse them. My dogs have stayed warm and dry.  I’ve logged at least 30 or 40 miles since my blister episode (who’s counting) and am blister-free.

Socks?  Wigwam and Thorlo’s.  As long as they fit and have a high wool content, just about any sock works for me.  I don’t wear liners.

I purify my water with a Katadyn Hiker.  One liter per minute.  What more could I want?
I’m also using a new product by Sawyer which incorporates a filter-equipped lid and a Nalgene bottle.  It’s been good system for when I’m on the go and want to do some quick hydration.  Yes, convenience has come to the backcountry.

One of the big gear hits has been the Sea-to-Summit dry bags that I use to line my pack and protect my sleeping gear.  They weigh virtually nothing, are built like a jailhouse and give me huge piece of mind that my electronics and other stuff will remain dry and serviceable. 

I sleep in a +20 degree Slumberjack mummy-style bag.  I augment it with a GI poncho liner when it gets a tad nippy. 

I carry a Swiss army knife for the blades and fine tools.  I have a small LED light attached to my boonie cover for ops after dark.  I carry an Etrex Vista GPS and a compass to figure out where in heck I’m at so that I can tell you.

Also within my pack is small repair kit with Seam grip, a couple of burly needles and dental floss for thread.  My duct tape (good for everything) is wrapped around my trekking poles.

I carry three t shirts and three pairs of shorts.  Also in my spacious dig-in closet are one pair of trousers that zip into shorts and one button-down collared shirt (you never know when you’ll be having cocktails on the dock, right?) All are made of high-speed quick-dry fabric. 

The balance of my gear is a cell phone, laptop, Digital SLR camera plus two lenses, a small hand-held digvid cam,batteries to power all of it and a tri-pod to hold all straight and still.  Along with these go the cables, chargers, inverters, transducers and transmogrifiers to make it all connect.  Sheeesh!  Then of course there’s the maps, the permits, the paperwork and the log book.

And finally… Big Agnes.  Not just a nickname but the name of shipyard that built her.  She’s a three season gal with a roomy vestibule and ample beam.  Her free-standing form sets up in flash and she carrys at just under 5 pounds.  Heck of tent, there Nancy.  Thank you.

Well, I better get busy.  I’ve a story due Friday morning and this will be my last chance to write and send it.  I hope this has helped answer your questions.  I’ve probably left out a couple of things but my objective was to fill you in on the big stuff.  I apologize for being in a bit of rush, but time, tides and editors wait on no man.  Natasha Deltoro, my tbo.com counterpart back in Tampa, tells me that there’s a way to add pictures to these things.  When I make Freeport in a couple of days I’ll sit down and follow her very detailed instructions and we’ll see if we can’t get some photo’s on this thing.  What do you think?  That’ll be cool, won’t it, mates?

Cheers form the Florida Trail!  Mike

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Guten Morgen, hikers!

Well, I almost ashamed to report to you the events of the past day and night.  I don’t deserve the bounty that came my way.

The night before last was a wet one, storms rolled in all night showering Big Agnes with rainfall.  I, safely ensconced behind her fabric walls, stayed dry and warm.  Not so much as drop managed it’s way into my sanctuary.  Nancy, thank you so much for convincing me that Big Agnes needed to make this hike with me.  She acquitted herself with distinction.  Thank you, there, Nancy.

A lull in the rain around 0500 bought me enough time to pack up and hit the trail in time to meet Tom Daniel and Ed Walker at the Alaqua trailhead.  It was a three-mile hike to the trailhead, one made mostly in the dark.  I was to meet them at 0900, I got there at 0700.  Plenty of time to wait around and watch the golden silk spiders alert upon every drop that struck their intricately-woven webs.  Often misnamed as “banana spiders,” these beautiful arachnids construct their webs of a golden silk that is best appreciated in the light of morning.  Don’t miss it.

Tom and Ed are part of the Choctawhatchee Chapter of the FTA.  They and I were to meet Bob Deckert at the Nokuse Plantation to – get this – decide and flag where a brand new section of the Florida Trail will traverse Nokuse’s 50,000 acres.  I never thought I’d ever get the chance to play a part in deciding the course of a National Scenic Trail, of which there are only eight in the country.

