Jug Lake Platform
This report has been some 4 years in the writing. As I wrote it I couldn’t help but try to convey more than just the dry facts. That often meant I would get stymied over just what to say, how to get past the “you had to be there” factor for “getting it”. Sometimes it would just come to me faster than I could write it down. Other times, I’d go months without being able find a way to say it. I think the frustration was good in the end because, as you’ll read, it often led me to take risks (from a writing standpoint) that I would have considered self-indulgent otherwise. Yes, I’ll tell you now that I admit to going over the top more than once in this report. That being said, I believe what you’ll read is as close to what I experienced as I could get it. The facts are accurate and my philosophy of making my own magic will be evident. But what you read will be what this paddle has left me with. It’s the kind of thing I try to bring back from every paddle. I’d challenge each of you to make that kind of magic on every paddle. It will be well worth the effort, I promise.

Paddle Report:
Jug Lake Platform, Bartram Canoe Trail
August 21-22, 2004
By:
Tom Meyer

Last week I had gotten wind that there was to be a meeting between representatives of the Ala. State Lands Division, the Mobile Bay Canoe and Kayak Club, and the Sierra Club. Things were starting to fall in place. The meeting was almost sure to mean that the long awaited platforms on the Bartram Canoe Trail were going to be opened to overnight use! I had decided several months ago that I wanted to be among the first to use one of the platforms. I had alerted two close friends, both experienced backpacking and paddling buddies, to be ready to go “on call”.

I didn’t want to put it out to the club as a planned paddle until I actually had a platform reserved. Then I got the call from Bob Andrews. The platforms were available and all I had to do was contact the designated guy at state. There was only one problem, Bob couldn’t find his glasses! He had the contact information right in front of him but he couldn’t tell me. There was much mumbling about “they’re around here somewhere”, and sounds of rustling papers etc. No luck! “I’ll fax it to you first thing in the morning”.

At work the next morning, the fax arrived, the call was made, the response, “sorry, Mr. Smith isn’t in today”. I left voice and e-mails and waited. Early the next morning Cris Smith from the State called and confirmed my request for the Jug Lake Platform for Saturday night. He also sent an e-mail confirmation with a link to a website with maps, rules for use, and good photos of the platforms in place. It’s a great site with room for a little fine tuning. One of my suggestions to them will be to provide GPS coordinates for the platforms and critical points along the routes.

By the way, Cris Smith is a thoroughly pleasant and helpful guy.

I notified my two buds, Richard Keenan from Fairhope and Fred Krause from Slidell (originally Mobile), and sent Julie a “Flash Paddle” announcement. It was now Thursday before we’d go on Saturday and I wasn’t sure how many takers there’d be on such short notice. Besides, I guess you have to really like taking nature on her own terms to think this was a good idea. The short notice and the prospect of August heat/humidity, delta mosquitoes, and a forecast of rain resulted in just the three of us meeting at my house at seven AM. We went up Hwy 225 like a bunch of demented zoo animals escaping through a hole in the fence and sprinting for the tree-line. We hadn’t been out much lately and needed this…… bad.

We had the Rice Creek Landing put-in to ourselves. One of the 2 vehicles parked there was Don Hulgan’s. Those of you who saw the photos of Gary Worob’s Juniper Creek trip posted on a Yahoo link can thank Don. He had e-mailed me at 3AM that his was coming from near Dothan for just a day-trip, had gotten there at 6:30, and was already gone.

Just before we got in the boats, Richard told us he had secured the services of a guide and protector and introduced us to Captain Arrgh! Complete with eye patch and brandishing a cutlass, Cap’n Arrgh! took his place on the bow of Richard’s Loon 16.

As we slipped away into the cool (relatively) shade of Rice Creek all the stress and worries of our real-world lives dribbled off the ends of our paddles into the creek. Within a hundred yards we had completely changed, totally relaxed, senses on “sponge mode”, the boundaries between us and the environment around us dissolving with every paddle stroke. Except of course Capt. Arrgh!, who remained a curmudgeon to the core.

Our planned route would take us down Rice Creek, across Briar Lake, into whatever they call that passage from Briar Lake to Tensaw Lake, down behind Larry Island to the Tensaw River, through Bayou Jessamine to Bottle Creek, and to the Indian Mounds for Lunch. After Lunch we figured there were just too many choices of places to explore so we would just play it by ear and make it to the platform by 5PM. None of us had been to anywhere in this area so it was a real voyage of discovery for us.

Rice Creek truly lives up to its reputation as one of THE classic paddles in the delta. Murmured superlatives catalogued our reactions to the moss draped cypress, the low ceiling dense canopy with occasional skylights, the heron sentinels, and the kingfisher messengers. Back at the landing the air had been heavy and close and we had broken a good sweat just getting loaded and underway. Now, it seemed 10 degrees cooler, the air less dense. Trailing my hands in the water was……. OK….. I know how this sounds….. it was exquisite. Maybe it was just a change of heart, or attitude, or …. Whatever. But wild places tend to do that to me. This place had all the earmarks of a wild place and we weren’t 20 minutes from the landing yet. Rice Creek was like a good satisfying sigh.

Coming into Briar Lake caused a bit of sensory flinch as we again had open sky, bright light, and more than 100 ft of unobstructed view in front of us. Bob had briefed me on some potential points of interest, one of them a half mile off-route to the north up Briar Lake. Up around the bend where the lake narrows, we find the small clean sandbar Bob told me about. This is where I need to tell y’all a little about Richard. Picture a 300 pound 9 year old trapped in a mature, highly intelligent, 45 year old, deeply proficient outdoorsman. Time to play! Simply put, Richard enjoyed the sand bar with gusto. After a half hour of romping exuberance, we retraced our path to the entrance to the exit from the lake.

