Chasing Manatees, Getting Stranded

This is what it feels like when a manatee buzzes you from down under: the boat drops suddenly then pops back up, like a small dip on the water flume. I saw two of them and I'm pretty sure they didn't know what to make of Big Blue encroaching on their territory. I devoted a good bit of time trying to catch them on camera--in vain--and spent the rest of the trip watching schools of fish jump out of my way, weaving their way through the eel grass. I couldn't help but compare the manatee's graceful meanderings with the violent escapes of the alligator, both of which I have now experienced.

This is what it feel like when your truck gives up the ghost on the way back: a sharp, and sustained, feeling of "oh shit." I spent nearly four hours in a small town not too far from here, and that was long enough to tell you everything you need to know about the following: the reliability of a certain local mechanic, the abundance of crack cocaine in said town, the alleged internecine goings on of the town council, and the wonderfulness of the local BBQ. I spent eating this, by the way, while watching an episode of "Cops In Vegas." Apparently, prostitution is worthy of an all-out sting operation, a la "Reno 911." Had I been prone to an extra dose of depression on this day, watching cops bust prostitutes on TV while waiting for a truck repair I knew would not be successful would have likely put me over the edge.

My kayak fits oh so well atop my old, faithful truck. The thought of this being the end of our journeys is sad indeed. But I am still in get-it-done mode right now and I can't think about it too deeply. Never fear, though, my boat will get into the water somehow. I confess it has become a less-than-daily enterprise these days, what with the cold and all. I'm still out three times or so a week and there's the small matter of my being addicted to it, so I've got that going for me, which is nice.

The Lowdown On The Santa Fe

Someone pulled the plug on the Santa Fe River. Even the sinks are dry now. High bluffs, downed trees, and new "rapids" abound. I spent the afternoon bushwhacking, portaging, and documenting. I was here back in early October, and the difference between now and then could not be more stark. A sense of winter torpor has seized me of late, so I scheduled this outing like a doctor's appointment (but without the ego-deflating weigh-in). If I had waited a week, I bet I could have walked along the river bed without getting my feet wet.

The new obstacles meant that I got a solid upper-body workout and I even "shot" the first "rapid." That sound you hear? That would be runnels of blue plastic being stripped from the bottom of my boat by the exposed limestone. Portage on the way back, for sure. The last time I was here, I had to get out of the way of a house boat. Not this time. The water had become clear (or maybe it was before?). This meant that I could watch where the turtles go when they bail from their perch on the log at my approach, the wigs of algae waving in the current, and fallen leaves underwater glowing like new coins.

Underwater Leaves

Standing up in a kayak is a sketchy proposition. I recall one time in particular when I decided it was a good idea to moon my fellow paddlers during a jaunt down the Upper Withlacoochee and fell very quickly--and justly--into the water. But now I can walk up and down the deck like a Wallenda, and that comes in handy, as I've taken to exploring the land that lines the banks of my runs.


They say that any kind of daily practice contributes to spiritual awakening, and quite frankly I could use a bit of that these days. This part of the Santa Fe (between I-75 and O'Leno) is wild and lovely no matter what the water level and my spirit was enriched by moving through it today.

The Waccasassa River After The Apocalypse

The boat ramp for the Waccasassa River is 38 miles from my house as the crow flies, but it might as well be on the moon. The river is wide and banked with soft, black mud and wasted trees, uprooted and pocked with woodpecker holes. Something came through here, a flood, a hurricane, a bulldozer, and although the parking lot was packed with trucks, trailers, fishermen, and one particularly grouchy old woman (yes, I grouched back), we saw almost no one on the river itself, except for alligator and birds.

It became apparent immediately that this place was tidal, and low ebb at that, because we paddled past the exposed roots of salt marsh grass and the aforementioned mud. At one point, after we turned into Otter Creek, I got out of the boat to see what lay beyond the banks (lots more marsh grass, by the way) and my sandal came off in mud the consistency of thick cake batter, several pounds of which I brought back into my boat with me.

I love this place. It seems endlessly discoverable and is only accessible by boat; the whole place is one big preserve. The gators we encountered, out for one last sunning before the deep freeze, reluctantly entered the water as we approached, no mean feat for a cold-blooded creature as the water numbed my hands in seconds. The stunning tree diversity along the banks adds to the otherworldliness of this place: oaks next to palms next to cypress. The Waccasassa is one of those places that could only be in Florida and it's just down the road.

