1) Paddling the Wilderness Waterway:

Joe and I failed on our first attempt. I had insisted on leaving from the northern end of the Waterway (Chokoloskee Island). In our extensive preparations for the trip, I had ignored important facts.

First, in the springtime the winds generally blow from south to north. Joe had mentioned this but did not insist on his observation. Second, contrary to my absurd impression from studying popular maps, in the "coastal" Everglades water does not flow from north to south like the water beneath the "river of grass". The direction of water flow depends hour by hour on tides from the Gulf and Florida Bay. Third, William Truesdell's "A Guide To The Wilderness Waterway Of The Everglades National Park" describes a north-to-south trip. Finally, I myself migrated from the north! It was in my bones that things go from north to south, so that's how I envisioned the trip!

Our first day was a long paddle, 16 miles to Watson's Place on Chatham River. Our second day was a struggle from the outset due to poor timing. Tides and winds were against us. When we reached Alligator Bay, I disregarded Joe's expressed reservations about the Bay's visibly choppy water and southerly wind. Though my kayak made it across the Bay, Joe's canoe could not contend with the 25 knot winds. He turned back and disappeared into Allegator Creek. I was unable to find Joe, and the next day I turned back. We had been separated by the elements before. Not a problem. Back home, we resolved to try again.

Less than a year later, leaving from Flamingo this time, we were with the wind. Here is the story of the first leg of our successful six-day Wilderness Waterway paddle.

Day One - From Flamingo to Little Shark River:

As happens always, we left the boat ramp late, at 11:45 AM. The tide was incoming, so the paddle up Buttonwood Canal was uneventful. The wind and tide were with us as well as we crossed Coot Bay.

Whitewater Bay is a very large body of water. I was nervious when we passed Marker 10, leaving Tarpon Creek. Marker 10 is the first Marker on the Bay. Until this Marker is reached, the route is so easy to follow that markers are hadly needed.

Now I was paddling hard with only a slight breeze on Whitewater Bay. The first stop would be 22 miles from Flamingo, and I had never paddled that far in one day. Our vessels were heavy with a week's supplies. The route was unknown to us. Perhaps we were taking risks not yet apparent early in a sunny afternoon.

An alternate route would have been Joe River, around the edge of the Bay. There are three chickees along the Joe River route. But time was of the essence in this six day voyage.

Half way across the 12 mile crossing, the winds increased, as they almost always do in the afternoon. Worse, the winds were not from the south, as predicted, but the west and ultimately, the northwest--in our face! And the tide seemed to come from the east, forcing me to push harder on my left side to remain on course. Joe, in his old blue canoe, decided to put his 1.75 HP engine into operation to cross the rest of the Bay, and he went out of view.

One surprise was the appearance of a boat, a motor boat with a family aboard, heading in the opposite direction. The boat turned around and came up behind me. Was it going to rescue me? Run me over? Steve, an influencial figure in Everglades modern history and owner of Performance Marine in Miami, called out, "Scupper Pro, I sold you that kayak!" He asked me if I needed help and what I was doing so late on Whitewater Bay. I explained the mission. He shook his head and wished me well. Steve is a man one would want to run into if in trouble on the water.

I continued on, and suddenly my left forearm suffered a charley horse, a severe cramp, adding to the pain of a groin muscle I had also pulled. Such breakdowns were a matter of concern, especially now that the tide had strengthened and joined the wind shifting entirely against me. We had passed many markers, and still it seemed there were more and more markers. The day was growing old, and gaining ground was extremely hard. I was running low on accessible liquids as well--a potentially fatal error. I considered throwing out an anchor, but Joe was out of view, and darkness was not far off. There was no way to take a nap on my sit-on-top kayak without rolling off into the water.

I determined to keep paddling, hoping that somehow I could get to Marker 40 and Cormorant Pass, the source of the mountain of water coming at me and the place where Joe would be in his canoe anchored to the muddy bottom. Miraclously, the painful cramp muscle eased, but the tide got more powerful. I was exhausted when I came upon Joe, alongside the mangroves as expected. He had been spending his time watching dolphin and shark play in the currents.

Soon the tiny markers, the little brown sticks in the water with numbers written in white which mark the rest of the Wilderness Waterway, would be our guideposts. We still had miles to travel. The sun was going down, and I was uncertain that I could make it to our destination.

We each had a marine chart, a compass and a flashlight on hand. Joe had a protractor as well and knew how to use it. Until I marked the entire Everglades with my GPS years later, his instruments kept us out of trouble.

Joe had always emphasized self-reliance in the outdoors, and I half believed him. I was tempted to ask him to give me a tow, but I did not. I did not even ask for water. Asking for help was not the idea.

We almost missed Marker 2 at a confusing spot on the northeast section of Oyster Bay leading to Shark Cutoff. The tide was still against us, and Joe decided to motor to Shark River Chickee. The Oyster Bay segment of the trip was (and remains) difficult to navigate partly due to a lack of markers. Marker 3, at the mouth of Shark Cutoff, comes into view only at the last moment. On Shark Cutoff, nearing Little Shark River, I spotted the sunset through the trees. I had just enough in me to stop paddling for a photograph. The result was one of my best shots in the Everglades, and it came at one of the worst moments anyone could experience--tired, thirsty and, by now, frightened. My ten-year-old Canon pawn shop camera was up to the task.

There was one more fork in the road on the way up Little Shark River. I guessed my way around a little island, and, at 8:15 PM, after eight hours on the water, I found Shark River Chickee, with Joe unloading his canoe.

Loading and unloading a kayak is much harder than unloading a canoe. One has to separate out exactly what might come in handy on the water from what can be packed away. Secondly, lots of stuff has to be crammed into little space through hatches. Finally, reaching one's equipment in a kayak is a strain, expecially if the water level is more than two feet below the dock platform. Everything in the outdoors is a trade-off. The speed and light weight of a kayak comes at a price.

Joe could not figure out his tent. It was dark now, and mosquitoes swarmed. He turned it inside-out, then outside-in, trying to insert the tent poles, using profane language, suffering greatly. I should not have laughed. At least with such gusto!

