Lake Guntersville State Park, Guntersville, AL
January 21,22, 2006
by Norman Clapp
During the weekend of January 21 and 22, 2006, we had a joint Tennessee Valley Canoe Club and Mobile Bay Canoe and Kayak Club trip to Guntersville, Alabama to paddle and view eagles. The Guntersville area has eagles that come from Canada to winter.
We had a wonderful weekend and were really blessed with good weather, in spite of the “Official Weather Forecasts”, which were predicting rain, showers, thunderstorms and windy conditions. Actual conditions were temperatures in the high 50’s – low 60’s, winds mostly light and variable, and a brief very light misty drizzle on Sunday morning and cloudy skies.
On Saturday, we paddled from the cabins at Lake Guntersville State Park, up Short Creek. At our lunch stop, we had a view of an eagle sitting in the nest across the creek. He (or she) stayed there the entire time we had lunch. What a treat! We saw a couple of other eagles on Saturday and then on Sunday, we saw three immature eagles during our paddle on Town Creek. This is a nice area to paddle.
On Saturday, we had 19 boats, 21 people and one dog. On Sunday, we had 11 boats, 13 people and one dog on the trip. We had paddlers from Chattanooga, Gadsden, Huntsville, Mobile, Milton FL, Panama City, Atlanta and Blairsville, GA. Thanks to Bob Andrews from Mobile for leading the trip and we appreciate Lois and Jack being in our official sweep boat.
Some paddlers camped, some day tripped and some stayed in cabins. We had a great group of paddlers, which always makes for a fun trip.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Bayfront Park, Daphne to Fort Morgan
October 23, 2000
by Bruce Zimmerman
Larry Mickelson, Jr. led a full day trip from Daphne Bayfront Park to Fort Morgan. Five paddlers showed up at 0600 to make the trip. Yes, it was dark when we were unloading boats from cars and stowing gear in the boats. One of the Daphne police stopped by on his rounds and recognized Larry,Jr from his restaurant. Having the police keep an eye on your vehicle while you are out messing around in boats makes for one less thing to worry about.
We slipped into the water at 6:50, with a nice pink sunrise coloring the clouds over the eastern shore. A flock of skimmers buzzed us once. We set course to 179 degrees, by Mike Predmore's GPS, for Point Clear. The wind was light and from our left on this leg. The air was hazy, so we did not see alot of detail on shore, half a mile to a mile on our left. We just paddled and visited, to make the miles roll by. A light sea built up by mid morning, which kept everyone's left arm wet. Wet elbows were the general rule of the day. We passed Fairhope pier at about 9 AM, and crossed some open water to Point Clear, where we landed for lunch at 10:10.
Mr. Watson spotted us on the beach and came down to visit. He asked first, "Are you going to Fort Morgan?" He is one of our members on the e-mail list, and he was aware of our plans this day. He looked over our boats, which included two homebuilt 17 foot Chesapeake wood boats, a 12 foot Necky Santa Cruz, an18 foot Necky Arluk III, and a 16 foot Perception Vizcaya. The home built boats looked really sharp with wooden decks and epoxy/fiberglass-coated wood bottoms and sides.
We left the Grand Hotel at 11:45 for Mullet Point Park, on a course of 172 degrees. As we passed two guys fishing by the hotel, one of them asked, "Where are you going?" Larry, Sr. told them, "Fort Morgan". I don't think they believed him. This was a short run to Mullet Point, which was near the halfway mark of the trip. South of the Grand Hotel, the shoreline looks fully developed. Piers and boathouses jut out into the bay at each lot.
At Mullet Point, Mrs. Ruth Mickelson met us with refreshments. Mullet Point does not have a sand beach. It is reinforced shoreline made of rocks and cement blocks. We landed on the cement ramp, and we had a break. The day was warming up to near 80 degrees, from the 60 degrees we had at dawn. A steady wind from the east kept us comfortable, but the seas remained 1-2 feet the rest of the day, coming from our left. As we put into the water, a small gull paddled over toward us. First, Larry, Sr. tried to see how close he could get to the bird. Then Mike took up the chase and caught the bird with both hands! That bird was defective to somehow just let us catch it. It looked normal and undamaged, but stupid.
As we left Mullet Point to turn for Fort Morgan, on a course of 208 degrees, everyone was wearing a spray skirt. We were planning on getting wet on this crossing. Our destination was 12.4 miles away. Sunset was in a little more than 5 hours. We were in good shape to make the distance, as we headed towards a hazy featureless horizon.
Wearing a spray skirt is a funny thing. The function is to keep the ocean out of your boat. Unfortunately, it also keeps humidity in. Sweat trickles down and moisture condenses on the underside of the skirt and drips on you. And what do you do when you need to scratch an itch?
This leg of the trip had little to tell about. Seabirds, especially pelicans, were our main companions. We saw a few insects fly past, dragonflys and Monarch butterflies. When we lost sight of land, we steered by compass and guessed at correcting for set and drift. When we saw the oil rigs, then we had something to gauge our progress. Eventually, we settled on a crab angle of 190 degrees, to keep us upwind of our destination. As we closed on the land, the seas were less choppy, but the current leaving the mouth of Mobile Bay was more of an effect on us.
As the sun set into the thick haze over Dauphin Island, we could identify the ferry landing at Fort Morgan Park. We were watching the beach, looking for Steve Delker and a boat trailer. We headed towards three flashlights, blinking on the beach. We had arrived 11 hours and 40 minutes after leaving Daphne, 24 miles ago.
October 23, 2000
by Bruce Zimmerman
Larry Mickelson, Jr. led a full day trip from Daphne Bayfront Park to Fort Morgan. Five paddlers showed up at 0600 to make the trip. Yes, it was dark when we were unloading boats from cars and stowing gear in the boats. One of the Daphne police stopped by on his rounds and recognized Larry,Jr from his restaurant. Having the police keep an eye on your vehicle while you are out messing around in boats makes for one less thing to worry about.
We slipped into the water at 6:50, with a nice pink sunrise coloring the clouds over the eastern shore. A flock of skimmers buzzed us once. We set course to 179 degrees, by Mike Predmore's GPS, for Point Clear. The wind was light and from our left on this leg. The air was hazy, so we did not see alot of detail on shore, half a mile to a mile on our left. We just paddled and visited, to make the miles roll by. A light sea built up by mid morning, which kept everyone's left arm wet. Wet elbows were the general rule of the day. We passed Fairhope pier at about 9 AM, and crossed some open water to Point Clear, where we landed for lunch at 10:10.
Mr. Watson spotted us on the beach and came down to visit. He asked first, "Are you going to Fort Morgan?" He is one of our members on the e-mail list, and he was aware of our plans this day. He looked over our boats, which included two homebuilt 17 foot Chesapeake wood boats, a 12 foot Necky Santa Cruz, an18 foot Necky Arluk III, and a 16 foot Perception Vizcaya. The home built boats looked really sharp with wooden decks and epoxy/fiberglass-coated wood bottoms and sides.
We left the Grand Hotel at 11:45 for Mullet Point Park, on a course of 172 degrees. As we passed two guys fishing by the hotel, one of them asked, "Where are you going?" Larry, Sr. told them, "Fort Morgan". I don't think they believed him. This was a short run to Mullet Point, which was near the halfway mark of the trip. South of the Grand Hotel, the shoreline looks fully developed. Piers and boathouses jut out into the bay at each lot.
At Mullet Point, Mrs. Ruth Mickelson met us with refreshments. Mullet Point does not have a sand beach. It is reinforced shoreline made of rocks and cement blocks. We landed on the cement ramp, and we had a break. The day was warming up to near 80 degrees, from the 60 degrees we had at dawn. A steady wind from the east kept us comfortable, but the seas remained 1-2 feet the rest of the day, coming from our left. As we put into the water, a small gull paddled over toward us. First, Larry, Sr. tried to see how close he could get to the bird. Then Mike took up the chase and caught the bird with both hands! That bird was defective to somehow just let us catch it. It looked normal and undamaged, but stupid.
As we left Mullet Point to turn for Fort Morgan, on a course of 208 degrees, everyone was wearing a spray skirt. We were planning on getting wet on this crossing. Our destination was 12.4 miles away. Sunset was in a little more than 5 hours. We were in good shape to make the distance, as we headed towards a hazy featureless horizon.
Wearing a spray skirt is a funny thing. The function is to keep the ocean out of your boat. Unfortunately, it also keeps humidity in. Sweat trickles down and moisture condenses on the underside of the skirt and drips on you. And what do you do when you need to scratch an itch?
This leg of the trip had little to tell about. Seabirds, especially pelicans, were our main companions. We saw a few insects fly past, dragonflys and Monarch butterflies. When we lost sight of land, we steered by compass and guessed at correcting for set and drift. When we saw the oil rigs, then we had something to gauge our progress. Eventually, we settled on a crab angle of 190 degrees, to keep us upwind of our destination. As we closed on the land, the seas were less choppy, but the current leaving the mouth of Mobile Bay was more of an effect on us.
As the sun set into the thick haze over Dauphin Island, we could identify the ferry landing at Fort Morgan Park. We were watching the beach, looking for Steve Delker and a boat trailer. We headed towards three flashlights, blinking on the beach. We had arrived 11 hours and 40 minutes after leaving Daphne, 24 miles ago.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Bayous Tallapoosa & Jessamine loop
Sunday, January 15, 2006
by Brint Adams
Saturday's wind died down and left us with very calm water for a beautiful, but very different paddle for the fortunate five who came out this morning. The temperature was around 48-55 degrees throughout the day, with a mostly overcast sky. Our group gathered at the Stagecoach Inn in Stockton, AL and drove the short distance north to Baldwin County's Rice Creek Landing.
When we arrived, the expected low water level was even lower than we had imagined, with barely enough water trickling by to let us drag along the bottom, until we got about 20 meters away. Rice Creek was very eery, as it seemed like we were almost below ground, seeing cypress trees and knees uncovered, exposing huge trunks usually underwater. There was even a sand bar exposed out at the mouth of Rice Creek, which we dragged across for the first time.
We turned north up Briar Lake, passing several fish and hunting camps, some on land, some floating and some sitting on the exposed muddy shoreline. A couple of us spotted a buck squatted on the shore, his head laying off to the side, appearing to be dead. As we approached to get a closer look, he bolted up and away through the palmetto. We continued paddling north on the much wider Tensaw Lake, until we reached the mouth of Bayou Tallapoosa. It is located only about 1/2 mile south of the two covered platforms hidden behind Dead Lake Island.
The water level was low into Tallapoosa and we didn't figure we would get very far. So, we decided to go in and come back out to the platforms for lunch. To our surprise, and although we had to do alot of weaving and manuevering around, we never came upon a fall we could not paddle over or around. There were some tight spots, but none requiring us to exit our boats.
So, we continued slowly up Tallapoosa the whole distance of about three miles until we reached the Tensaw River on the other side. Along the way, we saw many signs of deer, beaver, hogs and even watched a pair of otters scamper playfully along the bank and down into the water. At the Tensaw River, we decided to stop for lunch at a large 3-story camp, sitting around their empty fire pit.
We continued paddling down Tensaw River to make the loop, rather than retrace our paddle on Tallapoosa. So, off we went downstream with about a 1.5 mph push, making good time at about 6 mph for the next four miles. We passed the entrance to Middle River and the primitive public campground on the way to Bottle Creek. After a short distance down Bottle, we turned east into Bayou Jessamine. It was similarly very low and slow going as we dodged around all of the many exposed falls. We finally came across our one and only log of the whole trip, we had to stop and drag our boats over. It was about halfway down to the Jug Lake split, which we decided to pass this time, since we were about 12 miles into the paddle so far.
The rest of the way was uneventful out Jessamine, back up Tensaw along Larry Island, and through the cut to Briar Lake and Rice Creek. Our total trip was 15 miles, taking about 4 1/2 hours paddling time. All of us were sufficiently worn out and glad we had a chance to see the delta from a different "down under" perspective.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
by Brint Adams
Saturday's wind died down and left us with very calm water for a beautiful, but very different paddle for the fortunate five who came out this morning. The temperature was around 48-55 degrees throughout the day, with a mostly overcast sky. Our group gathered at the Stagecoach Inn in Stockton, AL and drove the short distance north to Baldwin County's Rice Creek Landing.
When we arrived, the expected low water level was even lower than we had imagined, with barely enough water trickling by to let us drag along the bottom, until we got about 20 meters away. Rice Creek was very eery, as it seemed like we were almost below ground, seeing cypress trees and knees uncovered, exposing huge trunks usually underwater. There was even a sand bar exposed out at the mouth of Rice Creek, which we dragged across for the first time.
We turned north up Briar Lake, passing several fish and hunting camps, some on land, some floating and some sitting on the exposed muddy shoreline. A couple of us spotted a buck squatted on the shore, his head laying off to the side, appearing to be dead. As we approached to get a closer look, he bolted up and away through the palmetto. We continued paddling north on the much wider Tensaw Lake, until we reached the mouth of Bayou Tallapoosa. It is located only about 1/2 mile south of the two covered platforms hidden behind Dead Lake Island.
The water level was low into Tallapoosa and we didn't figure we would get very far. So, we decided to go in and come back out to the platforms for lunch. To our surprise, and although we had to do alot of weaving and manuevering around, we never came upon a fall we could not paddle over or around. There were some tight spots, but none requiring us to exit our boats.
So, we continued slowly up Tallapoosa the whole distance of about three miles until we reached the Tensaw River on the other side. Along the way, we saw many signs of deer, beaver, hogs and even watched a pair of otters scamper playfully along the bank and down into the water. At the Tensaw River, we decided to stop for lunch at a large 3-story camp, sitting around their empty fire pit.
We continued paddling down Tensaw River to make the loop, rather than retrace our paddle on Tallapoosa. So, off we went downstream with about a 1.5 mph push, making good time at about 6 mph for the next four miles. We passed the entrance to Middle River and the primitive public campground on the way to Bottle Creek. After a short distance down Bottle, we turned east into Bayou Jessamine. It was similarly very low and slow going as we dodged around all of the many exposed falls. We finally came across our one and only log of the whole trip, we had to stop and drag our boats over. It was about halfway down to the Jug Lake split, which we decided to pass this time, since we were about 12 miles into the paddle so far.
The rest of the way was uneventful out Jessamine, back up Tensaw along Larry Island, and through the cut to Briar Lake and Rice Creek. Our total trip was 15 miles, taking about 4 1/2 hours paddling time. All of us were sufficiently worn out and glad we had a chance to see the delta from a different "down under" perspective.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Econfina Creek
Saturday, November 5, 2005
by Gary Worob & Brint Adams
I just counted three times how many of us there were....13 came up three times, so I am sticking with that figure. I was too busy either chain sawing or being stupefied( the latter is getting easier with age)! There was no choice. This was the most intense, bizarre, powerful, dynamic, overwhelming and overpowering paddle I can remember. And then some!
Ask for perfect weather and just the right amount of people and a great trip leader and you get and then some. Ask for just enough trip to say....that's enough and you get it. Ask for the most amazing scenery and incredible paddling and you get it. And finally, ask for the right amount of fallen trees to cut, climb over, under and around and you certainly got it.
Just imagine paddling through a mile long tunnel with a canopy of blue sky, as the roof and walls covered in moss, limestone and river banks that jutted out and were worn smooth enough so you enjoyed playing bumper cars off the rounded edges. Imagine flying down chutes of whitewater and careening into canyons with no visible ending and no desire to ever have it end, you get it all in one big program: the upper section of Econfina Creek from Scott's bridge to Walshingham bridge.
We had two different gps readings. One said 9 miles and one of eleven miles and we were prewarned by our great guide and trip leader, Sheila Small, that we might not finish unitl dark. Think about the logistics of going 9-11 miles in a full day when it normally should only be 4 hours or so. There are no logisitics when you realize what you are up against on the greatest trip of your life. You literally beg for it to be over after log jam upon log jam, but you don't want the chutes and canyons and rapids to ever end.
Every once in a while you get to be totally by yourself, even if you are not paddling solo, to be mesmerized and captured in the emerald fores and the gateway to heaven or hell. No exaggeration on this phenomenon. It is truly an amazing experience to do once and do it right up to your limits. You will test your limits on this one, both physical and visual and spiritual.
I thought of a proposition for all canoe and kayak clubs that ever thought about or will think about doing this trip. We should all combine financial forces and "PAY SOME GROUP OF BURLY CHAIN SAW FANATICS'' to go once a year at a predesignated time to clear the whole canoe trail to the livery. This would then be the greatest paddle. It would be about 15 miles of the most powerful trip there is. The only other thought I have is for one club to reserve the Blue Spring Campground we stay at and invite chainsaw wielding paddlers to a weekend of glorious torture. This travail is not for the inexperienced paddler or lumberjack, trust me.
Don't call me for a while to go back and do it again. I will be nursing very sore chainsaw arms for a while and thinking about those glorious chutes and rapids and amazing tunnels and the aqua bluegreen tourmaline waterways of the wonderful Econfina. But next time, I want to have a camera strapped to the bow of my boat, taking movies of flying down those canyons and careening against walls and the visuals that were so amazing. Next time, I would advise a "sit-upon kayak."
by Gary
A beautiful fall weekend was in store for Roland and I, as we drove from Daphne, AL to just north of Panama City, FL early Saturday morning. A group of eleven other paddlers with various kayaks and canoes had already left to set up the shuttle vehicles and shove off while we were about an hour away. We drove straight to the put-in at Scott's bridge in an attempt to catch up with the gang.
On the way along Hwy 20, we came across various aid stations for the 112 mile bike segment of the Panama City Ironman Triathlon, which was underway. As we turned north on Hwy 231 towards Scott's bridge, we came across the frontrunning cyclistswhich was pretty exciting.
We found the water level of Econfina Creek to be pretty low, so we were glad to have our plastic boats for what we figured was going to be a shallow ride with the possibility of a few portages. Little did we know what we were about to find. At least for the first three miles, the creek was fairly clear of debris and blockages, thanks to Gary leading the first group with a chainsaw. We saw some of his handiwork and figured sooner or later we might catch up to the group.
It didn't take long until we heard the chainsaw and caught up to the gang. It turned out they started out about 20 minutes ahead of us. After paddling together for another mile, we stopped for lunch after paddling for two hours and almost four miles. Along the way, we passed through numerous narrow passages through high rock walls, with a fairly quick drop and a few minor rapids. For this far south, it was the most I have seen and was alot of fun and quite strikingly beautiful.
After lunch, we all took off together, but it didn't take long before we were stopped by the first of many treefalls blocking our passage. Gary dutifully led us through several blockages after efficiently cutting his way through with his chainsaw. But, it turned out there were just too many and Gary eventually ran out of gas, both for his saw and his body.
So, we were on our own to get over, under or around the numerous trees across our path. Towards the end, over probably the last three miles, a few of us took up the challenge to compete in an impromptu adventure creek race, to see who couldmake their way over all of the blockages and paddle the quickest to our eventual takeout at the Walsingham bridge at the boat ramp and picnic area. I especially had a contest to see if I could compete with a canoe creek specialist. It was a spirited race, which I eventually won, claiming bragging rights for kayakers over canoers.
Overall, Roland and I paddled for about five hours over the 11.2 mile course. Obviously, all of the tight turns, low water, narrow channels and fallen trees blocking our way slowed us down, but the paddle course was fantastic and one we plan to do again when the water level is a little higher.
Following vehicle retrieval, most of us retreated to the Blue Springs campground for a great potluck dinner, a campfire and well deserved rest. We scared away all of the owls that night with our extended playing of African drums and Aussie didjeridus. It was a good time for all.
by Brint
Saturday, November 5, 2005
by Gary Worob & Brint Adams
I just counted three times how many of us there were....13 came up three times, so I am sticking with that figure. I was too busy either chain sawing or being stupefied( the latter is getting easier with age)! There was no choice. This was the most intense, bizarre, powerful, dynamic, overwhelming and overpowering paddle I can remember. And then some!
Ask for perfect weather and just the right amount of people and a great trip leader and you get and then some. Ask for just enough trip to say....that's enough and you get it. Ask for the most amazing scenery and incredible paddling and you get it. And finally, ask for the right amount of fallen trees to cut, climb over, under and around and you certainly got it.