I think Bob told me there’s a name locals call for this passage* leading from Briar Lake to Tensaw Lake at the north end of Larry Island… but I can’t remember and the map doesn’t call it anything. If this isn’t Rice Creek, it’s a lot like it. Low ceiling, patchy sky, close, cool, intimate. I just realized! No mosquitoes! This was the delta in August, I hadn’t put on any repellent, but I was bite free….so far.

Entering the Tensaw River at Larry Island, the scale goes to wide angle. Tall trees, wide river, high banks on the east, lots of sky. Unconsciously we’ve picked up our pace. What felt like a rush back in the creek feels like crawling against this scale. There’s a fairly stiff headwind. Actually, we find it’s more like a current being funneled down the channel formed by the trees on either side, faster on the outside of the bend, slower on the inside, eddies in the coves. It’s working! We’re beginning to soak up the delta rhythm and go with its flow.

The trick to finding the entrance to Bayou Jessamine is to not wait until you’re past Larry Island and into the Tensaw before you decide where you think it is. While you’re still in the corridor behind the island, only a relatively short stretch of the far bank of the Tensaw is visible. Try to hit the center of that stretch and you’ll cross the Tensaw at the right angle to find the mouth of the bayou. Also, it’s just to the left of Bob’s “big leaning sycamore with the top blown out” landmark. Part skill, part art.

Bayou Jessamine quickly closes around us. Unlike Rice Creek, the banks are higher, just enough above head level to tantalize us with a ground level perspective. There is the feel of open river bottom forest. The relatively sparse under-story suggests we could walk unimpeded by dense brush on relatively firm, if not dry ground. The dense upper canopy has the same low ceiling as Rice Creek. Looking ahead we have impression the bayou flows through a wide low tunnel of muted greens, grays, and browns. Passing the infrequent patch of sunlit water, legions of swirling water boatman beetles create Jackson Pollock art with the ripples of their wakes and the projected shadows on the shallow bottom. The bare olive grey banks are sprinkled liberally with the vivid orange of trumpet vine blooms fallen from unseen clusters on the sunny side of the canopy. Every so often a brilliant deep crimson laser forces my eye to pause. It’s a tall spindly flower with a 4” spike florescence. I think I should know its name. Such personalities are usually a bit famous.

A big sweeping bend to the southwest, eventually brings our prows around to the northwest. As Bob suggested, I have been counting the numbers crudely painted in blue on trees every couple of hundred yards along the left bank. This is private land, hunting club land. The numbers mark drop off points for hunters. I wonder how safe a quiet paddler would be in deer season.

A prominent 4 foot bank divides a fork in the bayou just as we pass “blue number 7”. There is a noticeable current from both forks. Inconspicuous diamond shaped signage announces that the Jug Lake Platform lies up the right fork. We take the left fork in favor of continuing on to Bottle Creek and the Indian Mounds. We’ll have to come back through here to get to the platform this afternoon.

Bayou Jessamine takes on a more winding character in this stretch. A paddle report filed the week before warned of downed trees with thorny vines that may require saws or loppers. We’ve seen none yet. There is obvious evidence that the going would be much harder if not for some serious chainsaw work, probably by the State Lands Division guys. Aside from being shallow, the very frequent underwater stobs and logs would make coming in here with an outboard, even a 12’ aluminum john-boat with a small motor, frustrating at best and prohibitive at worst. I like being able to go where they have to work harder than I do. As it is, the sudden bump and tilt of unseen underwater hazards is frequent enough to discourage inattentiveness. I rolled my boat last year while not paying attention and underestimating the Ninja skills possessed by these diabolical stealth-stobs.

Have you ever noticed how often a downed tree top leaves the only passable route right in the inside crux of a sharp bend so that you have to make at least a 4 point turn to get lined up to get through the slot that’s usually about 4 inches less than the beam of your boat? We found one, and yes it had thorny vines. I let Fred and Richard bull their way through the slot first. I hadn’t brought a saw or loppers but I had a secret weapon. Here’s my recommendation for the most useful and effective bladed tool there is for such situations, a Ghurka Kukiri. It’s essentially a machete on steroids. What it lacks in reach, it more than makes up in cutting efficiency. My vorple blade went sinker snack and I easily passed through .

Bottle Creek took us back to wide angle mode. I notice a curious effect from this. Back in the close quarters of Jessamine, a few paddle strokes sufficed to take you around a bend, change the scenery. Now, in the wide expanse of Bottle Creek, those same paddle strokes seemed to produce only miniscule progress. The scenery crawls by, mired in the illusion of scale. The next bend seems to recede as fast as we approach. Under an open mid-day August sun, a brisk headwind funneled by the deep walls of swamp forest was both boon and curse. Washing across my chest, the breeze sucked the sweat away, the Cool-Max living up to its name. Plowing into the cushion of the breeze and already blinded by the phantasm of proportion, my boat seemed to be pushing thru honey. My shoulders sagged under the delusion of futility. The bright cream of the sand bank marking the trailhead to the Indian Mound seemed frozen in the distance.

