After spending a significant part of the winter in a wall tent near the Maine/Quebec border, I was soon to be off to the Everglades to paddle a route from Everglades City to Flamingo. Several days before our planned departure date, I spent most of a day digging out my canoe trailer. Not only did I have to remove the snow from the trailer itself, but I also had to dig out a path to the driveway through which to back up the truck. Since we had three and a half feet of snow containing two layers of crusted ice, it was a bit of a job. But, I finally got it out, and started packing. The day before our planned departure, we were hit with a major snowstorm, dropping over a foot of new snow. It took several days to dig everything out, but with my trusty snow shovel I managed to get everything loaded and the trailer free of snow.

        The drive south was uneventful. It would have been much easier to fly, but canoes make awkward carry-ons, and if you don't get on the plane early the overhead compartments are often too full to hold them.

        I had consulted marine charts and guidebooks in planning several routes, which would afford us a trip through the various environments for which the Everglades are known; winding, overgrown creeks, wide-open inland bays, large rivers, and the vast, open expanse of the Gulf of Mexico. Dan and I were paddling separate canoes, each of which would be carrying a significant amount of weight due to the fact that we would be bringing with us all the fresh water needed for the trip.

        We arrived at the Gulf Coast Ranger Station in Everglades City late in the afternoon to get our permit. You have to plan where you are going to camp in advance, then register with the park rangers to ensure that several parties don't all plan on spending the same night at the same place. I quickly learned that the closest campsite for the following night was a twenty-mile paddle, a revelation that irked me more than a bit. After that, though, we were able to reserve campsites within more reasonable distances of one another. I was a bit uneasy about paddling 20 miles, against the tide, after not having picked up a canoe paddle in seven months, but since we didn't have any other options, I figured if night overtook us we could spend the night in the boats.

        We spent that night at a private campground, about 15 miles outside of Everglades City, and were up reasonably early the next morning. We had made plans for an outfit in Everglades City to ferry our vehicle and trailer to Flamingo while we were on the water. They had their own launch ramp, which was on the canal across the street from the ranger station. On the way into town, Dan and I stopped for breakfast. We ate a big breakfast, as we both knew we would be using a lot of energy that day. We made a few more stops and finally got on the water at about ten o'clock. With the canoes loaded, I parked the car away from the ramp, made a quick stop at the porta-pottie, then got into my boat and pushed off from shore.

        The Causeway Route, which leads from Everglades City to Chokoloskee, is a three-mile canal that parallels the road. At the end where it widened into a bay, we hugged the northeast shore and headed up the Turner River. While the tide was coming against us, there was a stiff breeze blowing out of the southwest, so I stood up in the canoe allowing the breeze to push me upstream.

        It seems that the one thing everyone has heard about canoeing is that you should never stand up in a canoe. This, of course, is utter hogwash; a fallacy perpetuated by summer camp instructors everywhere. Standing in a canoe serves several purposes. First, it allows you to see the water in front of you from a different perspective. This can be invaluable when descending a river, as it enables you to see down a rapid or over a ledge. Second, it is the only way you can effectively pole or snub(pole downstream). Third, it allows your body to act as a sail, helping to push the canoe along when you have a following wind. I'm sure there are other reasons to stand in a canoe, but no others come to mind right now that concern themselves solely with moving the canoe safely and efficiently. In order for your paddle to be in the water while you're standing, it has to be long; preferably, it should be as tall as you are, if not a little taller.

        For about two miles, the wind helped to push us upstream. I stood the whole way, enjoying the feel of the wind and the sun. As we turned south into Hurddles Creek, the tide was racing out at us and we no longer had the wind to help us along. Hugging the shore where the tide was weaker, we slowly made our way upstream and across Mud Bay and the two Cross Bays before seeing Wilderness Waterway marker 125 at the end of Crooked Creek. We paddled into a headwind into Sunday Bay, not stopping for lunch but eating a bit as we went. On through Oyster Bay we faced a strong headwind, and were thankful that the bows of our canoes were weighted down with water and gear, which stopped them from being blown around. When we entered Huston Bay, our course changed, turning what had been a headwind into following wind. Granted, it was not directly off of the stern, but it did help in pushing the canoe the way we needed to go. Once again, I stood up to take full advantage of the breeze. As we entered Last Huston Bay, we paddled upwind a ways, then turned and once again used the wind to push us along. While the distance we traveled across this bay was greater than if we had paddled a straight line, the amount of effort expended was lessened by using the wind to push us. When we entered Sweetwater Creek something felt amiss, so I asked Dan about it. He said that he felt it too. It seemed that we were paddling with, not against, the tide. This was indeed a novelty. In a day where we had labored against the forces of nature for hours, broken up by a few periods of tailwinds, it was an oddity to flow with the water, rather than against it. The final mile of the day was a joy; quiet water, the sun lower and not as bright, protected from the wind… it was great. As the Sweetwater Chickee came into view after rounding a bend, I felt relaxed. It had taken us seven hours of paddling to cover the 20 miles. I had been staying well hydrated and felt good, although a bit tired. We set up camp and I had a bucket bath before eating some dinner.