Just imagine paddling through a mile long tunnel with a canopy of blue sky, as the roof and walls covered in moss, limestone and river banks that jutted out and were worn smooth enough so you enjoyed playing bumper cars off the rounded edges. Imagine flying down chutes of whitewater and careening into canyons with no visible ending and no desire to ever have it end, you get it all in one big program: the upper section of Econfina Creek from Scott's bridge to Walshingham bridge.
We had two different gps readings. One said 9 miles and one of eleven miles and we were prewarned by our great guide and trip leader, Sheila Small, that we might not finish unitl dark. Think about the logistics of going 9-11 miles in a full day when it normally should only be 4 hours or so. There are no logisitics when you realize what you are up against on the greatest trip of your life. You literally beg for it to be over after log jam upon log jam, but you don't want the chutes and canyons and rapids to ever end.
Every once in a while you get to be totally by yourself, even if you are not paddling solo, to be mesmerized and captured in the emerald fores and the gateway to heaven or hell. No exaggeration on this phenomenon. It is truly an amazing experience to do once and do it right up to your limits. You will test your limits on this one, both physical and visual and spiritual.
I thought of a proposition for all canoe and kayak clubs that ever thought about or will think about doing this trip. We should all combine financial forces and "PAY SOME GROUP OF BURLY CHAIN SAW FANATICS'' to go once a year at a predesignated time to clear the whole canoe trail to the livery. This would then be the greatest paddle. It would be about 15 miles of the most powerful trip there is. The only other thought I have is for one club to reserve the Blue Spring Campground we stay at and invite chainsaw wielding paddlers to a weekend of glorious torture. This travail is not for the inexperienced paddler or lumberjack, trust me.
Don't call me for a while to go back and do it again. I will be nursing very sore chainsaw arms for a while and thinking about those glorious chutes and rapids and amazing tunnels and the aqua bluegreen tourmaline waterways of the wonderful Econfina. But next time, I want to have a camera strapped to the bow of my boat, taking movies of flying down those canyons and careening against walls and the visuals that were so amazing. Next time, I would advise a "sit-upon kayak."
by Gary
A beautiful fall weekend was in store for Roland and I, as we drove from Daphne, AL to just north of Panama City, FL early Saturday morning. A group of eleven other paddlers with various kayaks and canoes had already left to set up the shuttle vehicles and shove off while we were about an hour away. We drove straight to the put-in at Scott's bridge in an attempt to catch up with the gang.
On the way along Hwy 20, we came across various aid stations for the 112 mile bike segment of the Panama City Ironman Triathlon, which was underway. As we turned north on Hwy 231 towards Scott's bridge, we came across the frontrunning cyclistswhich was pretty exciting.
We found the water level of Econfina Creek to be pretty low, so we were glad to have our plastic boats for what we figured was going to be a shallow ride with the possibility of a few portages. Little did we know what we were about to find. At least for the first three miles, the creek was fairly clear of debris and blockages, thanks to Gary leading the first group with a chainsaw. We saw some of his handiwork and figured sooner or later we might catch up to the group.
It didn't take long until we heard the chainsaw and caught up to the gang. It turned out they started out about 20 minutes ahead of us. After paddling together for another mile, we stopped for lunch after paddling for two hours and almost four miles. Along the way, we passed through numerous narrow passages through high rock walls, with a fairly quick drop and a few minor rapids. For this far south, it was the most I have seen and was alot of fun and quite strikingly beautiful.
After lunch, we all took off together, but it didn't take long before we were stopped by the first of many treefalls blocking our passage. Gary dutifully led us through several blockages after efficiently cutting his way through with his chainsaw. But, it turned out there were just too many and Gary eventually ran out of gas, both for his saw and his body.
So, we were on our own to get over, under or around the numerous trees across our path. Towards the end, over probably the last three miles, a few of us took up the challenge to compete in an impromptu adventure creek race, to see who couldmake their way over all of the blockages and paddle the quickest to our eventual takeout at the Walsingham bridge at the boat ramp and picnic area. I especially had a contest to see if I could compete with a canoe creek specialist. It was a spirited race, which I eventually won, claiming bragging rights for kayakers over canoers.
Overall, Roland and I paddled for about five hours over the 11.2 mile course. Obviously, all of the tight turns, low water, narrow channels and fallen trees blocking our way slowed us down, but the paddle course was fantastic and one we plan to do again when the water level is a little higher.
Following vehicle retrieval, most of us retreated to the Blue Springs campground for a great potluck dinner, a campfire and well deserved rest. We scared away all of the owls that night with our extended playing of African drums and Aussie didjeridus. It was a good time for all.
by Brint
Monday, October 31, 2005
Big Briar Creek
Saturday, October 29, 2005
by Brint Adams
What a great day for a paddle anywhere in the South! Jimmy and I were grateful for the opportunity to get out and enjoy it. We met at the Bruno's in Spanish Fort at Hwy 31 and Hwy 225, traveled north on Hwy 225 for nine miles and turned left to Byrnes Lake boat launch area. This is part of the Baldwin County Park system and is free to park and put in. We started out at 10:00 AM under perfect conditions of sunny skies, 65 degrees, a light northeasterly breeze and no current. The water level was down a little, but not too low and there was no tide movement today.
There were a few fishermen working Byrne's Lake, but very little traffic the whole trip, even out on the Tensaw. We paddled out Byrne's and turned northwest on the Tensaw, crossing it to the north end of Gravine Island, and continued directly ahead (northwest) to the cut-through to Mobile River. Out in front of the beach and sand dune on Gravine, there was a lone cormorant drying out, who reluctantly took off in labored flight right along the water's surface as we approached. Little did we know this was the first of many great bird sightings.
Once over to the cut-through, we continued along the north bank for a half mile to the turn north into Big Briar Creek. This is a fairly wide river which we followed straight north for 0.75 miles until we reached the first major tributary to the east. Along the way we spotted an unafraid young two-foot gator as well as osprey, tri-colored herons, snowy and great egrets and kingfisher.
Once in the small tributary, we followed the main channel east and north for about 1.5 miles past numerous stands of burr marigold and a few water hyacinth still blooming. As the waterway narrowed, we saw many raccoon tracks along the bank as well as signs of many wild hog in the area, who had rooted around the shores as well as made some wallowing holes.
On the way back out, we took another very small side channel, which surprisingly snaked its way back south for almost another 0.75 mile. Back in here we saw more egrets, herons, wood ducks, a red tailed hawk moving ahead of us, as well as numerous red winged blackbirds and many other smaller varieties. We paddled as far as we could go, which was all the map showed was there and stopped for lunch after paddling for about 6.6 miles. There was a large osprey nest overhead in a tall dead cypress and a woodpecker serenading us off in the distance.
After starting up again, we paddled back out to Big Briar and turned south. We saw a very small tributary along the east shore and decided to give it a try. After about ten meters in the narrow cut through the saw grass, I eased alongside a brown medium height wader with his head and long beak pointed straight up. He would not fly away as I passed and Jimmy came alongside him as well. He finally took off as we talked about him. It turned out we were next to an American Bittern doing what he normally does, which was his attempting to hide from us, by acting like he was part of the saw grass.
On the way out of Big Briar, we came across an Osprey clutching a large fish, still flopping around, with both sets of talons as he passed overhead. We also met the small gator in the same place as on the way in earlier as well as the cormorant perched on a log out in the middle of the Tensaw, drying out his wing feathers.
All in all, the day was quite eventful with all of the sightings and live action we witnessed along the way. The trip ended up right at twelve miles taking four hours of paddle time. This was definately well worth it and one we will try again in the springtime as well.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
by Brint Adams
What a great day for a paddle anywhere in the South! Jimmy and I were grateful for the opportunity to get out and enjoy it. We met at the Bruno's in Spanish Fort at Hwy 31 and Hwy 225, traveled north on Hwy 225 for nine miles and turned left to Byrnes Lake boat launch area. This is part of the Baldwin County Park system and is free to park and put in. We started out at 10:00 AM under perfect conditions of sunny skies, 65 degrees, a light northeasterly breeze and no current. The water level was down a little, but not too low and there was no tide movement today.
There were a few fishermen working Byrne's Lake, but very little traffic the whole trip, even out on the Tensaw. We paddled out Byrne's and turned northwest on the Tensaw, crossing it to the north end of Gravine Island, and continued directly ahead (northwest) to the cut-through to Mobile River. Out in front of the beach and sand dune on Gravine, there was a lone cormorant drying out, who reluctantly took off in labored flight right along the water's surface as we approached. Little did we know this was the first of many great bird sightings.
Once over to the cut-through, we continued along the north bank for a half mile to the turn north into Big Briar Creek. This is a fairly wide river which we followed straight north for 0.75 miles until we reached the first major tributary to the east. Along the way we spotted an unafraid young two-foot gator as well as osprey, tri-colored herons, snowy and great egrets and kingfisher.
Once in the small tributary, we followed the main channel east and north for about 1.5 miles past numerous stands of burr marigold and a few water hyacinth still blooming. As the waterway narrowed, we saw many raccoon tracks along the bank as well as signs of many wild hog in the area, who had rooted around the shores as well as made some wallowing holes.
On the way back out, we took another very small side channel, which surprisingly snaked its way back south for almost another 0.75 mile. Back in here we saw more egrets, herons, wood ducks, a red tailed hawk moving ahead of us, as well as numerous red winged blackbirds and many other smaller varieties. We paddled as far as we could go, which was all the map showed was there and stopped for lunch after paddling for about 6.6 miles. There was a large osprey nest overhead in a tall dead cypress and a woodpecker serenading us off in the distance.
After starting up again, we paddled back out to Big Briar and turned south. We saw a very small tributary along the east shore and decided to give it a try. After about ten meters in the narrow cut through the saw grass, I eased alongside a brown medium height wader with his head and long beak pointed straight up. He would not fly away as I passed and Jimmy came alongside him as well. He finally took off as we talked about him. It turned out we were next to an American Bittern doing what he normally does, which was his attempting to hide from us, by acting like he was part of the saw grass.
On the way out of Big Briar, we came across an Osprey clutching a large fish, still flopping around, with both sets of talons as he passed overhead. We also met the small gator in the same place as on the way in earlier as well as the cormorant perched on a log out in the middle of the Tensaw, drying out his wing feathers.
All in all, the day was quite eventful with all of the sightings and live action we witnessed along the way. The trip ended up right at twelve miles taking four hours of paddle time. This was definately well worth it and one we will try again in the springtime as well.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Horn Island
Pascagoula, MS
Fall 2005
by Danny Hart
In spite of the rumors that the barrier islands were closed, a couple of friends (Tony and Walter) and I couldn't let our 3-day weekend slip by without taking full advantage of the beautiful fall weather. We wanted the experience so many others have talked about, written about, and captured in art. We decided to take our chances with a trip to Horn Island.
Katrina spared no mercy in the small town of Pascagoula. Amidst piles of debris and beautiful homes left in ruins by the storm, we made our way to the vacant antebellum home where Walter's grandfather once lived on Lake Yazoo. The boat ramp and pier were destroyed but we were able to get our boats on the water and gear loaded without much trouble. With high tide approximately one hour before our launch, we had a fairly smooth departure around 9:45 AM. The north wind was to our backs and the outgoing tide moved us quickly across the ship channel and past the homeport on Singing River Island.
The wind and tide continued to be in our favor as we began the first leg of our journey to Round Island. This was Tony and Walter's first experience with an open-water voyage. Tony, an avid bike rider, was in great shape for the trip but began to notice some problems with his Perception Monarch's tracking in the wind and surf. Walter had no trouble adapting his whitewater experience to the open water. With his rental kayak, an Old Town Adventure XL 139, he took to the surf quite nicely. My Prijon Seayak handled like a dream.
As we approached Round Island, the seas continued to build. We decided to land for lunch on the west end so that we would continue our journey on the lee side. The landing was a blast! Walter and I had not surfed together in years so our landing brought back some really great high school memories of our experiences at the stumps on Dauphin Island. After a quick in-and-out landing on the tiny beach, we took a 15-minute breather for lunch and to check in on our wives (Therese and Lanee) at home (just to reassure them that we were in fact still alive and moving along without any problems).
After a quick bite to eat, we launched from the south side of the beach in effort to avoid the rolling shore break. The lee side of the island was indeed more manageable and our journey continued, next stop - Horn Island. About 2 miles south of Round, we found ourselves in 3-foot seas as we approached the ICW. Tony still had trouble with his boat's tracking, resembling the movement of a busted compass needle, and was moving along at a much slower clip than Walter and I. At this point, the seas weren't as much of a concern as the ship traffic in the ICW. We had to get across quickly to avoid the barge that was bearing down on us from the horizon. I doubled back a couple of times to make sure Tony could make it to the southern buoy ahead of the barge's passing. Paddling into the surf on the double back, my forward deck was smothered with breaking waves. I offered some assistance but Tony was pushing himself hard and holding up well. In spite of his boat's poor tracking, he reassured me that he would not need a tow. We all finally made it out of the 'danger' zone and past the southern buoy of the ship channel with time to spare as the tug and it's cargo passed behind us.
We landed on Horn in only mild surf. Once on the beach (at an area known as Waters House Crossing) we staged our camp about 5 miles from the east end. Tony and I grew up and lived in Pascagoula through high school and had never been to the barrier islands. This was our first time seeing the island, not on the horizon but under our feet. The beach was beautiful, the weather was perfect, and the bugs, well, they were everything we expected them to be. We sprayed ourselves thoroughly with skin-charring insect repellant, in hopes that this would somehow deter the rabid black flies from feasting on our flesh, but the effects upon the hordes of them were minimal. We pitched camp, took a short breather, and decided to keep moving in effort to avoid the bloodthirsty flies.
Our hike routed around the one of the lagoons, in an area known as The Gap, crossing a multitude of animal tracks (raccoons, rabbits, and gators among other less-familiars), broken sea shells, and hurricane debris blown in from the storm. We actually found 3 plastic chairs among the debris that proved to be very comfortable later that evening around the camp fire. There was very little live vegetation. Virtually all trees and bushes, though still standing, had turned brown from the high winds and saltwater storm surge. There were also very few bird sightings except for some gulls and one osprey later on in the trip. Although the bloodthirsty flies had not let up completely, their numbers began to subside as we approached the gulf waters on the south side of the island.
The huge beaches on the south side were even more beautiful than the north. We decided to walk west in hopes of catching a nice sunset and maybe seeing a few good sights along the way. About a half-mile into our hike we found a tidal pool full of feeding fish, big feeding fish. Before going any further, we agreed that we needed our fishing tackle so we turned back to camp. Upon our return to the tidal pool we found the fish were still there and still very hungry. I can't recall who caught the first or who caught the largest, but I'm confident enough to go ahead and take full credit for being the most skilled angler that evening (sorry Walt). These were blue fish that we had stumbled upon and they were not picky eaters. Crank baits, spoons, top water, flies, just about everything we threw their way suited their fancy. Hours later, well after sunset, we decided it was time to head back.
With the island turned into a virtual tinderbox, we built the campfire well below the tide line. After a full day of paddling and hiking, dinner around 10:00 pm (followed by a tasty adult beverage) we finally retired to bed. I'm not exactly sure what caused me to wake up from such a deep slumber. Perhaps it was Tony's shrill screams I heard through the heavy north wind. Perhaps it was the fact I could no longer breath comfortably without violently shaking myself awake. Perhaps there had been something in my tasty adult beverage besides scotch. Regardless of the cause, I was awake, very tired, and extremely cold! A cold front made its way through during the night and I quickly learned that a $10 fleece roll, though comfortable in warmer weather, does nothing to protect bare skin from cold wind. I almost felt guilty for recommending it to Tony as suitable bedding for our trip, but I really didn't have time to worry about that at the moment as I proceeded to freeze my better half off in the brutal north wind. Fortunately, my rain fly was just outside and the wind had temporarily swept most of the mosquitoes off to the Land of Oz (key word being 'temporary'). After a quick rain-fly burrito wrap over the fleece, I fell back into my slumber with ample wind protection for the rest of the night. The next morning, Tony had a similar account of a north-wind experience, though he denied any shrill screaming on his part. Who knows? In retrospect, I suppose it could have been my own screams that woke me.
On Saturday, I woke to another picturesque day. The weather was amazing! I removed my burrito wrap and quickly put on my body armor before facing the insect hordes. Tony and Walt were still out cold, so I put on a pot of coffee and began digging through the food stash. The seas were much choppier today, so we decided to go on another hike after breakfast instead of paddling.
Trash and treasure littered the shoreline as we walked east along Horn's north shore. Fishing nets, ropes, pier decks, chairs, plastic storage containers, trash cans, office furniture, a pith hat, we even found a sealed 5 gallon water cooler bottle. We topped off our water bottles with some of the fresh water and continued on our way. At the east end of the island there was a large channel buoy blown on shore. We had seen a couple of people anchored east of our camp and maybe 2 boats that attempted to land, but there were several people in powerboats here, a little too crowded for us. After taking a few pictures of a gator that we found in a nearby lagoon, we rounded the east end and headed back west on the south shore. The bloodthirsty flies continued to pursue us despite our sporadic sprinting, screaming, and rolling in the surf. The water did slow the little bastards down a bit so we redirected our path to a sand bar about 30 feet out from the beach. We were able to walk this bar all the way back to The Gap, our crossover to the north shore. It was on this bar that we saw it. First, it was only a shadow in the surf, then it came closer. It was within seconds of seeing the dorsal fin, that the three of us moved back into the ankle-deep waters of the bar. Walter took a crack at catching it with his spinning tackle, but I had some skepticism that he would be able to land a 6-foot shark on 12 pound test line without the aid of a 12 gauge shot gun. Fortunately, the shark had no interest in the top water plug that Walt was using, so we moved on down the shoreline, casting our lines for lesser fish along the way.
Saturday evening brought another beautiful sunset and more hordes of insects as the north wind subsided. This weakening wind was potentially great news for our trip back the next day, but horrible news in terms of insect control. As the day ended and night crept in, the bloodthirsty flies ended their shift and the mosquitoes began their assault. Once again, Tony, Walt, and I threw on the body armor and moved down to the campfire at the water's edge, where the mosquitoes were a little scarcer.
The three of us had not hung out like this in fifteen years. As we sat around the campfire reflecting on how much fun we were having (in spite of the bloodthirsty hordes), we all sat back in our chairs and laughed. Sounds poetic doesn't it? The fact is, we were in tears, not from nostalgia or the great time we were having, but because Walt floated a big nasty south of the border that drifted downwind to Tony. Fifteen years and nothing had changed between us. Here we are, thirty-something year old 'adults', and entertaining ourselves with a bottle of scotch and flatulent humor. You could really feel the love in the air (once you got past the stench).
Sunday morning was time to go home, back to hurricane-torn Pascagoula, back to work, back to the things that make island overnighters so precious. The north wind had subsided considerably over the past 24 hours and the mosquitoes and flies took full advantage of it as we packed our gear and prepared to escape "Insect Island of the damned". The mosquitoes disappeared as the sun lifted above the trees, but the flies were back with healthy appetites for flesh. We loaded the boats and finally escaped the last fly after about an hour of paddling.
Prior to our departure, Tony and I noticed that his dropdown skeg was jammed. This explained why he was having so much trouble with his boat's tracking on Friday. Well' now it was fixed and ready to navigate the 3-foot seas. To our pleasant surprise, that challenge would not take place on our return trip. I suppose after punishing us with the hordes of bloodthirsty insects, fortune decided to shine a little favor our way. Quite the contrary to our 3-foot seas and 10 - 15 kt winds, the seas were glass and the light north wind had shifted to a light southerly offshore breeze to our backs. We were not facing the north wind and choppy seas that we had expected. The return trip was, in fact, as easy as 6 miles by paddle alone can possibly get. Before reaching the ICW, we entertained a pod of about 30 dolphins that took an interest in us. They stuck with us for about 20 minutes and moved on (perhaps Walt had another foul moment of indiscretion upwind of the pod). After crossing the channel, we came upon a large gelatinous blob covered with tiny bait-size fish seeking refuge from predators. I would estimate the diameter was at least 24' across. We took a few photos of the jellyfish and Walter and I decided to break out the fishing tackle. Walt was fishing his top water plug and I was using a spoon. As we approached Round Island, something hit the spoon and made short work of my line. I haven't the slightest idea what it was, but if I had to guess from an angler's perspective, I would say it was a 12-foot shark or barracuda. Anything less would ruin my fisherman's ego. We landed on the east end of Round Island this time, fished a little, took some pictures, fished a little, had some lunch, and set out to finish our island experience. Walter actually caught a nice pompano on the southeast part of the island. We tried for more with no luck, so we headed back in to the mainland.