These are three interesting men.  Tom is a retired IRS agent.  Lean, graybearded and intense, he has the longest tenure with the FTA of the three and serves as the trail coordinator for the chapter.

Ed is retired from three decades of making sure your mail gets delivered.  He’s a bull, powerfully built but quiet, like guys like that can be.

Deckert is the man charged with plotting the course of the Nokuse section of trail.  He is the section leader.  Trim and totally at home in the outdoors, he once rode his bicycle from Chicago to Los Angeles.  He has the aerial maps, the safety equipment, rolls upon rolls of vinyl orange flagging tape and all the other accoutrements necessary to set about accomplishing some serious trail routing, as it is known in the business.

We had a blast!  We bushwacked through ti-ti (prounounced tie-tie), a dense bush that is biologically inclined to grow in places that would make fine trail terrain.  We walked through acres of longleaf pine beneath which flourish a thousand fall-burnished turkey oaks embroidered with the brilliant yellow hues of goldenrod. 

I’ll be writing more about the trail routing process, the Nokuse Plantation and how these came to coincide in this Sunday’s Tampa Tribune.  Those beyond our circulation area can find the story on tbo.com by clicking the Tampa Tribune tab. 

We wrapped up our day at Nokuse.  I accepted Bob Deckert’s gracious invitation to spend the night at his place.  His place.  Man…

He and his long-time girlfriend, Mary, an OB/Gyn nurse, live in Ft. Walton Beach on placid Cinco Bayou.  Their home is breathtaking, paneled and floored with rich wood throughout.  It is one of the area’s first homes, built back in the day - built in that way that homes are no longer built - to last forever.

Bob’s an artist, and his studio – where he sculpts bronze, draws and pours over trail maps- overlooks the water.  Mary helps deliver babies and then teaches these new mothers how to nurse their wailing arrivals.  These are cool people.

One night I’m unwashed and sleeping in a tent that every single drop of rain is trying desperately to penetrate, the next evening I’m sitting on the dock of a placid bayou, legs outstretched, sipping a St. Pauli Girl and engaged with Bob in bright conversation about the events of the day.

Talk about a study in contrasts.

We dined on an excellent salad that featured every manner of vegetables ina light vinegarette, medium-rare steak, thumb-sized shrimp all of which was followed by a bowl of rum raisin ice cream over warm apple pie.  We watched the election returns roll in.  Trail magic?  Folks, that’s trail magic on a scale that defies comprehension. 

And that’s the news from just about a zillion miles away from the Florida Trail.  I attack the Alaquq section – the final section – of Eglin AFB next.  Eglin AFB deserves big kudos for allowing the FTA to route this trail on their lands.  These are great and wild lands just ripe for the hiking.

PS – Thank you for all of your mail and comments.  I am delighted that you are enjoying the trail with me.  For those of you whom have written wanting to know what sort of gear I’m packing, I’ll dedicate a blog directly to that topic next time. 

May you have fair winds and following seas until we meet again.  Cheers!  Mike

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Hey Hey Hikers!

I must preface this blog with a warning. I’m going to write about a couple of sandwiches. My description may include graphic depictions, adult situations, partial nudity and adult language.

Just kidding.  But the sandwiches were not. 

The first is the “Down Home Crews Burger.” Fabricated by the Lucky 13, a restaurant that happens to have a truckstop on the premisis, this cheeseburger is big enough to warrant a birth certificate.  It comes half buried by the best French fries you may ever have.  It is not to be missed if you’re passing through this away.

Sandy Friend, well-known hiking book author and Communications Director of the Florida Trail Association highly recommended the Lucky 13.  Clay Dutton, his girlfriend, Catherine Millhouse and I met our trail angel Alvin Blocker there for an early dinner.  Alvin, owner of Crestview Taxi provided Clay and Catherine the necessary shuttle service to enable them to preposition their vehicle at the Lucky 13.  Alvin met us there and then ferried us to trailhead – quite a distance – and, once he found we were on this hiking journalism project, refused to take money for the fare. 

We agreed instead to meet at the Lucky 13 the next day, where he would have to let me buy him one of the aforementioned cheeseburgers.  We got to know each other better over dinner.  Turns out Alvin is a hiker and is currently planning to attack the Appalachian Trail.  Problem is that his cab company business is growing by leaps and bounds.  Crestview is one of those spread out towns, the grocery store is six miles away from the hotel.  Walmart, a pretty good supplier, is five miles away.