This was not the first time I noticed that mosquitoes did not bother me as much as others. I know people who will simply not go where there are mosquitoes. However, there are remedies for mosquitoes including a combination of repellent, clothing, netting for the head and neck and scotch wiskey (not on the skin, one has to drink it).

I recovered from dehydration and exhaustion enough to talk into my recorder and try to record the night sounds of Shark River Chickee. Making a record is The Scribe's job. We skipped dinner.

The Shark River Chickee, while on the water, is up against the mangroves, as some other chickees are. This has the disadvantage of making them more buggy. But at night one can hear the sounds of both the mangroves and the water, and the sounds make up a symphony of noise--not quite music, yet rythmic, fascinating and unique to the Everglades chickee. Sleep is deep despite the racket. From this location, we are, in all important ways, sole owners of what remains of South Florida's better side.

The Second Day: From Shark River To Highland Beach:

I was fortunate to have a second day, as I look back on the first. The second day was a day of peaceful waterway travel for me and Joe, unlike any other day on the Wilderness Waterway, protected as it is from the winds and waves of large bays which exist throughout the remainder of the route, if one can call it a "route". But the second day would end in another unxpected struggle, on the Gulf.

The journey from Flamingo to the Shark River Chickee the previous day had been very difficult for this weekend warrior. My ability to continue paddling had been tested by a pulled muscle in my left forearm. As reported earlier, we arrived extremely late at the Shark River Chickee, having navigated 22 miles. I had spent energy battling strong tides on Whitewater Bay and Little Shark River. Years ago my football coach had called for 110 percent effort--irritating and absurd. I now knew what he meant. This was a case of keep paddling or die, or so it seemed.

The jungle-like sounds and gurgling water-talk at Shark River Chickee the first night gave way to much quieter morning atmospherics. Nature seemed to have slept or gone away. However, the mosquitoes were still evident, and the noseeum, which I originally identified as mean gnats, were hungry. I used a mosquito head net. But the morning sun burned away these flying bugs quickly, and I was able to cook a country breakfast. Joe preferred a granola bar.

No time to lose, given the tides. One has to decide often whether to launch in accord with the demands of the tidal flow or rest and enjoy. Pay now or pay later is always the rule.

In particular, I had to exert myself loading--I should say "overloading"--my kayak (my "Scupper Pro" does not mind). Perhaps it was the heat. Was I too accustomed to air conditioning? No, it was dehydration. One does not self-diagnose well, especially with dehydration. Anyway, since I had to reach more than two feet down from the dock to make contact with my kayak, I decided instead to pull the kayak up on to the dock. That worked for me. But how to fit everything? Loading and unloading needs to be a science, but it is an art. Maybe packing is a female skill.

We departed mid-morning. Little Shark River meets Shark River just past Marker 6. The marine chart is accurate. (The populated eastern half of South Florida changes every day, but the western side, the better side, changes slightly every 500 years!)

We figured the tide coming in would take us eastward to Tarpon Bay (one of three bays in the Everglades with that name) and the outgoing tide would take us down Harney River, through The Nightmare to Broad River and Highland Beach on the Gulf by dusk. But, alas, what should be never is, especially on the Wilderness Waterway of the Everglades.

The waterways on the "inside", some of which are named as rivers, are long straightaways in places. The view is awesome. The newness of this world, the dramatic beauty of it, was a great discovery for this paddler. In time it becomes clear that the Everglades is always a discovery.

I paced myself--easy, measured strokes of the paddle--and I made time for taking photographs. Dolphins appeared again and again, just outside reach of my lens. Shy backcountry dolphins. Mangroves are all around--every inch of water merges with mangrove swamp.

Shark River seems as wide as an ocean. It is an ocean of water in motion. How fascinating, moreover, to find no fast food joints, no traffoc lights, no pay telephones. (I refuse even to carry a cell phone to this sanctuary.)

Marker 8 signals our to turn northward to Tarpon Bay. As Tarpon Bay comes into view, Marker 9 appears right on schedule. The tide was shifting, as anticipated.

All was well at this point, except I felt sun burned from the first day. I used sunblock frequently the second day as my penance, but I really welcomed the sun, in order to be red--to contrast with the blue, the white, the green and the silver, colors here owned by nature.

Joe disappared ahead of me on Harney River, using his tiny motor mounted on his canoe, and I was by myself.

The route is uncomplicated all the way to the Harney River Chickee. Joe knew this. I am still wary. I cannot be blamed for my separation anxiety after what happened returning from Carl Ross Key and crossing Alligator Bay on other occasions. In this area of the Everglades, there are no boaters today, none at all. It was like hot summertime already. The vastness, the quietude of the scene. Earth, air, fire and water, all elements present, and my own existence--a very minor detail.

I was barely aware, in this placid setting, that the day would entail nine hours and another 22 miles on the water, with difficult decisions.

Day two was longer than anticipated because of the direction we took--the alternate route--and slightly more than I should attempt in one day. At least my left forearm was not bothering me.

I talked into my tape recorder while paddling. I had hung the tape recorder around my neck for the trip, along with my camera. Too much weight and uncomfortable.

Anything unprotected will get wet. Actually, things will get wet, protected or not--another rule of the Everglades.

I passed a monitoring station on Harney River, which I thought at the time was an abandoned dock. Monitoring stations are located in odd places throughout the Everglades waterways. Someone is keeping track. I wonder what data the Park Service collects.

I caught up with Joe at the Harney River Chickee, an important stop for us. Harney River Chickee is a single chickee attached to an island at the juncture of Harney River and two smaller rivers, one of which leads to The Nightmare--the inside route of the Wilderness Waterway. Harney River further downstream becomes North Harney River and South Harney River.

The water is swift at the Chickee. A boat has to be tied hard to this Chickee because of the movement of the waters. I thought we had arrived in time to take the inside route through The Nightmare to our ultimate destination, Highland Beach. We were to realize shortly that we had just missed. The tide was on time, we were not. The Nightmare has to be navigated on high tide.

Paddlers in The Nightmare can become stuck in this jungle by the low tide, even lost at nightfall if care is not taken. We paddled toward The Nightmare, Allegators populating the water's edge.

When Joe arrived at Marker 16 ahead of me, he determined that The Nightmare was already too shallow.