The current was fairly swift as we approached the Pascagoula River ship channel. We had to push pretty hard to make it around the rocks at the point. As soon as we made it into the harbor, it was an easy float back into Lake Yazoo where we concluded our 3-day journey. We were all a little tired, a little salty, and very pleased to see Therese and Lanee at the launch to welcome us back. Fortunately, Walt's system was clear of flatulence, otherwise I don't expect we would have received much of a greeting or assistance with the gear from our wives.
As I look back on the experience, words simply cannot describe the enjoyment we all three took away from the trip (bloodthirsty black flies and mosquitoes being the exception). It was time to go home now, but we carried with us some of the experiences that Mr. Anderson framed so well in his art and his writing. Walter Anderson's son describes it well, "Within a very brief period on Horn Island, the course of my life changed in a very good way. These changes have stayed with me. They have comforted me and supported me in difficult times. I have often yearned to share them with others. But have come to realize that they were experiential changes that probably cannot be transmitted through words." HORN ISLAND- Beginning at the Vanishing Point, John Anderson
Click below to view the pics (Adobe Reader required). May take a few minutes to load.http://bellsouthpwp.net/d/a/danehart/Horn%20Island.pdf
Pascagoula, MS
Fall 2005
by Danny Hart
In spite of the rumors that the barrier islands were closed, a couple of friends (Tony and Walter) and I couldn't let our 3-day weekend slip by without taking full advantage of the beautiful fall weather. We wanted the experience so many others have talked about, written about, and captured in art. We decided to take our chances with a trip to Horn Island.
Katrina spared no mercy in the small town of Pascagoula. Amidst piles of debris and beautiful homes left in ruins by the storm, we made our way to the vacant antebellum home where Walter's grandfather once lived on Lake Yazoo. The boat ramp and pier were destroyed but we were able to get our boats on the water and gear loaded without much trouble. With high tide approximately one hour before our launch, we had a fairly smooth departure around 9:45 AM. The north wind was to our backs and the outgoing tide moved us quickly across the ship channel and past the homeport on Singing River Island.
The wind and tide continued to be in our favor as we began the first leg of our journey to Round Island. This was Tony and Walter's first experience with an open-water voyage. Tony, an avid bike rider, was in great shape for the trip but began to notice some problems with his Perception Monarch's tracking in the wind and surf. Walter had no trouble adapting his whitewater experience to the open water. With his rental kayak, an Old Town Adventure XL 139, he took to the surf quite nicely. My Prijon Seayak handled like a dream.
As we approached Round Island, the seas continued to build. We decided to land for lunch on the west end so that we would continue our journey on the lee side. The landing was a blast! Walter and I had not surfed together in years so our landing brought back some really great high school memories of our experiences at the stumps on Dauphin Island. After a quick in-and-out landing on the tiny beach, we took a 15-minute breather for lunch and to check in on our wives (Therese and Lanee) at home (just to reassure them that we were in fact still alive and moving along without any problems).
After a quick bite to eat, we launched from the south side of the beach in effort to avoid the rolling shore break. The lee side of the island was indeed more manageable and our journey continued, next stop - Horn Island. About 2 miles south of Round, we found ourselves in 3-foot seas as we approached the ICW. Tony still had trouble with his boat's tracking, resembling the movement of a busted compass needle, and was moving along at a much slower clip than Walter and I. At this point, the seas weren't as much of a concern as the ship traffic in the ICW. We had to get across quickly to avoid the barge that was bearing down on us from the horizon. I doubled back a couple of times to make sure Tony could make it to the southern buoy ahead of the barge's passing. Paddling into the surf on the double back, my forward deck was smothered with breaking waves. I offered some assistance but Tony was pushing himself hard and holding up well. In spite of his boat's poor tracking, he reassured me that he would not need a tow. We all finally made it out of the 'danger' zone and past the southern buoy of the ship channel with time to spare as the tug and it's cargo passed behind us.
We landed on Horn in only mild surf. Once on the beach (at an area known as Waters House Crossing) we staged our camp about 5 miles from the east end. Tony and I grew up and lived in Pascagoula through high school and had never been to the barrier islands. This was our first time seeing the island, not on the horizon but under our feet. The beach was beautiful, the weather was perfect, and the bugs, well, they were everything we expected them to be. We sprayed ourselves thoroughly with skin-charring insect repellant, in hopes that this would somehow deter the rabid black flies from feasting on our flesh, but the effects upon the hordes of them were minimal. We pitched camp, took a short breather, and decided to keep moving in effort to avoid the bloodthirsty flies.
Our hike routed around the one of the lagoons, in an area known as The Gap, crossing a multitude of animal tracks (raccoons, rabbits, and gators among other less-familiars), broken sea shells, and hurricane debris blown in from the storm. We actually found 3 plastic chairs among the debris that proved to be very comfortable later that evening around the camp fire. There was very little live vegetation. Virtually all trees and bushes, though still standing, had turned brown from the high winds and saltwater storm surge. There were also very few bird sightings except for some gulls and one osprey later on in the trip. Although the bloodthirsty flies had not let up completely, their numbers began to subside as we approached the gulf waters on the south side of the island.
The huge beaches on the south side were even more beautiful than the north. We decided to walk west in hopes of catching a nice sunset and maybe seeing a few good sights along the way. About a half-mile into our hike we found a tidal pool full of feeding fish, big feeding fish. Before going any further, we agreed that we needed our fishing tackle so we turned back to camp. Upon our return to the tidal pool we found the fish were still there and still very hungry. I can't recall who caught the first or who caught the largest, but I'm confident enough to go ahead and take full credit for being the most skilled angler that evening (sorry Walt). These were blue fish that we had stumbled upon and they were not picky eaters. Crank baits, spoons, top water, flies, just about everything we threw their way suited their fancy. Hours later, well after sunset, we decided it was time to head back.
With the island turned into a virtual tinderbox, we built the campfire well below the tide line. After a full day of paddling and hiking, dinner around 10:00 pm (followed by a tasty adult beverage) we finally retired to bed. I'm not exactly sure what caused me to wake up from such a deep slumber. Perhaps it was Tony's shrill screams I heard through the heavy north wind. Perhaps it was the fact I could no longer breath comfortably without violently shaking myself awake. Perhaps there had been something in my tasty adult beverage besides scotch. Regardless of the cause, I was awake, very tired, and extremely cold! A cold front made its way through during the night and I quickly learned that a $10 fleece roll, though comfortable in warmer weather, does nothing to protect bare skin from cold wind. I almost felt guilty for recommending it to Tony as suitable bedding for our trip, but I really didn't have time to worry about that at the moment as I proceeded to freeze my better half off in the brutal north wind. Fortunately, my rain fly was just outside and the wind had temporarily swept most of the mosquitoes off to the Land of Oz (key word being 'temporary'). After a quick rain-fly burrito wrap over the fleece, I fell back into my slumber with ample wind protection for the rest of the night. The next morning, Tony had a similar account of a north-wind experience, though he denied any shrill screaming on his part. Who knows? In retrospect, I suppose it could have been my own screams that woke me.
On Saturday, I woke to another picturesque day. The weather was amazing! I removed my burrito wrap and quickly put on my body armor before facing the insect hordes. Tony and Walt were still out cold, so I put on a pot of coffee and began digging through the food stash. The seas were much choppier today, so we decided to go on another hike after breakfast instead of paddling.
Trash and treasure littered the shoreline as we walked east along Horn's north shore. Fishing nets, ropes, pier decks, chairs, plastic storage containers, trash cans, office furniture, a pith hat, we even found a sealed 5 gallon water cooler bottle. We topped off our water bottles with some of the fresh water and continued on our way. At the east end of the island there was a large channel buoy blown on shore. We had seen a couple of people anchored east of our camp and maybe 2 boats that attempted to land, but there were several people in powerboats here, a little too crowded for us. After taking a few pictures of a gator that we found in a nearby lagoon, we rounded the east end and headed back west on the south shore. The bloodthirsty flies continued to pursue us despite our sporadic sprinting, screaming, and rolling in the surf. The water did slow the little bastards down a bit so we redirected our path to a sand bar about 30 feet out from the beach. We were able to walk this bar all the way back to The Gap, our crossover to the north shore. It was on this bar that we saw it. First, it was only a shadow in the surf, then it came closer. It was within seconds of seeing the dorsal fin, that the three of us moved back into the ankle-deep waters of the bar. Walter took a crack at catching it with his spinning tackle, but I had some skepticism that he would be able to land a 6-foot shark on 12 pound test line without the aid of a 12 gauge shot gun. Fortunately, the shark had no interest in the top water plug that Walt was using, so we moved on down the shoreline, casting our lines for lesser fish along the way.
Saturday evening brought another beautiful sunset and more hordes of insects as the north wind subsided. This weakening wind was potentially great news for our trip back the next day, but horrible news in terms of insect control. As the day ended and night crept in, the bloodthirsty flies ended their shift and the mosquitoes began their assault. Once again, Tony, Walt, and I threw on the body armor and moved down to the campfire at the water's edge, where the mosquitoes were a little scarcer.
The three of us had not hung out like this in fifteen years. As we sat around the campfire reflecting on how much fun we were having (in spite of the bloodthirsty hordes), we all sat back in our chairs and laughed. Sounds poetic doesn't it? The fact is, we were in tears, not from nostalgia or the great time we were having, but because Walt floated a big nasty south of the border that drifted downwind to Tony. Fifteen years and nothing had changed between us. Here we are, thirty-something year old 'adults', and entertaining ourselves with a bottle of scotch and flatulent humor. You could really feel the love in the air (once you got past the stench).
Sunday morning was time to go home, back to hurricane-torn Pascagoula, back to work, back to the things that make island overnighters so precious. The north wind had subsided considerably over the past 24 hours and the mosquitoes and flies took full advantage of it as we packed our gear and prepared to escape "Insect Island of the damned". The mosquitoes disappeared as the sun lifted above the trees, but the flies were back with healthy appetites for flesh. We loaded the boats and finally escaped the last fly after about an hour of paddling.
Prior to our departure, Tony and I noticed that his dropdown skeg was jammed. This explained why he was having so much trouble with his boat's tracking on Friday. Well' now it was fixed and ready to navigate the 3-foot seas. To our pleasant surprise, that challenge would not take place on our return trip. I suppose after punishing us with the hordes of bloodthirsty insects, fortune decided to shine a little favor our way. Quite the contrary to our 3-foot seas and 10 - 15 kt winds, the seas were glass and the light north wind had shifted to a light southerly offshore breeze to our backs. We were not facing the north wind and choppy seas that we had expected. The return trip was, in fact, as easy as 6 miles by paddle alone can possibly get. Before reaching the ICW, we entertained a pod of about 30 dolphins that took an interest in us. They stuck with us for about 20 minutes and moved on (perhaps Walt had another foul moment of indiscretion upwind of the pod). After crossing the channel, we came upon a large gelatinous blob covered with tiny bait-size fish seeking refuge from predators. I would estimate the diameter was at least 24' across. We took a few photos of the jellyfish and Walter and I decided to break out the fishing tackle. Walt was fishing his top water plug and I was using a spoon. As we approached Round Island, something hit the spoon and made short work of my line. I haven't the slightest idea what it was, but if I had to guess from an angler's perspective, I would say it was a 12-foot shark or barracuda. Anything less would ruin my fisherman's ego. We landed on the east end of Round Island this time, fished a little, took some pictures, fished a little, had some lunch, and set out to finish our island experience. Walter actually caught a nice pompano on the southeast part of the island. We tried for more with no luck, so we headed back in to the mainland.
The current was fairly swift as we approached the Pascagoula River ship channel. We had to push pretty hard to make it around the rocks at the point. As soon as we made it into the harbor, it was an easy float back into Lake Yazoo where we concluded our 3-day journey. We were all a little tired, a little salty, and very pleased to see Therese and Lanee at the launch to welcome us back. Fortunately, Walt's system was clear of flatulence, otherwise I don't expect we would have received much of a greeting or assistance with the gear from our wives.
As I look back on the experience, words simply cannot describe the enjoyment we all three took away from the trip (bloodthirsty black flies and mosquitoes being the exception). It was time to go home now, but we carried with us some of the experiences that Mr. Anderson framed so well in his art and his writing. Walter Anderson's son describes it well, "Within a very brief period on Horn Island, the course of my life changed in a very good way. These changes have stayed with me. They have comforted me and supported me in difficult times. I have often yearned to share them with others. But have come to realize that they were experiential changes that probably cannot be transmitted through words." HORN ISLAND- Beginning at the Vanishing Point, John Anderson
Click below to view the pics (Adobe Reader required). May take a few minutes to load.http://bellsouthpwp.net/d/a/danehart/Horn%20Island.pdf
Monday, July 04, 2005
Juniper Creek
Saturday, July 2, 2005
by Brint Adams & Gary Worob
The directions to the Juniper Creek put-in and shuttle to the take-out are found by clicking here. Our Gary Worob-led group of about twenty paddlers met at 9:15 AM, at the Shell station in Milton, at the turn on Rt. 191. We caravaned to the put-in, left our boats, shuttled the cars to the take-out, and returned to get on the water at around 11:00 AM. So far, this was a replay of last year's paddle.
Then the similarities ended. The water was definately higher this time around, which meant faster running water and an easier paddle, we thought. After going only about 50 meters, we found out how unfriendly Hurricane Ivan was to Juniper Creek, and to what extent it had been cleared, unlike what we were told.
Fortunately, I brought along my saw, as did Gary, and we commenced to cut our way through the first blockage in few minutes. Then there was another and another, some too big to cut. On several of the blockages, rather than portage around, I got out of our canoe and helped everyone out, pulled kayaks and canoes over logs and put the paddlers back in and sent them on their way. After catching up to the group, when they reached the next logjam, I repeated the system. We did have one stoppage next to a sandy beach, so everyone got out, pulled their boats around on the sand and back into the water.
After only making it about one mile, it was lunchtime and everyone had already stopped on a beach and were relaxing in the water or eating lunch in the shade along the edge of the beach to the woods, when we arrived. In addition to our own lunch, Gary and Deborah shared some delicious home-made gazpacho and fresh-picked blueberries from Frank Laraway's farm. Once replenished, we started again, only to hit several more blockages, until finally the creek widened enough to where we could get around the remainder of the treefalls to the take-out.
We swiftly passed many beautiful beaches, some with family or friend's camping groups, on this hot 4th of July weekend. Once group was in the process of getting busted by the state police for drinking beer, as we passed. There was one belligerent guy, whom I would guess talked his way into a little jailtime, for talking back to the officers.
When we passed the Red Rock bridge, Linda thought out loud about wanting to stop there, although we were only about half-way to our destination. There was quite a large group of swimmers and picnickers hanging around this spot, some jumping off the low bridge into the swift water. We did not stop, so Linda didn't have a chance to give the notion of stopping much further thought.
From the bridge, Linda and I hung together with Billy and Mike, who were each in their kayaks. We had no idea how far back any of the others were at this point. The last five miles were uneventful, as we continued to swiftly pass many large turns around beaches on the inside and high clay banks on the outside. It was all very beautiful and peaceful, except for passing the occasional campsite. Linda decided to sit down in the bottom of our canoe for awhile and rested her eyes.
We came around the final turn to see the Indian Ford bridge up ahead at around 3:30 PM. All of the logjam delays added about an extra hour to our overall trip time. Soon thereafter, several more in our group started to arrive, while we were loading up. Except for the time and effort to get everyone over, under or around the blockages, the weather was perfect and most had a good time with our "expedition."
Brint Adams
JUNIPER CREEK...A STUDY IN LOGGING TECHNIQUES
Never start out a sentence with never. Never do an unquestionable trip based on an unreliable source. Never take beginners on a trip that you have not scouted. Never assume anything. And then go have a great day!
Never go on a group adventure without Brint, Bruce and Billy, and lots of others whose first name don't start in B. And, for great moral support, bring cheerleaders named Susan and the like and for sure bring Frances, a great first time paddler who thought climbing over lots of trees was a great adventure, especially if you combine it with great people and a beautiful day and lots of swimming and good food.
There were 17 of us scurrying over logs and around dead falls and storm damaged trees blocking the first couple miles of the trip. Many fell overboard and Brint or Bruce or Billy or some other hero or heroine of the day was always there to form a great team. There was Aldo, a first time tenor wishing not to be a soprano, after rolling and struggling over downed trees on his very first trip, and acclaimed last trip, "too old for this young man's sport."
How old is old? On this trip, we were all young at heart and weary but happy bodies, glad to see the clearing and miles of beautiful sweeping turns and white sandy beaches with water turned dark tea color, from the over abundance of storms and ground saturated so much, that it could not contain itself.
As a trip leader, I give myself an 8+ for shuttle and a zero for scouting, but an absolute ten for leading people into an absolute adventure. Will I do this again? Not on your life, or until November, when we do the upper part of Econfina Creek, and another great adventure for the "big boys."
Gary Worob
Saturday, July 2, 2005
by Brint Adams & Gary Worob
The directions to the Juniper Creek put-in and shuttle to the take-out are found by clicking here. Our Gary Worob-led group of about twenty paddlers met at 9:15 AM, at the Shell station in Milton, at the turn on Rt. 191. We caravaned to the put-in, left our boats, shuttled the cars to the take-out, and returned to get on the water at around 11:00 AM. So far, this was a replay of last year's paddle.
Then the similarities ended. The water was definately higher this time around, which meant faster running water and an easier paddle, we thought. After going only about 50 meters, we found out how unfriendly Hurricane Ivan was to Juniper Creek, and to what extent it had been cleared, unlike what we were told.
Fortunately, I brought along my saw, as did Gary, and we commenced to cut our way through the first blockage in few minutes. Then there was another and another, some too big to cut. On several of the blockages, rather than portage around, I got out of our canoe and helped everyone out, pulled kayaks and canoes over logs and put the paddlers back in and sent them on their way. After catching up to the group, when they reached the next logjam, I repeated the system. We did have one stoppage next to a sandy beach, so everyone got out, pulled their boats around on the sand and back into the water.
After only making it about one mile, it was lunchtime and everyone had already stopped on a beach and were relaxing in the water or eating lunch in the shade along the edge of the beach to the woods, when we arrived. In addition to our own lunch, Gary and Deborah shared some delicious home-made gazpacho and fresh-picked blueberries from Frank Laraway's farm. Once replenished, we started again, only to hit several more blockages, until finally the creek widened enough to where we could get around the remainder of the treefalls to the take-out.
We swiftly passed many beautiful beaches, some with family or friend's camping groups, on this hot 4th of July weekend. Once group was in the process of getting busted by the state police for drinking beer, as we passed. There was one belligerent guy, whom I would guess talked his way into a little jailtime, for talking back to the officers.
When we passed the Red Rock bridge, Linda thought out loud about wanting to stop there, although we were only about half-way to our destination. There was quite a large group of swimmers and picnickers hanging around this spot, some jumping off the low bridge into the swift water. We did not stop, so Linda didn't have a chance to give the notion of stopping much further thought.
From the bridge, Linda and I hung together with Billy and Mike, who were each in their kayaks. We had no idea how far back any of the others were at this point. The last five miles were uneventful, as we continued to swiftly pass many large turns around beaches on the inside and high clay banks on the outside. It was all very beautiful and peaceful, except for passing the occasional campsite. Linda decided to sit down in the bottom of our canoe for awhile and rested her eyes.
We came around the final turn to see the Indian Ford bridge up ahead at around 3:30 PM. All of the logjam delays added about an extra hour to our overall trip time. Soon thereafter, several more in our group started to arrive, while we were loading up. Except for the time and effort to get everyone over, under or around the blockages, the weather was perfect and most had a good time with our "expedition."
