Florida's Wilderness Coast

August-September 2004

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web. To download a pdf copy of the magazine click here: > DOWNLOAD

by Doug Alderson

Pepperfish Keys is a bird rookery along the trail. Kayakers should observe quietly from a distance.

A large alligator cruised the mouth of the Aucilla River. From my kayak, I saw only his bony eye sockets and snout before he ducked underwater.

Around us, in the vast expanse of salt marsh fringing the river, I heard trilling marsh wrens and the resonant cries of rails and wading birds. Fish—including huge longnose gar—thrashed the water’s surface, startled by my kayak. Occasionally, a motorboat whined in the distance.

My partner Liz Sparks and I were heading southeast along the windswept marshy shore of the Gulf of Mexico. It was the first day of a 100-mile, nine-day journey to the mouth of the Suwannee River, following a watery path known as the Big Bend Saltwater Paddling Trail.

Great egrets stood out against cordgrass and needlerush, white as snowflakes. We spotted the slicing fin of a bottlenose dolphin. A large sea turtle poked its head out of the water, then quickly d ducked under as we approached.

Florida’s Big Bend Coast is part of a vast crescent of coastal forest, salt marsh and sea grass that stretches from the Ochlockonee River to Tarpon Springs. Scenic islands and tree-covered hammocks mark this remote, sparsely populated area. Tidal creeks and rivers penetrate the marsh, winding through expansive interior swamps and pine forests.

In 1986, The Nature Conservancy purchased much of the coastal land from private forestry companies. A year later, the Game and Fresh Water Fish Commission (now the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission) purchased the land and currently manages it as part of the Big Bend Wildlife Management Area. This tract, along with other public land, makes the Big Bend Coast one of the longest and wildest continuous coastal wetlands in the United States. Liz paused to take GPS bearings and mark them on a map. We had to frequently remind ourselves that we were ‘working’. In our jobs as recreation planners for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission we were ground-truthing the trail for future paddlers. Specifically, we were fine-tuning a trail guide that would include GPS coordinates, accurate mileage estimates, a detailed map of each fi ve-mile segment, photos and interpretive information.

Previously, Liz and other co-workers had scouted remote campsites on state lands for sea kayakers. One of our assignments was to test the distances between those campsites and take GPS readings and photos for the guide. I knew Liz was the perfect kayaking partner when, at the fi rst night’s camp along the Econfi na River, a wild animal approached her tent and started to growl. Liz growled back. The creature moved away. The next morning, Liz exclaimed jokingly, “There’s way too much nature out here!”

In between the growling episode, scurrying raccoons and other critters, she hadn’t slept much during the night. I had slept fairly soundly, dreaming of otters that frolicked and played in a wild, swirling river. We watched dawn unfold on the Econfi na River. A pileated woodpecker drummed, then issued its rising cry. Two chattering kingfi shers swooped low, chasing each other across the channel. A green heron poked along a half-submerged log, almost invisible. Countless songbirds sang while the quiet wings of a red-shouldered hawk sliced through the air. I felt invigorated. No wonder Seminole and Creek Indians didn’t want to leave. They fought to remain along the Econfi na during the First and Second Seminole wars in the early 1800s, but in the end, most were either killed or forcibly moved to Oklahoma. A handful escaped into the Everglades, or dispersed into the north Florida backwoods.

We took a morning paddle up the Econfina. We were designing the trail with an average of 12 miles between campsites so that numerous side trips could be included. We wanted to ensure ample time to explore the many rivers, creeks, islands, coastal towns and historical sites along the route. We paddled beneath a canopy of cypress, gum, cedar and huge arching live oaks, all refl ecting on a mirror of tea-colored water. Shorelines were splashed with color from tall white fl owers of duck potato, radiant swamp lilies, purple spires of pickerel weed and striking red cardinal fl owers. A white-tailed deer snorted and crashed through the thick floodplain forest.

