Camps Canal

Camps Canal, which (allegedly) connects Prairie Creek with River Styx, is dark and still at midday, but at 630AM it is ghostly and asleep: a thin sheet of fog floats inches above the water, shadows appear larger than their source, pockets of heat rise up from God knows where, and it is so silent that the loudest sound is dew dropping from trees and cars crossing the bridge at CR234 a mile back. The day shift is starting to show up (two Great Blues standing by the ruined bridge) and the night shift is heading to wherever it goes in the daytime: note below a Barred Owl and my first kayaking photo capture of a bonafide living creature. I can do a passable Barred Owl impression, so I did and got an affirmative head cock in return.  Victory.


This morning also marked the closest interaction I've had with a large gator since my Okefenokee trek years ago. About 25 feet in front of my bow, I saw a disturbance in the water, a roll big enough to create a small wake. Five feet ahead, it resurfaced to check out my plans for proceeding. As I crept forward, not paddling now but drifting, it submerged and resurfaced several times in a zig-zag pattern, a little too curious about me than I'd like. Could be a protective mom, and frankly I didn't want to find out. About face.


On the way back, I saw just how much a kayak paddle churns up the water, bubbles from shore to shore. I supposed I'd like to think that I am invisible out here and my presence affects nothing, but such is clearly not the case. I have yet to find a creature that doesn't want to get the hell out of my way, and I suppose that is how it should be. Nevertheless, when egrets and herons take off and squawk their irritation or when a flock of wood ducks scatters after I've already passed them, I'd like to communicate that all this activity is unnecessary and I will be out of their way as soon as possible.

Downstream I ran into a ruined bridge. I love this for some reason, and would love to get my hands on a 1950s-era Florida road map to see what road this used to serve (Readers?). Past this bridge the canal gets increasingly sketchy, marked by tree corpses and shallower water, so I turned around to get on with the rest of my day.


This turnaround represents a larger debate I've been having with myself during every outing. To what extent should a solo paddler push his own sense of adventure? For instance, is it safe is get out of my boat in, say, calf-deep water to portage to better water downstream? If I can touch both shores at the same time, should I keep going?


Tomorrow: If I can get out of the house early enough, the Ocklawaha River south from the Silver River.