The tide was going out. The entrance to The Nightmare at any time looks like a descent into a cave. The jungle hangs over the water, the water meanders, and large spiders drop from above. Tree trunks are just under the surface. O.K. We returned to Harney River and headed in the direction of the Gulf. Late in the afternoon there are sometimes few options.

The marine weather report should be checked regularly. The winds this day were moderate, and we would be able to risk the "outside" route. I followed Joe down Harney River to South Harney River. South Harney River requires fewer navigational decisions along the way than North Harney River, so we took South Harney River to the Gulf.

The mid-afternoon Gulf is foreboding but beautiful. The sun is at its most sparkling on the the waves. Water, especially salt water, and sun, have a special effect. The remoteness suggests timelessness, and I enjoyed the feeling, this abandonment. I rested, but just briefly.

I wished I could have stopped to fish, but we had to head northwest along the coast to Highland Beach. How far would it be? I did not realize at the time the added distance on the Gulf entailed by taking the South Harney River route rather than North Harney River.

We had to leave the security of the shoreline to avoid the shallows. Joe motored to deeper waters and disappered into the distance. I began the final leg--the open water challenge. My kayak was better equipped than Joe's canoe to confront the choppy afternoon Gulf. But I had to paddle. I had to work for every inch.

While I paddled I recalled stories of people who had to spend the night hanging on to the mangroves. Around every point of land on the shoreline to my right I hoped that Highland Beach would appear. After more than an hour, I realized that strip of land barely becoming visible in the far distance might be--could it be?--Highland Beach. Should I give up and turn toward the mangroves now, or keep paddling? The view in my binoculars increasingly told me to keep paddling on course, but the shoreline was tempting. The slow advance was too much. Snacks and liquids no longer seemed to give me extra drive. Am I the only one always ready to give up?

Joe said later that he watched me through his binoculars (from the comfort of Highland Beach, for shame). He had noticed me pausing often, setting down my bright white Carlisle paddle. Of course I stopped sometimes. My body had been shutting down! I thought I was not going to make it. Finally, I saw human-type objects, colors, on the distant strip. The far horizon is always an interpretation.

One hour later I rolled out of my kayak into the shallow water of Highland Beach and crawled up on the sand, more burnt, dehydrated and exhausted than the day before.

No landing was more appreciated--not in a lifetime--except that of the day before at Shark River Chickee. I was alive, and I had seen more of the richness of the Everglades and the Gulf Coast. Later Joe and I would have steak dinner and watch the dolphins charge up and down the shallow water in front of Highland Beach, persuing their own daily routine. A racoon made his way along the muddy, receeding shoreline, apparently ignoring us.

At dawn, day three, the Gulf was still, so still that not even a wave could be heard lapping against the sand. Why is the morning so still? So quiet? So harmless?

The Third Day: There's no turning back. Today we will reach the midpoint of the Wilderness Waterway. The paddle will be a modest 14.5 miles, leaving Highland Beach and the Gulf waters behind.

We looped around the shallow basins of Rodgers River and Broad River to the southern end, passing through scattered mangroves in order to enter Broad River. The map shows that we could have taken Rodgers River more directly to our destination, but the Wilderness Waterway route calls for Broad River.

There will be other opportunities for alternative routes. Moreover, waterways with no markers and no notes on the marine chart are suspect to me. They appear navigable, but who knows? The Wilderness Waterway is challenge enough this time around.

We passed the northern point of entry to The Nightmare, its Marker 25 in view. The Nightmare was another path not taken from the previous day. With respect to The Nightmare, I was so sorry to have missed the chance to paddle it I vowed to return for another try.

I talked into my tape recorder as I paddled up Broad River. I spoke of the problems associated with getting lost in the Everglades, the role of the sky in photography, and various other topics on my mind while I looked around, particularly noticing the tall trees. Hurricaine Anderew took down many of the great trees in the Everglades, but there are still impressive trees and birds high up keeping watch. I saw one pink flamingo fly over, only one, and a hawk later in the day.

I was pleased to have been able to fit everything into the inside of my kayak this morning. In part this was possible because I had consumed some food and water and because we packed our vessels from a beach site. Packing a kayak at a beach site is a pleasure compared with packing from a dock.

The day was windy. Long ago I had learned to paddle near the mangroves on the side the wind is coming from. If nothing else, there is psychological comfort in more placid water.

We did not stop as we passed Broad River Campsite, which is located just a short distance above The Nightmare. Broad River Campsite is excellent, high over the water, with a dock, a place for landing, a toilet, and an ample site for camping, with picnic tables. This would be an excellent site for serious fishermen to camp, I thought, but big boats may have trouble with shallow water entering Broad River, and the presence of wildlife, including a big gator, would discourage some. I hope some day to camp at Broad River Campsite, or maybe move there permanently!

This awesome environment, and its quietude, brings about homefront thoughts. What am I doing out here, I said to myself, seeing and learning so much, but without my children? My wife needs to see this place as well, but will she ever?

Everyone needs to experience this solitude full of life, but few will have the chance. It took me 50 years to grasp what my father, a science teacher, saw in nature. I see now, but I also see what is lost.

Broad River seems at motion and immovable. It is a great field of of nature, a power, undisturbed by human presence. Here any working human mind will think about this--the contrast between life as we know it and life as it is on Broad River.

Broad River Bay was difficult because of the wind this day, but the waterways which followed were beautiful, and I took time for photography. I let Joe get far ahead of me.

I was fascinatd by the lush plant life between Marker 26 and Marker 28 going toward Cabbahge Island, and I began to shoot photographs. I became very engaged in one scene, so much that I crashed into the mangroves while looking through my lens. Just as I did this, the only boat I passed in three days motored bye. Whoever was in the boat--they waved--must have wondered how a paddler could crash into the mangroves! How could anyone get this far into the Everglades and not be able to paddle? It was my worst performance at the controls.

The landscape seemed to lead me eastward after passing Marker 29, but I kept going north, which was the right course to Marker 31. The smaller portion of Rogers River Bay--I would call it "South" Rodgers River Bay--came into view after Marker 31. I saw Joe to the west, heading for the probable location Rodgers River Chickee. The Chickee, like most chickees, is hidden from view until one finds it!