Here’s the tip – Call Alvin at Crestview Taxi. (850) 682 – 0007.  This is the guy to call if you need to make a couple of stops.  Very reasonable and up to speed on what you need.  He’s talking about starting a hostel near the SR 85.  That would be nice.

Well, the Dutton – Millhouse combo dropped me off back at the trailhead and I started easing my way through the woods, finally ending up about dead center of Eglin AFB, where I wrote the blog previous to this one.  What a beautiful night, me and the coyotes got together and howled at the moon.  I was hoarse this morning.  You know you’ve had a good howl when that happens.

I jumped up early and headed out, making it quickly to a road that leads to Mossy Head.  You see, a restaurant there had been recommended to me, and it wasn’t out of the way by all that much.  PLUS , I needed to recharge my batteries on this laptop and send you all a blog - as promised.

Well, I ease on in to Mossy Head, a small place with a gas station and small restaurant.  I eased over to the restaurant, anxious to have one of those Bar-B-Q sandwiches I’d heard about last night. 

The place is called “Simply Good” and is owned by Merlin and Marian Smith.  They bought the place three months ago from its long time owner, Gerald Darby, and had the wisdom not to change a thing.

The Bar-B-Q here is worth a drive from Tampa.  It is phenomenal.  I had the combo BBQ Sub.  Chicken, Pork and Beef.  All done so well that you could taste the distinct differences in the flavors, yet Merlin’s preparation makes them rhyme like a poem.  Don’t miss this place.  I had the 16” er.  A Sub you should order only if you’ve played an organized contact sport. Preferably varsity.  If you still have your pads, bring them.

That’s where I am now.  Merlin is letting me charge my stuff here, write to you and eat a perfect lunch.  All washed down by first-quality sweet tea.  Yeah, this is really roughing it. 

I had a wonderful time with Clay and Catherine.  It was Cath’s first backpacking trip.  She executed it like a veteran.  She’s hooked, I think.  And as sweet as Tupelo honey.  She’s at Auburn studying to be a veterinarian.  Yeah, I know.  That’s cool, isn’t it?

Any way, just a couple of restaurant tips and hello form me and the trail.  I need to get back to it, now. Six miles to go until Bull Campsite, my next stop.  Cheers, no worries and a smiling belly from Mossy Head, a jewel on the Florida Trail.  Mike

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What’s shakin’ hikers?

It’s 2030 your time on Sunday night and for the first time I am blogging directly from my evening camp to you!  A landmark event.

I’m writing to you from the middle of the Eglin AFB section of the Florida Trail, it is where I have made camp for the night.  (campsite info)There is a full harvest moon above my head and the coyotes are serenading it in three-part harmony.  I’m seated cross-legged on a poncho spread out in front of Big Agnes, it is my porch.  The moon light is strong enough to illuminate my keyboard.

It’s been an interesting and fun couple of days.  I look forward to sharing them with you.  But tonight, I’m beat.  I put in some great miles and then topped them off with an unforgettable meal.  I promise mouth-watering details - and maybe photos – tomorrow.  I know you want to see pictures and I am working hard on becoming technologically-savvy enough to get them to you.  I’m driving the poor people at tbo.com crazy.

Cheers from the Florida Trail!  Mike

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What’s cookin’, virtual thru-hikers?

I’ve been holed up in Crestview for the past couple of days.  The amount of email waiting for me was staggering, as was the task of hunting and pecking out answers to almost every one of them.  I really enjoy reading my mail from you.

It saddened me to say goodbye to the Blackwater River State Forest.  It is one of the most ecologically diverse and scenic locales that I’ve visitied in the state.  I miss it already.  The trail turns to asphalt in the form of US 90 as you leave the forest.  For the next twenty miles it’s a road walk.  There are no places to camp and your vulnerability to bad ju ju is high.  No one is more unhappy about this than the FTA.  They’ve been working overtime to secure permission to blaze a trail that would course through more natural environs.  This requires the participation of private land owners. I wish them luck.

