“Jody looked down into a great cupped garden, feathered with green leaves, cool and moist and, always, mysterious. The sinkhole was set in arid scrub, at the core of the pine island, like a lush green heart.” (The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, p. 74)
You’ve got to be kidding! Backpacking in Florida? What are we going to do, walk down sidewalks through subdivisions? Dodge spring break college students along the beach? And what could possibly be worth giving up a week of skiing?
But as I counted all the reasons not to go, the idea of showing up at the Orlando Airport in boots and backpack with hiking poles in hand, surrounded by swimsuits and tee shirts, was a picture I didn’t want to miss. And yes, the chance to hang out with my backpacking buddies….and truly, if not now when. When else would I ever even consider backpacking in Florida!
Like a yes to all invitations, this yes took its own negotiations. Put down this and forget that. Pining over lost opportunities imagined and real. Finding that right flight so I could get back in time for that third swing dance lesson I didn’t want to miss.
And behind it all, a whispered promise, a distant memory, to return to the way of the walk, the way of the trail.
To be a vibration among the trees and stones. To breathe in the landscape. (Rousseau’s last words, Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking)
Sitting here this morning at dusk, the first day after the clock sprung forward, one step closer to Spring, gray light glistening on a dusting of snow outside the window at 6pm. Snowflakes falling, Spring tonight seems still a long way off. It’s a month since we left the trail. Before the next trek I want to take time to remember this one.
Since returning I’ve told the same stories of the diverse foliage – from lush tropical trails to recently burned black ground, prairies of brown grass, forests of pine. Swimming everyday and nary a snake or even an alligator on the trail except that time out kayaking when we wanted to see a gator and did. The meditation cards to start our day and the late afternoon yoga circles. So much laughter and that part that I feel incapable of describing – that inhabiting, resting in time in the steady rhythm of the trail for seven days. The immersion in a world not this one, the emptiness that comes in putting aside the cell phone for a week to be in the presence of here and now.
Goodbye and Hello: Thursday and Friday, February 8 and 9
Only walking manages to free us from our illusions about the essential. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking, p.26)
I flew into Orlando on Thursday, and met Marsha waiting by the elevator at the hotel when I arrived. Roger in the emergency room and she headed home early the next morning to find out more about what was going on. A perfect time to head to the bar I joked and yes, for a bounteous green salad as well before the next week with nary a vegetable.
Our waiter wondered if we are here for Daytona. We tell him that we’re here for the Florida Trail which we know practically nothing about except to watch for alligators and poisonous snakes and especially bears which we’ve heard are quite plentiful.
“Oh, its none of those critters you need to be concerned about,” he offered, “It’s the wild boar you have to watch out for.” He proceeds to tell us about a bloody encounter a friend of his had with a tusk. “And oh, yes, the bannana spiders.”
For Marsha, where to be is home with Roger, that is clear. And where I need to be is here which will likewise take its own doing to arrive at. How for both of us to find our way when there is much unknown and so much real and imagined to fear. Jen texts and tells us she has landed and not to wait up. We send a picture from the bar, drinks in hand.
The next morning, breakfast with Marsha. I look on with envy as she heads off with her pack sealed in a giant pack cover to prevent snakes, bugs, spiders, ticks, wild boar or anything else for that matter from climbing in.
Jen and I head upstairs to empty our gear on the beds and ponder how many bars we really need to bring. We worry over how much weight we are carrying, and don’t have a clue how to make our packs any lighter. Perhaps this tee shirt, this pair of socks I’ll leave in the resupply. I’ll go with all the bars. When I asked a friend how he figured out how many snacks to bring, he shared his very unscientific method, “I just throw a bunch in, its just weight.” He confessed he usually doesn’t take enough. I don’t want to run short.
