An Okefenokee Mis-Adventure.2

Headed off down river, finally!

As I paddle down river, a Wonderland opens: I’m Alice and have fallen down a swamp ‘rabbit hole’! Spanish moss hangs from large cypress trees above me.

The Cypress trees remind me of ornate columns holding up a cathedral’s ceiling—Mother Nature’s cathedral! Even as I struggle to paddle the canoe and keep a wary eye on the many gators populating the river, I am filled with wonder.

The gators, with scales as black as the swamp water, are difficult to see. They hang suspended, unmoving in the water, a pair of nostrils and eyes, easily mistaken as driftwood. I don’t get a sense of how big they are until my canoe approaches them. They swim off and their long bodies and tails come to the surface. Yike! 

It is a sacred place, exotic, wild! Through the canopy above, a blue-sky background shows through. It is a canvas on which Nature’s own Michelangelo (Natural Selection) has painted a massive 3D Spanish moss fresco ceiling. Birds of many species populate the cypress branches and sing. On the shore, flowers of assorted colors adorn its altar, their beauty and fragrance, offerings to Mother Nature. Water lilies with their white flowers float in its water. The birds, its choir, the alligators, its acolytes. Even as I paddle, scared shitless, the canoe rocking with each stroke, the alligators floating nearby, the black water below, it is a Holy Grail moment, bringing awe and reverence—spiritual. 

But this is all backwards! I’m just getting started. Holy Grails are supposed to come at the end of a quest, not at the beginning. At the end of the quest, one must face the dragon before attaining the Grail. Is there a ‘dragon’ here I have yet to face? I scan around me as I paddle, keeping an even warier eye out for gators. Dragons are reptiles. Alligators are reptiles. Is my ‘dragon’ an alligator? That thought rachets up my fear even more. 

Off in the forest on my left and high in the canopy, a red-cockaded woodpecker beats out a drum roll. Songbirds—thrushes, willets, kites, and warblers—populate and sing in the surrounding trees. I know there are Golden and Bald Eagles in the refuge but don’t spot any. Wood storks of various sizes and ducks of various species go about their day as I paddle by.

Buzzing insects fly hither and yon around me, but amazingly, none land. Fish jump in the river. I know a lot about fish, having gotten my masters at the University of Texas in ichthyology (fish evolutionary genetics), but can’t see the fish well enough to identify them. There are some 39 species according to the Park’s species list. An occasional turtle pops its head above the water and quickly dives back down upon my approach. Interestingly, I see no snakes. Aren’t there supposed to be snakes in swamps?

A large tour boat approaches loaded with passengers. I labor to move over to the river’s side to give it room to pass, and run aground into a large Cypress root knee, wedging the front of my canoe into it. How embarrassing. As the tour boat passes, I wave at the passengers. A few waves back. I can see some commenting to each other. It reminds me of the teen gators back at the landing. The boat passes, leaving me struggling to get my canoe freed from the Cypress root.

I try paddling backwards. No good. I rock the canoe, trying to loosen it, then try back-paddling again. Again, no movement. Finally, in frustration, I extend my paddle forward and try pushing off. Again, still stuck. “Well, shit,” I say, and give the paddle a big heave! It breaks me free, and I drift back out into the river. Turning the canoe around, I continue my journey down river. 

 My platform campsite is only three miles, MOL, down the river, the map and staff said. When I had been planning the trip, and again, when I got started, I had thought, “Well, how hard could three miles be, even for a novice? After all, it is a flat swamp, still water, no wind, and no current.” According to what I’d read online, and according to the canoe-rental people, should only take me, maybe, a couple of hours. I’ve been paddling now for three hours! My arms and shoulder muscles are getting tired, and I haven’t seen the turnoff yet. My camping platform is supposed to be about a mile further—after I turn off. I’m feeling discouraged besides getting tired. 

This getting old shit has a lot of drawbacks. In addition to my body and brain falling apart, I don’t last as long —and it’s only going to get worse as I age. As my dear old daddy used to say, “It (getting old), beats the alternative though.” I’m thankful that I can still do everything I can do. Not as much as I used to, though. Of course, that means I’m still getting into situations like this—way in over my head! Ain’t life great! That’s what adventures are made of, though. 