        On my first paddling trip to the Everglades, I had asked the ranger about alligators. She told me that they would usually mind their business if I minded mine, but that I shouldn't dangle my feet in the water or swim at the inland chickees. This trip, I brought a 5-gallon bucket with which to bathe. I simply tied a string to the bail, and threw it into the water to fill it. Then I would hoist it up and dump it on myself. It's that simple, but it makes the trip that much more enjoyable when you can rinse off the grit at the end of the day.

        That night at Sweetwater Chickee, I sat in my tent and read through the guidebook I had bought for the trip; "A Paddler's Guide to Everglades National Park" by Johnny Molloy(highly recommended). As I flipped through the pages, I was splitting my time between reading the book and killing the mosquitoes that had entered the tent when I did. I found the book filled with useful information, and a good instrument for killing mosquitoes. By the time I went to sleep, there were no mosquitoes in the tent, and the book had several blotches of my blood on it, which had been liberated from the winged bloodsuckers.

        The next morning started with oatmeal, which I had soaked overnight in order to decrease the cooking time, and coffee. As we were packing up our tents, two park service employees came roaring up Sweetwater Creek in a long, flat-bottomed skiff. They had come to clean out the porta-pottie, which they told us they did about once a week at each campsite. One of them went on and on about how kayaks were becoming much more popular than canoes. I broke in twice with a question and a comment, but he didn't notice and kept on talking. He could have had the same conversation if he was alone, as no one else got a word in.

        Soon they were gone, and we were all packed and had our gear stowed in waterproof bags in our canoes. As we left the chickee, the water was calm, the air carried the sweet scents of the vegetation, and the tide was with us. At the end of Sweetwater Creek, and before we entered the Chatham River, we passed Wilderness Waterway marker 99. We paddled slowly, as we had only 7.5 miles to cover. On the bank of the Chatham River is Watson's Place Campsite, former home of the infamous Ed Watson. Built on a native shell mound, during its hey-day it was a 35-acre farm that grew sugar cane and vegetables. Local legend has it that Watson murdered numerous people, and that several bodies were never recovered. Watson's story is the basis of Peter Matthiessen's book, "Killing Mister Watson," about which the Los Angeles Times Book Review said, "stands with the best that our nation has produced as literature." Before the Everglades became a national park, it was thinly settled by farmers, homesteaders, fishermen, hunters, moonshiners, and other colorful characters. Thus, the watery wilderness has a long, colorful, and sometimes sordid history. In the weeks preceding the trip, I had boned up on the history by reading Marjory Stoneman Douglas' "The Everglades; River of Grass." It tells the story of South Florida from the last ice age to the present, weaving a rich textual tapestry of the land and its inhabitants. For me, learning the history of a region makes it come alive as I travel through it.

        As we floated by Watson's Place, we had a brief conversation with the folks who were camped there. They had been fishing for two days, and were spending one more night there before heading out of the Glades. After asking them about the fishing, what they were using, etc., we drifted toward the Gulf on the tide. The Chatham River widens considerably below Watson's Place, becoming an island-dotted bay before it reaches the Gulf. As the sun was now well up in the sky, the onshore winds had commenced, which left us paddling against a stiff breeze. Since we had the tide with us as we fought the wind, the result was a significant chop to the water. Entering the bay just inland of the Gulf, I saw something break the surface of the water in the distance. I watched it as it came closer, and it was a few seconds before I recognized it as the dorsal fin of a porpoise. There were two of them swimming side by side upstream. I sat quietly and watched as they passed within about 15 feet of my canoe. While I would see many more throughout the trip, these were the first two I had seen, and the most memorable.

