No, you can’t hike the Florida Trail using only a tarp.
Unless you are covered head-to-toe in bug netting.
I’m snug in the alicoop at the first of two designated campsites minutes after sunset and the mosquitos have made their grand ensemble entrance.
What a buildup, though! I arrive at this cool spot about 1/4 mile away from the levee and a water control structure and some kind of tower with flashing red lights.
The site comes with a covered picnic pavilion – thank god for shade! – very clean vault toilets with a garbage bag plus a pump for sulphur-ey well water. I get tips from previous hikers to simply let the water sit for a half hour and the stink dissipates, which seems to work quite well.
I’m also warned I’ll need to dive in my tent at about this very moment, so get my soggy tent set on a beautifully mowed designated area for FT hikers and ensure all is in place for my escape before setting about making dinner.
It’s a welcome stop after a long but glorious slog along canals following a crushed limestone road nearly all the way from the reservation.
I was nervous about this section because it’s not only relentless, but exposed to the sun all day. Sure, you follow water all day, but it’s alligator-infested farm run-off.
In a pinch, I suppose I could find somewhere to snag a liter, but instead I rely on trail angels near mile 10 followed by the sulphur well.
I also pack way too much food. I always lose weight on hikes so have started overcompensating, packing my fears more than nutrition. I really only need a couple handfuls of almonds, but pack a heavy bag just in case.
It doesn’t help me move in the morning, the weight right at my limit. But I soldier forth into a cool, foggy morning that I know will be oppressively hot by afternoon.
The trail is on a grass shoulder, sometimes simply passing over lawns where a few aggressive dogs bark as I walk by.
There’s no supermarket in town, only a well-stocked convenient store, clearly keeping us hikers in mind. I fall for it and buy four big bars and four electrolyte packs.
Did I mention I am already carrying too much food?
For nearly ten miles, I’ll head east, directly into the sun. It’s exhausting, and I move steadily to try and make tracks before the heat really sets in.
I’m on the opposite side of the canal from the road, so it’s quiet and easy walking. Just as I get close to my first jog north of a small stair-step in the trail, I meet a tree and decide to bask in its shade.
One bar dispatched. At least I take a bit of weight off.
The jog north takes me past a herd of young cows with comically small heads and floppy ears. They follow me along the fence-line, but when I approach for a picture, they make a mad dash away, bucking and kicking.
Well ok, then stop following me! Not a chance. They watch my every move as I plod along, not matching my steps, rather jogging ahead, then pivoting to a stop and bolting away again.
The game takes me around the stair steps and finally across Huff Bridge where it’s less ranch life and more wild life including herons, egrets and blackbirds.
The water gods – trail angels named Arni, Alan and Melanie – leave several dozen gallons of water tied together then against the guardrail.
I find shade to have yet another bar and drink up. There are many enormous trucks idling here and men in various states of planning to work or taking a break from work.
The L-3 levee is under major reconstruction as I walk past. In fact, I’ll need to take a slight detour to stay out of their way ahead.
It’s a Congregation of Alligators sunning on the banks and trolling the waters. A sign warns no boating allowed – or water gathering, I presume.
The everglades south of Okeechobee was drained to make way for agriculture. The water is still moving through, but it’s been channelled and controlled. The Florida Trail Association describes it like this:
“Welcome to South Florida as envisioned by entrepreneur Hamilton Disston and Florida governor Napoleon Bonaparte Broward at the turn of the last century, the “useless swamplands” of the upper Everglades drained to reveal the rich ‘black gold’ beneath the sawgrass, a nutrient-rich muck ideal for agriculture. Sliced and diced by canals, what were once the Everglades is now a patchwork of cattle ranches, muck farms, and the nation’s largest sugar cane holdings.”
It’s not exactly wilderness I walk in, and especially with all the trucks driving by, it feels less so. But the water, and the grassland beyond, are teeming with life.
I’ve mentioned the birds which are all along the canals fishing. There are also alligators in those canals.
One spot in particular, right where a warning sign is posted no boating, a hundred or so gators congregate. They’re crowded on a thin strip of embankment, heating up their bony backs.
When I come into view, they crash into the water, creating a frightening turbulence. As I get closer though, they swim gracefully, only their eyes and snout exposed.
I guess that spot wouldn’t be my first choice to fetch water.
There are numerous water control structures along the way that offer a small sliver of shade. But each appears to have its own resident hornets, so I push on to an even smaller sliver next to a barrel-shaped structure.
It’s funny that each of these many structures looks precisely the same except for an identifying number, so there’s a touch of deja-vu all day.
Most of the workers slow down as they come by and offer me a cold drink. The water I carry is as hot as me, so I’m grateful.
Others pass slowly and wave, trying not to stir up too much dust.
And a few don’t give a damn. That’s when I place myself in their way and make them slow down. I put my hood over my mouth to show them what’s what, and thank them for stopping.
I guess some smart aleck could harass me, but they are on the job and I doubt they’ll return tonight when the mosquitos are feasting to have it out with me.
I walk on and on and on. A doe peaks in through a clearing in the grasses and more gators pile up on the shoreline.
I’m tired and you can imagine walking on road without variation can be hard on the body. But I take breaks and practice my stretching routine for calves, hamstrings and knees.
I should mention one other good bit of hiker advice – to bring rubber tips for my walking sticks. It absorbs the shock from the hard road and makes walking easier.
Finally, I round the bend and spot the picnic pavilion.
As the sun sets, it’s like rush hour in the everglades. Everyone was moving and everyone had something to say.
An entire flock of black-bellied whistling ducks danced in an amorphous blob in flight, singing through the sky.
One boat-tailed grackle took over the highest point on the outhouse to give his sermon in chirrups and cackles.
A beautiful kestrel, glowing in the waning sun, flies low over the reeds, his expert eye trained for the evening meal.
And a limpkin cried out his mournful call like a kitten mewing for his mother.
Then, of course, there are the reptilian sounds I can’t identify filling the gloaming with sound as I zip up tight in the alicoop. It’s a bit of Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom out there tonight, a party just getting started.
And almost drowned out by the frothy collective buzzing of a million mosquito wings. Thankfully they can’t get through the netting I am safe inside, the air finally cooling with a sweet, freshly cut grass smell.