I had no idea that so many people would take such a great interest in this hike.  It’s good to know that I am in the electronic company of so many experienced hikers.  Your tips, questions, philosophies, stories and wishes have turned the past couple of evenings into virtual campfires where we shared our passions and a few laughs besides.  Pass the S’mores, right?

I’m staying at the Motel Hilton, an old-fashioned motor court on the western edge of town.  Across from it are a McDonalds, a Radio Shack and a Laundromat – just about everything a thru-hiker on a budget could ask for.

One craving I had on the trail was for salad. Fresh food is virtually impossible to pack and the craving for it strengthens by the day.  Have you seen the new salad offerings at Micky D’s?  Not too shabby, not to shabby at all.  I’m not usually a customer of the Golden Arches but that Caesar’s salad will bring me back.  Ok, yeah, the milkshakes will too.  Dang, that chocolate one hit the spot.

The Laundromat is a Laundromat.  After many years on the road, I’ve logged some triple digit time in these establishments.  They all look alike to me.  Just bring a truckload of quarters and everything works out fine.  Tide has those little vending machines sewed up, don’t they?  Hmmmm.

One load for my clothes and another for my sleeping bag and poncho liner.  In and out.

The Radio Shack was actually a high point.  In need of a replacement video camera so that I can post some video for you, I popped in to see what they had to offer.  What I got was an excellent customer service experience.  A young, pretty lady named Michelle Coffin knew what I needed and hooked me up with the right stuff – at a very reasonable price, too.  She didn’t let me leave without batteries, either.  She said she was new at the job.  Well, she has a bright future in retail and I’m thankful for her help.

I was asked by a couple of people why I just didn’t fashion a set of trekking poles from wood.  There are two reasons.  The first is that I knew my poles would be coming back to me this weekend.  Clay Dutton promised me that he’d bring them and that’s good enough for me.  I deserved to pay a price for leaving them behind.  A week without them will result in me never leaving them behind again.  Ever.

The second was that I kept a sharp eye out for something on the ground that might fill the bill but nothing turned up.  As a staunch proponent of Leave No Trace outdoor ethics it would pretty much have to be a matter of survival for me to consider cutting live wood for that purpose.  Why should the forest pay for my dereliction?  Not an option.

Now that my work here is done I’m climbing the walls.  I’ve identified a few items that I now deem unnecessary and am sending those back to Tampa.  Small stuff, but every ounce counts, doesn’t it?  You’re all nodding your heads “yes”, aren’t you?

I leave for the next leg of my journey tomorrow.  It will begin with a six mile road walk through the Crestview business district, which will be cool.  I’ll pass under I-10 and end up at the SR 85 trail head on Little Silver Road.  I’ll walk a mile into the woods and make my first camp at the Pearl Campsite.

I don’t know how my signal will be in terms of being able to connect with my laptop air card.  I’m guessing phone service will be spotty as well.  If that’s the case, it might well be a few days before we have a chance to spend some time together again.  It’s a 50-mile walk across the northern boundary of Eglin AFB, a four or five day hump, I’m guessing. I’m jazzed at the prospect of getting back on the trail and sharing that adventure with you on the other side. 

And, speaking of the “other side” - thank you for all of your warnings about hunting season.  Sleep well knowing that between my very orange and very large pack cover and my visible-from-space orange hunting vest, I look like a walking DOT project.  If I get shot, it won’t be my fault.  It’ll suck, but it won’t be my fault.

Cheers from the Florida Trail!  Mike

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Oct. 30 – Tough going today.  Humping without the trekking poles put all of the weight of my pack on the balls of my feet.  I could feel the “hot spots” – precursors to blisters - and stopped in a shady glade to apply some first aid.

I carry a fairly extensive first aid kit which, with the professional assistance of Claudia, a Registered Nurse, is equipped to rock and roll when the need arises.  I lay on a layer of Spenco Second Skin and doubly secured it to my foot with cloth tape.  It’s important to weight the foot before closing the tape.  This keeps the loop of tape from strangling your foot once you begin walking.

The relief was great, but only for a while.  I had several miles to go and wasn’t about to fall short of my objective -Red Rock Canoe Launch.  Sometimes you get there by walking, sometimes by will.  The will got me there today. I hobbled in to Red Rock as if in leg irons.  In the words of Tom Waits, I was “Walking Spanish down the hall.”