I knew that the strategy was to go straight down the middle of the river—or down one side. Not zigzagging, running into things. The key was “straight.” Easier said than done. I keep pulling to my right side, meaning that my strokes on the left are stronger than on my right. The principle is: apply force on one side, the canoe turns to the other side. Simple, right? Translated: paddle on left side to move canoe right and right side to move left. The same principle works on bicycles and motorcycles. I try to compensate by stroking harder on my right side. I’m right-handed, so it’s curious that I’m paddling harder on my left. Despite that, I keep running into trees, cypress root knees, grass, lily pads, moss mini-island clumps growing in the water—and more than one unhappy, indignant alligator. It’s exhausting!

My canoe rocks disconcertingly back and forth with each stroke. I am fearful of flipping the canoe and feel like an old man teeter-tottering on a walker: unsteady, uneasy, and scary. Tipping over into the water is a terrifying thought. I think of Frodo and his journey through the caves of Gollum: what monsters lurk in the black waters around me here? Thank goodness we don’t have piranhas in this part of the world. Hello, any Gollums down there?

Instead of Dorothy’s “Lions, tigers, and bears, oh my!” in the Wizard of Oz, my refrain is, “Gators, snakes, and skeeters, oh my!” To tell the truth, I did not see a snake the whole trip. When I got back home and looked at the species’ list, there was only one snake listed, the Black Indigo, a non-venomous constrictor. Black snakes are notorious for climbing trees, but it’s not like they just hang down from them. They were around. I just didn’t see any.

As I continue my paddling, I’m doing a little better—not much, but some. My frequency of running into things, my zigzags, etc., has decreased—but I’m still struggling and it’s exhausting. Aren’t learning curves great!  Finally, after about a mile-and-a-half, I switch paddles. I lay the single-blade paddle to the side and pick up the double-bladed, kayak-style one, and begin paddling with it. My zigging and zagging straightens out even more. The rocking of the canoe as I stroke also lessens. Wished I’d switched earlier. 

Two miles out—finally—I come to the little sign that reads “Cedar Hallow,” with an arrow pointing down a channel to the right, just as the canoe staff had told me. Breathing a sigh of relief, I turn into it. At first it opens to a pond area, but then narrows to a small stream in the back. After going down the stream a few hundred yards, I’m wondering if this is right? Did I read the sign correctly? I turn around—no easy feat in the small stream—paddle back out to the main river and check the sign again. Nope, I read it right. Looking further downriver, I can see other signs pointing to other camping platforms. It looks like I am in the right place. Turning back around, I head back down the turnoff and down the narrow stream.

At one point, the water is so shallow and the moss so thick that I think I am going to have to get out and push the canoe across. After turning over earlier–and having seined fish in my earlier years in murky, muddy-bottomed waters like this, I don’t relish the thought. Pushing hard with my paddle, I maneuver the canoe across the obstruction to the clearer channel on the other side. At this point, though, I’ve come quite a distance down the small stream and not seen anything indicating I’m on the right trail. Doubt and uncertainty creep back in, along with a healthy dose of anxiety. Since heading down the stream, I’ve seen no one. It’s just me, the swamp all around, the birds, and bugs. An occasional ‘ribbit’ and splash from a frog, as I make my way. “But, hey, no gators.”

After several minutes, I decide to check in with the canoe people and pick up my iPhone. One bar of signals shows on the screen, but I get through. The young lady who answers assures me I am going correctly, and that I should see the platform a little over a mile down the stream.

A little distance further, I pass a small wooden sign stuck into the mud. It reads, “1 mile.” I’ve come one mile at this point down the stream. The canoe woman said that my camping platform was a little over a mile and I keep paddling. I come around a bend in the stream, and it opens to a large, flat, treeless area. According to its online description, my campsite platform, deemed Cedar Hollow, is on Blackjack Lake. I would have to take their word for the ‘lake’ part. All I can see is a wide expanse of low growing swamp grass and water lilies with trees off in the distance. “Welcome to Cedar Hollow?” I mumble to myself. Looking across the lake, on its shore, Lo-and-behold, there sits a camping platform! With a great sigh of relief, “Alleluia! I’m saved!” I quickly paddle over to it. Pulling up to it and looking down into the water beside my canoe, it was at least four feet deep. Another conundrum. “Now, how do I get out of this canoe without turning over?” 

The adventure continues. Go to chapter 3.