        As we left the protected water of the Chatham River and paddled into the Gulf, we could see our destination, Mormon Key, about a mile distant. As the bottom here was shallow and scoured by the tides, I elected to pole as far as I could since this would lessen the effect of the wind on my progress. I followed the shore until I had to cross the channel separating Mormon Key from the mainland, then stowed the pole and started paddling. As we pulled up to the beach, a group of kayaks were departing, and another canoe was landing nearby.

        The campsite was on a narrow, open beach, bordered by prickly pear and with no shade from the powerful midday sun. After we got out of our canoes, Dan went for a walk around the key. As there was no shade, I decided to create some, so I pulled my canoe up onto the beach and rolled it onto its side, propping the two ends with water jugs. It gave me a line of shade that was partially under the boat, on which I put down my foam camping mattress. I lay there in the shade, reading about the next day's paddle, until the warmth, the sound of the waves lapping at the shore, and the fatigue from paddling overtook me, and I slipped into a nap. And it was good.

        I awoke some time later to find that Dan was having lunch. Thinking this a good idea, I followed suit. After lunch, I made my way into the warm waters of the gulf, feeling them wash away the sweat and grime of the day.

        After swimming for a while, I set up my tent and got my gear ready for those who would surely visit us during the night. When darkness fell, I soon heard the scampering of little feet, as the masked bandits emerged from the nearby brush. Raccoons are clever camp robbers, and learn from each other how to open coolers, bottles, and other human contrivances, which we usually consider safe from animal intrusion. These raccoons woke me up trying to get into my water jug, which I was using to hold up the corner of my tent. A quick "Beat it!" from me and they scurried away, making their way to Dan's tent. After that one incident, they left me alone, but they pestered Dan for most of the night. The wind had been blowing all night, but as morning neared it started to blow much harder, collapsing the corner of my tent during the frequent gusts. I lay awake in the pre-dawn, wondering if it would die down enough to paddle a canoe. As the light of the morning overtook the darkness, the wind showed no signs of abating. I left my tent and looked at the water, which was rough. Before long, Dan emerged from his tent. He asked me if the raccoons had bothered me, then went on to describe their activities of the previous night.

        Our planned route for the day would take us south along the Gulf, through waters unprotected from the wind. Since our campsite was on the lee shore of Mormon Key, we decided to take a look at the Gulf in the direction we were headed. Dan paddled down toward the mainland, while I poled out to the point. I had no weight in my canoe except myself, which made it much more susceptible to being pushed around by the wind. As I neared the point, the wind and the waves bent around the point making the water choppy and rough. I was knocked off balance by a wave, and as I was regaining my balance another wave came over the side of the canoe, swamping it. I was only in about three feet of water, so I stepped out of the canoe and lifted it to drain the water, but it didn't fill me with confidence about paddling in the day's weather. When I got back to the campsite, I went for another swim, as the water was nice and I was already wet. Dan soon returned, and said that it was too windy to make any headway. We decided to wait awhile and see if it would let up.

        After a while, it seemed to be letting up a bit, so we packed up camp and got in our canoes. When we rounded the point and came into the wind, it didn't seem as bad as it had earlier, so we decided to paddle at least as far as New Turkey Key, which was visible. We had about 8 miles to paddle to get to Hog Key, where we planned on spending the night, but it would all be against the wind in open water. Using the lees created by several shoals, we were at New Turkey Key in a little over an hour. From here, it was about a mile to the pass between Buzzard and North Plover Keys, where we stopped for a quick lunch. After eating, we set off for the long paddle toward Hog Key. I could see two distinct points extending out from the mainland. Comparing what I saw with the chart, this told me that beyond them, and further than I could see, was our destination. So, we paddled on. As we came around Boggess Point, with Hog Key in sight, the wind seemed to pick up a bit, which meant the waves did too. I was thankful to paddle into the lee of Wood Key, giving us the first break from the wind and waves we'd had in hours. We ate a bit and regrouped, then crossed Wood Key Cove and looked for the campsite on Hog Key.