Returning to our camp, we packed and paddled back towards the coast. Once on the open water again, I had welcome visitors. A skipper butterfl y landed on my deck bag and rested for a mile or so. Then a luminescent green dragonfl y landed on the inside rim of my hat, perching upside down. The Creek Indians call winged creatures like these ‘soul carriers’. Since souls don’t have wings, they need helpers such as butterflies and dragonflies, the Creeks believe. While kayaking that day, the idea of soul carriers seemed appropriate. My spirit was definitely soaring. During the spring bird migration, boaters in the Gulf often report exhausted palm warblers landing on their boats to rest.

The Big Bend Coast is the jumping off point in the fall and the fi rst land in the spring for many trans-Gulf migrants. In October and April, kayakers can listen at night for the chirping of songbirds fl ying overhead, giving contact calls to keep their flocks together in the darkness. Paddlers may see other migratory birds, including white pelicans, black-bellied plovers, piping plovers, willets, short- billed dowitchers, marbled godwits, oystercatchers, dunlins, greater yellowlegs, loons and an array of ducks. Bald eagles are becoming increasingly common, and graceful swallow-tailed kites often soar overhead in spring and summer. Year round, one can see brown pelicans, cormorants, herons and egrets. Ospreys often entertain with their aerial maneuvers and dives. As we approached Rock Island, our destination for the day, I was struck by its volcanic appearance. Black limestone jutted several feet out of the sea at low tide. Cabbage palms and live oak trees shaded our cozy camp. Explorations on the 20-plus acre island revealed tidal pools brimming with crabs and small fish. Armies of fiddler crabs raced across interior salt barrens while red and green dragonfl ies cruised the shore. We also spotted two yellow-buff female summer tanagers.

There was a downside to our paradisiacal adventure: biting flies, and at sunset, mosquitoes and no-see-ums in great numbers. We retreated to our tents. I shone my light on the tent walls and found them covered with no-see-ums—on the inside. They had followed me through the door. I felt the all too familiar burning sensation of no-see-ums biting arms and legs. The ideal time to paddle the Big Bend Coast, in terms of bugs, is from late October through March, whereas this was September. B ut we had to finish the trail guide, so we were making a ‘noble sacrifice’ for those to come after us. Nature called, but I dared not hazard a trip outside the tent and incur the wrath of more no-see-ums. Liz finally decided to venture outside. After I heard her tent door unzip, she emitted muffl ed screams as the bugs descended. After reading to each other from our respective tents (Liz’s book was the classic, Kon-tiki), we fell asleep by 10 p.m. Around 5 a.m., I awakened. The breeze had returned. I stepped outside and the full moon and Mars were setting over the Gulf, a sight to behold—two celestial bodies shimmering on the water with no interference from man-made lights. This sacrificing for others could be tough. As I sat on the island’s rock face in the pre-dawn glow, I relished the thought that several days of paddling remained. There would be more island camps, more wild rivers to explore, cool springs for swimming and coastal hamlets for restocking food and water. I knew that clear water lay ahead where we could peer down into vast sea grass beds teeming with stingrays, blue crabs, horseshoe crabs, jellyfi sh, sea squirts, starfi sh, scallops and other marine life, much like fl oating over a giant aquarium. I felt honored to play a small part in the establishment of this paddling trail. At sunrise, we would continue our journey.

To learn how to order your copy of the Big Bend Saltwater Paddling Trail Guide, log onto www.MyFWC.com/recreation.

© Doug Alderson has published articles and photographs widely and is the former associate editor of Florida Wildlife. In July 2003, he received a fi rst-place writing award from the Association for Conservation Information for a magazine article about the Everglades system. Beginning in August, he will be the new (and fi rst) fi eld coordinator for the Florida Circumnavigation Saltwater Paddling Trail, a planned 1,700 mile trail around the entire state of Florida. It is a three-plus year project funded by the state and other entities. Editor’s Note: This is not the Doug Alderson from British Columbia, author of articles and books on kayaking BC’s coast.