Waking suddenly from a daydream, I find myself jockeying with Fred and Richard for a landing spot on narrow sandy beach at the apex of a bend in the Bottle. A steep six foot bank of sand pours abruptly down out of the dense swampy forest through the cool dark doorway of the trailhead. I’m ready for a walk. But first there’s the matter of getting out of my kayak. I can get the bow far enough onto the beach only so that the cockpit is 1 foot shy of the dry sand. A few probes with the paddle reveals two things. First, the bottom drops off quickly to over my head within 8 feet of shore. More ominous, the bottom changes from hard sand to gelatinous bottomless mud within 8 inches from shore. This will not be graceful by any means.

I’ll spare you the gory details but we all three soon stood on hard sand, dry above the thighs but not exactly mudless below the knees. After much hatch popping and bag unstuffing, we equipped ourselves for the near half mile hike into the swamp to the Indian mound. Richard was the only one who’d been there before: “It was a different time of the year; the water was higher; things don’t look the same; that was a while ago.” Each of us is experienced in backcountry off-trail bushwacking, not exactly naïve babes in the woods. This was mid-August, deep delta swamp, on foot and we weren’t any surer about where we were going than “its sort of over there about a half a mile.” We find a message from Don scratched in the sand, verifying he’d been here and telling us he intended to return to Rice Creek via Devil’s Bend on the Tensaw. He later tells of abandoning his trek into the Indian mound due to unbearable torment by yellow flies.

Once away from the creek there would be no moving air. The heat would be oppressive. Sweat loss could be massive. Mosquitoes (bad) and yellow flies (worse) would be relentless, aggressive, and out in force. Poison ivy would likely be a major portion of dense lush, waist high ground cover. Plentiful “wait-a-minute” vines are capable of shredding clothes and inflicting deep punctures and scratches bordering on lacerations. Foot placement may be more by feel than visibility. The success of any step could be compromised by entanglement by roots or vines, entrapment by thigh deep mud, or envenomation by A. piscivorus (cottonmouth). Failure to observe the smallest detail could bring swift punishment. Disorientation could come easily with any lapse of attention to the big picture. Heat exhaustion, dehydration, and bewilderment could quickly compound into a miserable and quite plausibly fatal predicament. Any traveler in these parts would be imprudent in the extreme to come here in August unprepared and unwilling to meet this place on its own terms. I don’t mean to portray the environment as unforgiving; it’s merely indifferent in the extreme.

Actually, the going would be quite better than I have warned. The trail is open and obvious if you pay attention. The mosquitoes were almost a non issue; the yellow flies bothersome but tolerable thanks to DEET. Despite an abundance of poison ivy, we went bare legged and in sandals. The ground was firm and only damp at this water level. The high ground of the natural levee deposited along the river edge dropped only a few feet in the first ten yards to the floor of the river swamp. The tracks of recent flooding are evident in the exposed muddy sand floor and drifts of leaf litter. As we walked, our own tracks were frequently accented with dark purple stains of the many fallen fox grapes crushed underfoot. Tracks of deer, raccoon, possum, and mice were evident everywhere and purple grape seed laden piles of scat told of a bountiful feast by all. The forest canopy towered above us allowing only dappled sun.

My tracker’s eye noticed a subtle change in the canopy ahead and the lighting on the sub-story below it. Fewer flecks of sky were visible through the canopy creating a dark smudge. Below, the angle of shadows changed and lost contrast against a darker background. Both clues suggest a rising slope. Foreground canopy is superimposed against a higher canopy in the background instead of sky. Vegetation remains upright while dense leaf litter tilts with the slope. Swamps are essentially flat. An elevation change of ten feet is rare. Yet the slope ahead was far higher. I think I knew the Indian mound was going to be 50 or 60 feet high. But, I wasn’t prepared for the surprise that a 50 or 60 foot mound in a swamp creates. Actually I was more awestruck than surprised. This was a geographic anomaly for sure. But, a People piled this dirt here with their bare hands. Real people with families, a community, built this place. Knowing that, it looked immense. What were they thinking! I wondered, “how many generations did it take; how many generations used it; was this a refuge from threat; or, had they found a cornucopia”?

The climb to the top was steep and slick. I led. Richard followed at a respectable distance, letting me know he wanted to be far enough behind to get out of the way when I came tumbling down. I told Fred maybe he should double that distance behind Richard. Friends! Such faith and confidence in each other!

On top, a number of 3 foot squares of plywood marked the sites where endangered Red Bellied Turtles had laid their eggs. Signage announced this was part of a research project by the University of South Alabama. The signs didn’t say so but I knew the plywood was to protect the nests from predation, mostly from raccoons. I couldn’t help but smile and chuckle. Up until 2 years ago, my son had been one of the 2 primary “field monkeys” for this project. He’d be pleased to hear the turtles were nesting here. Another chuckle comes as I try to picture these determined clumsy plodders coming up the steep slippery slope, the drive to nest sustaining them through repeated slide-backs until the summit was reached. I began to understand the lesson to be learned from those who built this place and those whose future lay protected beneath these plywood squares.

Lunch on top of the mound was an afternoon delight. Good friends, good place, and, yes, even granola bars and raspberry tea is good food in a place like this. Remember, we actually like nature dictating the terms of the experience.

The trip down the slippery slope was far more troublesome then coming up. Our toes and the balls of our feet were great for finding traction on the way up, hence the sayings, “on your toes” or “get a toe hold”. But coming down we are set “back on our heels”, imbalanced and uncertain. The slope was just steep and slippery enough to make a forward descent perilous, at best, and not so steep as to make an all fours backward crawl down seem as much safe as undignified and humiliating. But hey! Know fear! Courage atrophies from lack of use! Right? Have you ever noticed how squirrelly your voice gets when you’re trying to talk and keep your balance at the same time? “Tom, be careful now.” “OK Fred, I w-eeeh—ahhh-illll!” At the bottom I determined a good swim in bottle creek would be nice. It would be refreshing to wash off the sweat, to cool off, and to get all that mud off my backside, back, and elbows.