        Hog Key is a poorly named, as it isn't a key at all. Rather, it is a peninsula of land, so named because early settlers to the area had kept hogs, which remained when the settlers left. The campsite wasn't marked, so we paddled around a bit looking for a suitable place. We found it along an exposed beach, with space above the high tide line for several tents. After setting up, I found a bit of shade among the mangroves and relaxed for a bit. I could tell I was dehydrated, as I was tired and had a bit of a headache, so I drank close to two liters of water, and was quickly filled with energy and relieved of the headache. Dan had gone for a walk a while before, and I got out my camera and took a few pictures of some birds perched on a dead mangrove tree when I heard a boat coming around the point. After a while it came into view, and headed directly for me. The park service uniform worn by the boat's occupant was visible from several hundred yards. He came to within shouting distance of me and yelled,
      "Do you know where you are?"
      "Hog Key," I answered.
      "You're right," He replied. "Do you have a permit to be camped here?"
      "Yup."
      "Is everyone in your party OK?"
      "Yup, doing great," I answered. He gave me the thumbs up and drove off to the north.

        I walked down the beach, which was covered by mating clumps of horseshoe crabs. I came across two who had been flipped onto their backs, unable to right themselves. I picked them up by the tail and tossed them back into the water. Further down the beach, I saw a beautiful, large, sprawling tree. I took several pictures of it from a distance, then walked up closer to get another shot of it. I didn't notice Dan lying in its branches until I had been staring at him for a minute. His clothes were the same color as the bark, khaki, and he was lying in a crotch of the tree minimizing his outline. We chatted for a minute, after which I went back to walking the beach.

        When the sun hung low on the horizon, the wind started to die down. Dan and I were sitting near the canoes, discussing dinner options when it happened; midges descended, searching for dinner. Midges, also known as no-see-ums and sand fleas, are small, biting insects. They make no noise when they fly, but are relentless when feeding. Immediately, we realized our predicament, and hastily put up our tents. When my tent was up, I ran into the water and dunked under. The waters of the Gulf were like heaven, providing safe haven from the midges. We were still a bit hungry, so I grabbed a can of chili, which we had planned to have with rice, opened it and went back in the water. It took care of my hunger, but there was still the problem of getting to my tent. I left the water at a brisk walk, and after putting the chili can in our trash container covered the twenty yards to my tent with haste. I left my wet shorts in the canoe next to my tent, and quickly got inside and zipped up the screen. After spending the first ten minutes killing midges that had snuck in when I did, I was able to relax. It took me about a half hour to dry off, after which I put on shorts and a T-shirt and flipped over my sleeping pad to expose the dry side. I drifted off to sleep thankful for nylon tents and no-see-um netting.

        I awoke before dawn, hearing a noise outside my tent. I peered through the screen to see a big hog about five feet from me. It was walking into the bushes. I considered myself lucky to have seen it. The next thing I noticed was the midges. There were hundreds of them on the screen at either end of my tent. The screen was blackened by their presence, and I was once again thankful for nylon tents and no-see-um netting. I lay there, in my tent, for over an hour, waiting for the sun to rise higher and the wind to pick up, neither of which the midges liked. Sadly, my bladder demanded attention, so I unzipped the tent and ran down the beach to where the sun was unobstructed.

        That day we were to paddle up Lostman's River and Tom's Creek, so we spent a lazy morning on the beach in order to head upstream with the tide. When we were packing up, we found that the midges had hung around damp, shady areas of our gear. They weren't happy to be disturbed, but there weren't many of them and we had mentally prepared ourselves for their attacks. When we were packed up we made a pot of strong coffee and sat back on the beach to look at the Gulf. Just then, a canoe came around the point. There were two people in it, and they were paddling fast with a following wind, but they didn't seem to be moving very fast. Upon closer inspection, they had perhaps the most inefficient stroke I had ever seen. Those two folks must have been exhausted at the end of the day. With the coffee finished and pots stowed, we took to the water and followed the coast south for three miles before heading inland through the channel north of Lostman's Key. The abandoned Lostman's ranger station lies on the north side of the channel, and the 80-foot radio tower serves as a landmark when approaching from the Gulf. The tide had yet to change, but we had the breeze with us as we headed up the channel from eddy to eddy. Soon we were into First Bay, and the tide was less noticeable. With the wind at my back I stood up, using it to push me along. I saw a sea turtle and a manatee nearby, and took a picture of a bunch of pelicans nesting on a picturesque mangrove.