That's the idea. Almost all the chickees in the Everglades are reserved for those who read maps well or those who become Everglades "natives" by experience. It took some paddling on "South" Rodgers River Bay to reach Rodgers River Chickee. Arrival always is a great feeling, but an early 2:00 PM arrival was a blessing, especially after the dangerous exhaustion of the past two days.

Joe took one side of this double chickee, I took the other, with a walkway and toilet in between. Rodgers River Chickee is situated beautifully near the mangroves with the bay in front where the sun rises.

There is an inlet to the east of the chickee, which I explored late in the afternoon. Suddenly a fish--a Tarpon?--leaped 5 feet out of the water in front of me. My camera missed. My fishing rod was back at the chickee. What's the term?--foiled again!

My account of the third day should end here. But I rarely stop when I'm ahead. I will continue into the evening. Dinner was as always in the outdoors, fabulous. Convention is that Joe cooks his, I cook mine. We each use our own stove, cooking kit, and such, going back to Joe's view that every person is self-sufficient. I doubt that he would share his tent in a mosquito hatch-out if I left mine home by mistake!

I opened a scotch wiskey, a totally unnecessary enhancement of the night, given the natural high engendered under the stars with the surrounding night sounds. After some conversation, Joe settled into his tent. I laid down on my sleeping bag inside my tent and let my mind wander with my tape recorder on.

I gave my view of the reasons behind the way the Wilderness Waterway was routed and marked and the chickees situated. I argued my claim for "kayak photography," its uniqueness, its "oneness" and directness with nature, its superior engagement with its subjects, and so on. I spoke of the sacred obligation to protect the water. The waterways throughout Florida, including waterways between here and Okechobee and above that great lake, are grossly abused. Florida is becoming like parts of New Jersey, the way it evolved during the 20th Century--a cancer belt, now trying to repair itself.

Marine life is on the ropes throughout Florida. Native Floridians, sportsmen, boaters, lovers of nature, and people who drink water--all need to be drastic on this point, the water. Men of vision built South Florida, but it will take many people with another set of values to keep Florida from smelling like Secaucus. Statewide restoration.

I slept well.

The Fourth Day: I should have been running out of observations after three days on the water. But the Everglades does not work that way. Moment by moment nature's mood changes and the scenery does a remake. Each turn of the mangrove waterway tells a different story. Paddlers have to defend against what comes next while enjoying the ride.

Now I sense I am paddling with perfect timing. On the forth day paddling "fits" me perfectly. I never actually had to be shown how to paddle, after one windy day in a canoe by myself on Lake Gerard, New Jersey, at age 12. The good and the stupid on the water all became evident that afternoon long ago.

I smile when I see an advertisement for kayak lessons. Paddling is second nature. Even the advanced maneuver of climbing back into a kayak after going overboard is practically second nature. To get back on a sit-on-top kayak, push the back down and climb it like a tree.

Progress on the water seems a mighty accomplishment. Each bay crossed on the Wilderness Waterway is one more notch in one's mental outdoor C.V. Nobody can take this magic journey away, so long a one makes it to the destination, which I have identified for this trip as the Ranger Station in Everglades City.

I am trying now as always to arrive as fast as possible, but I realize as I paddle that being on the water is itself the reward. Addicted to the thrill and the beauty of it, I will want more after this trip is over. So why am I pushing so hard? Relax, David. It does not have to be a competition.

We had paddled east from Rogers River Chickee to rejoin the Wilderness Waterway route, though we could have gone west across the most open part of Rogers River Bay. The breeze was with us, and the sun was shining. The tide is not against us; it is pushing my kayak slightly to the right, then later to the left.

Tides generally are predictable. Joe once began a project to make a record of the tidal flows on the Wilderness Waterway. But the project was dropped due to the number variables with which he would have to contend. He quit while he was ahead. Anyway, as I pointed out to him, it is a lot easier to fight the tides a bit here and there than to figure them out!

At midday the "breeze" became a problem. Many years ago, on the Pacific Ocean, a friendly wind (a wind to one's back) became too much of a good thing, outright destructive. The wind on this occasion was friendly, coming up from the south, apparently just what we needed.

But on Onion Key Bay, as I neared the exit at Marker 56, rolling waves caught me from behind. The water had become white-capped, rough. I tried to speed up my paddling as each wave approached. To do this I had to keep looking back to see what was coming. Several waves invaded my kayak. Now it was indeed a competition. The rear end of the kayak seemed to dip before a wave rolled in. My anxiety was almost panick, as the waves got worse at the far end of the Bay. The water knew where it was headed, and the wind was in agreement. It was two against one. I had no voice or vote in the matter. But I lost only a camera lens to the elements this time. Whatever you use, you can lose.

I was blessed at the time to hold the belief that a kayak cannot sink. That assumption kept me focused, and I made it into the creek. A year later I found that kayaks can indeed sink, and a kayak is very hard to bail while under the water! The hatches can leak and water can quietly fill a kayak. That's story for another day.

The unnamed waterway at the end of the next body of water, Two Island Bay, following Marker 59, was hard to find. Once into this waterway, the world changed again for me. Calm water, warm sun, and easily identified markers brought us to Lostmans Five ground campsite. A sandy, beach-like spot reputedly somewhere nearby apparently is not visible on high tide.

Just before arriving at Lostmans Five I came upon a pontoon boat occupied by a Floridian from Tallahassee and his partner. He identified himeslf later as a Ford Auto Dealer, but his true identity was that of a proud Florida outdoorsman and an advocate for the Everglades. I guess I looked like I had crawled out of the woods, because he laughed and exclaimed, "Now I've seen everything!"

This wonderful pontoon boat captain visited me and Joe later at Plate Creek Chickee and provided us steak and Budweizer Beer, and he even took our burdensome bags of garbage off our hands. But mostly he brought good conversation, which we needed at this point.

There's more to be said about this Everglades visitor. It was our good luck to meet such a person. He was proof that one can mix civilized life with love of the outdoors. I do digress, as Professor Lemos often says.