Brint Adams
JUNIPER CREEK...A STUDY IN LOGGING TECHNIQUES
Never start out a sentence with never. Never do an unquestionable trip based on an unreliable source. Never take beginners on a trip that you have not scouted. Never assume anything. And then go have a great day!
Never go on a group adventure without Brint, Bruce and Billy, and lots of others whose first name don't start in B. And, for great moral support, bring cheerleaders named Susan and the like and for sure bring Frances, a great first time paddler who thought climbing over lots of trees was a great adventure, especially if you combine it with great people and a beautiful day and lots of swimming and good food.
There were 17 of us scurrying over logs and around dead falls and storm damaged trees blocking the first couple miles of the trip. Many fell overboard and Brint or Bruce or Billy or some other hero or heroine of the day was always there to form a great team. There was Aldo, a first time tenor wishing not to be a soprano, after rolling and struggling over downed trees on his very first trip, and acclaimed last trip, "too old for this young man's sport."
How old is old? On this trip, we were all young at heart and weary but happy bodies, glad to see the clearing and miles of beautiful sweeping turns and white sandy beaches with water turned dark tea color, from the over abundance of storms and ground saturated so much, that it could not contain itself.
As a trip leader, I give myself an 8+ for shuttle and a zero for scouting, but an absolute ten for leading people into an absolute adventure. Will I do this again? Not on your life, or until November, when we do the upper part of Econfina Creek, and another great adventure for the "big boys."
Gary Worob
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Horn Island
June 25-26, 2005
by Tom Meyer
Fred Krause, from Slidell, called me a week or so ago, from a spot on the Mississippi coast, just East of Ocean Springs. He was scouting it, because it was the closest place on the coast to Horn Island, a mere 6.5 miles due south. Fred had been paddling his new QVC-700 Kevlar/Carbon sea kayak, in Lake Ponchartrain for a couple of months, and was dying to try it out in real honest-to-God open water. I said, “How 'bout next weekend?", and posted it as a flash paddle. Pat Cabello, from Mobile, was the only taker, so it was the three of us.
Belle Fountain Point is a bulge in the coast, marked by a large water tower, constructed to look like a lighthouse. There's no light on top, it just looks like a lighthouse. The locals call it the St. Andrews Lighthouse, because of the golf course next to it, by the same name. There is a public access to the water, and a well lit parking lot next to the "lighthouse". There is only about 50 feet of sand beach to cross, but there is a three foot seawall, with a lot of rocks on the water's edge. However, there is a small beach without the seawall or the rocks, at the east end of the access. The water's edge is packed sand but there is a four inch layer of muck, about where the low tide line is. It wasn't a problem. This place is a bit off the beaten path, but there are good directions to it on the Bayou Haystackers website.
We camped in the NPS Campground at Davis Bayou, in Ocean Springs Friday night; $14 for the 3 of us with access to showers and a very nice campground. Interesting fact: if you go into the bathroom late at night, you will see lots of scuttling cockroach sized critters scattering into hiding. Relax, they are tiny crabs. Mama always warned me I could catch crabs in a public bathroom. McElroy's in Ocean Springs, provided excellent Po-Boys and Gumbo for dinner, with a great view of the back bay. Knowing heat and sea conditions were going to be a factor, we decided to take advantage of a more than half full moon, and got up at 3:30 AM, broke camp, and were paddling away from the beach at 5:00 AM sharp.
The tide was low a couple of hours before. There was a light northern breeze and a slight chop to begin with. A 3/4 moon, clear skies, and a good forecast made for high spirits, even at that time of morning. Navigation was pretty straightforward. A compass heading of just a little east of due south (190º) would take us to the "nose" of a prominent bulge in the north coast of Horn Island, a mile or so east of the west end. Not only was this the closest distance between two points, but there was a variety of habitat, dunes, forest, lagoons, and open beach, for exploration. However, we soon gave up stopping to put a light on the compass to check our course. It wasn't hard to notice that if we kept the moon just to the right of our bow, we stayed on course. Tony Chavers had been here sailing recently, and told me to expect not much more than a mild west to east current on a rising tide.
So, with a following sea and a tailwind, we made good time in the crossing. As we went south out of the lee of the mainland, the breeze increased a bit to maybe 8-10mph and the chop maxed out at maybe 2 1/2 feet, well within our paddlers and boat's capabilities. My GPS says it was a 6.58 mile crossing in 1 hour and 50 minutes. I maxed out at 6.5 mph, obviously recorded when I was surfing one of the following seas.
Speaking of boats, I have already told you about Fred's QVC-700 slick top-end ocean specialty boat. I was in my Necky Eskia, and was very pleased with how it handled. Pat, on the other hand, was in a gorgeous 18 foot mahogany, cedar, and oak strip-built ocean kayak, he had finished this spring. Pat claims he has never kayaked before he finished this boat, a couple of months ago. If that's true, either he is a real quick study, or that boat would make a dead body look good. I believe both of those to be true. It is truly a beautiful boat that is as nimble and responsive as you could ask. It would be worth your while, to go out of your way to get a look at it. Pat is a natural.
The combination of night paddling under a moon, seeing the day being born, and finding a pristine destination just waking up was PRIMO. We beached the boats in just enough chop, that I got a wet butt getting out. Pat had a casualty, forgetting to pull up his rudder. A wave picked his stern up, set it sideways, and left his broken rudder (installed only two days before) dangling from the cables. He was philosophical, "that sucks", "I learned something", and "that's what I like about wood, I can fix that, no problem". But we were in paradise and in no mood to get bummed.
We had essentially "dead reckoned" a bulls eye on our destination. There was a wide beach, rising up to 10-15 foot dunes, covered in pine forest. To the immediate east, the forest thinned quickly, and the dunes gave way to marsh and a large lagoon. On the way in, we spotted the inlet to the lagoon about a quarter mile to the east. To the west, the dunes leveled out, and the forest continued for a half mile or so, before the long open west end peninsula began. At first, we were concerned because of the line of red flags just above the high tide-line, and the "Keep Away!" signs. Apparently, we had landed smack in the middle of a protected osprey nesting area. The air was full of the incessant high pleadings of osprey nestlings, and the reassuring cries of the parents wheeling overhead. I could count at least 6 osprey nests from where we came ashore, the closest being only 50 yards away. We were quickly relieved to discover that this protected area extended only a few hundred yards.
Not so relieving, was the discovery of a large set of tracks, leading from the water up over a saddle in the dunes. These tracks had a straddle of about three feet, a stride of about two feet, but did not have a broad, smooth drag mark down the middle. That would indicate it was left by a sea turtle. What there was down the middle, however, was the deep groove of a heavy tail drag. There were the distinctive deep claw marks, accented by the sweeping arcs of a lateral toe drag. No doubt, a big gator had come out of the water, and deliberately gone up over the dunes. And there were at least four other smaller gator tracks, weaving along this obviously major gator thoroughfare. Nobody should doubt that gators can thrive in a saltwater environment, and are willing to cross significant dry land and climb over dunes to get where they want to go. That being said, it should not be cause for worry that these shy creatures are predators on the prowl in the dunes and beaches. They are aquatic predators only, and would only pose a threat on dry land, in a surprise close quarter encounter. Still, it should give one pause, when contemplating walking off into the brush to take a pee, especially at night.
We elected to move a quarter mile west, and found an idyllic campsite with pine tree shade, some flat open ground with a light grassy cover, and sufficient elevation to catch a breeze, without being a hard slog in the sand to get to. There were no bugs, yet. It was still not even 8:00 AM, as we set up camp in the relative comfort of 80's temps, and a stiff breeze out of the east northeast.
I took a long walk back into the scrub forest. There were no dunes here. I had the sense this area was the track of a “blow through”, from some previous hurricane. The pines here were shorter than those on the dunes. Much of the area was covered in choked impenetrable thickets, pockmarked with marshy, but dry low spots, ringed with wiry grasses and filled with thick layers of water-deposited debris. However, there were wide lanes of flat, open sand, covered with low grasses and plants that served as wandering paths through the forest. I had the definite impression that the plant cover in these sandy lanes had not been long established. In a short distance, there was no breeze and the yellow flies came, in force. I broke off a pine bough, and using it as a fly whisk, pressed on inland. I wanted to see if it may be possible to get through to the Gulf side. Eventually, I came to a broad wiregrass marsh. Remembering the gator tracks, I decided not to try crossing it. It looked as if I could go around, but I was weary of the incessant yellow flies, and turned back.
Suddenly, a fairly large bird flew up, as if it came right out of the ground. Flying low in exaggerated erratic zigzags, it abruptly landed on a low pine branch and simply disappeared. I knew this bird! At least, I knew its family. The dark scimitar wings with broad white bands, the erratic flight, the sudden disappearance; it was either a Night Hawk, or its better known cousin, the Whip-Poor-Will. Approaching slowly and indirectly, avoiding direct gaze, I was able to get within 20 feet of the branch, where the ghost disappeared. Like one of those “where’s Elmo” pictures, it was only after I quit looking, that I saw it. It’s color and pattern were an exact match to the pine bark. It hugged the branch, with its head cocked up at an angle, so that it appeared as no more than the broken stub of a limb. I was close enough to see the fine “whiskers” sticking out on each side of its stubby beak. It had a curiously strange and melancholy look. I apologized for intruding so rudely and turned away. The yellow flies never accepted my apologies, and only left when I left the woods.
Since we had such an early start, it was time for the fine art of a power nap, and we each retired to our respective shelters. Fred laid up in his well-ventilated Hennessy Hammock, Pat in his mongrel, "I don't know, but it was free", too short sauna/tent, and I, exposed to the breeze, in my nothing but mesh and a floor, Walrus "Bug Hut". For Fred and I, it was fine, real fine. For Pat, it was survivable only with his portable fan. Still, we conked for almost two hours before it showed us what the day was going to really be like….. hot, real hot. The black flies had arrived, but were little more than a nuisance, yet. The breeze that had been stiff and steady, had begun to fade towards light and variable. Time to go exploring!
Back in the boats, it was evident how sluggish they had been with a load. Empty, they almost danced in the chop. We went east toward the outlet to the lagoon a half mile away. All morning, we had seen powerboats arriving, and a number of wade fishermen casting onto the grass beds. I had heard from a friend, this was a current hot spot for specks and redfish. On the way to the inlet, we passed the osprey refuge again, and then a large pile of concrete rubble, we later heard referred to as "the chimneys". The beach, on either side of the inlet, was low and narrow with the open lagoon behind. The inlet was about twenty yards wide, with a stiff current flowing into the lagoon on the rising tide. The passage arced to the left, forming a low sandy peninsula, on which there was a small village of tents. A half dozen or so power boats were anchored nearby. Several sit-on-top kayaks were in sight. Everybody was fishing.
The lagoon was absolutely teeming with life. Herons, wade-fishermen, and sit-on-tops attested that this was fish central. Large schools of mullet startled and broke water, as we passed. Osprey were everywhere and their nests dotted the tops of the pines surrounding the lagoon. I stopped counting at a dozen nests. Almost every wader we passed asked, "Have you seen that gator? He's huge!" We never saw him. There were several small wiregrass islands and wide passages led both east and west. The water was mostly about 2-3 feet deep. Pat was dying to find a way to cross the island to the Gulf side, and we explored west to the south edge of the lagoon, going way into a long winding narrow passage, only to find a dead end with about 75 yards of marsh to cross before the high ground. It was no mean trick to get turned around and go out. On the east end of the lagoon, we again explored a long winding passage, which opened up into a smaller lagoon floored with oyster reef. Really good stuff!
Coming back out, we decided to take a break in the inlet. Fred was feeling a bit bad from the heat and a dip in the clear swift water seemed like a good idea. It was excellent. Just across from us, a group of black skimmers had taken up the small peninsula. At one point, we got a thrill when a big school of minnows fleeing some predator stampeded past us running into our legs, some up our shorts (you should try it sometime….really!). The now oppressive heat seemed forgotten after a long soak, sitting neck deep in the cool clear current. Fred felt much better and we decided to go back to camp for lunch, before exploring to the east for a place for a walk across to the Gulf Beach.
As we approached the beach in front of camp, a flock of crows flew up. A feeling of dread came over me. Was this an omen? I remembered the large bag of deluxe mixed nuts (<2% peanuts), I had left out on a log. Sure enough, the crows had had their way with my nuts. The gallon ziplock lay on the sand 15 feet from where I left it. The carnage was awful. I left it sealed tightly and neatly rolled. Now it lay gaped open, with its contents desecrated. I felt violated. I also learned something about crows. They don’t like almonds. There was a trail of almonds leading helter skelter to the bag. No cashews, no peanuts, no Brazil nuts, no pecans, no hazelnuts, just almonds. Go figure!
The breeze had become off and on by the time we got back to camp. The short walk up from the boats was a preview of what was in store. Things had gotten hot, really hot. The breeze helped, but wasn’t reliably constant. But with the sun high overhead, the Kelty Noah Tarp cast a broad shade. Fred looked a bit haggard. I fished out a quart-sized tub of watermelon from the soft side cooler. The watermelon was cut into bite sized chunks with the seeds removed. Bless my wife’s little ‘ol heart! It was sweet, it was juicy, but better yet, it was cold! We turned savage, gnashing the succulent chunks, first taking a piece at a time, then two, then a handful. I had seldom had that sensation with my pants on. Cold watermelon has my highest recommendation as a preferred method for avoiding dehydration under heat stress. For Fred, it slowed it down but didn’t stop it. And the heat goes on. The beach was an anvil and the sun was hammering us into submission.
We decided to forgo the westward exploration until later, when it got cooler; if it got cooler. God, we hoped it would get cooler. Even in the shade, the radiant heat from the open beach outplayed the faltering breeze in their game to control the thermostat. Pat and I felt sluggish. Fred actually was sluggish. It was time to resort to a proven strategy in the face of heat stress. It was time to lay up sorry.
Don't get me wrong. Layin' up sorry wasn't exactly an option we could pick from a long list. It was simply the only sustainable option we had, in this place, on this day, in this heat. Of course, we could elect to go explore the West end; but we simply couldn't have sustained that effort without paying a terrible price. Everybody has watched the Discovery Channel. What does a pride of lions do during midday equatorial African heat? They lay up sorry! Of course, they could go off on a hunt; but they'd just get all exhausted and panting without accomplishing much. So there we were, doing our best to do as little as possible, and stay as cool as we could. We definitely accomplished doing nothing. We definitely didn't get anywhere near like that now elusive concept of what is was like to be cool, except of course in the figurative sense. Figuratively, we were the essence of cool; stylishly attired in our coolmax and supplex, with polarized wrapped sunshades, high tech water shoes, and a been there-done that attitude. We had no trouble being cool. We just had a hard time getting cool.
We tried just sitting around. DEET-loving black flies made that miserable. We tried napping in our shelters. Black flies got in with us, so we had to try napping with the heat and the black flies. Don't try this at home! Eventually, Pat and I went down and sat in the water. Fred was too wasted by then to follow us. He was haggard and pale, having leg cramps, and hadn't peed despite large volumes of fluids. I had seen him like this twice before when heat exposure was involved. Not that he was new to it. He's a former (you can never be an ex) Green Beret medic, tested in the crucible of training that would wilt a lesser man. He was an endurance athlete capable of a 15-20 mile run on any given August day. He's had 20 years experience in a neonatal ICU. He is as experienced and capable in minimalist backcountry survival as they come. He and I have been close friends for 30 years and shared those characteristics. But now he was in his late 50's, but so was I. Now he was less than fit, but so was I. Now he was having the third episode of a disabling lack of compensation to heat stress, despite doing all the right things. I was there each time, uncomfortable to be sure, but not disabled. Still, each time before, he would recover at night and be fine the next day. I reassured Pat, "I've seen this before, he ain't a happy camper, but he can deal with it, he'll be alright. Still, there were those crows.
Pat and I decided to take walk west. One hundred yards from camp, we spot another small gator drag, then several. A marshy pot hole only 30 feet from the water's edge had a half-dozen drags, some of them big, all of them leading into the salt water. The forest thinned out to low scrub. After a quarter mile or so, we came upon an elderly couple. They had two nice lawn chairs, a nice table for two, an umbrella, a bottle of wine, an eight foot dinghy, and a 40 foot Hatteras anchored offshore. They were not the typical Hatteras crowd, just salt of the earth, good ol' country folk. Doin' mighty well thank ya, but just regular folks. They said they come out here all the time, but usually down at the east end. We ask if there's a way across to the Gulf beach nearby. "No, not here, but I heard there's a foot path to the beach back down at the chimneys". That is the concrete rubble east of camp. Pat is just not ready to accept that we have come out here and aren't going to see what it is like on the Gulf side. So we are soon back in camp, to check on Fred, and Pat is talking about checking out the foot path to the Gulf. Fred is a little better, but not good.
A sudden shout from Pat has me thinking, "Gator!" But, a couple of hundred feet away, a large school of fish has virtually exploded right next to the beach. There was no breeze and the water was becoming slick-calm. Closer inspection reveals a large school of relatively small mullet swimming scale-to-scale close, with their mouths out of water, smacking their lips. My Daddy would have said those mullet were "smokin'". Periodically, the mullet would scatter in a panic, with wild repeated jumps causing a roaring sound, as they broke the water along a long arc through the school, cut by what I suspected were large specks or redfish. This went on for quite some time. Then things got really hot. The porpoises showed up, right on the beach in two feet of water. They would charge through the school, causing huge splashes and coming out of the water in their rush. I am sure there were mass casualties among the mullet, because this was all happening in the front yard of the osprey nursery. Soon we were treated to headlong crash dives, and the tree tops were festooned with feasting fish hawks.
Pat got in his boat and went to find the path. It was killing him, I could tell. Fred and I hung out and talked. The sun was getting lower, the cramps were better but not gone, still a little light-headed if he got up too quick, but he was walking around more and in a little better spirits. He was still drinking plenty, but it just took time, because he felt bloated. He wasn't a happy camper, but he was dealing with it. I had seen him like this before, and he would be alright. Did you know a black fly can bite you through a DEET-soaked sock?
Pat came back. There wasn't any foot path he could find. But it was beginning to get nice out here again. The air had a golden quality to it. As the sun dipped lower, it got bigger and more orange. Instead of reflecting as a shower of bright points of light, there was now a solid brilliant orange glassy brush stroke waggling from horizon to beach. If you walked back in the brush, it was already cooler. But near the beach, even in the shade of our camp, the heat sump of white sand radiated brutally. I took a bearing on the clearly visible lighthouse 6.5 miles away. We'd need it in the morning, before daylight. Fred couldn't afford a daylight crossing. But Fred peed for the first time today!
Time for supper! Maybe a good camp fire grilled rib-eye would do the trick for Fred. I had two in the cooler. They started out frozen, helping keep the watermelon cool. They were still cool. And you've gotta admit, I get cool points for whipping out the rib-eyes. I was already ahead on points because of the watermelon, but the rib-eyes were definitely worth some bonus points. Pat had dehydrated red beans and rice (no sausageL). Good, but not rib-eyes. The parched dry driftwood blazed quickly down to very nice coals. Two four inch logs would provide support for the $0.89 apiece heavy duty meshed aluminum mini-grills I found at Wal-Mart. Hey! They were cheap and you could roll them up, so you could get them through a kayak hatch!
Soon, it was relatively cool again. Actually, it just got to where it just wasn't hot. The ambience was magic! That golden light, the huge red sun on the horizon, the glassy Monet-esque water, powder white beach, and the captivating sizzle and alluring aroma of rib-eyes on a driftwood fire. Really! I mean ON, not over, the fire. The cheap aluminum promptly melted out from under the steaks, and I barely rescued them. Luckily, Pat had a skillet. What started out as char-grilled steak, was finished up nicely as a char-skillet-braised steak. I didn't hear any complaints. And yes, I gave Pat a piece of steak as a chaser to his red beans and rice (no sausageL). Fred was even up and around giving us astronomy lessons. Like I said, he'll be alright. I have seen him like this before.