The section of trail between Rt. 4 and Red Rock is a long leaf pine forest, one that was ravaged by both hurricane and fire.  As scenery goes, it gets a little tedious.  The real beauty of this stretch is in the shady draws between the hills of pine and wiregrass.  As you descend the hill, the forest becomes populated by turkey oaks. more info Just seeing the greening up of things is a nice change.  But then it gets better. Small stalks of bamboo sprout from the side of trail, which ultimately leads to a primitive boardwalk over a wet or occasionally wet area.  These are cool, shady places that happen along just about the time when you most need them. 

Of course, once you cross the bridge it’s right back uphill and then down to the next.  This is the topography of the Jackson Red Ground Trail.  Every time I’d get to feeling sorry for my aching feet, I’d imagine them bare, or maybe worse, encased in a pair of leather boots that were the state-of-the-art in 1818.  BAM!  I’d tell myself to shut my pie hole and “git some.” The greater suffering of others lessens that which you think you feel.  Pain is weakness leaving the body.  Pain is good and extreme pain is extremely good.  Yup, I used them all - with conviction.

All of this because I “dropped the candy in the dirt.” I left my trekking poles in the bed of Clay’s rig.  Trekking poles distribute my weight over four points instead of only two.  They add speed, balance and are a great aid to ascending.  Sgt. Maj. Griggs laughed at them.  “Where’s your make-up case?” he said when first he spotted them.  This from a guy who was just as happy chewing instant coffee as he was drinking it.  I’m paying the price for being sloppy about my gear.  Paid in full and lesson learned.

Although I know the shelter can’t be more than another mile south of the canoe launch, I’ve chosen to make camp before then.  Dusk snuck up on me.  I’ve been dreaming all day of sipping a cold canteen cup of Tang while cooling my jets in the frigid flow of Juniper Creek.  I saw a clearing just wide and flat enough to accommodate Big Agnes’s diminutive form and set up right there.  I recharged my water supplies and had that cup of Tang, with an extra spoonful for that righteous pre-80’s Orange Crush-like flavor.  I’ll have a look at my feet in the morning.

Oct. 31 2006

Slept like a corpse - 1900 to 0700.  The gurgling of creek and the hammering of woodpeckers were a great wake-up call.  I fired up the stove and made oatmeal and coffee.  I didn’t eat last night and polished breakfast off in an instant. The creek was just the tonic my soles (and my soul) needed.  One blister on each foot, each the size of a squishy silver dollar.  Calling Doctor DeWitt.

I bathe first, stripping to bare skin and going for total instant immersion.  The crisp cold of the creek awakens nerve in my body.  Soaking wet, I climb on to the bank and go to a secluded spot away from the water to wash. I use a slightly soaped (biodegradable camp soap) sponge to get clean.  I use my Camelback – held above my head – and warmed by its second job as part of my pillow ensemble-to rinse off the soap.  I dive back in to the creek for one more solid rinse after that. 

For these I use a hypodermic syringe with a very small gauge needle. I insert the needle from the side at edge of the blister and draw the fluid from the blister – after cleaning the site thoroughly with an alcohol wipe.  I cover the blisters with a light smidge of Neosporin and a substantial layer of Spenco. I follow this with a mondo piece of Molepad.  On goes the tape and we are done.  Good as new.

My surroundings are breathtaking.  I’m in the midst of a cedar forest among which grow a smattering of longleaf pine, holly and magnolia trees.  The forest floor is carpeted with fallen leaves and needles that have served well as my mattress.

Today will be a good day.

Later – I finally found some pitcher plants!  I found them on what is arguably the sweetest trail I’ve ever hiked in Florida.  It’s the Juniper Creek Trail, 7.7 miles of Atlantic white cedar, scenic bluffs, loads of elevation changes and sugar-white beaches creekside.  Yep, I swam. It finishes with a mile-long stretch of piney flatwoods just to remind you that you’re in Florida.  Wow!  I’m coming back here.  I’ll write more about the Juniper Trail in the Tampa Tribune on Sunday.

Found a nice campsite here at the state park end of the river near the Deaton Bridge trailhead.  Back on the Blackwater one last time.  I’m glad, I missed it.