Joe was standing on the dock of Lostmans Five ground campsite with a studious look on his face, welcoming a photograph. His blue canoe was tied up. But we decided to paddle a short distance further to Plate Creek Chickee on Plate Creek Bay to camp for the night on the chickee. Joe prefers chickees to ground sites, though Plate Creek Chickee, attached to an island, has rats. So does Lostmans Five have rats, big white rats. So does New York. Who wants to be alone this far from home anyway?

Day four was special, I guess, for having met the Ford Dealer and for having been terrorized only once, and briefly.

See below for accounts of previous days on the Wilderness Waterway and my description of a paddle trip on Florida Bay. Two days remain to the Wilderness Waterway trip. I will write of these final days shortly.

The Fifth Day: Success is within reach. We are two days from home base, and we are altogether confident. However, two accidents just hours away would remind us that we are not on our own turf yet.

The earliest parts of this stretch are the most interesting because they include Plate Creek and Alligator Creek. Alligator Bay does not receive honorable mention from me because of the role it played for us the previous year in our first attempt to complete the Wilderness Waterway. In truth, this very large, remote Bay is a beauty. It is the subject of a favorate photo of mine, a late afternoon shot I took while waiting for Joe (who had turned back). The largest portion of Alligator Bay is untouched by the Wilderness Waterway route and very much off the beaten path.

Just a few minutes by kayak across Plate Creek Bay from the Chickee is the entrance to Plate Creek. Plate Creek is a narrow, winding passageway between Plate Creek Bay and Dads Bay leading to Alligator Bay. It is shadowed by overhanging red mangrove and buttonwood trees. Alligator launching pads are evident everywhere.

We navigated Dads Bay and Alligator Bay, going right into Alligator Creek with no exchange of thoughts between us. The water on Alligator Bay was not particularly rough this sunny morning.

Joe on that earlier occasion observed dolphins racing on the surface of the water in Alligator Creek in a noisy, frightening display. Dolphins are their own personal watercraft, and they do not crash.

Joe disappeared ahead of me on Alligator Creek.

Most of the way through this long, meandrous waterway I caught up with Joe. He had stopped in a curious spot. I found him with an expressionless look on his face, as he had just banged his head on the branch of a tree, which knocked him off his seat onto his motor, dislodging his motor from the canoe. His head was bloody, and he had a headache, he said. How could one crash in such placid wilderness? In truth, I had done it myself. Currents, inattention, wham!

We continued making progress, knowing that the best remedy for pain is to arrive at the next campsite. Now we were on waterways we had travelled before. We crossed Tarpon Bay and Cannon Bay, two small bays with easily visible markers, except for Marker 86, which one can miss altogether and still reach Darwin's Place, noted on the map as Opossum Key. The Park Service had cut down some mangroves behind Opossum Key, where Darwin's (a relative) house once stood. There was a rumor that wild boar were hunted and killed at that location in the mid 1990's.

Opossum Key is on high sandy ground, and it has a picnic table, a small beach and a toilet. We rested and had lunch. We could no longer get lost, really. More importantly, Joe had apparently recovered from his mishap.

Next was the hard part, the afternoon, and no time to lose. The navigation of Chevelier Bay appears a simple task on the map, but it can be confusing in actuality, and very shallow in places. Here it is wise to follow the markers exactly. The end of this long bay brings us to Chatham River with The Watson Place campsite just a mile downstream. But we bypassed the option of camping at The Watson Place because we are now within reach of our objective for the day--Sunday Bay Chickee.

We recognized the markers easily from this point onward--though paddling is not easy. Last Huston Bay and Huston Bay are a challenge as winds pick up. We did not stop at the Private House which still is maintained on an unnamed island near the midpoint of Huston Bay, just around the corner from Marker 107. Huston Bay is dolphin territory, and once, on a later trip, dolphins actually went into formation alongside my canoe at the southern end of the bay and bumped my canoe, perhaps as a warning of some sort.

I tried to take a short cut past Marker 110 over a sand bar at the entrance of Oyster Bay, a few yards to the left of the Marker, picking up my paddling speed. I was going to rocket over this soft bottom. However, caught by the sand, I could not go forward or backward. My arms were tired. I rolled out of my kayak into the shallow water. I was sore all over, and I moved with difficulty. But I was entertained by my miscalculation, by my playfulness, by my infantile behavior. Nobody saw me, so who cares? I'm the only paddler on Oyster Bay anyway.

I should note that one can bypass the Huston Bays and Oyster Bay, taking an "inside" route, if the water is very rough. However, one has to read the map carefully, because there are potential errors.

The only Wilderness Waterway chickee not on the usual marine charts is Sunday Bay Chickee. It is just beyond the northeastern end of Chart 41 on Sunday Bay, and there is no reference to it on the Chart. The Park Service in Everglades City provides a tiny map of the location of Sunday Bay Chickee, across from Marker 123, but one may have to search for it even with a map.

Joe read the chart well, as usual, and, amidst a light rain, we found Sunday Bay Chickee quickly. After putting up our tents--always the first order of business--I noticed a pretty effect on the water with the sun going behind clouds in the west, so I paddled out fifty yards with my camera and a fresh roll of film. After 36 shots of the same scene, I returned to the chickee.

I placed my camera on the dock, and pulled myself up. For a moment I must have let go of the dock and my foot missed the edge of my kayak. Kayaks are not good platforms. Down I went between the dock and the kayak, down fast and deep, under the water, into the mud below. It is a rich mud, soft and welcoming. I struggled back up, unhurt, but without my glasses. Without my glasses I can see well only 10 inches! I said a few words out loud, and began to wonder where I had packed my back-up pair. Joe shouted out, "Go back down right where you fell!" I did, though I did not want to, and deep in the mud on the first try I found my glasses. What I realized immediately, and what is more important, is that I could have seriously hurt myself with such a fall.

Now both of us had an accident in the course of a few hours, and both of us were lucky to be O.K.

That night it rained again. Joe and I, under the protection of the chickee, discussed differing projects we might try in the future. We were pleased that the next day would be the end of the journey.

The final day will be reported at the end of June. Below are accounts of the previous days of this trip and an earlier weekend on Florida Bay.

The Sixth and Last Day--Wilderness Waterway: We waited, since the tide was coming in, but I worried about the afternoon wind over Chokoloskee Bay several hours away. I was sure the tide would favor my paddling effort by the time we reached Chokoloskee Bay, but the weather was uncertain.