We turned in early around 9 PM. I was comfortable uncovered, but bug-free in my Walrus Bug Hut. Have I told you about how wonderful one of those is in these conditions? After some violent thrashing and harsh words for the black flies still trapped in his tent, Pat settled down with his fan whirring away. Fred went back in his Hennessy Hammock (google it, you will like it). I didn't hear any restless shuffles, like he was uncomfortable. He just needed to rest and recover a little.
I heard Fred get up once. He had peed again! Then all was quiet, except for the Night Hawks. My Sibley Bird Guide had informed me that the white wing bars made the strange bird I had encountered a Common Night Hawk, not its bar-less cousin the Whip-Poor-Will. As their appearance is similar, so are their calls. The Night Hawk sounds like a Whip-Poor-Will with a Yankee accent. They are saying the same thing, just faster and without the drawl. There must have been a half-dozen of them nearby. They had a great gab fest…. All night long.
About midnight, the breeze picked up again. Ahhhhh! But now I could hear the waves on the beach. I stuck my finger in my mouth, and held it up. The wind would be out of the northeast, off our starboard bow. We would be paddling into a quartering sea. Maybe it will lay down before daylight. If it doesn't, will Fred be up to it? If it does, will Fred be up to it? I have seen him this way before. He is usually fine with some recovery. I hope he will be alright.
At 3 AM, I got up to a stiff breeze out of the northeast. "How're ya doin', Fred?" "I'm better…I guess. At least I peed again last night." So, we went about breaking camp. We had pretty much pre-packed last night, and mainly had to get the shelters down and carry stuff to the boats. Fred looked bad. Then he said what changed everything. "Tom, I was really worried around midnight." I said, "Yeah? 'bout what in particular?" I was fishing for symptoms. "I wondered whether or not I was gonna make it." It was like a cymbal crash. I had never seen him like this. He wasn't dealing with it. He wasn't alright. This was a hard-core guy, with the experience and educational preparation to deeply understand his predicament, and he was telling me at 3 AM, that he thought he might die?
Let's see, 6.5 miles against a headwind, into at least three foot seas, for at least three or four hours, and three hours ago, he thought he might be dying? I said I was going to walk down to the beach and take a look. Pat followed me within a minute. "Tom, I want to talk about calling for help." I let him talk, but he did not have to convince me. I already knew we could not risk taking Fred under those conditions. I knew how Fred would respond. "If I just pace myself, I'll be alright." I also knew what he really was saying, was "Maybe, if I just pace myself, maybe, I'll be alright." Maybe was not good enough and he knew that. I knew Fred well enough to let him say it. Pat just cut him off. "Fred, it's over."
Being an old "Team Daddy" for a Special Forces A-Team, I have long believed in several layers of back-ups. A colleague at work had grown up fishing in this area, lived in Van Cleave, and told me I could call him to come get us, if we got in a bind. At 4 AM, he got the call. "Mike, it is Tom. Is that offer still open?" I knew the answer, because I knew he was a former Marine. There was no question, it was just what he would do. "Sure, it'll give me something to do. How quick do you need me?" I gave him our GPS coordinates and he said he would call when he was in the water. That call came around 7 AM, and he soon appeared on the horizon, with a 22 foot Hydro Sport, pounding away in 3-4 foot seas. He pulled it right up on the beach. Mike is a good man, one of a few, a Marine.
His boat had a cuddy cabin with a soft Bimini top, so we had to lay the boats upside down and crossways over the back deck. Actually, they were very secure that way. The only problem was that now his boat was 18 feet wide going into a quartering sea. That meant a lot of corkscrew rolls. We had to proceed slowly, or else the bow of the longest boat, the gorgeous woodstrip one, would be plunged deep, causing it to be swept back, either tearing the bow off, or sweeping Fred and Pat off the back, or both. So, slowly we went. Halfway across Fred said, "We probably did the right thing." Mike brought us to within 30 feet of where we put in. I doubt the Coast Guard would have been as accommodating. I had no doubt with him. He was a Marine.
By 9 AM, we had the boats loaded and headed for breakfast. Phonecia's is a little hard to find, but worth it. We came right on in, dressed just like we waded out of the water. It was Sunday morning and the "breakfast before church" crowd was there. I asked Fred, "Did we under dress?" We did not care and they did not seem to notice. Eggs benedict and Canadian bacon for Fred. Western omelets with trimmings like sausage, hashbrowns, and pancakes for Pat and I. Excellent food, excellent service, all for about $27 for the three of us. Fred was already better. I had seen him like this before. He was going to be alright. But he has got to quit doing this! Fred, figure out what’s broke! Fix it!
Pat summed in up nicely in an e-mail Sunday night.
"That was a trip with strong character. I liked it and learned a lot.
Definitely..do it again..2 days...3 if the weather is cool."
Pat was good company and a good asset. I will go with him anytime. And Man! Can he build a gorgeous boat!
P.S.
Fred called Sunday afternoon. He had lost eight pounds on the trip. Despite drinking far more than I did; despite never looking like he was sweating all that much; despite not peeing much at all; despite a huge breakfast; Fred still ended up nearly a gallon behind. He was working on only about 2/3rds of his normal circulating volume. Try bleeding out a gallon. See if you don’t wake up around midnight, wondering if you weren't going to die. But Fred is going to be fine, if the weather is cool.
I’ll leave you with Fred’s tag line on his e-mails:
Life shouldn’t be measured by how many breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
Happy Paddling
Tom Meyer
June 25-26, 2005
by Tom Meyer
Fred Krause, from Slidell, called me a week or so ago, from a spot on the Mississippi coast, just East of Ocean Springs. He was scouting it, because it was the closest place on the coast to Horn Island, a mere 6.5 miles due south. Fred had been paddling his new QVC-700 Kevlar/Carbon sea kayak, in Lake Ponchartrain for a couple of months, and was dying to try it out in real honest-to-God open water. I said, “How 'bout next weekend?", and posted it as a flash paddle. Pat Cabello, from Mobile, was the only taker, so it was the three of us.
Belle Fountain Point is a bulge in the coast, marked by a large water tower, constructed to look like a lighthouse. There's no light on top, it just looks like a lighthouse. The locals call it the St. Andrews Lighthouse, because of the golf course next to it, by the same name. There is a public access to the water, and a well lit parking lot next to the "lighthouse". There is only about 50 feet of sand beach to cross, but there is a three foot seawall, with a lot of rocks on the water's edge. However, there is a small beach without the seawall or the rocks, at the east end of the access. The water's edge is packed sand but there is a four inch layer of muck, about where the low tide line is. It wasn't a problem. This place is a bit off the beaten path, but there are good directions to it on the Bayou Haystackers website.
We camped in the NPS Campground at Davis Bayou, in Ocean Springs Friday night; $14 for the 3 of us with access to showers and a very nice campground. Interesting fact: if you go into the bathroom late at night, you will see lots of scuttling cockroach sized critters scattering into hiding. Relax, they are tiny crabs. Mama always warned me I could catch crabs in a public bathroom. McElroy's in Ocean Springs, provided excellent Po-Boys and Gumbo for dinner, with a great view of the back bay. Knowing heat and sea conditions were going to be a factor, we decided to take advantage of a more than half full moon, and got up at 3:30 AM, broke camp, and were paddling away from the beach at 5:00 AM sharp.
The tide was low a couple of hours before. There was a light northern breeze and a slight chop to begin with. A 3/4 moon, clear skies, and a good forecast made for high spirits, even at that time of morning. Navigation was pretty straightforward. A compass heading of just a little east of due south (190º) would take us to the "nose" of a prominent bulge in the north coast of Horn Island, a mile or so east of the west end. Not only was this the closest distance between two points, but there was a variety of habitat, dunes, forest, lagoons, and open beach, for exploration. However, we soon gave up stopping to put a light on the compass to check our course. It wasn't hard to notice that if we kept the moon just to the right of our bow, we stayed on course. Tony Chavers had been here sailing recently, and told me to expect not much more than a mild west to east current on a rising tide.
So, with a following sea and a tailwind, we made good time in the crossing. As we went south out of the lee of the mainland, the breeze increased a bit to maybe 8-10mph and the chop maxed out at maybe 2 1/2 feet, well within our paddlers and boat's capabilities. My GPS says it was a 6.58 mile crossing in 1 hour and 50 minutes. I maxed out at 6.5 mph, obviously recorded when I was surfing one of the following seas.
Speaking of boats, I have already told you about Fred's QVC-700 slick top-end ocean specialty boat. I was in my Necky Eskia, and was very pleased with how it handled. Pat, on the other hand, was in a gorgeous 18 foot mahogany, cedar, and oak strip-built ocean kayak, he had finished this spring. Pat claims he has never kayaked before he finished this boat, a couple of months ago. If that's true, either he is a real quick study, or that boat would make a dead body look good. I believe both of those to be true. It is truly a beautiful boat that is as nimble and responsive as you could ask. It would be worth your while, to go out of your way to get a look at it. Pat is a natural.
The combination of night paddling under a moon, seeing the day being born, and finding a pristine destination just waking up was PRIMO. We beached the boats in just enough chop, that I got a wet butt getting out. Pat had a casualty, forgetting to pull up his rudder. A wave picked his stern up, set it sideways, and left his broken rudder (installed only two days before) dangling from the cables. He was philosophical, "that sucks", "I learned something", and "that's what I like about wood, I can fix that, no problem". But we were in paradise and in no mood to get bummed.
We had essentially "dead reckoned" a bulls eye on our destination. There was a wide beach, rising up to 10-15 foot dunes, covered in pine forest. To the immediate east, the forest thinned quickly, and the dunes gave way to marsh and a large lagoon. On the way in, we spotted the inlet to the lagoon about a quarter mile to the east. To the west, the dunes leveled out, and the forest continued for a half mile or so, before the long open west end peninsula began. At first, we were concerned because of the line of red flags just above the high tide-line, and the "Keep Away!" signs. Apparently, we had landed smack in the middle of a protected osprey nesting area. The air was full of the incessant high pleadings of osprey nestlings, and the reassuring cries of the parents wheeling overhead. I could count at least 6 osprey nests from where we came ashore, the closest being only 50 yards away. We were quickly relieved to discover that this protected area extended only a few hundred yards.
Not so relieving, was the discovery of a large set of tracks, leading from the water up over a saddle in the dunes. These tracks had a straddle of about three feet, a stride of about two feet, but did not have a broad, smooth drag mark down the middle. That would indicate it was left by a sea turtle. What there was down the middle, however, was the deep groove of a heavy tail drag. There were the distinctive deep claw marks, accented by the sweeping arcs of a lateral toe drag. No doubt, a big gator had come out of the water, and deliberately gone up over the dunes. And there were at least four other smaller gator tracks, weaving along this obviously major gator thoroughfare. Nobody should doubt that gators can thrive in a saltwater environment, and are willing to cross significant dry land and climb over dunes to get where they want to go. That being said, it should not be cause for worry that these shy creatures are predators on the prowl in the dunes and beaches. They are aquatic predators only, and would only pose a threat on dry land, in a surprise close quarter encounter. Still, it should give one pause, when contemplating walking off into the brush to take a pee, especially at night.
We elected to move a quarter mile west, and found an idyllic campsite with pine tree shade, some flat open ground with a light grassy cover, and sufficient elevation to catch a breeze, without being a hard slog in the sand to get to. There were no bugs, yet. It was still not even 8:00 AM, as we set up camp in the relative comfort of 80's temps, and a stiff breeze out of the east northeast.
I took a long walk back into the scrub forest. There were no dunes here. I had the sense this area was the track of a “blow through”, from some previous hurricane. The pines here were shorter than those on the dunes. Much of the area was covered in choked impenetrable thickets, pockmarked with marshy, but dry low spots, ringed with wiry grasses and filled with thick layers of water-deposited debris. However, there were wide lanes of flat, open sand, covered with low grasses and plants that served as wandering paths through the forest. I had the definite impression that the plant cover in these sandy lanes had not been long established. In a short distance, there was no breeze and the yellow flies came, in force. I broke off a pine bough, and using it as a fly whisk, pressed on inland. I wanted to see if it may be possible to get through to the Gulf side. Eventually, I came to a broad wiregrass marsh. Remembering the gator tracks, I decided not to try crossing it. It looked as if I could go around, but I was weary of the incessant yellow flies, and turned back.
Suddenly, a fairly large bird flew up, as if it came right out of the ground. Flying low in exaggerated erratic zigzags, it abruptly landed on a low pine branch and simply disappeared. I knew this bird! At least, I knew its family. The dark scimitar wings with broad white bands, the erratic flight, the sudden disappearance; it was either a Night Hawk, or its better known cousin, the Whip-Poor-Will. Approaching slowly and indirectly, avoiding direct gaze, I was able to get within 20 feet of the branch, where the ghost disappeared. Like one of those “where’s Elmo” pictures, it was only after I quit looking, that I saw it. It’s color and pattern were an exact match to the pine bark. It hugged the branch, with its head cocked up at an angle, so that it appeared as no more than the broken stub of a limb. I was close enough to see the fine “whiskers” sticking out on each side of its stubby beak. It had a curiously strange and melancholy look. I apologized for intruding so rudely and turned away. The yellow flies never accepted my apologies, and only left when I left the woods.
Since we had such an early start, it was time for the fine art of a power nap, and we each retired to our respective shelters. Fred laid up in his well-ventilated Hennessy Hammock, Pat in his mongrel, "I don't know, but it was free", too short sauna/tent, and I, exposed to the breeze, in my nothing but mesh and a floor, Walrus "Bug Hut". For Fred and I, it was fine, real fine. For Pat, it was survivable only with his portable fan. Still, we conked for almost two hours before it showed us what the day was going to really be like….. hot, real hot. The black flies had arrived, but were little more than a nuisance, yet. The breeze that had been stiff and steady, had begun to fade towards light and variable. Time to go exploring!
Back in the boats, it was evident how sluggish they had been with a load. Empty, they almost danced in the chop. We went east toward the outlet to the lagoon a half mile away. All morning, we had seen powerboats arriving, and a number of wade fishermen casting onto the grass beds. I had heard from a friend, this was a current hot spot for specks and redfish. On the way to the inlet, we passed the osprey refuge again, and then a large pile of concrete rubble, we later heard referred to as "the chimneys". The beach, on either side of the inlet, was low and narrow with the open lagoon behind. The inlet was about twenty yards wide, with a stiff current flowing into the lagoon on the rising tide. The passage arced to the left, forming a low sandy peninsula, on which there was a small village of tents. A half dozen or so power boats were anchored nearby. Several sit-on-top kayaks were in sight. Everybody was fishing.
The lagoon was absolutely teeming with life. Herons, wade-fishermen, and sit-on-tops attested that this was fish central. Large schools of mullet startled and broke water, as we passed. Osprey were everywhere and their nests dotted the tops of the pines surrounding the lagoon. I stopped counting at a dozen nests. Almost every wader we passed asked, "Have you seen that gator? He's huge!" We never saw him. There were several small wiregrass islands and wide passages led both east and west. The water was mostly about 2-3 feet deep. Pat was dying to find a way to cross the island to the Gulf side, and we explored west to the south edge of the lagoon, going way into a long winding narrow passage, only to find a dead end with about 75 yards of marsh to cross before the high ground. It was no mean trick to get turned around and go out. On the east end of the lagoon, we again explored a long winding passage, which opened up into a smaller lagoon floored with oyster reef. Really good stuff!
Coming back out, we decided to take a break in the inlet. Fred was feeling a bit bad from the heat and a dip in the clear swift water seemed like a good idea. It was excellent. Just across from us, a group of black skimmers had taken up the small peninsula. At one point, we got a thrill when a big school of minnows fleeing some predator stampeded past us running into our legs, some up our shorts (you should try it sometime….really!). The now oppressive heat seemed forgotten after a long soak, sitting neck deep in the cool clear current. Fred felt much better and we decided to go back to camp for lunch, before exploring to the east for a place for a walk across to the Gulf Beach.
As we approached the beach in front of camp, a flock of crows flew up. A feeling of dread came over me. Was this an omen? I remembered the large bag of deluxe mixed nuts (<2% peanuts), I had left out on a log. Sure enough, the crows had had their way with my nuts. The gallon ziplock lay on the sand 15 feet from where I left it. The carnage was awful. I left it sealed tightly and neatly rolled. Now it lay gaped open, with its contents desecrated. I felt violated. I also learned something about crows. They don’t like almonds. There was a trail of almonds leading helter skelter to the bag. No cashews, no peanuts, no Brazil nuts, no pecans, no hazelnuts, just almonds. Go figure!
The breeze had become off and on by the time we got back to camp. The short walk up from the boats was a preview of what was in store. Things had gotten hot, really hot. The breeze helped, but wasn’t reliably constant. But with the sun high overhead, the Kelty Noah Tarp cast a broad shade. Fred looked a bit haggard. I fished out a quart-sized tub of watermelon from the soft side cooler. The watermelon was cut into bite sized chunks with the seeds removed. Bless my wife’s little ‘ol heart! It was sweet, it was juicy, but better yet, it was cold! We turned savage, gnashing the succulent chunks, first taking a piece at a time, then two, then a handful. I had seldom had that sensation with my pants on. Cold watermelon has my highest recommendation as a preferred method for avoiding dehydration under heat stress. For Fred, it slowed it down but didn’t stop it. And the heat goes on. The beach was an anvil and the sun was hammering us into submission.
We decided to forgo the westward exploration until later, when it got cooler; if it got cooler. God, we hoped it would get cooler. Even in the shade, the radiant heat from the open beach outplayed the faltering breeze in their game to control the thermostat. Pat and I felt sluggish. Fred actually was sluggish. It was time to resort to a proven strategy in the face of heat stress. It was time to lay up sorry.
Don't get me wrong. Layin' up sorry wasn't exactly an option we could pick from a long list. It was simply the only sustainable option we had, in this place, on this day, in this heat. Of course, we could elect to go explore the West end; but we simply couldn't have sustained that effort without paying a terrible price. Everybody has watched the Discovery Channel. What does a pride of lions do during midday equatorial African heat? They lay up sorry! Of course, they could go off on a hunt; but they'd just get all exhausted and panting without accomplishing much. So there we were, doing our best to do as little as possible, and stay as cool as we could. We definitely accomplished doing nothing. We definitely didn't get anywhere near like that now elusive concept of what is was like to be cool, except of course in the figurative sense. Figuratively, we were the essence of cool; stylishly attired in our coolmax and supplex, with polarized wrapped sunshades, high tech water shoes, and a been there-done that attitude. We had no trouble being cool. We just had a hard time getting cool.
We tried just sitting around. DEET-loving black flies made that miserable. We tried napping in our shelters. Black flies got in with us, so we had to try napping with the heat and the black flies. Don't try this at home! Eventually, Pat and I went down and sat in the water. Fred was too wasted by then to follow us. He was haggard and pale, having leg cramps, and hadn't peed despite large volumes of fluids. I had seen him like this twice before when heat exposure was involved. Not that he was new to it. He's a former (you can never be an ex) Green Beret medic, tested in the crucible of training that would wilt a lesser man. He was an endurance athlete capable of a 15-20 mile run on any given August day. He's had 20 years experience in a neonatal ICU. He is as experienced and capable in minimalist backcountry survival as they come. He and I have been close friends for 30 years and shared those characteristics. But now he was in his late 50's, but so was I. Now he was less than fit, but so was I. Now he was having the third episode of a disabling lack of compensation to heat stress, despite doing all the right things. I was there each time, uncomfortable to be sure, but not disabled. Still, each time before, he would recover at night and be fine the next day. I reassured Pat, "I've seen this before, he ain't a happy camper, but he can deal with it, he'll be alright. Still, there were those crows.
Pat and I decided to take walk west. One hundred yards from camp, we spot another small gator drag, then several. A marshy pot hole only 30 feet from the water's edge had a half-dozen drags, some of them big, all of them leading into the salt water. The forest thinned out to low scrub. After a quarter mile or so, we came upon an elderly couple. They had two nice lawn chairs, a nice table for two, an umbrella, a bottle of wine, an eight foot dinghy, and a 40 foot Hatteras anchored offshore. They were not the typical Hatteras crowd, just salt of the earth, good ol' country folk. Doin' mighty well thank ya, but just regular folks. They said they come out here all the time, but usually down at the east end. We ask if there's a way across to the Gulf beach nearby. "No, not here, but I heard there's a foot path to the beach back down at the chimneys". That is the concrete rubble east of camp. Pat is just not ready to accept that we have come out here and aren't going to see what it is like on the Gulf side. So we are soon back in camp, to check on Fred, and Pat is talking about checking out the foot path to the Gulf. Fred is a little better, but not good.