        As we left First Bay and entered the narrower Lostman's River, the wind had picked up considerably. For the three or so miles we traveled up the river, I stood and let the wind push me along. After struggling all day with the winds on the way to Hog Key, this was a gift to be able to ride the wind. Dan had taken his sleeping pad and unrolled it along his back in order to give the wind more to push against. I was having so much fun going upriver, I wanted to keep going when we came to the mouth of Tom's Creek.

        At the mouth of Tom's Creek, we rafted up and made lunch. There was a slack tide and we were out of the wind, so we didn't drift. Soon lunch was in our bellies and we were paddling up the quiet waters. We were paddling side by side when suddenly the water under Dan's canoe erupted and his canoe sideslipped toward me. We were both surprised, and I asked him what had happened. It seems that we had snuck up on a manatee, which, upon realizing that there was a boat over him, had decided to make a hasty retreat. He had almost swamped Dan's canoe. We wound around Tom's Creek for a while, then traversed a series of bays. I had been navigating solely by the map, and it struck me that if I got turned around or disoriented, we would be lost in a maze of mangrove islets and bays. Just after I had this thought, we left a bay and entered a creek that would connect us with another bay. As we paddled up the creek, we soon took a turn that wasn't on the map. I began to get nervous. We continued up the creek long after the map said we should be free of it and into the next bay. We finally did reach the next bay, but the creek had been about three times longer than the map had shown, and it had several twists and turns the map didn't. I was relieved to know where we were, and wary of the map. We continued across Rodgers River Bay and were on the lookout for Rodgers River Bay Chickee, where we were spending the night. Eventually we saw it in the distance and paddled up to it. Like Sweetwater, this was a double chickee, which means that there are two platforms connected by a walkway. One of the platforms had two new outboard-driven center console boats tied to it, and the other had a mountain of food and gear.

        As we pulled up, I yelled a greeting. The two guys that were there were older, likely retirees, and they came over to where we were. They asked us where we were headed. I told them that we were spending the night at the chickee. They looked at me hard, then said that they had reserved the campsite. Smiling, I told them that we had reserved it as well, and produced my park service itinerary. They agreed that it said we were to spend the night at Rodgers River Bay Chickee, which is where we were. One of them muttered something about giving the park service hell when he got back to town. They were much more conciliatory and less hostile after they saw our itinerary.

        We unloaded our stuff and relaxed for a bit in the late afternoon sun. Before long, another boat pulled up. It brought the two guys we would be sharing the platform with, Butch and John. They both worked in construction in West Palm Beach. Following them a final boat containing Lincoln Frost, an 89-year-old resident of Everglades City, pulled up. Dan and I sat around fixing dinner as the other guys talked about the day's fishing. Soon we were eating, and Lincoln drove his boat out to the middle of Rodger's River Bay, where he anchored for the night.

        Dan and I joined the conversation in bits and pieces, and someone asked if we had ever seen an alligator.
      "Never up close," was our answer. We were told we wouldn't have to wait long, as Ralph would soon be making his rounds. When we asked who Ralph was, we were informed that he was an 8-foot gator who came around to this chickee to beg for food. As the sun fell over the horizon, we lit our lantern and continued our conversation. Butch, with whom we were sharing our end of the chickee, showed us a scar on his finger where a 3-foot gator had bitten him several weeks prior. He explained that he had grabbed the gator by his tail in order to get him off of the road, and it had swung around and bit him.

        Soon after it got dark, Ralph came calling. He swam up to within about four feet of the chickee, and just lay there with his tail and back legs on the bottom (it was only about three feet deep). He lay there watching us, eyes alert to any morsel of food that might drop in the water. He reminded me of a dog watching us eat, almost begging for table scraps.

        Dan and I were finished eating, and were relaxing in the glow of a full stomach after a day of paddling. The two guys who had originally greeted us made their way over to the other platform, but not before having a few more drinks. One of them appeared to be suffering from consumption; he had had several beers and a few stiff pulls from a bottle of "Early Times" whiskey since we had pulled up. I had noticed that he was swaying slightly from side to side while sitting on a cooler, and wasn't participating in the conversation except for a few grunts here and there. His friend helped him across the plank walkway to the other platform, and they were both sitting in folding chairs while their dinner cooked. On our platform, meal preparations were also taking place. It was now fully dark, but both platforms were illuminated by lanterns. Ralph was stationary about six feet from our side of the chickee. All of a sudden, we heard a loud SPLASH! The intoxicated guy on the other platform had gotten up from his chair and fallen into the water, with Ralph in the water just 20-feet away. Dan and I jumped up and crossed the distance to where he was in a second or two. I grabbed his arms and Dan had him by the belt, and soon we had him on the chickee again. He had lost his glasses in the water and was trying to explain what had happened, although his speech was slurred from too much drink. What I made of his story was that he had tried to step onto his boat, and it had moved away from the chickee while he was trying to put his foot down, which caused him to lose his footing and slip into the water. The other guy was apologetic, but we told him it was no big deal since no one had gotten hurt. After that the night wound down, and soon we were listening to the mosquitoes as they searched in vain for any entrance to the tent.