I have a covered picnic table and a couple of benches – luxurious appointments. Cooked up a dinner of chicken and rice, had another deep drink of Tang and walked over to the benches to take in a panhandle sunset.

The cool temps of autumn begin to creep in, and a half-full moon peeks through 9000 foot clouds.  The moon is so bright that the clouds cast eerie shadows over the campground, while the light renders the white sand on the beach to and iridescent blue.  I fire up the stove again and concoct a cup of hot chocolate – I’ve packed a zip-lock with the kind that has the tiny marshmallows.  Warm and sweet, it is the perfect elixir with which to toast this magical Blackwater River Halloween night.  Cheers from the Florida Trail!

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Greetings from Crestview, FL!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OoRah!  That’ll work. 

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Hello Readers,

Wow, this is more fun than I imagined all ready.  My name’s Ben and I’m the son of whom most of you thought this blog would be from, Mike DeWitt. It’s been a couple of days since he has been able to post anything so the TBO thought it might be a good idea for me to fill in every now and then. 

I’d like you all to know how tremendously we appreciate your following him along his “walk in the woods” and the support that inherently comes with it.  Each comment on the blog or letter in the Tribune fuels him more than any pair of expensive new boots, the lightest, warmest tent, or fresh home cooked meal could… well, maybe not so much the latter at this point,

Plenty of times through out the day, I wonder what he may doing at that same moment. I’m sure the answer to that question, 90% of the time, is “walking”.  While I’m at school, he’s walking.  While I’m at work, he’s walking.  And even while I’m sitting on my butt, watching King of the Hill and eating Doritos, there is a darn good chance he is still walking, never able to shake that slight twinge of hunger.

When my dad writes to us with stories of monsoon quality levels of rain and humidity that clings to him like saran wrap, don’t pity him, that’s not the point of his words.  He desperately wants to bring you along on this trip, for the good and the bad.  Please check back regularly for updates, read what he has to say, and wish him luck. 

Oh yes, and if you’re of the sort that prays, please keep him in mind.

Thank you for reading,
Ben DeWitt

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Greetings fellow hikers!

Well the fact is that I’ve been rained in at Hurricane Lake Campgound for the past two days.  The rain has been non-stop with some heavy stuff, including tornado warnings busting down since yesterday morning and although I am amphibious, I’m not crazy about needlessly exposing my phalanx of comm. gear to the elements if I don’t have to.  I need that stuff to work.
I spent the day acquainting myself with my new laptop and helping the camp host assemble his new tree stand.  It is bow-hunting season up here and Jimmy has harvested two so far.  He’s a hunter’s hunter and owns the only pair of Treebark docksiders I’ve ever seen.  Now that’s serious camo!
It’s frustrating to look out of my quarters and see the trailhead just a few steps away.  I’m packed and ready to go, just need to get a weather break.  I’ll be joined this weekend by Clay and Chris Dutton, a couple of lads from Troop 4 in south Tampa that I Scoutmastered at the Boy Scout National Jamboree up in DC a few years ago.  They are the sons of Scott Dutton, a good buddy of mine and a fellow scout leader.  They are students at Auburn and have been sharpening their hiking edge on the Pinhoti Trail, a trans-Alabama trail that crosses Cheehaw Maountain, Alabama’s highest point.  If you ever get the chance to do Cheehaw, don’t miss it.  Great hiking and bouldering to be done there.
Although I thought for sure I’d be roughing it chow-wise, the past two days have been anything but.  Jimmy’s buddy Lyndon, a former Marine and ex-professional wrestler fried up some killer 30-count shrimp in a breading better than any I’ve ever tasted.  We gnawed on a mess of Bar-B-Q spare ribs after that. Duddin’ seem fair, does it? 
After that we hung out in Jimmy’s trailer and watched the original Walking Tall with Joe Don Baker last night.  Heck if I didn’t have to walk home, I might never leave.  I like these guys.
I also hung out with a couple of Park Rangers from the Division of Forestry yesterday, Brad Montfort and Kenny McCreless.  They gave me the skinny on Blackwater River S.F., it’s trails and the river for which the state forest is named.  Turned out this place was totally logged out when the state acquired it.  The logging company used the river – it was deep then – to float the logs to the sawmill. 
The erosion caused by the deforested land silted up the river and it’s been relatively shallow ever since.  Mother Nature, with man’s help, has recovered nicely.  It is a breathtakingly beautiful place.  Still, you have to wonder what this place would look like had it never been logged.
Probably the toughest thing has been that I’m out of touch with my family and friends. Alltel still has no towers here despite my pleas a couple of days ago.
I wonder how my wife, Claudia, and my son, Ben, are doing.  I miss Claudia’s sense of humor and her gentle ways. I fret about how her health is and constantly wonder how she’s feeling.  I miss my son, Ben, and hope he’s digging school and his new job.  I think of the kids in my Venture crew and miss all of their wide-open teenaged banter.  I miss my co-leader, Nancy Cline, my trusted and highly competent backpacking and climbing partner. 
I miss sharing a frosty beverage with Mike and Mike down at the Copper Top, and I miss Chris – the angel who brings them to us. 
The forecast calls for sunny days tomorrow, accompanied by the camaraderie of two hard-charging Eagle Scouts and a trail stretched before us like a magic green carpet.  OORAH!  Until we meet again.  I’ll write again when I find work.