At 11:15 AM--the tide still incoming--we departed Sunday Bay Chickee. The long neck of Sunday Bay leading to Marker 125 and Crooked Creek takes time. More unsettling is the entrance to Crooked Creek. There is a waterway first which goes nowhere, then Crooked Creek. Crooked Creek was sunny and enjoyable that day. Blistered forearms, chapped lips, an ear ache and a sore back did not matter. I felt on top of things for the moment.

Lopez River is much broader, and now it is afternoon. Wind from the Gulf becomes a problem. The sun was gone.

We did not stop at the mid-point, Lopez River Campsite. Lopez River Campsite is on high ground, and it has a toilet, tables, space to pitch tents, and the ugly remains of the foundation of Mr. Lopez house of a hundred years ago.

In the distance, at the basin of Lopez River, we spotted a canoe coming up the river. Something was wrong. The canoe was out of control, swerving one way then another. As we approached we realized that there were two female paddlers trying hard to negotiate the winds and currents.

"Where you headed?" I asked. After a pause, one shouted out, "Sunday Bay." "We just left Sunday Bay Chickee, you'll enjoy it," I shouted back. These are the now and future users of the Everglades waterways least likely to do harm to the wilderness--paddlers who like camping or campers who like exercise. The Sumday Bay paddle will be a great experience for them if they find the Chickee!

I should have realized from earlier trips that the tides on Chokoloskee Bay never help--they cut across the Bay one way or another but never in the needed direction.

Joe disappeared into the distance, and I was again struggling. My Canon T-70 died as Chokoloskee came into view, depriving me of a shot of Chokoloskee Island.

I had decided to pass the Island on the Turner River side, paddle under the bridge and across the remainder of Chokoloskee Bay on the west side of the roadway, all the way to the Ranger Station. I had determined earlier that Everglades City is the appropriate point to complete the Wilderness Waterway. Of course, with the weather worsening, that decision almost cost me the rest of my gear. The last leg of the last day became another physical challenge.

Joe took a photograph of me arriving at the Ranger Station. Later he lost that roll of film.

The Park Rangers will remember me for tracking water up the stairs and into their front office.

I was "reporting in", although these busy officers did not anticipate or need my report. I though at least they should see what an exhausted but triumpant paddler looks like after such a journey. The rangers do paddle trips themselves, but, with the advantage of youth, they do not look like I looked after six days on the water! A lovely Gladeswoman Ranger was nice enough to welcome me and listen to my complaint about a broken tree branch overhanging Alligator Creek.

I could be forgiven a momentary loss of perspective--that which is caused by such an accomplishment, a gift of the Everglades. I had experienced enough earth, air, fire and water to inspire me for a long time.

Fish soup at The Oar House with their freezing cold iced tea restored my balance. My excitement with what I had found would continue.

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2) Voyage To Canepatch:

Joe and I were getting out late again, the usual error. Moreover, we did not know if my plan would work. I wanted to tow my kayak behind Joe's canoe which would be powered by his 1.75 Horsepower Gamefisher (a tiny outboard motor purchased at Sears in the days Sears used to sell such items).

I needed my kayak to photograph scenes beyond Canepatch, up the distant creeks where there would be no human presence. That was the idea. With only three days available, we had to motor first and then paddle.

Canepatch would be a special trip because of its magnificant location. Getting to Canepatch in this manner (towing a kayak) turned out to be special as well.

We left Flamingo mid-afternoon, heading up Buttonwood Canal. The sun was already low when we crossed Coot Bay and reached Whitewater Bay, the inland "ocean" near the end of Florida's mainland.

We had tied the kayak to a rope and gave it five yards of slack to keep it from hitting the motor. As such, the kayak zig-zagged, and waves splashed over its bow.

Half way across Whitwater Bay--the water getting rough--the kayak seemed to list. Waves were crashing into the canoe as well. Joe had to use his pump.

I asked Joe, "What do we do if we get swamped?" Joe's answer: "We walk home." Not reassuring.

I was getting cold. Yes, it was very cold. We would freeze if the canoe sank, unless rescued immediately. One cannot walk home. It seemed there were no boats on the Bay.

I asked a more unthinkable question: "What if my kayak sinks?" Joe's answer: "We leave it." And my stuff? All my stuff?

The kayak was indeed taking on water, so we tightened up somewhat on the rope. (On a later trip I found out that a motorized canoe can tow a kayak easily by tying the kayak just inches from the back of the canoe, with no slack. In this fashion, the front end of the kayak floats on wake of the motorized canoe. No water gets into it, and, to boot, it does not hit the motor.)

Cormorant Pass was a pleasure. Now, having crossed the "ocean", the focus was on beating the sun, the clock, and finding Avacodo Creek, at the end of Tarpon Bay.

I should mention here an area of trouble between Cormorant Pass and Little Shark River, between Wilderness Waterway Marker 2 and Marker 3. The stretch itself is O.K., but just try to find either marker!

We turned up Shark River and passed Shark River Chickee, then headed north to Tarpon Bay. Tarpon Bay is three miles long. It is narrow and it tries to mislead. Joe keeps us on course all the way to the mouth of Avacodo Creek.

Avacodo Creek surprised us, as it is only a few yards wide in places, and we had to fend off mangrove branches. Once in the Creek, however, there is no way to turn off course.

Avacodo Creek eventually opens onto a small pond. On the far side of the pond, on the north end, a dock appears, with an out house, a walkway, and behind it all, the camping area, surrounded by high trees. We docked with only 15 minutes to sundown. We are lucky.

Standard procedure is to pitch tents first and light a lamp. The campsite is large enough for many campers. Someone had covered the ground with straw, and that felt good. A picnic table completed the picture.

I always cook. Rather, I heat food. A can of spagetti and meat sauce is so, so good when it's cold outside. The concern (fear really) experienced on the water is now gone. From nature's challenge to nature's tranquility.

Is it too quiet? We are alone out here. We entered our tents early because of the darkness and the cold.

"Do you hear that, Joe," I asked, still not asleep after an hour. "Yes," he answered. Is it a panther? "Could be." In my mind, I am going through the list of other animals that growl like a tiger in this remote place... May as well sleep.