We did take that swim. And it was absolutely fine! But remember, the hard sand ended 8 inches from shore. After that, the bottom was like chocolate pudding. The only way to regain the hard ground without ending up looking like a chocolate sundae was to come out on our belly until we could roll over and sit on the hard sand and swing our legs out. We looked like some primordial amphibians pulling their selves out of the ooze to become terrestrial.

Back underway on Bottle Creek, we decide to go out on the Tensaw to check out one of the designated campsites. As the crow flies, we know it’s over there, at about 8 o’clock off our port beam. But something else announces it is waiting. A rumble leaves the three of us frozen in the same pose, paddles still, head cocked, eyes up. Plumes of cumulus clouds sprout above the forest to our left. The breeze becomes fretful, restless. Again, it rumbles, now more to our front. The sky is still sunny and blue but still we drift, ears cocked. Soon, the thunderstorm rears up over the tree line with gathering suddenness. A grey wall of cloud climbs above the trees like a breaking wave. The trees are anxious and restless, a herd of prey with a predator trotting along its flank.

We paddle hard for the sanctuary of Jessamine Bayou. The rumbles have been replaced by loud cracks. We can’t actually see the lightening but there’s that swift flinch in the light, like someone took a flash photo in the room, followed by a two-one thousand crack. Open water is not where we need to be. No sooner than we plunge into the tunnel of Jessamine, the flash and boom become simultaneous and the rain becomes a torrent. Visibility quickly drops to less than 50 feet. The wind is panic-stricken and stampedes among the trees unpredictably. I chance a glance at Richard and Fred. Through the haze of air turned liquid I see both of them grinning ear to ear. Even Cap’n Arrgh! is sneering gleefully, flailing his cutlass at the lightning. This is good. I thought I may be the only one who, instead of fear, felt sheer exhilaration!

Now this is getting good, real good! The rainfall is so heavy that the sheets of water running down the converging limbs combine and become deflected by the trunk to pour into the low space above Jessamine as various spouts and waterfalls. The surface of Jessamine has become a palette of textures. Wind borne water is painting impressionist strokes on a Monet canvas, erasing then repainting, never satisfied.

We push on hard, maybe too hard. Jessamine has become a schizophrenic off her meds and it’s hard to keep up with who she is at any given moment. Exhilaration, more than effort, has me breathing hard. I am seduced, in hot pursuit of pleasure while ignoring the potential for regret. Suddenly, the left side of my boat makes a swift but smooth rise toward my armpit. I’m still upright, but my boat is up, way up, on edge, a crash course in secondary stability. A diabolical barely submerged stob, sensing my inattention and dis-appreciation of danger, has attempted a Ninja move, a gentle unanticipated upward tap against my hull intended to convert my own weight and momentum into catastrophe. More like a flinch than a deliberate action, a high brace counters his move and I’m bottom down again. It’s a Zen-thing.

Fiendish stobs! You underestimate my cat-like reflexes!

Abruptly, it’s over. Jessamine is again languorous and sultry. It’s quiet and still, quiet enough to hear my heart beating too fast, still enough that my rapid breathing seems a rude commotion. Fred and Richard glide up beside me. Each of us is unsure. Without a word, our faces ask each other. Did it happen? Did you see what I saw? After a long moment of silence, spontaneous war hoops announce how we really feel. This was way too much fun!

Soon we make the hard left off Jessamine into the outflow from Jug Lake. The first impression is that Jug Lake is a secret place. Surely, few would, much less could, find their way in here except by lightweight, shallow draft, maneuverable, human propelled craft. There is the sense that William Bartram himself would have known this secret. He wrote of the Mobile River Delta, “What a sylvan scene is here.” Certainly, he could have been talking about Jug Lake. Since Bartram, a century of intense logging has decimated the great bald cypress. But here in Jug Lake, a pantheon of giants lines the banks. Indeed, we passed the State Champion Bald Cypress, a hundred yards from the bank of Jessamine, less than a half-mile from here.

Soon after entering Jug Lake, we pass a great hollow hulk of a stump with a jagged top 20 ft above the water. At the water-line it is at least 10-12 feet across. Eight feet up it was still 8 ft across. A 3 ft wide gap in the foot thick wall of the stump revealed a cavernous interior. Foot thick limbs with lush green foliage grew from the walls. This is unmistakably an elder, a grandfather cypress. Now, even though ravaged by time and weather, it has an air of dignity and wisdom. Fred and Richard paddle on, anxious to reach the platform. But, I am moved to sit a while with this elder. It was an indulgence I felt I owed him, a due respect gladly given. As I steadied myself with my hand laid gently on his knee, I found myself hoping he would tell me of the time when he was a boy and Bartram passed beneath him. But, as with many elderly, it was enough that someone just sat quietly with them for a while, asking nothing of them but their company. After a time, I thanked him for the privilege and moved on, a better man for the encounter.

Jug Lake is a classic oxbow, an old bend in the river, now cut off from the main channel. There is a peaceful grace to its sweeping crescent. Less than a hundred yards at its widest, it tapers at each end. I salute more huge cypress in the mile to the platform than I have on the entire trip since Rice Creek Landing. By now I barely have Fred in sight. He seems to be determined to get to the Jug Lake Platform. His haste is apparently contagious and I find my paddle strokes have taken on an up-tempo cadence. Chuckling to myself, I realize I’m leaning forward as if by doing so I can see further around the bend and spot the platform earlier. Soon enough the far end of the tapering lake seems to be swallowed by a wall of trees. Tucked in the hodgepodge of shadows along the north shore, unmistakably straight lines and hard angles betray the platform.