Barb soon meets us and we head off to drop our resupply at Juniper Springs, meet Pat and the rest of our backpacking crew. We wander down to Juniper Springs, the beautiful swimming hole and beyond it the shallow sandy stream with sparkling clear water winding under palm trees. It looks like the setting for an amusement ride at Disney World. The sign says it’s the beginning of a 7-mile paddle and one of the top 25 canoe runs in the country. Suddenly we are renegotiating our plans. What would it take to get us here in time to do the 7-mile trek?
On the signboard,
A Wonder: Ocala National Forest is the oldest National Forest east of the Mississippi.
Who knew?!
And a Warning: Do not swim outside posted areas. (We won’t even ask why!)
We leave Barb’s car and pile in another and head down the road for Clearwater Recreation Area.
The Florida Trail winds some 1500 miles from The Everglades to Pensacola at the edge of Florida Panhandle. We’re off for a mere 60 something miles from the start of the Ocala National Forest here to the mysterious “88 Store” where other cars are parked.
It’s hot and humid this afternoon at 2 when we head out on the trail. The pack heavy. But no, this is not the White Mountains with rocks and roots to trip over but a smooth white sandy trail that turns around the bend ahead to a bedding of long tan pine needles.
Along the way, little things:
The orange blaze on the beautiful bark of the Pine Scrub.
A flowering yellow bush.
A charred snag.
Green fronds and grass beside brown wilting oak leaves.
A bright blue sky.
I plod along, last in our little group. Why am I so tired today? As everyone else strides out ahead, I want to slow to a stall.
But ever’ man’s lonesome. What’s he to do then? What’s he to do when he gets knocked down? Why, he take it for his share and go on. (The Yearling, p. 404)
A few steps off the trail, a grave marker enclosed by a metal fence. Beer cans scattered around the base, perhaps to honor the dead? And up ahead, another handmade marker and a wind chime in the tree beside it. Later, we can’t recall what the marker said other than it seemed a sad place.
About 5 miles down the trail, we come to a crossroads in the trail and what looks like a good broad site to set up camp. Its after 5:30pm now and I head down the trail to the little wooden bridge over the little stream to fill my water bottles. I hesitate before lowering my water bag, wondering if a hungry alligator or quick water snake might be waiting under the bridge. I’m assured that the others don’t see any green eyes peering out under me.
Setting aside worry over alligators, I take in the lush tropical vegetation. The dark green oval leaves, the spiky fan. What was the tree I read about on the park sign earlier today? Oh yes, the sand pine scrub. The largest contiguous stretch in the world here in this Forest.
The signpost noted:
Fire dependent plants and animals here depend on constant disturbance for survival. The sand pine cones don’t open or release their seeds without high heat.
I ponder if this setting out on the trail this week is a kind of necessary disturbance for my own survival? A relocation to a place not my own with things to fear that I don’t fear or think about at home. A heavy pack stuffed with tent, sleeping bag, food, water, a change of clothes. The putting aside of that cell phone. What might be released in me in the disturbance of being here?
How renewing it is to sit now by the stream, squeezing the water bag, filtering a slow stream of water into the water bottle propped between my feet. The only other sound, the gurgle of the stream below. Later, as the sun sets through the line of trees, the peepers sing. Our tents lit from within as we ready for sleep.
Metamorphosis: Saturday, February 10
When we renounce everything, everything is given to us in abundance. Everything: meaning the intensity of presence itself. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking)
Out here who knows if it’s Saturday or the 10th? Who would believe that it’s February or that it matters? What matters out here is the dawn light at 7 and sitting here with steaming coffee cupped in hand, oatmeal cooking for a few more minutes. What else really matters out here but this early morning peace while the others stir awake.
I seem to have successfully put aside my phone and all I’d usually be fidgeting to find at this hour – the news, Wordle, a text from my family. I replace it all with the anticipation of this walk. To get to know what is eternally new. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking, p. 138)
Late last night (or was it early this morning?) a posse of ATV’ers grinded and roared their machines down the sandy trails surrounding us, voices calling out in the night. I lay in bed and hoped that they stayed clear of discovering our little camp so we wouldn’t end up in a nightmare of Deliverance 2.
