Based on the name alone, but helped by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings account in Cross Creek and my own predilection for hellish ways, I knew I had to paddle the River Styx...and do so in the morning, before the natives got too curious about my beat ass Ford Explorer (that never locks properly) on the side of CR346.
I chose a skinny part of River Styx (and it got skinnier) and not the section that feeds into Orange Lake. It's closer to my house and seemed like it'd be more Styxian, I guess. The water here is an impenetrable black and stiller than any river I've ever seen. The egrets and herons don't crowd its shores as they do on Cross Creek or Silver River. Didn't see any fish jumping or minnow waves either. As far as I knew, it could literally have been a river of death.
Once on the water, down inside the table of onyx and under the bridge with its familiar colonies of mud dauber nests, that same stillness became a petri dish for my tweaked-out imagination. Would I feel the gator's ridges scape across my seat as it moved under my boat? Would that scraping then scare it into some kind of self-protective frenzy that did not involve simply swimming away? Every time I saw the telltale line of bubbles up ahead I prepared myself. More experienced paddlers: I thank you in advance for your scorn, but until you have paddled a mile in my brain chemistry, you may want to hold off.
Past the bridge, the water widened and I anticipated a restful hour of winding through country no road touches, a short-lived wish as I was soon to discover. Not even a quarter mile in, I encountered a huge cypress right in the middle of the river and then two offshoots on either side. I tried both, but when my kayak wedged first in one then the other, I backpaddled and retreated. Portage here is, if not impossible, then certainly ill-advised. If hyacinth beds, abundant cypress knees, and opaque water are your cup of tea, then be my guest. When and if they develop stainless steel hipwaders, maybe then I'll give it a shot, but certainly not until then.
So backtracking I go, hoping the other side of the bridge promised improved navigation. It did not and soon I felt my hull drag over the bottom of silt-covered waters and into the ass-end of a water maze. All around me--front, left, and right--were gator trails leading up into the grass and God knows where. That's not my imagination talking either: if you've ever seen one you remember what it looks like. It looks just like, well, an alligator dragged its giant, arm-eating, death-rolling, prehistoric body straight through a bunch of once proudly standing plants.
Once on the water, down inside the table of onyx and under the bridge with its familiar colonies of mud dauber nests, that same stillness became a petri dish for my tweaked-out imagination. Would I feel the gator's ridges scape across my seat as it moved under my boat? Would that scraping then scare it into some kind of self-protective frenzy that did not involve simply swimming away? Every time I saw the telltale line of bubbles up ahead I prepared myself. More experienced paddlers: I thank you in advance for your scorn, but until you have paddled a mile in my brain chemistry, you may want to hold off.
Past the bridge, the water widened and I anticipated a restful hour of winding through country no road touches, a short-lived wish as I was soon to discover. Not even a quarter mile in, I encountered a huge cypress right in the middle of the river and then two offshoots on either side. I tried both, but when my kayak wedged first in one then the other, I backpaddled and retreated. Portage here is, if not impossible, then certainly ill-advised. If hyacinth beds, abundant cypress knees, and opaque water are your cup of tea, then be my guest. When and if they develop stainless steel hipwaders, maybe then I'll give it a shot, but certainly not until then.So backtracking I go, hoping the other side of the bridge promised improved navigation. It did not and soon I felt my hull drag over the bottom of silt-covered waters and into the ass-end of a water maze. All around me--front, left, and right--were gator trails leading up into the grass and God knows where. That's not my imagination talking either: if you've ever seen one you remember what it looks like. It looks just like, well, an alligator dragged its giant, arm-eating, death-rolling, prehistoric body straight through a bunch of once proudly standing plants.
A video of the next few moments would reveal a grown man inexplicably slapping the grass with a paddle and jerking his upper torso back and forth to de-wedge himself and get the hell out of a place he clearly no longer wanted to be. Soon I calmed myself, however, and was able to paddle backwards and turn around. A few minutes of brisk paddling back, and I was soon safe at riverside having avoided the gators for another day. Cold coffee and zucchini bread awaited me in the car.As to whether or not I would paddle here again, I would love to try the southern dead end again with an experienced paddler. I am still too new to this to trust my own decision making. For all I know the river may have opened up 10 feet from where I quit...but I doubt it.
Tomorrow: The Orange Lake end of River Styx?
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