        The opposite side of the bay was obscured by fog in the early morning. Ralph was still lounging nearby as we rose and had coffee. Before long, our companions on the chickee were up and making their breakfast. When they were done, they loaded up their gear and set out for a day in search of snook. Dan and I lazily packed our stuff and loaded our canoes. When we were ready we pushed off across the bay, looking for the Cabbage Island Shortcut.

        My boat was in the lead as we found and entered the winding creek. I saw a gator under a mangrove near the bank, and stopped for a picture. As I paddled on, I saw a small gator jump from the bank into the safety of the water as I approached. Since the banks were close, it felt as if we were moving much faster than when in open water.

        We entered the Broad River and rafted up for lunch, which consisted of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They gave us energy, and we paddled on downstream, but against the wind. After several more hours, we landed at the Broad River campsite.

        After setting up my tent and unloading my boat, I went back out on the water to try my luck at fishing. My goal was to catch something for dinner. I went downstream a bit, then into a side creek to get out of the wind. On my third cast, I felt something nibbling at my lure. I yanked back on the rod, setting the hook, then brought the fish to the boat. It was a Gafftopsail Catfish. I brought my catch back to the campsite, where I filleted it and cooked it with corn. When I was done cooking, the midges started biting, so I ate on the edge of the water. After eating, I cleaned the pot, had a bucket bath, and got into my tent to avoid becoming dinner for the midges. Dan came back to camp after I was in my tent. I looked over the scant reading material I had brought with me while I waited for darkness to overtake us. It seemed like hours.

        I awoke to relentless midges in the predawn light. They were clinging to my tent screen, and when I would flick them off they would quickly return. I lay there for a bit, trying to work up the courage to face them. As this was not soon in coming, I put on my paddling garb; long pants, long sleeve shirt, socks, gloves(socks with finger holes), hat, sunglasses, and a bandanna around my face. I estimate that there were only nine square inches of my flesh exposed, and within four seconds of exiting the safety of my tent there were 500 midges battling each other to get to it. I packed up my tent and loaded the gear into the canoe in record time, but was still driven to the brink of insanity before I pushed off from shore and paddled to the middle of the wide river to wait for Dan. I saw him emerge from his tent, and watched as he swatted at midges and made a hasty job of packing up his stuff. Although it took him a few short minutes to join me in the middle of the river, to him it must have seemed like hours.

        We paddled slowly downstream before taking a side creek into the Nightmare Route. The Nightmare is listed in the guidebook as being impassable at low tide. It also says that it is easy to follow the main route, being marked by limbs that have been sawed by previous boaters to keep the route open. We passed Wilderness Waterway marker 24 where the Nightmare turned off from the Wood River Route, and as we paddled the canopy closed overhead. The mangroves sent down numerous branches as they walked out into the water, and it became tricky to pilot the canoe between them without stopping and pivoting. I liken it somewhat to a slalom course. After about a half hour, we came to a spot where a log had fallen across the entire creek. The tide was relatively low, so we were able to squeeze under a section of it close to the bank. I wondered what we would have done had we been coming through at a higher tide, as the guidebook recommended.

        The map showed several creeks leaving the Nightmare to the west for the Gulf. So, when we came to a spot where there was a fork in the creek, after deliberation we chose the path that roughly maintained our previous course. I was apprehensive, as this junction wasn't shown on the map or mentioned in the guidebook. As we paddled into this creek, though, I saw where a few limbs had been sawn to keep the trail open. After about a half-mile of paddling, we came to where a log had fallen across the width of the creek. It was only out of the water a few inches in several spots, so we figured this was why the guidebook talked about running the Nightmare only at high tide. We pushed and pulled our boats over the log, and continued up the creek. Another quarter of a mile up the creek, we came to another partially submerged log, and once again we were out of our boats, pulling them across. Another quarter mile and the creek narrowed significantly, and there were about 15 logs strewn across it, some several feet above the water level. Dan saw this first, and I heard him laugh as I came up behind him.