The state has done a great job with both the design and the location of this platform. As we glide up beside it the first thing we notice is the massive 6 inch posts holding up the roof. The beams and cross members of the roof are no less substantial and are braced by guitar string taut quarter inch steel cables. The platform floats at the end of long metal standoffs attached to a 4 inch steel beam bolted to two cypress trees. This arrangement allows the standoffs to pivot vertically as the water level rises and falls. This thing is built like a tank! It will take a heck of a blow to do it any damage.

Next we encounter a serious disadvantage in the design of the platform. Sitting in my kayak alongside the platform, the surface of the deck is just under my armpit, about 16-18 inches off the water. The 3 of us are relatively experienced at getting out of “tippy” boats (that want to scoot out from under you without notice) and staying dry in the process. Still, it takes a bit of trail and error. The “tippy” part was not that hard, just a matter of keeping your center of gravity directly in line with the center of balance of the boat, a lot like riding a bike. Once you find that zone of vertical stability, it’s pretty easy to stay in it. Now…. Put that same bike on ice. Without the anchor of a dry tire to dry ground, lateral stability is almost impossible. That lateral stability becomes more unreliable as the vertical distance increases. There is an inherent problem in transfer of weight from a kayak to a deck 16 inches higher and a foot to one side of the point where the paddler’s weight bears on the kayak. That problem comes when the weight must move laterally from the vertical balance line with only the friction of the hull on the water as an anchor. It’s an inertia thing. Things at rest want to stay at rest until some force is applied to make them move. Actions that apply force result in equal and opposite reactions. When enough force is applied to push a 200+ pound body laterally, that same force is pushing the kayak in the opposite direction. Without appreciable friction to hold the hull still in the water, the body wins the battle of inertia and the hull moves laterally, not the body. Some of this problem can be mediated by pulling with the arms rather than pushing with the legs. This, of course, requires a fair amount of upper body strength. Not only is the paddler required to lift their body weight by pushing from a mechanically disadvantaged position, but they must convert that lift to a lateral move that results in the upper half of the body ending up on the deck. Any miscalculation, miscoordination, imprudence, or simple bad luck could result in the paddler being dis-boated into an even more difficult, and considerably wetter, position from which to gain the deck.

By now, the reader is probably wondering why I’m blathering on about the pitfalls of getting from boat to platform. No, I’m not trying to lay down an excuse for one or more of us making a wet exit. Actually, with Fred holding my bow firmly against the platform and Richard doing the same with my stern, my boat was stable enough for me to first push up and back so that I was sitting on the hull behind my seat, then pull my upper body onto the deck so I could roll up to a sitting position, voila’. I was then able to lay prone, grabbing Fred’s cockpit rim to stabilize his boat while he exited. We then doubled up to allow Richard to do the same. So, why the long exposition on the razor’s edge of balance, strength, coordination, and disaster?

I’ll grant that the remoteness and locale of this platform are factors likely to select for the fit, experienced paddler and against the casual “let’s rent a canoe” citizen paddler with little or no experience or skills. That will be, in all likelihood, true for the most part, especially in the early going. But once the word spreads, it is all but inevitable that someone will end up in the water during an ill conceived attempt to heave themselves the 16 inches from their canoe or kayak onto the deck. To be honest, that will likely first happen to an experienced boater. There are few of us that haven’t been overboard against our will. In fact, most of us with any sense have done it on purpose, more than once, just to practice self rescue.

There it is, SELF RESCUE! That’s the phrase that provoked me into this tirade. It’s right here at this point that the circumstances are just screaming, watch out! Any pilot will tell you that the most dangerous part of flying is the takeoff and landing. And, so it is getting in and out of tippy boats from precarious perches. Here in this remote place, and without self rescue skills, an inexperienced boater in the water is a recipe for tragedy.

On board the platform, we check out the amenities. The generous roof covers roughly 80% of the big 16 X 20 ft (my guess) deck. There is a 2 ft square diamond plate metal cooking surface on the deck at the rear left. I make a mental note to recommend they elevate the cooking plate. The turned up edges would definitely contain spilled cooking stuff but it’s beggin’ for a stumped toe in the night. Besides, although the platform is spacious, floor real estate would be at a premium with any more than 3-4 people spending the night. Speaking of freeing up floor space, the taut cables that brace the ceiling beams are just right for hanging gear up off the deck.

There are no toilet amenities. Between the three of us, our cumulative time spent in backcountry would surely be measured in years, enough to have to have long ago lost our excretory naiveté. Yet, most of that time has been on terra firma. Different rules apply here in terra aquatica. First, you can’t put a respectable distance between where you stay and where you go (yes, the pun is intended). On the platform, you can’t get further than 20 feet from the opposite corner. Next, you can’t bury it or flush it underground. Truthfully, urine is pretty benign stuff as long as it goes overboard and not on the deck. Guys have the advantage here, being able to stand naturally at the edge and make it happen. Gals, on the other hand, would need to back up, hang on to something, and hang it out there, hardly a demure prospect. It’s sterile and mostly water. The other stuff in it is hardly toxic, especially if diluted. A gallon of urine diluted by Jug Lake would be totally innocuous. Now, number two is a whole different matter. It isn’t sterile, and worst yet, it floats! I’m all about “leave no trace.” But let’s be real. The biomass of creatures capable of “leaving a trace” in the cubic mile that includes this platform, located in this lush bio-diverse delta, may well be measured in tons.