A sudden shout from Pat has me thinking, "Gator!" But, a couple of hundred feet away, a large school of fish has virtually exploded right next to the beach. There was no breeze and the water was becoming slick-calm. Closer inspection reveals a large school of relatively small mullet swimming scale-to-scale close, with their mouths out of water, smacking their lips. My Daddy would have said those mullet were "smokin'". Periodically, the mullet would scatter in a panic, with wild repeated jumps causing a roaring sound, as they broke the water along a long arc through the school, cut by what I suspected were large specks or redfish. This went on for quite some time. Then things got really hot. The porpoises showed up, right on the beach in two feet of water. They would charge through the school, causing huge splashes and coming out of the water in their rush. I am sure there were mass casualties among the mullet, because this was all happening in the front yard of the osprey nursery. Soon we were treated to headlong crash dives, and the tree tops were festooned with feasting fish hawks.
Pat got in his boat and went to find the path. It was killing him, I could tell. Fred and I hung out and talked. The sun was getting lower, the cramps were better but not gone, still a little light-headed if he got up too quick, but he was walking around more and in a little better spirits. He was still drinking plenty, but it just took time, because he felt bloated. He wasn't a happy camper, but he was dealing with it. I had seen him like this before, and he would be alright. Did you know a black fly can bite you through a DEET-soaked sock?
Pat came back. There wasn't any foot path he could find. But it was beginning to get nice out here again. The air had a golden quality to it. As the sun dipped lower, it got bigger and more orange. Instead of reflecting as a shower of bright points of light, there was now a solid brilliant orange glassy brush stroke waggling from horizon to beach. If you walked back in the brush, it was already cooler. But near the beach, even in the shade of our camp, the heat sump of white sand radiated brutally. I took a bearing on the clearly visible lighthouse 6.5 miles away. We'd need it in the morning, before daylight. Fred couldn't afford a daylight crossing. But Fred peed for the first time today!
Time for supper! Maybe a good camp fire grilled rib-eye would do the trick for Fred. I had two in the cooler. They started out frozen, helping keep the watermelon cool. They were still cool. And you've gotta admit, I get cool points for whipping out the rib-eyes. I was already ahead on points because of the watermelon, but the rib-eyes were definitely worth some bonus points. Pat had dehydrated red beans and rice (no sausageL). Good, but not rib-eyes. The parched dry driftwood blazed quickly down to very nice coals. Two four inch logs would provide support for the $0.89 apiece heavy duty meshed aluminum mini-grills I found at Wal-Mart. Hey! They were cheap and you could roll them up, so you could get them through a kayak hatch!
Soon, it was relatively cool again. Actually, it just got to where it just wasn't hot. The ambience was magic! That golden light, the huge red sun on the horizon, the glassy Monet-esque water, powder white beach, and the captivating sizzle and alluring aroma of rib-eyes on a driftwood fire. Really! I mean ON, not over, the fire. The cheap aluminum promptly melted out from under the steaks, and I barely rescued them. Luckily, Pat had a skillet. What started out as char-grilled steak, was finished up nicely as a char-skillet-braised steak. I didn't hear any complaints. And yes, I gave Pat a piece of steak as a chaser to his red beans and rice (no sausageL). Fred was even up and around giving us astronomy lessons. Like I said, he'll be alright. I have seen him like this before.
We turned in early around 9 PM. I was comfortable uncovered, but bug-free in my Walrus Bug Hut. Have I told you about how wonderful one of those is in these conditions? After some violent thrashing and harsh words for the black flies still trapped in his tent, Pat settled down with his fan whirring away. Fred went back in his Hennessy Hammock (google it, you will like it). I didn't hear any restless shuffles, like he was uncomfortable. He just needed to rest and recover a little.
I heard Fred get up once. He had peed again! Then all was quiet, except for the Night Hawks. My Sibley Bird Guide had informed me that the white wing bars made the strange bird I had encountered a Common Night Hawk, not its bar-less cousin the Whip-Poor-Will. As their appearance is similar, so are their calls. The Night Hawk sounds like a Whip-Poor-Will with a Yankee accent. They are saying the same thing, just faster and without the drawl. There must have been a half-dozen of them nearby. They had a great gab fest…. All night long.
About midnight, the breeze picked up again. Ahhhhh! But now I could hear the waves on the beach. I stuck my finger in my mouth, and held it up. The wind would be out of the northeast, off our starboard bow. We would be paddling into a quartering sea. Maybe it will lay down before daylight. If it doesn't, will Fred be up to it? If it does, will Fred be up to it? I have seen him this way before. He is usually fine with some recovery. I hope he will be alright.
At 3 AM, I got up to a stiff breeze out of the northeast. "How're ya doin', Fred?" "I'm better…I guess. At least I peed again last night." So, we went about breaking camp. We had pretty much pre-packed last night, and mainly had to get the shelters down and carry stuff to the boats. Fred looked bad. Then he said what changed everything. "Tom, I was really worried around midnight." I said, "Yeah? 'bout what in particular?" I was fishing for symptoms. "I wondered whether or not I was gonna make it." It was like a cymbal crash. I had never seen him like this. He wasn't dealing with it. He wasn't alright. This was a hard-core guy, with the experience and educational preparation to deeply understand his predicament, and he was telling me at 3 AM, that he thought he might die?
Let's see, 6.5 miles against a headwind, into at least three foot seas, for at least three or four hours, and three hours ago, he thought he might be dying? I said I was going to walk down to the beach and take a look. Pat followed me within a minute. "Tom, I want to talk about calling for help." I let him talk, but he did not have to convince me. I already knew we could not risk taking Fred under those conditions. I knew how Fred would respond. "If I just pace myself, I'll be alright." I also knew what he really was saying, was "Maybe, if I just pace myself, maybe, I'll be alright." Maybe was not good enough and he knew that. I knew Fred well enough to let him say it. Pat just cut him off. "Fred, it's over."
Being an old "Team Daddy" for a Special Forces A-Team, I have long believed in several layers of back-ups. A colleague at work had grown up fishing in this area, lived in Van Cleave, and told me I could call him to come get us, if we got in a bind. At 4 AM, he got the call. "Mike, it is Tom. Is that offer still open?" I knew the answer, because I knew he was a former Marine. There was no question, it was just what he would do. "Sure, it'll give me something to do. How quick do you need me?" I gave him our GPS coordinates and he said he would call when he was in the water. That call came around 7 AM, and he soon appeared on the horizon, with a 22 foot Hydro Sport, pounding away in 3-4 foot seas. He pulled it right up on the beach. Mike is a good man, one of a few, a Marine.
His boat had a cuddy cabin with a soft Bimini top, so we had to lay the boats upside down and crossways over the back deck. Actually, they were very secure that way. The only problem was that now his boat was 18 feet wide going into a quartering sea. That meant a lot of corkscrew rolls. We had to proceed slowly, or else the bow of the longest boat, the gorgeous woodstrip one, would be plunged deep, causing it to be swept back, either tearing the bow off, or sweeping Fred and Pat off the back, or both. So, slowly we went. Halfway across Fred said, "We probably did the right thing." Mike brought us to within 30 feet of where we put in. I doubt the Coast Guard would have been as accommodating. I had no doubt with him. He was a Marine.
By 9 AM, we had the boats loaded and headed for breakfast. Phonecia's is a little hard to find, but worth it. We came right on in, dressed just like we waded out of the water. It was Sunday morning and the "breakfast before church" crowd was there. I asked Fred, "Did we under dress?" We did not care and they did not seem to notice. Eggs benedict and Canadian bacon for Fred. Western omelets with trimmings like sausage, hashbrowns, and pancakes for Pat and I. Excellent food, excellent service, all for about $27 for the three of us. Fred was already better. I had seen him like this before. He was going to be alright. But he has got to quit doing this! Fred, figure out what’s broke! Fix it!
Pat summed in up nicely in an e-mail Sunday night.
"That was a trip with strong character. I liked it and learned a lot.
Definitely..do it again..2 days...3 if the weather is cool."
Pat was good company and a good asset. I will go with him anytime. And Man! Can he build a gorgeous boat!
P.S.
Fred called Sunday afternoon. He had lost eight pounds on the trip. Despite drinking far more than I did; despite never looking like he was sweating all that much; despite not peeing much at all; despite a huge breakfast; Fred still ended up nearly a gallon behind. He was working on only about 2/3rds of his normal circulating volume. Try bleeding out a gallon. See if you don’t wake up around midnight, wondering if you weren't going to die. But Fred is going to be fine, if the weather is cool.
I’ll leave you with Fred’s tag line on his e-mails:
Life shouldn’t be measured by how many breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
Happy Paddling
Tom Meyer
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Middle Bay Lighthouse - ACelebration in Memory of Larry McDuff
Point Clear, AL
June 15, 2005
by Gary and Brint
BIG BOY PADDLE: A DEDICATION TO LARRY MCDUFF
“SPIRITUAL HEALTH
A good gauge of spiritual health is to write down
The three things you most want.
If they in any way differ,
You are in trouble.”
There were 5 of us plus the great spirit of Larry that set out on this dedicated ceremony. I quickly fell behind in my canoe in the westerly chop and had no care. I was here to dedicate a special day to a special person. I had conversations and laughter with a man I was learning to love and respect among all I had ever known in my 61+ years. Then some of the crew waited and we had more Larry conversation, something that will be ongoing.
For me the paddle was not easy, but it did not matter. When we got to the lighthouse we had a ceremony performed by Carl in honor of Larry and filmed by Brint. A quick swim by all and then some good conversation and back to the 6 miles and more Larry conversation with temperatures now soaring above 90.
The three things all add up to: wanting to be as honorable and respected as Larry.
Due to the extraordinary circumstances of Larry McDuff's sudden death on Monday, June 13, 2005, Carl quickly put together a Flash Paddle for this morning, dedicated to Larry's memory. This was a celebration of his life, on a paddle course we know he loved, and planned to do again himself later this month. So, we felt honored to paddle the 11.4 miles this morning, giving each of us plenty of time to reflect on how Larry brought joy into our lives and will continue to influence our daily interaction with all we meet.
Carl, Gary, George, Roland and I met at the marina next to the Marriott Hotel on Point Clear, AL, this morning at 6:00 AM, and set our sights across Mobile Bay towards the Middle Bay Lighthouse. It was already 80 degrees with a slight westerly breeze creating about a one foot chop across a rising tide. Almost immediately we split apart, but all aimed southwesterly, with Roland and I making it to the Lighthouse first, covering the 5.7 miles in 1:19.
Once all arrived, we assembled on the lower wooden deck and toasted Larry's memory, with Carl taking a ceremonial high plunge. As the sun climbed higher and the temperature rose to 90 degrees, we decided to return. The breeze died down some, leaving a smaller chop we were able to use to our advantage. Roland led the way, and he and I made the return trip in 1:11. Since we both returned to the real world and our jobs for the second half of the day, we packed up and left before the remaining three were visible on the horizon. Each of us came away from the experience differently in our own way, but definately better for having taken the time to reflect on our experiences with Larry McDuff. He touched our lives and will forever be in our thoughts.
Point Clear, AL
June 15, 2005
by Gary and Brint
BIG BOY PADDLE: A DEDICATION TO LARRY MCDUFF
“SPIRITUAL HEALTH
A good gauge of spiritual health is to write down
The three things you most want.
If they in any way differ,
You are in trouble.”
There were 5 of us plus the great spirit of Larry that set out on this dedicated ceremony. I quickly fell behind in my canoe in the westerly chop and had no care. I was here to dedicate a special day to a special person. I had conversations and laughter with a man I was learning to love and respect among all I had ever known in my 61+ years. Then some of the crew waited and we had more Larry conversation, something that will be ongoing.
For me the paddle was not easy, but it did not matter. When we got to the lighthouse we had a ceremony performed by Carl in honor of Larry and filmed by Brint. A quick swim by all and then some good conversation and back to the 6 miles and more Larry conversation with temperatures now soaring above 90.
The three things all add up to: wanting to be as honorable and respected as Larry.
Due to the extraordinary circumstances of Larry McDuff's sudden death on Monday, June 13, 2005, Carl quickly put together a Flash Paddle for this morning, dedicated to Larry's memory. This was a celebration of his life, on a paddle course we know he loved, and planned to do again himself later this month. So, we felt honored to paddle the 11.4 miles this morning, giving each of us plenty of time to reflect on how Larry brought joy into our lives and will continue to influence our daily interaction with all we meet.
Carl, Gary, George, Roland and I met at the marina next to the Marriott Hotel on Point Clear, AL, this morning at 6:00 AM, and set our sights across Mobile Bay towards the Middle Bay Lighthouse. It was already 80 degrees with a slight westerly breeze creating about a one foot chop across a rising tide. Almost immediately we split apart, but all aimed southwesterly, with Roland and I making it to the Lighthouse first, covering the 5.7 miles in 1:19.
Once all arrived, we assembled on the lower wooden deck and toasted Larry's memory, with Carl taking a ceremonial high plunge. As the sun climbed higher and the temperature rose to 90 degrees, we decided to return. The breeze died down some, leaving a smaller chop we were able to use to our advantage. Roland led the way, and he and I made the return trip in 1:11. Since we both returned to the real world and our jobs for the second half of the day, we packed up and left before the remaining three were visible on the horizon. Each of us came away from the experience differently in our own way, but definately better for having taken the time to reflect on our experiences with Larry McDuff. He touched our lives and will forever be in our thoughts.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
GRASSY POINT/BOILING CREEK
Milton, FL
May 7-8, 2005 by Gary Worob
Day ONE - GRASSY POINT
On Friday, there were 4 of us who camped at Grassy Point. The views and breezes were spectacular. I faced my van to the water and had to keep getting up to look in the night, it was so spectacular. The stars were bright and the winds and cool weather kept all the bugs away. The water was perfect in the morning for a quick dip, then breakfast before our group expanded to 13 for an exploration of Catfish Bayou and looking for a way to get closer to the many osprey nests. We wove around in several tall grass channels and had quite a fun time playing hide and seek, and then realizing we could be there for days, trying to explore when we really needed an overhead shot or a helicopter to guide us. It was great fun.
We came back to the beach for a lunch and some had to leave for Mother's Day weekend, but those who wanted were treated to a tour of a totally self-sufficient house. It was an extremely informative tour, with lots of questions and lots of great insights into living independently, without giving up "things."
Carl, Hank and I paddled up the estuary as far as we could and did get to see an osprey building a nest. He or she was not happy we were there, so we quietly took photos and moved on.
The afternoon was marred by some other "extremely drunk campers", who ruined an otherwise perfect weekend for us and the neighboring house. I won't go into details, but I notified the Northwest Florida Water Management District, with the aide of several other concerned people, to review the procedures at Grassy Point, and to keep me informed of the progress to make this a more user-friendly and safe area for camping, paddling and pure enjoyment.
DAY TWO - BOILING CREEK
We had 10 paddlers on Mother's Day for one of the best paddling trips of my life. I have paddled Boiling Creek for almost 6 years, but this one was as powerful as the very first one, maybe more. We went way upstream, a decision I made, because the downstream section was still high and not cleared enough for my liking, from the heavy rains and tannins that flowed into the stream from the forests.
The trip was very mellow and the weather was perfect. No one was in a hurry and I brought different kinds of food for Mother's Day, including my favorite "ginger snaps." Some of us got to swim in the crystal-clear cool water and floated downstream among the many blooming pitcher plants and lots of other plants in bloom. The ranger did stop people and check passes. So, if you do not have one, make sure you get one. The sturgeon will be running on the Yellow River in the fall, and Boiling Creek flows into the Yellow River, so I, or someone, will surely want to lead a trip and experience the great "caviar" carrier of Yellow River. The sturgeon get as big as 300 pounds, and it is quite a sight to see them coming upstream en masse, and leaping out of the water.
The Boiling Creek trip was from 10 until about 3, and it felt like seconds. That's what happens when you paddle in Paradise.
Milton, FL
May 7-8, 2005 by Gary Worob
Day ONE - GRASSY POINT
On Friday, there were 4 of us who camped at Grassy Point. The views and breezes were spectacular. I faced my van to the water and had to keep getting up to look in the night, it was so spectacular. The stars were bright and the winds and cool weather kept all the bugs away. The water was perfect in the morning for a quick dip, then breakfast before our group expanded to 13 for an exploration of Catfish Bayou and looking for a way to get closer to the many osprey nests. We wove around in several tall grass channels and had quite a fun time playing hide and seek, and then realizing we could be there for days, trying to explore when we really needed an overhead shot or a helicopter to guide us. It was great fun.
We came back to the beach for a lunch and some had to leave for Mother's Day weekend, but those who wanted were treated to a tour of a totally self-sufficient house. It was an extremely informative tour, with lots of questions and lots of great insights into living independently, without giving up "things."
Carl, Hank and I paddled up the estuary as far as we could and did get to see an osprey building a nest. He or she was not happy we were there, so we quietly took photos and moved on.
The afternoon was marred by some other "extremely drunk campers", who ruined an otherwise perfect weekend for us and the neighboring house. I won't go into details, but I notified the Northwest Florida Water Management District, with the aide of several other concerned people, to review the procedures at Grassy Point, and to keep me informed of the progress to make this a more user-friendly and safe area for camping, paddling and pure enjoyment.
DAY TWO - BOILING CREEK
We had 10 paddlers on Mother's Day for one of the best paddling trips of my life. I have paddled Boiling Creek for almost 6 years, but this one was as powerful as the very first one, maybe more. We went way upstream, a decision I made, because the downstream section was still high and not cleared enough for my liking, from the heavy rains and tannins that flowed into the stream from the forests.
The trip was very mellow and the weather was perfect. No one was in a hurry and I brought different kinds of food for Mother's Day, including my favorite "ginger snaps." Some of us got to swim in the crystal-clear cool water and floated downstream among the many blooming pitcher plants and lots of other plants in bloom. The ranger did stop people and check passes. So, if you do not have one, make sure you get one. The sturgeon will be running on the Yellow River in the fall, and Boiling Creek flows into the Yellow River, so I, or someone, will surely want to lead a trip and experience the great "caviar" carrier of Yellow River. The sturgeon get as big as 300 pounds, and it is quite a sight to see them coming upstream en masse, and leaping out of the water.
The Boiling Creek trip was from 10 until about 3, and it felt like seconds. That's what happens when you paddle in Paradise.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Flooded Timber on Tensaw Lake
Sunday, April 3, 2005 brint.adams@us.army.mil
Bob, Larry, Gary, Jerry, Tom, Matt, Chris and I met at The Stagecoach Cafe in Stockton at 1:00 PM and continued north to Upper Bryant's Landing. As expected, Tensaw Lake was flooded probably 6-8 feet above normal. The road accessing the summer houses along the bank was flooded, leaving them all stranded and accessible only by water. The weather was perfect, with clear skies, no wind and 72 degrees.
We put in and immediately took a couple of group photos next to the road sign on the flooded road. We then proceeded to paddle under some of the houses up on stilts and out into Tensaw Lake. I paddled over someones wrought iron deck furniture as I passed under there house. Once out in the lake, we started west for 0.25 miles and turned north into the cut-through to Douglas Lake. The water level was high enough to allow us to paddle over the underbrush, so we just picked our own paths through the forest.
We came out into Douglas, turned west again and found what normally is a small branch to the north which eventually plays out up in the forest. However, with flooded conditions, there was always enough water to paddle our own course wherever we wanted to. We continued due north, for what turned out to be about 4.5 miles, enjoying the peacefulness under cover of the forest. Along the way, we paddled through three separate clear-cut areas, which made the going a little tougher as we were at the level of the canopy of the younger trees and had to pick our way around some.