How To Make Black Water

In my pre-paddling life, I somehow never learned that, as evergreen as they may look to you and me, cypress trees are deciduous. So watching them go from green to rust to dead has been a revelation. Now their needle-leaves either form carpets on the water or hang in black, webby clumps from the branches. At some point they will all drop, rot, and stain the water. Some call it tea-colored. I call it black. I become a bit wistful watching this happen so quickly. Were I listening to, say, Lou Reed's "Berlin" at the same time, it might just do me in. 

I came out again to Camp's Canal to find water moccasins. No luck there and a note to anyone paddling this time of year: get on the water by noon or you'll be coming back in the dark. The gators too are nowhere to be seen either, having crawled back down into their hibernation holes for the winter. None of this apparently affects the ibises or Great Blues, most of whom still wonder why I keep coming back to their house uninvited. In the distance, I hear Sandhill Cranes and Barred Owls. The reverb in this place is unparalleled.

Against my better judgment, I've let my kayak become my new office, and I will from time to time take a call on the water. In fact, I end up taking a good bit of equipment with me now, mostly to keep it from getting stolen from the truck. In fact, your seeing these photos is nothing less than a miracle. I came back last night and could not locate my new waterproof camera. After tearing the house and truck up looking for it, I went back to the canal and found it nestled in the weeds next to the river bank. It spent the night out there, which is longer than I've spent on Camps Canal.

Scattering Coots On Orange Lake

Then there are the times you have to make yourself go. Maybe it was a hangover from the 4-day weekend spent reassuring family and friends that I really was okay, really, and that I foresaw no trouble finding another job, when in truth it really did worry me. Maybe it was hearing all the cars outside my window going to work in the morning. Maybe it was the nightly work dreams where I am clearly trying to make sense of it all. Sometimes it's just a matter of hauling the carcass out to the water to immerse myself in the changing and the changeless.

I've formed an emotional carapace over the years that serves me well in times like these. I can talk to store clerks, strangers, fellow paddlers, damn near anyone, and they have no inkling what is going on inside. This is good, in case you're wondering. I used to be a book far too open and raw for anyone to want to read. Now I can be a person among people on my worst days. So it was that I was able to carry on a 30-minute conversation with a paddling couple just coming out of Orange Lake as I was heading in. They live on the Suwannee and spend their days kayaking and fishing and are both lean, tanned, and wiry. I wanted their life, but spent my time with them sharing a bit of mine.

Orange Lake is now Coot Central and I spent my time out on the water steering between the spatterdock and making them take off and land over and over. I did not realize how loud they are until I closed my eyes to listen. Like midtown Manhattan. Orange Lake is a lake that wants to be a swamp or prairie. It does not seem to be shore-bound and is constantly draining through a hole in the aquifer. The result is a series of islands where you cannot actually trod, but you can't see through them either. Orange Lake is a lake that used to be, but we will continue to call it a lake, because things like that don't change.

River Styx, A Graphic Short Story

Chasing Vultures On The Suwannee

Anybody who's spent more than 24 hours in this part of Florida has been on the Suwannee, so no trailblazing here. But when you're down in the water, as you are in a kayak, you see things that people doing 40 knots between jumping sturgeon cannot see. For one thing, it's a wide and freaky river with currents going both up and downriver. For another, its levels can fluctuate wildly, as the high fortresses that line each side attest. Also, a good bit of it is exposed limestone swiss cheese. I am not used to paddling under bluffs this high.

I've never seen this many vultures in one place either, both black and turkey. About 50 of them seemed to be circling a spot upriver, but as I moved closer the congregation seemed to move. I could get no closer. Some of them were so high up they became mere dots against the sky. But as I reclined in my kayak, a few of them circled over me, lower and lower. Vulture paranoia? Could be.

But I cannot pretend, even for the purposes of drama, that this is "Wild Florida." I pulled up to the bank about halfway down and climbed the sandy bluff there to see what was on the other side. It was Highway 27, a mere 50 feet from where I stood. I should have known it was so close to the road, because I filled up the back of my boat with trash. Nevertheless, from my vantage point, I could see at least two currents in the river. I was counting on an effortless float back to the put in, but that was not to be. Hard work up and hard work back. Maybe this is a river for motorboats.


Back at the car, a state park worker drove up to talk, his face ravaged by skin cancer from years as a roofer. He was worker under a program funded by the stimulus for folks over 55. He decided to be a park guide. Pretty cool. He told me the park was one of the most lucrative in Florida, some 3.4 million dollars in revenue last year. I found that gratifying. Even with all the technology and other distractions, Big Ass Rivers still draw us to their banks.