This morning, I wear the grogginess of last night’s restless night with another sip of steaming coffee as golden light filters through the tall thin pine scrub behind. A sandhill crane’s squeaky-door call.
All morning, we share our amazement at the lush variety of terrain we pass. From sub-tropical deep green at the stream where we filtered water last night to blackened ash earth and charred spindly bushes. I come across a patch here in the black wasteland still smoking. I scuff black earth over it. It continues to smolder.
Ahead, the trail turns by short scrub here, tall scrub pine ahead.
And further on, a prairie of brown grass that opens wider and wider as we continue up the trail. The Floridians are as surprised and delighted by the diversity of the trail here as we Northerners are fearing that the trail might have been rather a monotonous bore. I thought the same when we started out on my first backpacking trip three years ago in the 100 Mile Wilderness in Maine, and was truly amazed at the rich and diverse terrain we crossed.
Today, other small things:
A snag draped in vine.
Circles of pink fungus on tree bark.
A charred black bush with leaves of gold.
A great live oak draped in garlands of gray Spanish moss.
We have but a short hike today to Alexander Spring where we’ll camp tonight. Since we can only reserve one site, Pat, Barb, Jen and I camp off the trail across the road and just outside the entrance to the state park.
We soon join a Saturday afternoon crowd of other boisterous swimmers at the Spring. 72 degrees, year-round. Perfect! Alexander Spring is the first of three “first magnitude springs” we’ll meet on our way. I read that first magnitude springs discharge an average of 100 cubic feet of water per second or 64.6 million gallons per day or more. (I have no idea what that means but it sure sounds like a lot of water!) And wow – Florida is home to the most freshwater springs in the world, over 700.
We rent bright kayaks and glide slowly down the river. On the way, we spot the alligator on the log we’ve been wanting to see and wonder at the courage of the long-necked turtle there at its tail.
The fisherman on the way back says he saw five alligators while we saw merely one.
Today nothing feels incomplete. Everything here, everything present. Everything in motion, seen and unseen, complete and incomplete.
This is Happiness: Sunday, February 11
The authentic sign of assurance is a good slowness. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking, p. 9)
The third day in and I have settled into the swing of the trail. I wander on down the trail ahead of the rest of our group. I love the silence out here and the solitude. The knowing that there are friends behind I’ll meet up with when I pause for lunch down the trail.
Along the trail I leave a restless, fidgety weariness and abandon assumptions and stories I told myself that are just not true. Real life tells a story always more stirring and complex than the fantasies of my mind.
We all take in things differently out here. For some, the trail is a chance to talk and leave a trail of worn stories behind. Others are quick to name the maple, bay, gum and cypress, to linger over names forgotten, bird songs remembered. Much as I would like to be someone who knows how to identify the bay, gum and cypress today it’s the shape of the trail, this open expanse ahead, this snag by my side standing like a great statue that call my heart.
I’m all about shape and color out here, the form of the tree ahead against the sky dotted with white cloud.
As the trail opens ahead, I pause to breath in this expanse, become part of the landscape.
A gray and white chattering scrub jay swoops in to check me out as I pause, soon joined by six others chirping away, curious and friendly.
The trail turns toward another prairie and small pond. And here must be the tall pump that we’ve heard is a good place to get water. Jen and I grab hold. We strain to pull it up and push it down. Another try. One more. Nothing happens.
Bill comes along and takes the pump in hand and and pulls it up and down and out flows a stream of cool water. We scamper to fill our bottles.
We continue down the trail for another mile following the edge of the vast brown grassy prairie and set up camp in a broad clear area. A humid hot breeze stirs the trees.
Before turning to dinner, we take advantage of the evening light and join for a yoga and stretching circle.
A circle of thanks for the gifts of today.
Stopping, my thanks.