We saw Little Blue Herons, Snowy egrets, various water snakes trying to stay dry and turtles sunning themselves.
We attempted to find Proctor Creek and follow it south to Tensaw Lake, but passed it by and eventually came out on Big Beaver Creek, just east of the Canal Island platform. Once we re-grouped, we decided to return by way of Tensaw Lake and stopped at Hubbard's Landing for a snack and to stretch our legs.
We started downriver and continued to see alot of yellow top along the flooded banks. From Hubbard's Landing south, the east bank continues to rise to about 100 feet above the river. All along the bank, we found honeysuckle azalea still in the late stages of bloom, as well as coral honeysuckle in full bloom and mountain laurel, some in full bloom and other areas just ready to pop out. We passed close by a large softshell turtle out sunning, who grudgingly left his log when we got too close for comfort.
With flooded conditions, the cut-through at the Coon Neck bend looked like the normal course of the river, as we bypassed the mouth of Douglas Lake. And all too soon were back to Upper Bryant's, where we paddled in past the raised summer houses and down the campsite road next to the bathhouse.
This was truly a wonderful and different paddle and well worth timing to hit during the narrow window of opportunity in the spring when it is sufficiently flooded.
Upper Bryant's Landing (a week earlier)
by Avan Warner
Bob and I, again visited Bryant's Landing, researching the flower progress. We were two weeks earlier than the previously mentioned trip. The water was high, but not in flood stage, to do the flooded timber route. We did go into the creek to notice that some small caliber trees (2-3 inches) had fallen across the path, so bring a saw for your next flooded timber visit. The lady in the store, said that the water was rising up river, so we might have flooded timber by the weekend. Remember to tell her you have a canoe or kayak and the boat launch charge is only $2.00.
Let me back up a moment to tell you about the yellow wildflowers. Butterweed (Senecio glabellus) were in mass as you drove over the wetland elevated highway just before the Stockton turn off. They were in the ditches, and along the road to Bryant's Landing. They were in the Florida Swamps two weeks ago. They really stand out, this early in the year. I finally got a leaf and found it in a picture book, because I am not eager to key out an Asteraceae.
Back to Bryant's Landing. On the river, there are Black Chokeberry (Aronia melanocarpa) along the edges, very showy. The color was nice along Douglas Lake. Bright green of the Bald Cypress leaves, yellow catkins with tiny rose colored leaves coming out on some unknown tree. The backdrop of the winter backdrop of tree trunks coming out of the water.
The highlight of this time of year, is the bluff just upriver from the landing. You must go into the creek just upriver from the bluff. It is full of Pink Honeysuckle Azalea (Azalea arborescens). It is prime right now. We missed this two years, one year ago. There is a lot of Pink Honeysuckle Azalea in that little section. We continued to the bluff. We got up close. The Pink Honeysuckle Azalea still have buds, so it still has another week of glory. Then it will trade places with the Mountain Laurel (Kalmia latifolia), still in bud, for the glory position. Yellow Jasmine (Gelsemium sempervirens), Red Honeysuckle (Lonicera sempervirens), Crossvine (Bignonia capreolata), Blackberry (Rhus sp.), Sparkleberry (Vaccinium arboreum), White Violets (Viola primulifolia) along the bottom of the bluff next to the waterline, Shadbush (Amelanchier arborea), and Sweetleaf (Symplocos tinctoria). Look these up in your flower picture book before you arrive at Bryant's Landing, so you appear to be the botanical genius to your canoe buddies.
MIND FODDER (A DISCOMBUBALATED TRIP REPORT)
by Gary Worob
Eight ...I guess of us paddled through the enchanted forest on Sunday...I guess. Couldn't care less what day or month it was on a perfect day....had to think about how many there were and were not....three hours in the woods, I guess....who cares? What is this about time and white people? Aren't we all on the same journey through space at a 1,000 miles per hour? The pope finally died, and I was thinking the mafia had lots of bets on the exact time.
And, who cares when you are in such a place? Gas prices soaring ...who cares anymore? Just let me put the blade in one more time and experience this bit of solitude and solace. Rummaging through the mind for nothing to say and ...who cares? Eight of us telling lies in the middle of truth....building a cabin in this pristine wilderness and then Bob says, "Wait till you see the next house boat, one hundred feet long, twenty four feet wide with wrap around porch"...and a for sale sign...oh my! Have to go back and put up or shut up. Where would I put this and would it be the new club house or do I buy a tug boat and just cruise on down?.....see you on the return trip.
Thinking for a bit that I am in Pennsylvania with all the mountain laurel in bloom and wild azaleas screaming those colors and smells. All of us smiling and thinking, who cares and what day is it? Bob collecting lots of points for this trip. Paddling through an underwater village. Is this Asia? 17 inches of rain is obvious when you are paddling under someone's house and hope the electricity is shut off and don't grab any wires. Stop for a break and buy a candy bar and sit on the bank, looking at a perfect day and not caring about the twenty or so houses only attainable by boat and we are paddling through time warps and realities gone crazy. Glad the storm is well over and lets go on, these people chose this life style and no pump in the world could bail this flooded plain.
More azaleas and steep banks covered with mountain laurel and more wonderful smells ...no one needing to talk, just be awed at the rites of spring...take this picture in your mind...greens, reds, yellow asters and pinks and wafting of plumage of god. I think I see the pope smiling, saying "I see all this too, now that I am at peace". Martha Stewart standing on the side, with her paint brush and denim shirt, smiling....the cover of her new edition, all the time in prison thinking this is the reality we need to get back to....put your hands in the good earth and smell the richness....
And then, the finish of this great trip and we load up the boats and remember that it is Sunday and tomorrow someone will be working......gas prices soaring...When is the next paddle? Not soon enough.
Sunday, April 3, 2005 brint.adams@us.army.mil
Bob, Larry, Gary, Jerry, Tom, Matt, Chris and I met at The Stagecoach Cafe in Stockton at 1:00 PM and continued north to Upper Bryant's Landing. As expected, Tensaw Lake was flooded probably 6-8 feet above normal. The road accessing the summer houses along the bank was flooded, leaving them all stranded and accessible only by water. The weather was perfect, with clear skies, no wind and 72 degrees.
We put in and immediately took a couple of group photos next to the road sign on the flooded road. We then proceeded to paddle under some of the houses up on stilts and out into Tensaw Lake. I paddled over someones wrought iron deck furniture as I passed under there house. Once out in the lake, we started west for 0.25 miles and turned north into the cut-through to Douglas Lake. The water level was high enough to allow us to paddle over the underbrush, so we just picked our own paths through the forest.
We came out into Douglas, turned west again and found what normally is a small branch to the north which eventually plays out up in the forest. However, with flooded conditions, there was always enough water to paddle our own course wherever we wanted to. We continued due north, for what turned out to be about 4.5 miles, enjoying the peacefulness under cover of the forest. Along the way, we paddled through three separate clear-cut areas, which made the going a little tougher as we were at the level of the canopy of the younger trees and had to pick our way around some.
We saw Little Blue Herons, Snowy egrets, various water snakes trying to stay dry and turtles sunning themselves.
We attempted to find Proctor Creek and follow it south to Tensaw Lake, but passed it by and eventually came out on Big Beaver Creek, just east of the Canal Island platform. Once we re-grouped, we decided to return by way of Tensaw Lake and stopped at Hubbard's Landing for a snack and to stretch our legs.
We started downriver and continued to see alot of yellow top along the flooded banks. From Hubbard's Landing south, the east bank continues to rise to about 100 feet above the river. All along the bank, we found honeysuckle azalea still in the late stages of bloom, as well as coral honeysuckle in full bloom and mountain laurel, some in full bloom and other areas just ready to pop out. We passed close by a large softshell turtle out sunning, who grudgingly left his log when we got too close for comfort.
With flooded conditions, the cut-through at the Coon Neck bend looked like the normal course of the river, as we bypassed the mouth of Douglas Lake. And all too soon were back to Upper Bryant's, where we paddled in past the raised summer houses and down the campsite road next to the bathhouse.
This was truly a wonderful and different paddle and well worth timing to hit during the narrow window of opportunity in the spring when it is sufficiently flooded.
Upper Bryant's Landing (a week earlier)
by Avan Warner
Bob and I, again visited Bryant's Landing, researching the flower progress. We were two weeks earlier than the previously mentioned trip. The water was high, but not in flood stage, to do the flooded timber route. We did go into the creek to notice that some small caliber trees (2-3 inches) had fallen across the path, so bring a saw for your next flooded timber visit. The lady in the store, said that the water was rising up river, so we might have flooded timber by the weekend. Remember to tell her you have a canoe or kayak and the boat launch charge is only $2.00.
Let me back up a moment to tell you about the yellow wildflowers. Butterweed (Senecio glabellus) were in mass as you drove over the wetland elevated highway just before the Stockton turn off. They were in the ditches, and along the road to Bryant's Landing. They were in the Florida Swamps two weeks ago. They really stand out, this early in the year. I finally got a leaf and found it in a picture book, because I am not eager to key out an Asteraceae.
Back to Bryant's Landing. On the river, there are Black Chokeberry (Aronia melanocarpa) along the edges, very showy. The color was nice along Douglas Lake. Bright green of the Bald Cypress leaves, yellow catkins with tiny rose colored leaves coming out on some unknown tree. The backdrop of the winter backdrop of tree trunks coming out of the water.
The highlight of this time of year, is the bluff just upriver from the landing. You must go into the creek just upriver from the bluff. It is full of Pink Honeysuckle Azalea (Azalea arborescens). It is prime right now. We missed this two years, one year ago. There is a lot of Pink Honeysuckle Azalea in that little section. We continued to the bluff. We got up close. The Pink Honeysuckle Azalea still have buds, so it still has another week of glory. Then it will trade places with the Mountain Laurel (Kalmia latifolia), still in bud, for the glory position. Yellow Jasmine (Gelsemium sempervirens), Red Honeysuckle (Lonicera sempervirens), Crossvine (Bignonia capreolata), Blackberry (Rhus sp.), Sparkleberry (Vaccinium arboreum), White Violets (Viola primulifolia) along the bottom of the bluff next to the waterline, Shadbush (Amelanchier arborea), and Sweetleaf (Symplocos tinctoria). Look these up in your flower picture book before you arrive at Bryant's Landing, so you appear to be the botanical genius to your canoe buddies.
MIND FODDER (A DISCOMBUBALATED TRIP REPORT)
by Gary Worob
Eight ...I guess of us paddled through the enchanted forest on Sunday...I guess. Couldn't care less what day or month it was on a perfect day....had to think about how many there were and were not....three hours in the woods, I guess....who cares? What is this about time and white people? Aren't we all on the same journey through space at a 1,000 miles per hour? The pope finally died, and I was thinking the mafia had lots of bets on the exact time.
And, who cares when you are in such a place? Gas prices soaring ...who cares anymore? Just let me put the blade in one more time and experience this bit of solitude and solace. Rummaging through the mind for nothing to say and ...who cares? Eight of us telling lies in the middle of truth....building a cabin in this pristine wilderness and then Bob says, "Wait till you see the next house boat, one hundred feet long, twenty four feet wide with wrap around porch"...and a for sale sign...oh my! Have to go back and put up or shut up. Where would I put this and would it be the new club house or do I buy a tug boat and just cruise on down?.....see you on the return trip.
Thinking for a bit that I am in Pennsylvania with all the mountain laurel in bloom and wild azaleas screaming those colors and smells. All of us smiling and thinking, who cares and what day is it? Bob collecting lots of points for this trip. Paddling through an underwater village. Is this Asia? 17 inches of rain is obvious when you are paddling under someone's house and hope the electricity is shut off and don't grab any wires. Stop for a break and buy a candy bar and sit on the bank, looking at a perfect day and not caring about the twenty or so houses only attainable by boat and we are paddling through time warps and realities gone crazy. Glad the storm is well over and lets go on, these people chose this life style and no pump in the world could bail this flooded plain.
More azaleas and steep banks covered with mountain laurel and more wonderful smells ...no one needing to talk, just be awed at the rites of spring...take this picture in your mind...greens, reds, yellow asters and pinks and wafting of plumage of god. I think I see the pope smiling, saying "I see all this too, now that I am at peace". Martha Stewart standing on the side, with her paint brush and denim shirt, smiling....the cover of her new edition, all the time in prison thinking this is the reality we need to get back to....put your hands in the good earth and smell the richness....
And then, the finish of this great trip and we load up the boats and remember that it is Sunday and tomorrow someone will be working......gas prices soaring...When is the next paddle? Not soon enough.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Rice Creek to Jug Lake (Fisher Island) platform
Saturday, March 19, 2005 brint.adams@us.army.mil
Bob, Paul, Rick and I met at Rice Creek Landing, north of Stockton, at 4:00 PM, for a leisurely paddle out to the Jug Lake platform for dinner and overnight camping. The afternoon was beautiful, with clear skies, 75 degrees, no wind and a fairly high water level. We took the direct route out to Briar Lake, took the cut-through to Tensaw River, turned left alongside Larry Island, cut over to Bayou Jessamine and took the right turn into Jug Lake.
At this time of day, we found very little current flow on the Tensaw or Jessamine, which suited us just fine. I had already done a workout paddle early that morning and the others were more interested in the ambience of the moment than when we arrived.
Along the way, we saw many Maples in full blood red color and beautiful new green growth bursting from the Cypress lining our way. The mullet were jumping and we heard what we thought were deer rustling through the woods. A new experience for me was to see the many flocks of Little Blue Herons and White Ibis heading to roost for the night. There were dozens who just kept coming, the Herons quietly, but the Ibis making noticeable wing noise.
We arrived at the platform by 6:00 PM, unloaded and started preparations for our evening feast. This wasn't typical freeze-dried trail food, as we had a huge fresh vegetable and lettuce salad, garlic french bread and a large pot of fresh shrimp boiled with sausage, sweet corn and fresh whole garlic. The bugs didn't have a chance with our breath, spread around while telling tall tales. Even with my appetite, we couldn't finish all of the shrimp.
The evening was perfect, with a half moon shining brightly in the still air. Close by, Bard Owls called to us all night, while we followed the sounds of coon hounds in the distance, chasing and treeing their prey.
Sometime after retiring to sleeping bags on the open deck, I awoke and jumped a foot in the air, to the sound of a large splash. Disoriented from sleep, I looked around to see if an alligator was nearby, and then saw Paul pop up out of the water and back onto the platform. He had taken an extra step, when approaching the rear side next to the cooking table, and found out the water level is about chest deep and the bottom is soft and muddy. Unfortunately, he grabbed the edge of the securely fastened table, which scraped some large hunks of flesh off of the fingers on his left hand. After climbing out of the cold water and getting dried off, we cleaned and applied antiseptic to the mangled mess of a hand.
Since Bob slept through all of the excitement, when morning came and while eating breakfast, we retold and enhanced the story at Paul's expense, while his hand throbbed in pain. Suggestions were made Paul was sleepwalking, taking a moonlight skinnydip or sleeping with the fishes.
We broke camp early, heading straight back to Rice Creek. The morning was again beautiful, the water in Jug Lake like glass. On our way out, the Herons and Ibis were flying overhead, back to their day feeding spots. The current on Bayou Jessamine was a little stronger and following on the way out, as we enjoyed the morning light slicing through the canopy.
As we arrived at the landing and were loading up, a Birmingham family drove up, who had reservations for Sunday night on the same platform. They asked for route information and day paddle opportunities. It is great to see use of the platforms are starting to gain some interest, which hopefully will continue to grow, as people become aware of, and familiar with, the public assets we have available for our use.
Saturday, March 19, 2005 brint.adams@us.army.mil
Bob, Paul, Rick and I met at Rice Creek Landing, north of Stockton, at 4:00 PM, for a leisurely paddle out to the Jug Lake platform for dinner and overnight camping. The afternoon was beautiful, with clear skies, 75 degrees, no wind and a fairly high water level. We took the direct route out to Briar Lake, took the cut-through to Tensaw River, turned left alongside Larry Island, cut over to Bayou Jessamine and took the right turn into Jug Lake.
At this time of day, we found very little current flow on the Tensaw or Jessamine, which suited us just fine. I had already done a workout paddle early that morning and the others were more interested in the ambience of the moment than when we arrived.
Along the way, we saw many Maples in full blood red color and beautiful new green growth bursting from the Cypress lining our way. The mullet were jumping and we heard what we thought were deer rustling through the woods. A new experience for me was to see the many flocks of Little Blue Herons and White Ibis heading to roost for the night. There were dozens who just kept coming, the Herons quietly, but the Ibis making noticeable wing noise.
We arrived at the platform by 6:00 PM, unloaded and started preparations for our evening feast. This wasn't typical freeze-dried trail food, as we had a huge fresh vegetable and lettuce salad, garlic french bread and a large pot of fresh shrimp boiled with sausage, sweet corn and fresh whole garlic. The bugs didn't have a chance with our breath, spread around while telling tall tales. Even with my appetite, we couldn't finish all of the shrimp.
The evening was perfect, with a half moon shining brightly in the still air. Close by, Bard Owls called to us all night, while we followed the sounds of coon hounds in the distance, chasing and treeing their prey.
Sometime after retiring to sleeping bags on the open deck, I awoke and jumped a foot in the air, to the sound of a large splash. Disoriented from sleep, I looked around to see if an alligator was nearby, and then saw Paul pop up out of the water and back onto the platform. He had taken an extra step, when approaching the rear side next to the cooking table, and found out the water level is about chest deep and the bottom is soft and muddy. Unfortunately, he grabbed the edge of the securely fastened table, which scraped some large hunks of flesh off of the fingers on his left hand. After climbing out of the cold water and getting dried off, we cleaned and applied antiseptic to the mangled mess of a hand.
Since Bob slept through all of the excitement, when morning came and while eating breakfast, we retold and enhanced the story at Paul's expense, while his hand throbbed in pain. Suggestions were made Paul was sleepwalking, taking a moonlight skinnydip or sleeping with the fishes.
We broke camp early, heading straight back to Rice Creek. The morning was again beautiful, the water in Jug Lake like glass. On our way out, the Herons and Ibis were flying overhead, back to their day feeding spots. The current on Bayou Jessamine was a little stronger and following on the way out, as we enjoyed the morning light slicing through the canopy.
As we arrived at the landing and were loading up, a Birmingham family drove up, who had reservations for Sunday night on the same platform. They asked for route information and day paddle opportunities. It is great to see use of the platforms are starting to gain some interest, which hopefully will continue to grow, as people become aware of, and familiar with, the public assets we have available for our use.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Rice Creek to Big Cypress to Jug Lake
March 5, 2005
by Gary Worob
Lots of people were out playing golf on such a beautiful day. Some were even playing a foursome. Four of us got together at the Stagecoach and had a great foursome.
We paddled on very placid waters from Rice Creek Landing, exploring new places for some of us and seeing lots of signs of spring. The cypress were just starting to open new leaves, as were the red maples. We saw a huge flock of pelicans, who were courteous enough to miss me with a fuselage of unwanted greetings. We saw lots of hawks and heard them screaming the sounds of spring, while scouting out the best hunting places. Best of all, we found marker number 5 on Bayou Jessamine, towards Jug Lake, and waded through calf-deep water to the giant Cypress, that truly was a grand sight.
The weather was in the mid to upper 70's, making for a perfect paddle from Rice Creek to Jug Lake and there was very little wind. What we did encounter, was a continuous change of currents and flow of water, to make it hard to predict whether we would be paddling upstream or down. Our trip leader, Tom Meyer, gave us lots of history, biology and botany lessons along the way and even a backwards entry into Jug Lake, from the platform, while in his kayak. My good friend Don, was visiting from Ohio, and had never paddled in the Delta. His comments were the same as mine, that it is truly a unique and wondrous adventure, but better done with someone who knows the way. We took about 5 hours to paddle the eight or so miles and had a very leisurely day, including shared lunch on the Jug Lake platform.
Don and I explored Blakeley State Park afterwards, and then went to dinner at Dave's Catfish House and had a great dinner. It was another perfect day in paradise!
March 5, 2005
by Gary Worob
Lots of people were out playing golf on such a beautiful day. Some were even playing a foursome. Four of us got together at the Stagecoach and had a great foursome.