I don’t believe there is an official limit to how many people can spend the night on a platform. I’ve heard a suggested limit of 8-10 people. I suppose 8-10 people, maybe a few more, could lie down and sleep on the deck without anybody being out from under the roof. My guess is that they wouldn’t say they had much fun if that many people were to do that. For one thing, without a lot of cooperation, even choreography, things could get real chaotic. However, the main limitation would likely come from another factor. In this environment, except in the coolest times, it would be foolish to expect anything like an enjoyable, restful night’s sleep without some kind of netting to keep the mosquitoes away from your face. Sure, slathering on toxic levels of DEET might keep you from being bitten, maybe. But, I guarantee you won’t be happy.

So some kind of netting cover is a must. The hard deck would make anything but a freestanding tent impractical. Tents in general would lack enough ventilation for comfort in the summer. A military surplus mosquito net hung from the cables would be ideal, and probably cover 2 people; 2 good friends. That’s what Richard has and he’s good to go in short order.

Fred and I each have our secret weapon, the perfect sleeping accommodation for such a place. It’s called a Hennessy Hammock. Sea Kayak Magazine’s readers chose the Hennessy for the “Best Camping Shelter” award. It’s gained a wide following among adventure racers (15 ounces including fly and cords), long-trail through-hikers, and regular folks like us. Its design is revolutionary with a self sealing entry/exit slit in the bottom. In no other hammock could you sleep on your stomach! Without the fly deployed, I soon have a totally ventilated, netting protected capsule of comfort suspended between 2 of the massive uprights of the platform. I’m serious. Check it out at hennessyhammock.com. It deserves the good reviews, but I agree with one reviewer’s gripe about it. It’s hard to fish out of. Otherwise, it’s perfect. Instead of a sleeping bag, I’ve got a Silk Cocoon bag liner, perfect for August delta nights.

Since there are only 3 of us, I’m able to haul my kayak up on the deck across the back corner so it doesn’t take up much space. It also lets me keep gear stowed in the hatches and gives me a place to sit; much handier and much tidier than pulling everything out and piling it around. Things I want to keep out, like my cooking gear, food, and clothes, are hung out of the way on the taut overhead cables.

Within 20 minutes, we’ve set up camp. The platform has become downright homey. A light rain begins to fall. The coffee’s on. Things are starting to get sublime.

There’s something special about quiet time in a wild place with friends. I suspect it taps into a very deep source of human satisfaction, part of the primal residue caught in the filter of our experience as a species. It shouldn’t be surprising, what with our history as hunter gatherers. For far more of our past than not, we have been sustained by the company of a few close associates while under the spell of the soothing background hum of wildness and nothing left to do but talk to each other.

The long afternoon unfolds in acts, like a play. The talk ebbs and flows with the rain, mostly tall tales, some retold and heard again for the hundredth time. Like the rain, conversation adopts a rhythm. A sprinkle builds to a pour then tapers to a drop-drop-hush. The swamp joins in with its own contributions, upping the tempo when a flock of boat tailed grackles spills along the swamp floor like a rolling wave of blown black leaves emitting a staccato crackle of grackling. Corvids! A garrulous[*] lot!

It’s suddenly twilight and I realize I’d taken a coma….. errr, a nap. As I slide from the slit in my Hennessy Hammock it occurs to me that I’m like a moth emerging from a chrysalis, a changeling. A season has turned during my sleep and all that remains to complete my metamorphosis is a long slow stretch and a deep drink of stillness. I’m here to tell you that twilight on Jug Lake in August is a very satisfying vintage of that wine.

With a complex profile that seems to belie its approachable personality, this delta twilight, is a very attractive wine. The aromas are particularly intricate, with fruit notes showing elements of ripe palmetto shoots and also tropical fronds, along with prominent mineral notes and other little nuances that develop with a bit of airing. The flavor and finish are dry but not austere, with an impression of ripe delta sweetness but not of overt residual dank. The dusky damask in the finish is very well integrated with the swamp, and the whole package is altogether serene.

Soon the stillness dissolves into the putz and putter of cooking supper. Ahh, the indulgences afforded by short trips in a touring kayak. Buoyancy is a great equalizer to gravity and, compared to the constraints of even an expedition backpack, food cargo capacity in a touring kayak is cavernous.

There’s no reason for survival rations. Instead, think: Pan seared marinated chicken breast; wild rice with mushrooms and pine nuts; fresh sliced stir fried bell peppers, zucchini, and green onions with Cajun seasoning; a nice crusty neo-Tuscan bread; topped off with a Kendall-Jackson merlot in lexan stem-ware. Hint: When rice is cooked and chicken is seared, pour a glass of merlot, drink a third of it, and dump the rest in the chicken pan to deglaze the chicken goodie into the wine. Reduce but not too much because you’ll want to pour most of it over the rice and save a little to add a little extra zest to the stir fry. Meanwhile, make up for lost wine with another glass of merlot. Pre-wash the cooking pots and pans by sopping the residue out with chunks of neo-Tuscan.

After dinner conversation in the dark in a wild place among friends with full bellies is like a fine liqueur. I prefer Drambui. It’s sweet and strong, subtle and epiphanous. It’s best when engaged infrequently in small amounts, savored slowly over time in contemplation. The tongue should be disciplined, holding itself while cupping the thought, inhaling; waiting while the vapors infuse. If there can be a parallel universe, there was a door to it that night on Jug Lake. Tell Doug Adams he was wrong. It’s 57.