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I’m leaving Destin now, after getting squared away with an Aircard at Alltel.  It may be a couple of days before I can get a masseage through to you.  The Blackwater River State Forest is a wild place, virtually uninhabited, even along it’s boundaries.  They grow cotton up here, and it was cool to drive past the cotton fields, their kneee high plants full of cotton balls.  Very cool. 
The land is hilly, some of them rising to a whopping 300 feet above see level.  I should have packed supplemental oxygen to help me scale these Florida Alps.  They are covered with longleaf, the branches of which cast shade on an understory of wiregrass and small oaks.  In the draws between these hills runs small creeks, each of which has crystal clear water.  it is delicious - after filtering for all those microscopic bugs. 
I’m camped on Hurricane Lake, a 318 acre lake that features several campgrounds run by the forest service.  They are all beautiful.  By all reports the fish aren’t biting, but that should change, according to Jimmy freeman, the camp host I wrote of in my last blog.
Well, i’m off.  I’m going to pick up some dinner to share with Jimmy and his wife, without whom I’d not be writing this or walking tomorrow.  I’m supposed to get some company on Friday.  Chris and Clay Dutton, a couple of Tampa lads - Eagle Scouts- scurrently chooling themselves at Auburn University want to put in a few miles with me.  I look forward to seeing them.

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Well hello everyone!! It’s great to have the opportunity to communicate with you. Thanks for all of your best wishes. Alltel, the network with which i stay in touch with the outside world doesn’t exactly blanket the northern panhandle (alpine Florida, also known as LA - Lower Alabama)
I made it to the northern trailhead about 1600 on Monday. it was quite the drive from my old Tom Griggs -, Sgt. Maj. USMC, Ret. - incredible log home near Live Oak to the trailhead. While at his home over the weekend I met a friend of his, Cal mercer, a survivor of the landing on Iwo Jima. he was medivaced after being machine gunned in both legs. At 82 he is more robust then men half his age. Combined with Tom - one of only 13 Marines to make a combat parachute jump (Vietnam) I was in the presence of true Marine Corps greatness - just the motivational tonic I needed before setting out on my trip.

it was cold the first night, but i stayed worm. it was delightful to awaken alone in the woods, miles from everywhere. the oatmeal was delicious and the coffee superb. Stuff tastes better out here.

the pack didn’t lighten miraculously as I’d dreamed the night before. It and I began our walk as soon as the condensation on the tent dried in the rising sun. It tested me, I admit it. But each day gets easier. that’s what you remember before you go. I arrived at my first stop, hurricane lake campground in the Blackwater River State Forest with every hope of finally being able to connect. NO DICE. So I figured I’d write my blog and send when I got further down the trail… EGAD! My brand spanking new laptop - purchased especially for this trek, failed to function as advertised. The screen didn’t not turn on.. I was crestfallen. it seemed my project would end before it began.

And then along came Mr. Jimmy Freeman, campground host and lifelong resident of Okaloosa County. he offered me the use of his phone - Cingular manages a signal there- which enabled me to get word to my wife - I heard she penned a few words in my absence.