I heard thrashing by the dock as I awoke. Wildlife is not shy at Canepatch. A large buzzard was at the top of a tree looking down on the campsite as though it was his own.

We enjoyed the morning sun, the campsite and the dock for hours. I cannot resist fishing. I caught some mangrove snappers from the dock. These were my breakfast. My fishing license I realize is only for "salt water". This is brackish--a mix. Whatever rules apply, I am not likely to get in trouble out here.

There were banana trees, unique I believe for a waterway campsite in the Everglades on the west side of Florida. I photographed two insects, a wasp and a bumblebee, simultaneously working a banana tree bud. Hummingbirds appeared and reappeared magically, almost too quick to see.

Late morning we set forth to paddle the unnamed creek just to the east of Canepatch leading to Rookery Branch. Joe took his canoe, I my kayak and my camera. A Park monitoring station was just aroung the bend.

There is another creek, Squawk Creek, full of branches, in the southeast corner of the pond. It runs parallel to the larger creek, and we we able to access it upstream only, where there is a navigable connecting waterway. These waterways are on the marine chart.

The water is clear to the bottom. Schools of small fish are darting about. Though there is still a tidal influence, the water moves very slowly.

Large fish jump high into the air. Gators try to disappear beneath the surface, always thirty yards ahead of us, but some remain visible under the water, unable to hide. Large herons and osprey are hunting from tree branches along the creek.

We cut our paddle excursion short. It was early afternoon. Joe had been ill from the night before, and we could not continue. We realize at this point that we have to do this again. The changes in vegitation were just becoming interesting as we paddled eastward.

I have been told that one can paddle to the end of Rookery Branch and hike from there across the watery fields all the way to Ingraham Highway. A special Park permit is required to camp along the way. Not a trip for beginners. Anyway, we did not even come close to the end of Rookery Branch.

Back at the campsite, a raccoon was sighted as we approached. Our tents were O.K. I rested, and early evening I paddled out on the pond to await photo opportunities. An otter played in the water, quick enough to elude photographic capture. I shot splash.

Then the sky turned red. I was out of film. A frantic round trip to the dock to get another roll was not successful. Photography in nature is frustrating. Some day I will think ahead.

Darkness seemed to come suddenly, as we had dinner. Chinese food for me, granola bars for Joe.

After dinner, a raccoon appeared just a few feet away. Assuming he spoke English, I shouted, "Get out of here!" The raccoon considered my command and retreated.

A few minutes later, the raccoon returned from another spot in the surrounding jungle, approaching the table again. We chased him away again, but he went slowly. Was this some kind of routine?

Ten minutes later, he reentered the campsite from another angle, coming very close to us, looking at us. Again he went away upon request. And so on, until we entered our tents for the night. He was the perfect gentleman, the "Gentleman Raccoon".

The Gentleman Raccoon reached our garbage in the tree, of course, as we slept. In sum, he was a reasonably nice guy, doing his best to make a living honorably, by raccoon standards.

I insisted on returning by way of Joe River rather than Whitewater Bay, though it added to our time on the water. We left early, stopping at Oyster Bay Chickee to photograph the Chickee and rest. We passed Joe River Chickee and South Joe River Chickee. Then we crossed the southern end of Whitewater Bay, an unavoidable task.

Canepatch is sixty-four miles round trip. Too shallow in the creeks for motor boats. Too far from Flamingo for a single day's paddle.

One would hope that Canepatch, and creeks beyond, never change. Four miles off the Wilderness Waterway route, Canepatch is remote enough to survive many years just as it is--beautiful and relatively unspoiled. Canepatch is indeed special, even for Everglades sites.

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3) Carl Ross Key Exploit On Florida Bay:

Carl Ross Key was my second trouble-filled encounter with Florida Bay and the Gulf Coast. Too many mistakes, again. Yet, nature always has surprises. The open water, the forest, the desert and the mountain top are all the same in this regard.

My partner, Joe, had experience on Florida Bay. He was not worried about the trip. I was happy to be getting out on the water but unsure of what we faced. We had only to paddle nine miles from Flamingo, I told myself. Is that such a big deal?

Carl Ross Key is almost unknown, but it is one of the great small places anywhere in the world. Joe had sailed to this island by himself years ago. Carl Ross Key is located near where Florida Bay ends and the open waters of the Gulf begin.

I had purchased a sit-on-top kayak just days before the trip. I had not even time to practice paddling in my back yard! It was years since I had been in a canoe. I suppose by now I was the definition of a "weekend warrior" (entry level).

Getting To Carl Ross Key:
We launched our kayaks at noon on a Friday in January. We were well equipped and supplied. Joe and I are both adverse to risk, especially after what had happened to us near Middle Cape in 1992. We had life jackets, extra paddles, compasses, binoculars, marine charts, sun block, even flares and a whistle! We knew we needed to be on the water early in order to catch the outgoing tide. However, we left the Flamingo boat ramp two hours late.

The plan was to follow the Park Service markers out the channel going west toward the Gulf to Marker "R6" and then set a course southwest in the direction of Carl Ross Key. As we passed Marker R6, I became reluctant to paddle according to the plan. Not accustomed to the open water in a kayak, I headed directly south, hoping to go further westward only when we were close enough to confirm that the spots we saw on the horizon were in fact Carl Ross Key and Sandy Key. The fear of being swept out to sea was overwhelming to me. This refusal to stick to the plan, or even to check the chart for shoals, caused me to run amuck.

The tide rushed out from underneath my kayak. I was in eight inches of water, then four inches, then two inches! This was an entirely a new problem for me. I could no longer paddle. None of the equipment I carried in my kayak was going to help in two inches of water.

Joe was several hundred yards behind me, still in deeper water. He reversed direction, turning north around the shallow area ridiculously named "First National Bank." I called for him to join me, but that was absurd. He was making progress! For the moment at least he was not stuck in the mud!

Later Joe told me I should have known when I saw birds standing in the water ahead of us that they were standing on something! That made sense, and the thought made me laugh, bitterly. It was almost like being stupid by choice. Whenever birds are standing in water, the water has to be shallow! Did fear, or focus, overcome the normal use of logic?