It’s been a good day and yes, a tiring one. But not too weary tonight to head the mile back down the trail for a quick dip in the pond to wash off the dusty heat and sweat of the day and bring back some more of that cool fresh water from the pump.
We sit on the bank of the pond, taking off our shoes.
Are you from around here? the couple on the bank behind us calls.
You know there’s alligators in there. And if you are going in, be sure to stay out of the reeds, that’s where the water moccasins live.
We wade in up to our knees splashing vigorously, shouting loudly to scare away all the critters for miles around. A quick dunk up and down and we scurry out to dry off before heading back to camp.
The sun setting orange and red, turning to gray and black. We turn on our head lamps. A constellation of bright lights shimmer along the path ahead. So many sparkling spider eyes guide our way home.
Monday, February 12
By walking you are not going to meet yourself. The freedom in walking lies in not being anyone – for the walking has no history, it is just an eddy in the stream of an immemorial life. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking, p.29)
Early morning footsteps, a bright light traipses by my tent at the edge of the trail.
Soon, I’m up myself, sipping coffee on the log by my tent. A warm breeze through the trees behind.
That afternoon we arrive at Juniper Springs and our resupply of clean shirts, socks, snacks and suppers for the days ahead.
Another wonderful swim in the spring.
A storm rumbles through early that evening.
While others retreat to their tents, I lie on the bench watching as shrouding dark clouds cover the bright starlit sky. Far off thunder rumbles closer, closer still. I duck into my tent; the downpour begins.
Tuesday, February 13
“He decided that sunrise and sunset both gave him a pleasantly sad feeling. The sunrise brought a wild, free sadness; the sunset a lonely yet a comforting one. He indulged his agreeable melancholy until the earth under him turned from gray to lavender and then to the color of dried corn husks.” (The Yearling, p. 376)
We wake in soaked tents, some to wet gear and sleeping bags.
After breakfast, I take off ahead of the group, pause here at the turn in the trail to point out the two red headed sand cranes beside us in the reeds.
Last night we discussed whether there were too many or not enough orange markers to guide our way. Today we pass nary a one. Is it because we are in a designated “wilderness area”?
We stop for lunch under the cool shade of a stand of trees by a pond. Far too inviting to pass up a swim, I holler and splash my way in on the soft sandy bottom. Jump up and down, up and down hollering and splashing my way past fear to joy.
Sightings:
An aisle of pine needles through the trees ahead bedecked with a sprinkling of bright yellow petals.
Miniature emerald ferns in the crack in the snag.
Blue, Blue Sky.
A great sinkhole by the side of the trail. In The Yearling, Jody’s friend, Fodder-wing tells a great tale about the origin of these great holes we’ve passed along the trail. A small world lay at his feet. It was deep and concave, like a great bowl. Fodder-wing said that a bear as big as God had scooped out a pawful of earth to get a lily root. Jody knew the truth from his father. It was only that underground rivers ran through the earth and swirled and eddied beneath the surface, and changed their courses. This was especially so where there were streaks of limestone, as here. The limestone was soft and crumbling before the air touched and hardened it. Sometimes, without reason, with warning, after long rains, perhaps, a section of earth sank in. gently and almost without a sound, and a deep cavity marked the place where once had run, darkly and unseen, a river. (The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, p. 73)
We pass the trailhead to Pat’s Island, the setting for Marjorie Kinnan Rawling’s The Yearling, based on stories she heard from the community that lived here including about a boy who raised a young fawn. Perhaps this sinkhole the one where Jody went to draw water.
Tonight we sleep under towering live oaks, draped in Spanish moss. A neighboring camper points out the dark barred owl there on the branch above our camp. As light falls, the owl calls to her mate, her uncles and aunts, cousins and children in the great trees around us. A cacophony of who-who, who-who, who-who.