        "I'm not going any farther up this creek," he said. So, we turned around and repeated the paddle, pull the canoe over the log, paddle, pull the canoe over the log, and paddle routine until we were back at the junction where we had gone astray.

        We took the other creek, and before long we came to Wilderness Waterway marker 23, which indicated we were on the correct route. A half hour after passing marker 23, we came to another fork in the creek that wasn't on the map or noted in the guidebook. Like the last one, the creeks that led away from this fork were identical in size. We sat there for a minute before I decided to take the right fork. Dan asked me how I had arrived at this decision, and I told him because last time we took the left fork, and it was the wrong one. We paddled on, with the creek scarcely wide enough for a canoe in spots. At one point, Dan felt that we were on the wrong creek, but I insisted in going just a bit farther.

        The creek opened up a ways further, and soon we passed Wilderness Waterway marker 17 on the edge of Broad Creek. We rafted up for lunch and laughed about the inadequacy of the map and guidebook. When our tanks were full, we paddled on up Broad Creek.

        The water of upper Broad Creek was tainted brown by mud, and from it wafted the pungent odor of decaying vegetation. The mangrove canopy was unbroken, and we paddled in shade through the twisting roots. It was beautiful, wild, and a joy to paddle. While we were in the midst of it, I thought about how the folks at Disney and other parks might have used this as the template for their jungle rides. Winding on and up, we passed marker 16 and our route shifted until we were once again facing the Gulf. Several more miles and the creek we were paddling ran into the Harney River. We could see the Harney River chickee directly across from the creek, nestled against a small island in the middle of the wide river. We paddled up, unloaded our gear, and had a filling dinner. Having learned our lesson several times with the midges, after dinner we packed up all the gear except our tents and sleeping bags and loaded it back into the canoes. When morning came, and the midges attacked, we would be able to pack our tents and go.

        As there were still a few hours of daylight left, Dan paddled out into the middle of the river to read. I stayed behind for a bucket bath. I must have dumped 150 buckets of water on myself that afternoon. It kept the midges at bay and felt so refreshing, I didn't want to stop. But eventually I did, then jumped in my canoe and paddled out into the breeze to dry off.

        That night after dark we saw thunderstorms in the distant sky. The lightning lit up the horizon, but it never made it to us.

        In the morning, the midges were out in droves. Before leaving the tent, I put on my paddling garb and packed everything I could. When I exited the tent, I was all packed and in the canoe in less than two minutes. I still sustained a few midge bites, but it was nothing compared to the carnage of previous mornings. We were headed upstream and had the tide with us, so I just paddled to the middle of the river and drifted, waiting for Dan. He was soon with me, and we paddled upstream under an overcast sky.

        Soon Dan was looking for his hat but couldn't find it, so he decided to paddle back to the chickee. I was upstream, unaware that he was backtracking, and I became a bit worried when he never came around the bend. I continued up to marker 9, and then stopped to wait. I tied my canoe to marker 9, then lay down on my sleeping pad and shut my eyes. I don't know how long I napped there, but I felt rested when Dan bumped his canoe into mine and woke me up. We rafted up and had lunch, then paddled the four and a half miles to the Shark River chickee.

        We set up the tents and had dinner, then stowed the gear in preparation for morning. We both went out for a paddle, but I was back before dusk for a bucket bath while Dan stayed out a bit later and fed the midges when he returned. That night the thunderstorms came. It rained hard for about a half hour, and lightning struck nearby. The cool air that followed the storm felt wonderful.

        We woke the next day and were both in our canoes within a few minutes of leaving our tents. The wind was blowing hard, as a cold front had come through with the storms. As we drifted down the Shark River, I figured that we'd have to paddle across the wind on Whitewater Bay to get to our next campsite, the Joe River chickee. We planned to be out for two more nights, staying at the South Joe River chickee the night after Joe River. But as we paddled the creek leading to Whitewater Bay, I showed Dan the map and asked if he was interested in heading in today. I showed him how we could have a following wind across the length of Whitewater Bay, a distance of about ten or so miles. He agreed that it might be fun, so we set off toward marker 40, which marked the beginning of open water on the bay. From here, if it looked too rough, we could wind our way among numerous islets, staying out of the wind, to the Joe River chickee. We decided to take advantage of the tailwind, and set out across Whitewater Bay.