Morning starts early on Jug Lake. The night shift reports off while settling down. The day shift must get on with the business of diurnalism. Making coffee comes first. I had left the pot with water in it and the stove ready under an upside down empty pot. One click from the piezo ignition on my Snow Peak Giga-Power produces a pale blue blossom of flame and a muffled roar. In less than 2 minutes all are sprawled within reach of a pour.

I have a theory that morning coffee is more of a meme than an activity. It’s an idea that acts in it’s own self interest to perpetuate it’s kind. It’s like the song that gets in your head and won’t be satisfied unless you hum it incessantly. It doesn’t matter that you hum it well or that the sound you make is pleasing. What matters is that you hum it, follow its bidding, and pretend you know the lyrics. I think what I’m trying to say is that morning coffee is more ritual than sustenance. Actually I know it for a fact. After you’ve squatted under a poncho in the rain and brewed coffee in a greasy potted meat can over a burning pine cone and thought is was the best damn coffee you ever tasted, you realize it’s about the ritual, not the coffee.

Breakfast, unlike supper, is relatively simple fare. Breakfast is mostly about getting down some calories and fluid without making a mess so you can break camp and get gone. But each of us has been here many times. One thing eating a lot of meals in the wild will teach you is how to embellish simple fare simply. Even back in Fred and my Special Forces days, we carried Tabasco, peanut butter, and a bota full of wine (for cooking only). Today on the jug lake platform I embellish my instant cream of wheat with a packet of Lipton’s French Onion Cup-A-Soup. Fred does cheese grits and potted ham. Richard shares both. Dishes are easy. A little hot water sluiced around and you’ve got a swallow or two of broth. Rinse with a little clean water, wipe with a bandana, and you’re done.
Stowing the stove and stacking the pots sets off a flurry of activity. In ten minutes, we’ve broken camp with ritual efficiency. Everything other than us was back in our boats. We hang out for a while, reluctant to leave. After indulging in near absolute stillness for at least one good day dream, we get to the business of getting underway without getting wet. I’m determined that it won’t be me no matter how hard I try.

Fred and I held Richard’s boat fore and aft while he got in. Fred needed less help and it was easy for me to steady his boat while he slipped in. In the belief that you have to make your own magic, I had decided that I wouldn’t need help. The problem is to transfer weight from the platform into a boat. It seemed that if you were already in the boat, you’d have more control while sliding off the platform than trying to hold the boat still while you shift your weight a foot off and nearly 2 feet lower into a scooty boat. I checked for a spot I thought was deep enough and without snags. I then pulled the boat onto the platform so the stern was pointed at the desired entry point. If you have a rudder, the stern can’t be the last part leaving the edge. The only choice was a rear seal entry. I admit I thought twice, but if worse came to worse, it’s just getting wet in August. If I pull it off, I’m gold. If I don’t, those two will be merciless in their ridicule. The hardest part was getting the boat at the exact point where I could get in with solid floor support but then easily tip the balance backward so the boat slides backward off the edge.

Once initiated. This entry is as easy as taking a big step. If you take a big step, the trick is to make it one move. Try stopping mid step with one foot in the air and your center of gravity not over your other foot. You don’t want a rear seal entry to stop mid entry. Your bow will be a narrow edge of contact that exponentially increases the “tippy index”. If you stop mid entry, say if the stern hits mud or a snag, you will likely be outside your envelope of ability to recover. But if there’s no pause, the entry is surprisingly stable and smooth and leaves you wondering what the fuss was about.

I didn’t tell either of them what I intended to try. I just told them no when they asked to help me get in my boat. It didn’t take long for them to figure it out and you can believe they relished the prospect of me dumping myself off the platform. There was much grinning between them but they were silent. I just grinned gliding backwards from a successful rear seal entry. One of these days ...but hey!

Jug Lake deserves a long goodbye. This is the Bartram at its best; truly a sylvan scene is this. The jug is an oxbow, in geography speak. It’s a long sweeping arc that was once a big bend in a waterway. I guess the word crescent fits. Many oxbows are isolated from navigable water access. On the map, the Jug appears to nearly reach back to the main river at its northeast far end. That short passage is choked with cattails, preventing our going very far. But water from the main river definitely comes through. The jug drains from the southwest end through a short channel back to Jessamine.

This morning it is absolutely still, August in the delta. The low angle of the light creates a dark backdrop for bright backlit highlights. A curled dried leaf on the water seems to float in space, glowing at the edge of shadow and substance. Curtains of Spanish moss turn neon when all around is still in shadow. The pantheons of giants, those big old cypresses, are the first to get full sun. While they bask in the business of a sunlit world, we paddle in a world not yet quite done with night. On the way in yesterday, we wanted to get to the platform. So we paddled right down the middle. Today we find ourselves moving along the shoreline, poking into the nooks. Fred is across from me, moving across the base of a large cluster of big cypresses on the edge of the lake. His 16-foot kayak’s silhouette was several times unable to span the waterline diameter of the giants. Ahead a hundred yards or so the dark lake is mottled with various floating assemblages, sticks, reeds, leaves, scum, and the like. A bit of flotsam moves from right to left in the stillness. A 3-4 foot alligator is on the move; likely in response to 3 alien forms flailing sticks and being so rude as to disturb the peace in this staggeringly peaceful place. It’s easy to indulge in the delusion that this place is a secret only you could know. The Jug can do that.