I slept fitfully, not knowing what I could do about my technological meltdown. I awakened this morning to reconsider my situation in a new light while three deer grazed 15 feet from my tent door. Then along came Jimmy holding the keys to his Ford Explorer. He actually gave me his keys so that I could drive 50 miles to Destin Florida’s Best Buy. A perfect stranger. You always hear that they quit making men like that. If that’s true, we are sunk. If ever the Jimmy Freemans are gone, the rest of us are toast.

And so it will be if the Gary Harras’s are gone too. Gary took one look at the good looking corpse of my computer and sent me to the laptop area to pick out a new one. This guy redefined customer service and technohelp. Those Geek Squad dudes… they rock. And that’s why I’m able to write to you right this minute. Gary hooked me up to their network so that i could answer my mail dash out this blog to you.

The help of these two trail great Angel’s plus Claudia’s, Tom’s and all my co-workers at tbo.com have made this all possible. Guess I better quit blabbing and start walking, eh?

PS The first night I listened to a gubernatorial political debate on the radio as I lay in my bag. I fell asleep somewhere in between yada, yada, yada and Blah, blah, blah. Did i miss anything? Cheers!

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Dear Readers,
This is Mike’s wife Claudia. I got a message from Mike saying that he is having a wonderful time. Last night was cold but he is prepared for that and was warm as toast. He is having difficulty with cell phone service and the computer is also giving him trouble but he is diligently working to solve the problem. Please stay tuned. We are expecting word from him soon. Your interest and comments fuel his determination.  Thank you.

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Video: DeWitt On The Trail | Video: DeWitt’s Gear

Thirty years ago I was on the cusp of graduating from a small high school on an Air Force base once known as Hahn in a country once known as West Germany. One of my closest friends was Barbara Klinke, a German girl who was the daughter of the town doctor. We’d grown up together and now stood on the threshold of adulthood, infused with the serum of endless possibilities.

One day, as we hiked in the woods near her house, Barbara confided to me that she dreamed of following in her father’s footsteps. She would become a doctor and, one day, take over her father’s practice. I revealed to her that my dream was to travel to the remote corners of the world and write about them. I had never before told anyone because no one but Barbara would have believed it.

Two weeks later I was a high school graduate and on my way to the United States and a disaterous year at the University of Florida. I never saw or spoke with Barbara Klinke again.

My year as a Gator gave way to a four-year enlistment in the Marine Corps. I was an infantryman, otherwise known as a grunt. Grunts are provided endless opportunities to backpack and camp in some of the most remote corners of the world. Although the Corps strongly encourages self-improvement, developing the writer’s art is understandably absent from it’s infantry training doctrine.

The years following my service are a blur of footloose backpacking, motorcycle touring and a couple of marriages. I settled down, worked a few jobs and somehow wound up as a hazardous materials emergency responder. I started a business, had some luck and raised a family. I became a Boy Scout leader when my son grew old enough to join. With 20 more like him in tow, we backpacked, climbed, camped and paddled every chance we got, and for the first time, I wrote about it. Climbing Magazine published it.

I was 45 years old and needed no further encouragement. I sold my business to the first buyer who showed the slightest interest and resolved to become a journalist. Everyone with my best interests at heart did their best to talk me out of it. The most convincing of these was a friend of mine who is a veteran editor at the Tampa Tribune. When finally he found me terminally unreceptive to reason, he arranged for me to interview for a correspondent position. I managed somehow to land the gig and for the past three years have enjoyed the privilege of writing weekly outdoor stories for the Tampa Tribune.

A couple of weeks ago I suggested the idea of hiking the Florida Trail from end-to-end and writing weekly stories of the people and places that are the custodians of what may be Florida’s greatest and least-known treasure. The response from the Tampa Tribune was overwhelmingly positive. I have not stopped smiling since that time.

In seven days I will awaken on the Florida-Alabama line and make the first of the 2.3 million steps - a distance of about 1078 miles - that will lead me to the heart of the Everglades. For two and a half months I will walk in some of the most remote corners of Florida and at the end of each day -technology gods willing-I will write to you. My hope is to do that well enough for you to feel as if you are right there with me - every step of the way.

And Barbara Klinke? I heard that she’s married with a couple of kids. And that her practice is doing very nicely, thank you. 

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