I’ve make it to “13-Mile Camp” just as the sun is going down. I have enough light to set the tent in the one flat – and green – spot in an otherwise burned area. But the creatures don’t seem to mind, as two Barred Owls caterwaul to each other puzzling over this sweaty, muddy hiker in their midst.
I am all alone here – all alone, all day. Still I build a little log pile to warn any late night arrivals not to go flying over my guy-lines.
It is a tight little dry tropical hammock with a table! which I use to make a beans/rice/fritos meal as the mosquitos find me and a glorious crescent moon, flat on her side sets in a purple sky. The sky is so clear today, I can see the entire moon shape reflected in the crescent’s brilliance plus Jupiter, bright and sparkling.
I really hadn’t intended to come this far, but I moved well through this wild swamp and arrived far to early at my intended sight. I couldn’t bear setting a tent in the open.
Yes, there are trees, but the slash pine are huge, maybe 50 or so stories with all the foliage bunched up at the top. They make for dryer walking and are beautifully regal, but shade is almost non-existent.
But I get ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning when I wake in a sopping wet tent at Midway Campground. I sleep well enough as the air cools, but need to wear my earplugs all night to drown out the semis passing on the Tamiami Trail.
I’m up before dawn for a mosquito-free breakfast on a dry table under a canopy as a woman about my age walks by. My neighbor, who slept in her car named Mary exclaims with incredulity, “What, no car?” I explain my friend dropped me off and I’m planning to walk the Florida Trail. And of course without skipping a beat, I ask her for a ride on the 2.7 miles of road to the start.
Mary obliges and joins me for the first mile which includes a walk along a slough filled with wildlife – Great Blue and Green Heron, Snowy Egret as well as Anhingas drying their wings in a dramatic fashion as if flashing us. We follow an airstrip until the first mud begins, and that’s her cue to go! Thanks for the ride and company, Mary!
And off I go into sawgrass prairies dotted with cypress domes and cypress strands as well as pine islands and tropical benches.
It’s expected all of this will be slow-going. If it’s not muddy, it’s water, in one spot, up to my knees. But it’s lovely and unique in here. In the first miles I spot a Northern Cardinal and a yellow-throated warbler, plus hear red bellied and pileated woodpeckers, flycatchers, titmouses and grackles. A couple of hawks circle high up overhead as a camera-shy dragonfly, like spun gold, flutters from plant to plant in front of me.
The mud is not nearly as bad as I expected and I walk over dried footprints. That should be my first clue that water might be a problem as I move on. But there’s no hint of things drying up as I meet my first cypress dome.
I’m walking through Big Cypress National Preserve, but ‘big’ refers to the size of the area, not the cypress themselves. These beauties around my feet stand 20-30 feet at most, with gently angled feet as if wearing a flared skirt resting right in the water. Epiphytes camp out in notches on their branches like so many Side-Show Bob’s.
The cloudless sky is mirrored in the crystal clear water and I plunge in, walking through easily and never seeing anything concerning, like a snake or alligator. It’s too shallow here, I think and there’s no warning, so I clean my muddy shoes for now and it takes little time to dry up.
All of Florida was a massive reef at one time millions of years ago. What remains is exposed limestone, surprisingly grippy. That being said, the limestone is pockmarked with what are called “solution holes” and can be an ankle twister if you’re not careful.
So I am very careful.
I break for a nice long lunch at Seven Mile Camp. My tent dries on the picnic table, while I gather water at a nearby dome and make food.
After here, it’s still fairly easy walking to Ten Mile Camp, another picnic table but no water. So off I go, unsure exactly how far I really want to go. Pretty soon, I come to an area with a major warning. Carefree walking is over for now, it would seem. This is Flag Pond where the alligators vigilantly protect their water holes. Flag refers to the tall water plants in the deepest bits where they like to congregate, not actual flags.
I stay far away from those flags and pay extra attention, and call out to them as I come through. Hey gators! It’s Blissful comin’ on through! I suppose it can’t hurt. Yesterday, when we took the airboat ride, the gators heard us coming and shoved off their sunning spots into the water. These gentle giants didn’t seem to mind us coming so close.
I’m sure these Florida Trail gators have seen (and heard) hikers pass a million times. But just how they’ll behave as I pass is a mystery.
It’s the deepest mud yet, with some fallen logs. Messy and finally shaded, one lone fancy pink flower poking out of the muck. I take its photo and move on, never seeing a gator or snake. All quiet at Flag Pond.
I don’t dare take water at Flag Pond, but then I don’t hit any more water for miles, just mud and dried up Cypress Domes. At mile marker 12, someone makes a note to carefully walk in towards the willows (flags?) to find a lovely water hole for the taking. Thankfully no creatures are using it, so I filter a liter and drink it down.
For a while I’m up on dry level ground. Let’s be honest, all the ground is level, this is not the mountains! just varying terrain from dry to wet. I cross a few Swamp Buggy Tracks then receive another alert to watch for an especially aggressive gator.
His hole does come up quick, hidden behind palmetto fronds. I don’t see anyone around, so keep moving, now thinking maybe I can hit the next cypress dome and camp after.
I’m tired, hot, muddy. It’s been a very long day and I’m thirsty too. But when I arrive, the dome is dried right up.
Oh no!
Well, I just drank a liter. I guess I can sleep thirsty…and miserable.
I look around to see if any hole magically appears, but this swamp is dry. Not dry enough to camp, though, so on I go.
Funny though how the trail provides. Mary came over to talk just as I needed to figure out how to get to the start. And as I lumber on, heading for some dry land to camp on, a strip of the trail is submerged under water. Clean, clear, fresh, beautiful, drinkable water that I carefully collect and carry them less than a mile to Thirteen Mile Camp (named because about 13.5 from I-75, the next road) It’s recently burned in here and I set under a charred palm, acrid smoke up my nose.
And that finishes my first day, fed and watered, cleaned up using three wipies and now cuddled in with the sound of a mosquito chorus outside my tent, plus the synchonized chanting of crickets.
Tomorrow I’ll hit the “Hardest Piece of Trail in the United States” when I walk through a stand of water six miles long with only two bits of high ground along the way to rest. It’s said no one can move faster than one mile per hour in here.
Well, I’m ready going to sleep before 8:00, carrying days of food and with a plan to leave gobs of time to get through. Deep breathes, Blissful. You’ve got this.