All too soon we are spit out of the Jug into the passage to Jessamine. There is a nice current thanks to a falling tide. This area of the delta has complex intertwined waterways. Currents may appear to flow counterintuitive to expectations. It stays behind us in Jessamine on the way back to the River. But then it’s in our face as the sun and the breeze catch us in the open. Thankfully the breeze is from behind but the faster I go, the less cooling I get from it. So I dawdle. The lazy pace provides plenty of air-time for day dreams.

It was that kind of trip back. We even stopped on a sand bar near the mouth of Rice Creek. I think Keenan would have cried if we hadn’t. This is Briar Lake. The Tensaw River has diverged from the Mobile River in the western half of the delta and runs diagonal to the southeast splitting off Middle River before it turns south along the eastern edge of the delta. The triangle to the east of the Tensaw’s southeastern transit of the delta is crisscrossed by a tangle of interlocking old river courses. Since they no longer channel large portions of the upstate watershed, they are now referred to as Lakes. There are 2 lakes between the Tensaw and Rice Creek Landing. Tensaw Lake Joins the Tensaw River at Larry Island. We have come out of Jessamine Bayou, crossed the Tensaw, followed Tensaw Lake north up the east side of Larry Island, come east though an unnamed bayou into Briar Lake, and crossed east to the Mouth of Rice Creek and back to the landing.

At the landing, we are treated to a gift from the outgoing tide. The delta is draining so the huge upstate watershed’s sediment laden effluent stay’s with the Mobile’s, the Middle’s, and the Tensaw’s flow while leaving these “lakes” full of relatively clean local water. In the case of Rice Creek, this must involve significant volume from springs. We can see bottom easily in the small basin in front of the launch. Most delicious though was that the water was 10 degrees cooler than back at Briar Lake. A few hours from now the tepid delta flow would again reach the landing. But for now, mid-day in August with boats to load, our timing is perfect.

Fred and Richard ground their boats and set about the return to life without buoyancy. Not me. Not yet ready for weight bearing, I opt instead for lollygagging. By lying back in my cockpit I can drape my legs over the sides so the soles of my feet are just in the water…cold water…deliciously cold water. It’s fitting that I end here.
[*] Given to excessive and often trivial or rambling talk; tiresomely talkative.

Gunnison Creek, Jan 31, 2009

See the full report with pictures here.

Launch: Steele Creek Park in Satsuma, AL
Cost: Free.
Distance: Approx 6 miles
Route: Up Gunnison Creek to just past Interstate 65 and back.
Pace: Leisurely.
Average Speed: 2.7 mph.
Weather: Sunny, 55-60 degrees, calm conditions.

Today I led a kayak club paddle up Gunnison Creek and had the pleasure of padding with Ryan, her mom Randi, and Kristen, all three from Bay Minette, and Tom, and John. Hope I’m spelling names right.

Kristen and Ryan take the lead up Gunnison Creek in ideal kayaking conditions. John and Tom look at a small paddle wheel boat.

Everyone was enjoying a pleasant deep blue sky day. It didn’t look like there were very many homes on this creek based on looking at Google. Must have been an old image – there were a lot of homes along Gunnison Creek.

Randi looks at another paddle wheel boat – we saw 3 on this trip. Kristen eyes the creek banks for wildlife which we didn’t see much of except for a few turtles. The water had a slight green tint to it and I was surprised how clear it was. We also noticed that there were Red Maples starting to put out color.

The cow on the creek bank seemed a little startled as it watched all the colorful kayaks going by. I couldn’t tell if the cow was watching only the red kayaks or not. Not far after crossing under I-65 we stopped for a short break at our turn around point. There we saw timbers of the old bridge crossing for old US Highway 43. I was thinking this might be a great place for launching a kayak but it is private property according to Probate Court records. On the other side of the creek is a swimming hole diving platform about 20-30 feet in the air.

A couple of shortcuts were taken on the way back. Gunnison Creek has a several splits in it, some leading quickly to dead ends, others merely loops. One thing I didn’t anticipate was for the water to be so low. It was a long drop from the dock to the water surface today as compared to other times meaning everyone had to use the concrete boat ramp to launch.

Thankfully no one went swimming today. Rising air temperatures can promote kayaking in t-shirts or other light clothing. It is important though, to remember the water temperature doesn’t change rapidly like air temperature. A boater drowned in the Tensaw River today. Be careful out there!

Bay Minette Creek, Jan 17 2009

See the full report with pictures here.

Launch: Buzbees
Cost: $3
Distance: 6 miles
Route: Up Bay Minette Creek for about an hour and back.
Pace: Leisurely.
Average Speed: 3 mph.
Weather: Mostly cloudy, 49 degrees, light winds out of the south.

Buzbees–perfect for launching kayaks. Today I led a club kayaking trip and two hardy individuals decided to brave the cold and enjoy another day on the water. Joe started pushing a 4 mph pace and left me behind. Joe can paddle that canoe fast!

Joe, Tom and I enjoyed the almost slick waters and the reflection of the puffy clouds on the water. At one point, Tom found the hidden water falls. We also stopped several times to observe ducks and osprey eagles. We all wished we had binoculars with us.

It was nice on the way back until we reached the wider section which is where the winds picked up. That 49 degrees now felt a bit colder. Tom who came out dressed for the weather was leading us in his bright yellow Current Designs kayak on the way back.

Drat! Heavy clouds on the horizon hid the sun’s expected colorful disappearance. Despite the lack of a colorful sunset, this was a enjoyable paddle among good company.