Last night, I had to make do with the liter I’d carried nearly ten miles. I made dinner and wet my whistle, but I was filthy with no real way to wash.
Sure, I brought wipies and got the worst of the sunscreen and grit off my face. But by the time the grapefruit moon rose, I was still covered head to toe in my hiking outfit to discourage the mosquito cloud from becoming a feeding frenzy.
Once I loaded into the tent attempting to keep as many blood-sucking monsters out, I had no way to clean my feet.
Remember the sand road? A relentless bumpy squishiness for miles. Much of that came inside with me and found its way onto my sleep pad.
And since the heat is so intense, I’m using my sleeping bag like a quilt, I had a night of back exfoliation.
Truly it’s not that terrible and I sleep deeply. Not a soul drives into the campground. The moon makes lovely oak shadows on my tent, and the cows moo pretty well constantly.
I wake as the skeeters settle in, put on those sandy, smelly, slightly damp socks plus the rest of my gear, pack up and shove off.
A giant magenta fried egg of a sun lifts out of the mist as the moon finds the tree tops behind me. I start with a road walk again from the Oak Creek section to the Starvation Slough section.
It’s not horrible yet and I’m faced away from the sun. The trail goes around a cow pasture on another sand road so I wisely stay on the road. Maybe it’s a few feet longer, but I move evenly and keep myself sand-free just that much longer.
I must tell you that I am entirely out of water. Trail notes tell me of a cache left by “Water Boy” about four miles ahead. A few weeks ago there was still around 16 gallons.
The parking lot is empty, but the trail provides with a portapotty. It even has TP!
Water Boy stashes his many jugs behind an antennae, and I drink and fill up, uncertain if this is all there is until camp tonight.
The trail immediately enters a long avenue of oak hammock. It’s absolutely lovely in here. My trail is more a trail than a sand road, though I see lots of evidence of flooding in lumpy areas of sand, shaped by moving water.
It’s bone dry now as I take my first break at the campsite, lovely under spreading limbs with picnic tables and plenty of flat places to pitch. Not a soul is here.
In fact, I see no one all day except the two truckers who pass me on the road. It’s quiet in here, just me singing some verses of songs to pass the time.
I spy lots of open prairie beyond, the sun intense and am so grateful for this strip of shade. A northern parula sings to me his long windup like sucking in snot.
So here’s where you spend winter, beautiful friend! See you in northern Minnesota next spring.
I barely need my hat, it’s so dark in here. The wind takes the worst of the edge off as I plod forward.
Oak tree limbs are longer than the trunks and reach nearly straight out in a graceful, curving line. They are covered in epiphytes like bromeliads, resurrection ferns and Spanish moss.
I follow the fenceline of a ranch, though the grassy trail this time is easy to walk on. Cows lazily check me out and I look at the water next to me. Not too gross and not too far to collect. Alligators appear to be somewhere else.
Water Boy left a cache at the Starvation Slough North campsite but makes a note in our map app that he had a heck of a time getting in here and was stopped and questioned by someone on the ranch.
Indeed, the water is all gone except for one lovely sip. And I realize just how remote my location is. I’m able to text Richard now and again, but the water is too low for an airboat and the only road is through the ranch, which is heavily padlocked.
I make a note to be extra careful.
At mile 200, I find a huge oak covered in Spanish moss and ferns to sit under for lunch. I sip half my remaining liter and decide I can make it the remaining seven miles, especially since the next campsite has a water pump.
It’s not long before I enter the Kissimmee Prairie Preserve State Park. I’m warned that my blessed shade will be much harder to come by, and to keep track of my surroundings since the park is loathe to put too many trail posts up.
And why? Because raptors can use them to land on and this 54,000 acre chunk of pristine grassland is the stronghold of the endangered grasshopper sparrow.
Heck, I don’t mind watching my directions if it keeps a few raptors from making a grasshopper sparrow their lunch.
I wonder if I’ll hear one.
For today, anyway, I stay mostly along oak and palm hammocks, shaded and pleasant. I hear cardinals, red winged blackbirds and meadowlarks, but no grasshopper sparrows – yet.
It’s easy walking on sand road that is less sandy than some I’ve seen. I tick off the miles as the prairie opens out, in one spot a field of palmetto that disappears into the horizon.
The grasses are tall and fan in the breeze. Except for a few palm trees, this could be North Dakota.
Ahead the trail makes an enormous detour around a gator hangout, but my notes tell me this is a low water year and to splash on through the shortcut.
White poles straddle the road marking up to ten feet. But all I see ahead is a puddle that I can easily hop over without getting wet.
Gators don’t hang out in puddles. They need some deep water. But snakes do, so I keep my eyes peeled. So far, only the one very big black snake slithered across my path.
It’s not long now to the turn off into camp. There’s a picnic table and some high benches, but the starring attraction is the glorious hand pump which brings up cold water in seconds.
I am so early I can lazily dry my gear, and maybe most importantly, brush the sand off my sleeping mat.
I make a pot of tea, and when that’s drunk, make another. Dinner is one remaining from the start that I somehow skipped eating, garbanzo beans in a lemon dill sauce. Finally, healthy eating!
Unlike last night, I have the time to extract most of the sand from socks (and shoes) I hang out my sweaty hiker outfit, then hold my head right under the water pump to cool down and remove at least some of the sweat.
My feet are next, easily cleaned up – this is without soap, of course. Just a rinse.
I am a new person who crawls into my tent as trees shed leaves and palms and two very loud barred owls plan their evening.
I pop out to look at the sky. A rainstorm curtains the west and the sunset lights up rainbows. Who knows if it will reach me.
And just as I zip in, a few patter through the trees. Perhaps it will cool things down?