We paddled on very placid waters from Rice Creek Landing, exploring new places for some of us and seeing lots of signs of spring. The cypress were just starting to open new leaves, as were the red maples. We saw a huge flock of pelicans, who were courteous enough to miss me with a fuselage of unwanted greetings. We saw lots of hawks and heard them screaming the sounds of spring, while scouting out the best hunting places. Best of all, we found marker number 5 on Bayou Jessamine, towards Jug Lake, and waded through calf-deep water to the giant Cypress, that truly was a grand sight.
The weather was in the mid to upper 70's, making for a perfect paddle from Rice Creek to Jug Lake and there was very little wind. What we did encounter, was a continuous change of currents and flow of water, to make it hard to predict whether we would be paddling upstream or down. Our trip leader, Tom Meyer, gave us lots of history, biology and botany lessons along the way and even a backwards entry into Jug Lake, from the platform, while in his kayak. My good friend Don, was visiting from Ohio, and had never paddled in the Delta. His comments were the same as mine, that it is truly a unique and wondrous adventure, but better done with someone who knows the way. We took about 5 hours to paddle the eight or so miles and had a very leisurely day, including shared lunch on the Jug Lake platform.
Don and I explored Blakeley State Park afterwards, and then went to dinner at Dave's Catfish House and had a great dinner. It was another perfect day in paradise!
Econfina Creek
Saturday, February 26, 2005
brint.adams@us.army.mil
Linda and I left Spanish Fort Friday afternoon and drove east on I-10 into Florida to exit 85. We turned south on Hwy. 331, traveled 13.8 miles to Freeport and turned east on Hwy. 20. After passing through Bruce (Hwy. 81), Ebro (Hwy. 79) and past Crystal Lake (Hwy.77), we continued east on Hwy. 20 for several miles until we crossed Econfina Creek. As we continued up the next hill, the next crossroads was Blue Springs Rd to the right and Padgett Drive to the left. Another mile further, Blue Springs Rd also turns to the left (north), which we took and carefully made our way for 1.5 miles on the loose sandy surface. We came to two gates on the left, letting us into the Blue Springs campground.
This is a beautiful site capable of handling 25 campers. After a 2.5 hour drive, we arrived near dusk, and set up our tent. We found Gary, Tom, Tony, Fritz & Paula and others already set up with Bob, Carl, Charlene and Wendy and Billy to arrive later that night. We had a nice campfire, clear sky, and song with Tony's guitar accompaniment, to close out a beautiful evening.
In the morning, after a nice bike ride exploring the dirt roads in the area, we all left for our put-in on the southwest side of the bridge over Econfina Creek. We started out heading upstream against a moderate current, passing the pontoon landing on the north side of the bridge and Pitts Springs along the west bank. We continued upstream and took the next left turn into a beautiful spring tributary. The water immediately cleared up to a beautiful blue or aqua color with white sand bottom covered with bits of sparkly shell. There were dozens of large 6" tadpoles sitting on the bottom or swimming around, as well as numerous small fish. We found our way to the end of the spring, where we circled a small island like riding a carousel.
Upon exiting the spring, continued north for another 0.5 miles, and took the next left up into Williford Springs. We stopped here for lunch, while several adventurous paddlers donned fins and snorkles, to dive down to the cave entrance about 13' below the surface, where the crystal clear spring water was bubbling from.
Our trip back downstream was, of course, considerably quicker, so we continued past our put-in, to visit two more springs about 0.5 miles downstream below the bridge. One of the springs had a large PVC pipe pumping water directly out of the bubbling source, which we were told is the source for Coca Cola's Aquafina bottled water.
After taking out of Econfina, we drove back to the campground, where Linda and I put in for a short paddle around Blue Springs and out to the entrance to Econfina Creek. This is another beautiful springs area teaming with fish, water birds and plantlife.
Late in the afternoon, Gary, Tom, Billy and others set up a sweat lodge, which later would accomodate eight participants. We went out and collected more firewood, cut it up and stoked the fire to begin heating the flat, round river slicks Tom brought to heat up the sweat lodge. When all was ready, eight of us entered, while we had a designated rock provider on the outside, start to hand in the red-hot rocks on the end of spade. It did not take long, and we soon were all well heated up and drinking from our water bottles. All of a sudden, Tom broke the silence with a scream that shook the trees, echoed around the springs and made several people jump right off their towels. He continued with a spirited Indian chant that added to the eeriness of the experience.
After about 20 minutes, we all filed out of the lodge and proceeded to jump into the spring to complete the sweat lodge experience. We then joined the others around the campfire for a great feast and continued festivities into the night. Carl and Tom brought several beautiful drums, which were enthusiastically beat and pounded for hours, while others shook rattles and I took a long turn blowing on a 3' long wooden digeridoo, making sounds like a wild female water buffalo in heat. We had a great time, and while the crowd around the fire dwindled down to only a few, we finally all went off to our tents, leaving Tom snoring by the fire.
In the morning, we awoke to light rain, which appeared to be socked in for several hours. Linda and I decided to break camp and not try to wait it out. He headed out by 8:00 AM, on our way back to Spanish Fort. Along the way, we took a little detour to see the Seven Runs area, we had planned to paddle that day. Even in the rain, it was a beautiful, flooded Cypress forest, where we almost decided to put in and explore for awhile. But, clearer heads prevailed, so we continued back home after a very enjoyable weekend of paddling, camping and cameraderie.
ECONFINA CREEK/HOT ROCKS/ HOT LICKS
by Gary Worob
When do one and one make more than two? When you combine the unlimited talents of Brint and Linda, into the dynamic duo of entertainment. Certainly the kumbaya king and queen of our camping trip on Econfina.
The neighborhood was rocking Saturday night in more ways than one. Tom got "hot rocks" going for the great sweat lodge, that he brought and we filled it full of sweaty bodies, song and chants to start the festivities off to a rolling boil. It was an easy dash to the springs to rinse off and be "renewed" for the great feast that followed.
Hard to believe that such great foods could appear in the middle of the woods and harder to believe that anything was left, it was so good. But what followed was an amazing rockfest, started by Carl and progressed to the "Rockette" version of the Lind-Y., courtesy of our own favorite belle de la nuite-Linda. She was creating some of the most innovative sounds and limericks I ever heard.
No sense in talking about the body count, cause no one even dared, but two were huddled by the campfire, for part of the night and more will try to figure out how they made it to their campsites or vans....I, for one, can't remember and I, for sure, never touched a drop. I swear to it!
As for the paddle, it was just as wonderful as any could be, with 16 of us exploring the beautiful springs and some of us donning snorkeling gear and diving to the cave in Williford Spring. Blue Springs Campground is part of the Northwest Florida Water Management District, and they do a wonderful job of keeping a great campsite, right on a series of beautiful pristine springs. We also discovered a series of sink holes in the woods and speculated about the creation of the area, and the changes that time was making in front of us.
The actual paddle was barely 4 miles, if that; but the visuals at Econfina Creek are always wonderful and the chance to dive into a beautiful and powerful spring is worth the drive. I always have to use a big rock to be able to go down to the entry of a 175' lateral underwater cave.
I had another unexpected venture, when Bob Andrews and I started out in little canoes, about an hour before sweat lodge time, through the Blue Springs and out into the Econfina Creek. I was unable to navigate the creek a couple years ago, due to excessive downed big trees. Bob asked if I wanted to try to go the 4-5 miles and have him pick me up. No hesitation and soon I had one of the best slalom paddling courses I ever experienced. It was just me and the many deer along the banks, ducks that took off when I got near, and I raced the course as if it were a real slalom race. It was great fun and I planned to have most everyone do it early in the morning before the next paddle at Seven Runs Creek, but the heavy rains came and we all packed up and went our ways.
We ran into George and Mackenzie on the way home and Bob and George paddled Seven Runs Creek into the great cypress forest. I went home after two weeks on the road having camped along and explored many rivers along the way in Florida. I swam with the manatees, dove with the cormorants, tickled an alligator and saw the amazing sights of some of the great rivers and springs in Florida, and was anxious to be back in Fairhope and rest up for the next great adventure.
The diversity in this club is apparent and the harmony is sublime.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
brint.adams@us.army.mil
Linda and I left Spanish Fort Friday afternoon and drove east on I-10 into Florida to exit 85. We turned south on Hwy. 331, traveled 13.8 miles to Freeport and turned east on Hwy. 20. After passing through Bruce (Hwy. 81), Ebro (Hwy. 79) and past Crystal Lake (Hwy.77), we continued east on Hwy. 20 for several miles until we crossed Econfina Creek. As we continued up the next hill, the next crossroads was Blue Springs Rd to the right and Padgett Drive to the left. Another mile further, Blue Springs Rd also turns to the left (north), which we took and carefully made our way for 1.5 miles on the loose sandy surface. We came to two gates on the left, letting us into the Blue Springs campground.
This is a beautiful site capable of handling 25 campers. After a 2.5 hour drive, we arrived near dusk, and set up our tent. We found Gary, Tom, Tony, Fritz & Paula and others already set up with Bob, Carl, Charlene and Wendy and Billy to arrive later that night. We had a nice campfire, clear sky, and song with Tony's guitar accompaniment, to close out a beautiful evening.
In the morning, after a nice bike ride exploring the dirt roads in the area, we all left for our put-in on the southwest side of the bridge over Econfina Creek. We started out heading upstream against a moderate current, passing the pontoon landing on the north side of the bridge and Pitts Springs along the west bank. We continued upstream and took the next left turn into a beautiful spring tributary. The water immediately cleared up to a beautiful blue or aqua color with white sand bottom covered with bits of sparkly shell. There were dozens of large 6" tadpoles sitting on the bottom or swimming around, as well as numerous small fish. We found our way to the end of the spring, where we circled a small island like riding a carousel.
Upon exiting the spring, continued north for another 0.5 miles, and took the next left up into Williford Springs. We stopped here for lunch, while several adventurous paddlers donned fins and snorkles, to dive down to the cave entrance about 13' below the surface, where the crystal clear spring water was bubbling from.
Our trip back downstream was, of course, considerably quicker, so we continued past our put-in, to visit two more springs about 0.5 miles downstream below the bridge. One of the springs had a large PVC pipe pumping water directly out of the bubbling source, which we were told is the source for Coca Cola's Aquafina bottled water.
After taking out of Econfina, we drove back to the campground, where Linda and I put in for a short paddle around Blue Springs and out to the entrance to Econfina Creek. This is another beautiful springs area teaming with fish, water birds and plantlife.
Late in the afternoon, Gary, Tom, Billy and others set up a sweat lodge, which later would accomodate eight participants. We went out and collected more firewood, cut it up and stoked the fire to begin heating the flat, round river slicks Tom brought to heat up the sweat lodge. When all was ready, eight of us entered, while we had a designated rock provider on the outside, start to hand in the red-hot rocks on the end of spade. It did not take long, and we soon were all well heated up and drinking from our water bottles. All of a sudden, Tom broke the silence with a scream that shook the trees, echoed around the springs and made several people jump right off their towels. He continued with a spirited Indian chant that added to the eeriness of the experience.
After about 20 minutes, we all filed out of the lodge and proceeded to jump into the spring to complete the sweat lodge experience. We then joined the others around the campfire for a great feast and continued festivities into the night. Carl and Tom brought several beautiful drums, which were enthusiastically beat and pounded for hours, while others shook rattles and I took a long turn blowing on a 3' long wooden digeridoo, making sounds like a wild female water buffalo in heat. We had a great time, and while the crowd around the fire dwindled down to only a few, we finally all went off to our tents, leaving Tom snoring by the fire.
In the morning, we awoke to light rain, which appeared to be socked in for several hours. Linda and I decided to break camp and not try to wait it out. He headed out by 8:00 AM, on our way back to Spanish Fort. Along the way, we took a little detour to see the Seven Runs area, we had planned to paddle that day. Even in the rain, it was a beautiful, flooded Cypress forest, where we almost decided to put in and explore for awhile. But, clearer heads prevailed, so we continued back home after a very enjoyable weekend of paddling, camping and cameraderie.
ECONFINA CREEK/HOT ROCKS/ HOT LICKS
by Gary Worob
When do one and one make more than two? When you combine the unlimited talents of Brint and Linda, into the dynamic duo of entertainment. Certainly the kumbaya king and queen of our camping trip on Econfina.
The neighborhood was rocking Saturday night in more ways than one. Tom got "hot rocks" going for the great sweat lodge, that he brought and we filled it full of sweaty bodies, song and chants to start the festivities off to a rolling boil. It was an easy dash to the springs to rinse off and be "renewed" for the great feast that followed.
Hard to believe that such great foods could appear in the middle of the woods and harder to believe that anything was left, it was so good. But what followed was an amazing rockfest, started by Carl and progressed to the "Rockette" version of the Lind-Y., courtesy of our own favorite belle de la nuite-Linda. She was creating some of the most innovative sounds and limericks I ever heard.
No sense in talking about the body count, cause no one even dared, but two were huddled by the campfire, for part of the night and more will try to figure out how they made it to their campsites or vans....I, for one, can't remember and I, for sure, never touched a drop. I swear to it!
As for the paddle, it was just as wonderful as any could be, with 16 of us exploring the beautiful springs and some of us donning snorkeling gear and diving to the cave in Williford Spring. Blue Springs Campground is part of the Northwest Florida Water Management District, and they do a wonderful job of keeping a great campsite, right on a series of beautiful pristine springs. We also discovered a series of sink holes in the woods and speculated about the creation of the area, and the changes that time was making in front of us.
The actual paddle was barely 4 miles, if that; but the visuals at Econfina Creek are always wonderful and the chance to dive into a beautiful and powerful spring is worth the drive. I always have to use a big rock to be able to go down to the entry of a 175' lateral underwater cave.
I had another unexpected venture, when Bob Andrews and I started out in little canoes, about an hour before sweat lodge time, through the Blue Springs and out into the Econfina Creek. I was unable to navigate the creek a couple years ago, due to excessive downed big trees. Bob asked if I wanted to try to go the 4-5 miles and have him pick me up. No hesitation and soon I had one of the best slalom paddling courses I ever experienced. It was just me and the many deer along the banks, ducks that took off when I got near, and I raced the course as if it were a real slalom race. It was great fun and I planned to have most everyone do it early in the morning before the next paddle at Seven Runs Creek, but the heavy rains came and we all packed up and went our ways.
We ran into George and Mackenzie on the way home and Bob and George paddled Seven Runs Creek into the great cypress forest. I went home after two weeks on the road having camped along and explored many rivers along the way in Florida. I swam with the manatees, dove with the cormorants, tickled an alligator and saw the amazing sights of some of the great rivers and springs in Florida, and was anxious to be back in Fairhope and rest up for the next great adventure.
The diversity in this club is apparent and the harmony is sublime.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Two Rivers Point/Mound Island land-based campsite
Feb. 26th and 27th, 2005
by Brian Westcott
My brother and I left Gadsden Saturday morning, Feb. 26th, around 8:00 AM. We parked at Rice Creek Landing and unloaded the truck around 12:30 PM. According to the Bartram Trail web site, the optimum water level was about 15'-18', while we found it was about 28 ft and hazardous, when we went. Afraid we would run out of daylight following the designated Route 1, we decided to paddle the route in reverse (from Rice Creek to Bayou Jessamine, to Bottle Creek, to Tensaw River, to the designated camp site. We had to paddle up Jessamine in a moderate current and then up Bottle Creek and the Tensaw River, upstream in a strong current which was tough and draining.
We were not too impressed with the camping area which looked like a big summer hangout with common beerfest debris. At the campsite, a fisherman in a jonboat, came by and warned us of a potentially dangerous 18 foot alligator on Bottle Creek, which is where we were going again in the AM. We woke up to RAIN!!! The river and creeks had raised another 2-4 inches!!!!! We packed up in the rain and shoved off. The landing area was not kayak friendly.
We decided to follow the same route we used on the previous day. Thinking the paddle down river/creek/bayou was an advantage, proved to be a bit risky and VERY tricky. You can imagine how the water can control these long boats- 14' & 16' long. So, we checked out the Indian Mounds on Mound Island, which was absolutely worth the entire messy day 2. It was really unreal!!!! Later, we read there are 18 mounds on that island, many of which we saw. We climbed to the top of the big one (45-50 ft tall). The place was really majestic.
We eventually started our strenuous paddle back up Bottle Creek, to get back to Bayou Jessamine. We were relieved to reach the mouth of Jessamine, and thought the rest of the trip would be fast and relaxing. NOT!!!!! About 200 hundred yards in, Chris, my brother, capsized near a stump in chest deep water. He ruined his professional grade $1500 digital camera, although his memory card still works. That incident was a miserable experience for both of us. It was very difficult for him getting back in his boat. Thank God, he bought a bilge pump recently. It was the only way to get the water out.
The rest of the trip was miserable, because we couldn't maneuver very well, due to the down stream current and all of the STRAINERS!!!!!!!! It was tough and stressful. We had to portage once around a Z-bend, with multiple strainers. Doing that was a real pain!!!! When we reached the Tensaw River, near Larry Island, I wanted to smile and think the rest of the way was going to be easy, but I was afraid to assume anything more, until we saw the truck.
We did make it back to the truck, but had to drive back to Gadsden, in pouring rain all the way. Day 2 was not the best time we have had, but neither of us regret the trip down there. The first day, camping with the barred owls, and the Indian Mounds, were certainly the pay off.
Your comments, ideas, and advice are welcome. Please email me at bwestcott@gcs.k12.al.us.
Feb. 26th and 27th, 2005
by Brian Westcott
My brother and I left Gadsden Saturday morning, Feb. 26th, around 8:00 AM. We parked at Rice Creek Landing and unloaded the truck around 12:30 PM. According to the Bartram Trail web site, the optimum water level was about 15'-18', while we found it was about 28 ft and hazardous, when we went. Afraid we would run out of daylight following the designated Route 1, we decided to paddle the route in reverse (from Rice Creek to Bayou Jessamine, to Bottle Creek, to Tensaw River, to the designated camp site. We had to paddle up Jessamine in a moderate current and then up Bottle Creek and the Tensaw River, upstream in a strong current which was tough and draining.
We were not too impressed with the camping area which looked like a big summer hangout with common beerfest debris. At the campsite, a fisherman in a jonboat, came by and warned us of a potentially dangerous 18 foot alligator on Bottle Creek, which is where we were going again in the AM. We woke up to RAIN!!! The river and creeks had raised another 2-4 inches!!!!! We packed up in the rain and shoved off. The landing area was not kayak friendly.
We decided to follow the same route we used on the previous day. Thinking the paddle down river/creek/bayou was an advantage, proved to be a bit risky and VERY tricky. You can imagine how the water can control these long boats- 14' & 16' long. So, we checked out the Indian Mounds on Mound Island, which was absolutely worth the entire messy day 2. It was really unreal!!!! Later, we read there are 18 mounds on that island, many of which we saw. We climbed to the top of the big one (45-50 ft tall). The place was really majestic.
We eventually started our strenuous paddle back up Bottle Creek, to get back to Bayou Jessamine. We were relieved to reach the mouth of Jessamine, and thought the rest of the trip would be fast and relaxing. NOT!!!!! About 200 hundred yards in, Chris, my brother, capsized near a stump in chest deep water. He ruined his professional grade $1500 digital camera, although his memory card still works. That incident was a miserable experience for both of us. It was very difficult for him getting back in his boat. Thank God, he bought a bilge pump recently. It was the only way to get the water out.
The rest of the trip was miserable, because we couldn't maneuver very well, due to the down stream current and all of the STRAINERS!!!!!!!! It was tough and stressful. We had to portage once around a Z-bend, with multiple strainers. Doing that was a real pain!!!! When we reached the Tensaw River, near Larry Island, I wanted to smile and think the rest of the way was going to be easy, but I was afraid to assume anything more, until we saw the truck.
We did make it back to the truck, but had to drive back to Gadsden, in pouring rain all the way. Day 2 was not the best time we have had, but neither of us regret the trip down there. The first day, camping with the barred owls, and the Indian Mounds, were certainly the pay off.
Your comments, ideas, and advice are welcome. Please email me at bwestcott@gcs.k12.al.us.
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