        The open expanse of the bay was broken up by an occasional island. On the map I counted three open expanses we'd have to cross to get to the canal leading to Flamingo. The first of these was a bit less than two miles. We angled off of the wind slightly to make it to a gap between two islands. Once through, we paddled along the lee of one of the islands to set us up again with a following wind. Again we crossed the open bay, and with the fetch (the distance wind travels over water unobstructed) increasing, so did the size of the waves. It was all whitecaps, and the wind was gusting to about 30 MPH. We rounded the point and paddled again into the lee, traveling up the backside of the island. Here we left the Wilderness Waterway and headed south to paddle along the mangroves on the southern edge of the bay. We had to cross one section of open water, which proved more than a little interesting. Dan paddled straight across, while I put my bow into the wind and ferried across. It was about a half mile, but the waves and wind upped the anxiety level to make it seem much farther. Eventually, though, we reunited on the south side.

        We paddled from point to point, with the wind directly at our backs. Surrounded by whitecaps, we stood to take advantage of the wind. The miles fell away as Mother Nature propelled us. The sun was shining, the wind was gusting, and we had Whitewater Bay all to ourselves. It was beautiful.

        We rounded a point and paddled into our last lee before entering Tarpon Creek on the southeast side of the bay. We rafted up and had lunch, then paddled lazily through the lee preparing us for the last section of open water. The wind had been getting stronger all day, and now Dan estimated it was of gale force. Looking out into the open water from our protected space, the waves seemed to grow larger with each passing moment. We would have to cross a half-mile of open water, but we had almost two miles to do so headed with the wind. This means that we had to take a downwind diagonal course, which could mean disaster if the waves decided to spin you broadside. The only way to avoid this was to keep the paddle in the water and to be aware of the waves coming from behind.

        I had the map with me, so when we struck out into open water from the lee, I was in the lead. I couldn't see the marker at our final destination, but judged roughly where it was by the map. I knew I had to be close with my estimate, because the waves were much too large to paddle across, and if we overshot there was no way we could paddle into the wind with it being so strong. So we went, and the gale blew around us.

        It was difficult keeping the boat headed the direction I wanted it to. The waves wanted to turn the boat broadside, and surfing down them kept me headed directly with the wind. I compensated for this by taking one sideways stroke each time I was in the trough between waves. The waves continued to increase in size, routinely washing over the gunwhale and over the stern. I still couldn't see the marker, but knew I should be seeing it soon. It took constant concentration to keep the boat headed where I wanted. Had there been a lapse, it would have meant capsizing, and if that had happened, there was nothing to do but let the waves push me to the opposite side of the bay.

        Finally, I saw the channel marker in the distance. It was further than I had calculated, so I could relax my diagonal considerably, making me almost in line with the wind. It was much easier paddling now, and I felt much more relaxed as the distance shrank. At long last, I rounded a point and paddled into a lee that led into Tarpon Creek. Dan was soon in coming around the point, and had just seen a large crocodile on the edge of the point. We were both breathing deep sighs of relief after the last crossing, and it felt good to be able to relax after an extended period of concentration.

        The tide was with us in Tarpon Creek, and as it opened into Coot Bay we were again faced with the wind. Since the bay was small, the fetch was limited, and the waves didn't have the opportunity to get too big. As we neared the Buttonwood Canal, which led to Flamingo, we saw our first sign that we were coming back to civilization; a tour boat loaded with people that came out of the canal and headed into Coot Bay. We waved, and proceeded on our way. In the canal there was no wind. The sun was hot, and we pried our boats through the water efficiently, having had eight days to work the winter bugs out of our stroke. Before long, we passed under the road and tied up to a pier at Flamingo. The truck was waiting for us, as we had arranged, and we loaded up our gear and boats.

        After exchanging our salt-laden clothes for fresh ones and securing the gear, we started the long drive out of the park. It had been eight days and over a hundred miles, but we had seen the country from end to end, and despite the midges, we would be back.

JMB&GS • P.O. Box 77 • Ashland, ME 04732 • USA
Phone: (207) 540-7632  •  Email: tim@jackmtn.com

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