2007 - Vol. 4, Issue 2

"Are you in trouble? Do you need any help?"

This isn't the first car to pull out of morning traffic and stop beside us. We're unloading and organizing our kayaks on the grassy center median of a highway that runs along the west coast of Florida. We assure them that we're fine. We say that the river is waiting. They merge back into the flow of work-bound cars, shaking their heads.

The next would–be rescuer, a young man, does more than shake his head. He tells us over and over, in an increasingly loud and angry voice, that we can't get through this stretch of the river. He says, "ya'll," but stares at me. I try to see his point of view — he's watching one woman (Jackie) help another (me) back her manual wheelchair down a steep drainage ditch in the middle of a busy, divided highway. I consider going another round of explanation with him, but now he's screaming orders at me. I ignore him out of existence, and he screeches off in his truck, yelling out the window about how the mosquitoes will get us for sure.

Normally, we pay attention to a local person's dire predictions, but last week we paddled a lower stretch of this same river, and two kayakers passed us. They were full of themselves because they'd put in on the highway and made it all the way down. We questioned them, and they admitted to a log or two, but it hadn't stopped them. Right then, we decided we had to do it.

Jackie and I continue down the hill, reminding ourselves that the two kayakers were not the no body fat, lycra–covered types either. They were more like us — middle-aged and hefty. We even saw them smoking.

Now I put my boat in the water while Jackie moves the car over to the fruit–stand parking lot on the southbound side of the road. Exploring upstream while I wait, I'm surprised by the strength of the river and don't get far.

I've been kayaking for three years and have taken ninety trips, all in Florida or South Georgia. During these same years, Florida has been under drought conditions. All my experience is on lazier–than–usual rivers, and my skills are in pushing and scooching over logs and sandbars. One of my techniques is to lean back in my kayak and push the front end onto a log. Then I scoot to the bow and, sitting in lotus position, use my weight to tip the boat over the other side of the log. I've also hugged the edges of rivers turned creek–size looking for that extra half–inch of water that'll get me by a sandbar — our "what water?" kayaking.

This river is faster than I've ever been on. In the last two months we've had rain, loads of it, and the rivers are recharging. I know our usual Plan B of simply turning around and coming back if it's impassible isn't going to work. I decide not to say anything to Jackie.

Jackie props one end of her paddle on the bank and the other on the kayak. As if it were a stair banister, she slides down the shaft and into the well of her boat. It's a graceful move that I always admire. She pushes away from shore, and we're off. We fly under the bridge and past the lot where the car is parked, which now we notice has its own rocky ramp where we could have put in without all the public commentary. Still, quickly we're in the place we're always searching for — the middle of nowhere. I slow my boat and lean into the seat, appreciating the excellent back support along with everything else about kayaking. Jackie is fresh from an edible plant workshop and points out the culinary possibilities around us. She picks odd bits of green and waves them in my face. I'm supposed to eat them.

Jackie and I kayak a lot together. It's how we became friends. We have similar philosophies: go slowly, enjoy every flower and bird and odd track in the sand, and eat well and frequently. We are always trying to top our record for the longest it takes us to go a mile. Our personal best are the seventy–minute miles we did on the Econlockhatchee, downstream no less. Our personal best in the food category is the strawberry shortcake Jackie made on her teensy backpacking stove in the Okefenokee Swamp. Other contenders are the crab dip she threw together on the bow of her boat floating down the Suwannee, tender fish steamed over fire on the St. Mary's River trip last spring, and cilantro laden salsa that we ate not only on the Chassahowitzka River, but also the Shired, Barnett, Alexander, Demory, and Juniper creeks. With this history of trust guiding me, I grab the assortment of leaves and stems from Jackie as she floats by and put them in my mouth. I'm glad we packed a lunch, although smilax tips are surprisingly tasty.

In the past year, we've explored the lower, tidal parts of this river. We often launch from the boat ramp at Gulf Hammock. Depending on the tides, we may go downstream to the Gulf, upstream to the right fork that leads to the Wekiva River or upstream to the left fork that takes us on up the Wacassassa. On the Wacassassa fork it pays to be careful since at low tide the way is blocked by a slimy log that is, for me, impassable. I think about it waiting there near the end of this trip and review the tide chart in my head. Tides, maps, directions, and research are my responsibility.

The river is too remote to have its own tide measurement station and the daily predictions of high and lows that it provides. Instead, using observations from our previous trips, I've developed my own system. I add two and a half hours to a nearby tide station low to get our boat ramp low, one more hour for enough water to cover the log obstacle, and approximately five hours for us to get down to it. If it's windy, everything will escalate.

In this moment, I let the math leave my head — whatever the time, we are on our way. Besides, I need to pay attention to steering, which is not something that I'm used to doing. As I stretch backwards to go under a brushy area, the branches sweep over me, scratching at my cheeks. I'm thrilled. I keep grinning as I'm jerked sideways by the current and pushed against a log. Seconds later, Jackie smacks alongside me. We stare at each other and laugh. This is going to be fun.

I have a nine–foot Ocean Kayak Frenzy. It's fat, short, stable, turns easily (which is gentle on my elbows), and I can put it in the back of my van and close the doors. It doesn't cut through the water like Jackie's fifteen-foot, eight–inch Wilderness Systems Alto, but with our pokey kayaking style, we don't do much straight–out paddling. Jackie always tells me to go first on these rivers where you have to search out little holes in the brush or twisty paths through crisscrossed, downed palm trees. She tells me I'm the better scout. This may very well be, but she's using flattery to obscure her true motive. For some reason, she doesn't like that half–snicker, half–chuckling sound I make when I watch her try to maneuver that long kayak around tight corners.