There is always a way. I remembered swimming classes. In a state of near panic, with almost all the water gone underneath my kayak, I realized that I could dig my way out with the butterfly stroke! On my stomach on top of my Scupper Pro, with my hands and arms, I clawed my way forward through the mud. I was able to make open water again after two hundred yards. I could not have done this in another kind of vessel.

I was exhausted, but I was free to catch up to Joe. Now open water was my friend, whereas just an hour ago I could not bring myself to leave sight of land.

The miscalculations we made were destined to punish us more that Friday afternoon. The tide continued to rush out, and now both of us were in the mud. We had tried to detour northward in the general direction of East Cape to get around the shallow areas, but the tide was faster than our paddles. I was stunned to be so thoroughly bested by nature a second time in one day.

At rest in the mud, I photographed our green and blue kayaks shining in the late afternoon sun, still and brilliant and notably unperturbed. The scenery--the vastness of Florida Bay and the Gulf, the sunny warmpth, salty Gulf water and rich mucky bottom coming up for air--was empowering. This was a different view of South Florida, of life, a different world with its own rules just a few miles from the big city, Miami.

Our dehydration and energy deficits which always occur on the water were remedied by apple juice and sandwiches. Soon were ready to resume efforts.

We had lost ground, and worse, we now had to paddle against an incoming tide. The sun was going down, and clouds were beginning to form.

The incoming tide was on schedule--a highly reassuring development--and we were again afloat. We could see Carl Ross Key in the distance, but paddling was difficult. Nightfall arrived. Drops of rain spotted the water, and a foggy darkness took away all visibility. It seemed the more we paddled the less progress we made. I should mention that Carl Ross Key had played too many games with us already. There had been too many optical illusions relating to distance for one day, and now we could see nothing, not even each other, and we had to call out to confirm the presence of each other. Rather, I had to call out--Joe could still see me with his better than 20-20 vision.

We were extremely lucky, given the weather, to come into view of a small buoy, which Joe identified as marking the smaller channel which cuts through First National Bank very near Carl Ross Key. We were not going to be swept out to sea after all! I could have kissed the buoy. The three hour trip we envisioned took perhaps 7 hours. We had zig-zaged terribly.

The rain stopped as we approached the island. We arrived from the Gulf side, to our surprise. We were alive and O.K., and we were in good enough shape to pitch tents, cook dinner and relish our survival.

I had done battle with nature under adverse conditions just a few hours, and I was already viewing myself as a great surviver. It was a pleasure to be on firm earth. If I was not a survivalist, I was at least a conquerer. Secure and comfortable.

The next day was spent exploring the island, taking photographs and fishing. I used a Canon T-50 Camera purchased for $50 in a pawn shop. My photographic career began in a pawn shop. Just as well, since I eventually drop all my equipment in the water. That bad splash sound. The cost of photography on the water!

Carl Ross Key, which is next to another island called Sandy Key, is special beyond words. I asked myself, How could a place so beautiful exist and nobody else in the world is here to mess it up?

Late in the day we checked the weather and began to plan our Sunday departure. We both had to be back Sunday night. But there was a problem. Neither of us had studied the three day forecast prior to the trip. We now found that gusts up to 40 mph were expected Sunday on Florida Bay. Oops! Strike three.

We had a choice. We could take Sunday's late afternoon incoming tide, or we could take the morning incoming tide--at 3:00 A.M.!

I could not tolerate another late afternoon scenario. So, with the wind blowing and rain coming down, we pushed off from our secure hard ground in pitch dark.

I had asked Joe before going to sleep Saturday night, What happens if the weather gets out of control? I did not even know how to get back into a capsized kayak in rough waves. Was I facing probable death on the water? This was crazy. Joe's reply: "On the water, when you're committed, you're committed."

That did not help at all. On the water, there are sometimes few options. Usually there is no turning back.

The return trip:
We paddled hard. In the channel, large, rolling waves virtually flowed over me and my kayak. I was terrified. Eventually we saw Flamingo's blinking beacon in the distance. I hoped that was indeed Flamingo in view and not a lighted marker on the Gulf. Joe was sure. Yet, currents and winds can turn one around, as happened to me one night on Whitewater Bay years later.

The compass confirmed our direction. But was the compass right? We were having trouble staying close to each other. The mainland came into view as the dawn arrived. I had to paddle into the wind --eastward--rather than take a straight line to Flamingo. Joe's heavier sit-inside Folbot folding kayak, more stable in waves, made it possible for him to take a straight line to Flamingo or even head for the security of the shoreline to the north. We separated, but when I noticed through my binoculars that Joe slowed more than was usual, I changed course, closed the gap between us, and come alongside. He shouted for "carbohydrates" and I handed him a bag of pretzels. It's not a good idea to skip breakfast.

We parted again, the rolling waves again dictating differing directions for our distinct kayak types. Again and again waves tossed me and my kayak about without tipping me over. I suppose this is what is called a kayak's secondary stability. On the water, there are always compromises between the desired course, the wind and the tide.

I paddled with all my strength without rest for hours. Nearing Flamingo, in the full light of day, I could see the bottom again. I noticed to my surprise that each thrust of the paddle got me only a few inches against the tide, now outgoing.

Arrival in Flamingo:
When I reached Flamingo, I had to crawl up the boat ramp, literally unable to walk for minutes. An elderly man approached the boat ramp and told me that he had seen me paddling like a windmill as I passed the Ranger Station. I knew what he had witnessed, and I was pleased with his observation. Something had happened.

When the sun had cleared away the clouds and I realized that I was going to make it back alive, I began to feel at home on the water. I exerted myself, now working along with the back and forth, the wind and rolling waves, finally enjoying the movement of the various forces surrounding me. I was in tune with the water, and I experienced exhiliration, a new knowledge of sorts, and I was "spending it all" as Flamingo neared.

The Park Service took my report that Joe was missing in action. Just as the helecopter reached Florida Bay for the search, Joe slowly rounded the bend coming into view. He had anchored to rest somewhere near East Clubhouse Beach before paddling the rest of the distance. He was never in any danger.

I paddled three more times to Carl Ross Key after that voyage. The last two times continued to be eventful. These are stories for another day.

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