Later, as the sun sets over the prairie into an exultation of red and orange, yellow and purple, we wait under the bat house for the bats to soar out for their evening feast. The signboard says some thousands of bats live here above us. We quiet, hear their faint squeaks. But tonight, no great swoop of bats fill the sky. Perhaps, now in the 40’s, it is too cold for them to venture out.
We head back to our warm sleeping bags and tents. Fall asleep to the steady drumming of the Rainbow People across the prairie that carries me in and out of my dreams.
Wednesday, February 14
We stop being in the landscape. We become the landscape. (Frederic Gros, A Philosphy of Walking, p. 89)
Early morning, wisps of fog rise from the prairie. A bright day dawns clear.
Early afternoon we meet Puddles from Boscawen, New Hampshire. She’s hiking some 140 miles to check out how her knee holds up. She had to abandon the Pacific Crest Trail last summer when she twisted her knee and she’s checking out this week if she’s ready to return and finish the trek.
We hear the promise of a good camp site down the trail to Salt Spring, where we’ve decided we’ll set up our tents and leave our heavy packs before walking the three miles to Salt Spring and yet another afternoon swim. But first, we gather the group in a circle for a “New Hampshire Tradition” on this special day. Hands open, sweet Valentine hearts fill our hands. Be mine.
As other hikers promised, Salt Spring is indeed the best place to swim. And yes, salty but not from true salt water but from the rock that makes it salty.
After a wonderful swim, we quickly agree to abandon our freeze-dried dinners for Subway sandwiches. Yes, make it a large please. Chips. Chocolate Chip Cookie. I inhale half of my tuna sub amazed at how ravenous I am. The other half of my dinner I devour at the crossroads before heading down to our camp.
I entice Pat to crawl out of her warm sleeping bag and come lie outside to watch the dark sky fill with flickering light like so many watchful spider eyes.
A star falls, streaking bright across the sky.
Thursday, February 15
To arrive on foot to the place where you have been drawn all day casts a backward light over the road and what was accomplished in fatigue, sometimes boredom, that is now transformed into a series of necessary and joyous moments. Walking makes time reversible. (Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking, p. 201)
The promise of a few last miles ahead to the 88 Store and the end of our trek. I linger behind as the group traipses on ahead to pause for pictures in the early morning light.
Giant pinecones set like Christmas Trees line the trail ahead. Thank you Barb!
A cluster of white flowers
And dry oak leaves.
A little hill ahead, an actual hill.
A black charred log with a bright orange marker.
Gaunt red oak leaves.
And what is this weariness?
I slow and plod on as the light rises, reminded of that first weary afternoon on the trail.
Down a quick slope and up to a gauntlet of poles and shouts of celebration. Packs adorned with giant pinecones.
The 88 Store: “This is a smoking establishment.” Chips and $2 beers and sun-streaked faces worn weary, rested and restored by the gift of a week on the trail.
After we’ve said goodbye to our new friends, we are all too soon back in the city, our wet tents draped over the fence by the hotel pool. We devour dinner. Will I ever not be hungry? And how will I not come home and fill myself up again to overflowing?
This morning, snowflakes fall on a gray wan early morning light.
I’ve finishing my way through The Yearling and yet another layer of meaning from a wonderful trip.
The morning after my return I discovered that a persistent tick had followed me home, and yes, questions lingering from last night’s dream. A reminder that the stories we tell – the absurdity of backpacking in Florida, for example – are nothing but stories. Reality, here and now, is so much richer.
And yes, like Jody found in Flag, a kind of love beyond all words and knowing out here on the trail, in community, in the wonder that found us all.
Flag – He did not believe he should ever again love anything, man or woman or his own child, has he had loved the yearling. He would be lonely all his life. But a man took it for his share and went on.
In the beginning of his sleep, he cried out, “Flag!”
It was not his own voice that called. It was a boy’s voice. Somewhere beyond the sinkhole, past the magnolia, under the live oaks, a boy and a yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever. (The Yearling, 405)
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Quotes from The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, 1939, Charles Scribner’s Sons)
Navigating Through Change 