We're moving along in the unaccustomed current, and I'm awkward but improving when we arrive at a downed log higher than my head. I poke around the ends, but there's no getting through. Unlike the muddy logs down in the tidal part of the river, this one stays dry, so I think I can make it. I move horizontal to the log, smack at it to chase off the five-inch wide furry spiders and any unseen snakes, and then throw my paddle on its paddle leash over to the other side. I teeter onto my knees, and my good little tugboat of a kayak holds steady. My elbows can reach over the log, so I make my move — moves actually, along with scrapes, lurches, and grunts. Soon I'm straddling the log and enjoying the chance to survey our terrain from on high. Elevation is a relative term in Florida.

I watch Jackie do another smooth transfer along her paddle onto the shore and walk her kayak around the far end. I look down at my boat, figure out how I could pull it over by myself, and then ask Jackie to do it for me. She joins me on the log, and we sit awhile, leaning close to the eighth–of–an–inch high, neon-yellow mushrooms, watching a caterpillar ripple between us as we rub our fingers over the patches of moss. I am also planning my descent.

A likely branch angles down to the boat. I brace my arms and lean, feeling a disturbing amount of give. I want to reconsider, but it's too late — my weight is shifting downwards. The branch groans, and both of us drop toward the water. When a lower branch blocks our descent, I toss my legs in and tumble knees-first into the kayak. One more flip and I'm butt down in the seat. Our adventure continues.

Time after time we push through downed tree tops, and each time I carry away a batch of spiders varying from small, quick ones with white–spotted backs bordered by orange spikes to even quicker ones with legs the size of twigs. Only the wooly ones give me pause. I brush most of them into the water, hoping that they can swim. The fifth time I wipe a netting of invisible strands off of my face, it occurs to me that there might be another reason Jackie likes me to go first. I share my suspicions, but Jackie swears she has just as many spiders on her boat. We come to another log, negotiate it successfully, and are feeling good about ourselves. We'll show that screaming guy in the truck.

Around the next curve, the way is blocked by downed logs laid out like a giant game of pickup sticks. Poking my kayak in one place and then another, I find a path. Sliding into the well of my kayak, I lie completely flat and, while the tip of my nose grazes the underside of a log, use my hips to shift directions, allowing the bow to clear a second log by inches. I am impressed with myself once again and decide to turn and watch how Jackie manages. As I clear my throat for the first snicker/chuckle, my paddle catches on a limb and neatly flips me out of the boat. I come back up from underwater holding onto the paddle and by extension the still upright boat. I do not have on my life jacket. When you've spent ninety–nine percent of your time paddling in calm, less–than–three–foot–depths, a life jacket seems silly. Who knew that a fast current meant deep as well? I yell to Jackie that I'm okay and then start doing things to make this be true. I grab onto the kayak and look for shore. With all the rain, the river has spread through the woods, leaving only the tops of cypress knees poking above the water. Jackie is trying to wedge her way through the brush as I sweep around the corner out of the sight. Again, I yell out that I'm okay while I try, unsuccessfully, to swim myself and the boat over to a three–foot piece of muddy bank that rushes by. It's the last visible land in sight, but I realize that I really am okay. The boat is a great flotation device, this isn't prime alligator habitat, and although my hat is gone, the rest of my gear is strapped down, including the glasses around my head. Land will appear, eventually. I relax and use the time productively — I take the opportunity to pee.

Two bends later, the current swings me into land. I grab exposed roots and pull out of the water. When Jackie arrives, I'm perched on a patch of mud trying to dry my glasses. She lets me use her shirttail, and we sit together quietly. It seems like a good time for lunch. After a fortifying meal of roast beef sandwiches on onion rolls with horseradish, carrot sticks, cherries, grapes, and a semisweet chocolate bar, I get back on the kayak.

At the next and final log, I thread my way around the edges through a maze of cypress knees. The landscape is familiar, yet, flooded everything is changed. We know we've made it when we pass the old–growth cypress trees, memorable for their size and lightening scars. This is now a tidal river, and the current that has been pushing us combines with the outgoing tide. We rush over the still–submerged log near the confluence of the Wekiva and enter the wider, saltier river where cardinal lobelia and swamp lilies line the edges. The cypress trees have given way to marsh grass and red buckeyes, their pear–shaped pods hanging low over the water.

Five hours after put in, we reach the boat ramp. My van and power chair are waiting where we dropped them off this morning. It's now safe to be smug, and we talk about how wrong that guy was and how we are going to impress people when we tell them that we paddled this stretch of the river. We practice how to casually drop it into conversations. I change into dry clothes while Jackie picks some more smilax tips for a snack. As I drive us back to her car, Jackie shows me how to snap off the edible green tips, and we agree that they taste just like asparagus.

After buying a watermelon and peaches at the fruit stand, we caravan home to Gainesville. We stop at the bridge on Highway 24, just before Bronson, that crosses an even further upstream section of the Waccasassa. Jackie gets out and scouts the path to the river. We don't know of anyone who has paddled here, but if it keeps raining we'll probably give it a go. The mosquitoes haven't gotten us yet.