I worried about Day 4 for the previous three months.
From our camp at Canepatch on Avocado Creek we were to head east through a maze of creeks and small channels that drain from the river of grass into the mangrove Everglades. We’d carefully drawn the route line, following Avocado Creek upstream as far as we could see it from Google Earth. In the planning phase, how we were to get from the open channel to the open sawgrass was just pure guesswork. Even after we flew over the route in December, from a scant 100 feet off the deck, we could not see through the canopy of mangroves, concealing a vital bridge between the sawgrass and the sea.
Two important elements of our first week would be departing today: Travis and his pack mule (Action Craft) and Mallory, who had to return to Colorado and her work with the Nature Conservancy. From this point on Elam, Carlton and I would be alone (mostly).
On the campsite picnic table, Mallory and I laid out the menu for the next four days, dividing food into sleeping back stuff sacks, one for each meal. Zatarain’s black beans and rice. Quinoa with onion. Summer sausage with crackers and cheddar cheese. Pita bread and Nutella. We each compiled a massive bag of snacks for ourselves. Apples, oranges, bags after bag of mixed nuts and dried fruit. This bag would live in the center console of my kayak, a hatch between my knees, where I kept camera, binoculars, and fishing tackle.

There was definite nervous excitement among the three of us as we set off from our Canepatch, listening to the noise of Travis’ engine fading away, headed back to Flamingo.
We were saved from having to do guesswork by a pair of benevolent park rangers. During our crossing of Oyster Bay on the first full day, a couple carrying two canoes in the bow of their powerboat had intercepted us. Their names were John and Donna Buckley, and they were longtime residents of the Everglades backcountry. They’d been sent by the Park Superintendent, Dan Kimball, to make sure that we made safe passage through the watery maze.
“Be careful out there. I don’t want have to do any paperwork,” the superintendent said as we departed.
When I’d arrived at Canepatch campsite the night prior, John and Donna were there, speaking with Travis. We made plans to meet up near the mouth of Avocado Creek at midday. I got the feeling that for the most part, they knew where every paddler on the Wilderness Waterway at any given moment was heading for the night.
They were waiting when we arrived at the designated meet up at 11, guiding their covered Mad River canoes with short, powerful paddles. The five of us chatted leisurely as we moved into the narrows of Avocado Creek. John and Donna were expeditioners in their own right. John told us about paddling across huge expanses of the midwest to raise awareness for the Great Lakes during the 1970s. He and Donna understood precisely what we were attempting to do. Still, they had not run into too many groups doing it in the direction we had picked.
John and Donna Buckley knew Canepatch to get regular patrons, and every other year a group or two would travel from U.S. 41 to Canepatch and out into the mangrove Everglades. They’d never seen anyone traveling from Florida Bay and attempt to escape up the Shark River Slough. Were we really the first? Probably not, I thought to myself.
Carlton stole a glance at me and gave me the wide-mouthed, eyes bugged out look that says “THIS IS CRAZY AND I LOVE IT.” I shot it right back.
Gradually the canopy of black mangroves closed over our heads. The channel serpentined around banks of trees and deadfall. I could sense the open sawgrass just beyond the tree-lined banks. I longed to see it. Twice, while at the head of the caravan, I turned toward the sunlit channel. Wrong way. John Buckley called me back. Before long I was back near the front. The second time I was lured by an alligator bed in the sawgrass.
This time I heard someone say “Do we have Joe?”
“Joe’s turned the wrong way again, he’s in his own world over there.”
Ouch. I decided it was time to bring up the rear and to listen to more experienced hands. Anyone could get lost here, and often do. Our guides had probably rescued hundreds of overly-enthusiastic or unlucky paddlers over their quarter century of living in this backcountry.

Everglades National Park backcountry ranger John Buckley

After 2 hours, the trees overhead began to thin out. The channel deepened, the banks lined with sawgrass. I paused to let the boat ahead of me navigate a narrow turn. I bird rocketed down the length of my kayak, a foot under the surface of the water. Horned grebe. Nothing else is that sneaky or fast under water.
The way forward became too thick for us to pass. John backtracked and turned south, out into the open, searching. We were very near our destination for the day, but there seemed to be no path to connect us to the airboat trail that would lead us northeast. I struggled so see the screen of my GPS, with the sun directly overhead. After a few minutes, we followed John’s path. Donna turned back to head home.

Everglades National Park backcountry ranger Donna Buckley

Out in the open we could see a long way. Far off on the horizon the figure of a man stood above the grass, watching us, higher than anything else around. I was tired of the kayak paddle in my hands, and my hips were sore from sitting for so long.
I pulled the heavy aluminum push pole from its hold and extended it to its full length. Using it as a brace, I stood, my joints creaking in protest. The kayak wobbled, uncertain of the change in weight distribution. I steadied and pushed off a clump of bulrush, the duck-foot end piece expanding against the vegetation and contracting as I moved forward. The boat moved straight ahead, gliding between the grasses and lotusflowers. I could see all around.
We pushed our way through a thick patch of grass and vegetation, watching the figure on the horizon, still unidentified. Finally we came out into a channel, about three feet across. A white PVC pipe stood off to the side. These were the markers of the airboat trail we’d seen during the fly over. Every quarter of a mile from here on we’d have these trail markers. In front of me there were large, dark fish laying in the channel. My mouth gaped. Largemouth bass, and Florida gar were everywhere. Foolishly, I’d let Travis take my fishing gear with him this morning.
John Buckley stood on the rickety wooden structure as I slid up. There was a walkway built of 2×6 boards leading over to a large scientific collecting device, mounted on a platform built 5 feet in the air. A sticker on the side read U.S. Geological Survey. Walkways led off into the sawgrass in three directions around the platform. It was 3:30 pm. It was too late to go on into the wilderness, hoping for something more sturdy on which to make camp. This was where we’d spend our night. John wished us well and shoved off for his houseboat back to the west.
We went about setting our camp. Elam staked out the platform, saying that he’d be comfortable up there with just his sleeping back and bedroll. I scavenged loose lumber, 2x8s and 2x12s from the sawgrass growing up around the gauging station, aligning the boards like slats over two sections of the walkway. I pulled a blow up mattress out of the hold of my kayak, inflated it and put it atop the slats. On top of this I put up the tent.
Carlton’s strategy was even more adventurous. He picked an area of especially thick sawgrass and mashed it down so as to support his mattress and hold it in place. On top of this he constructed his tent. He fretted about the sawgrass, and his weight pushing the mattress under water. He milled around his area, pushing the grass around, shifting his tent a little here, a little there. Finally he crawled inside, and it appeared to work. His vision was realized. He would sleep, afloat in the River of Grass.

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On the third day we awoke at Oyster Bay chickee. Our chickee was positioned on the east side of a small island, protecting us from the open bay to the west. A heavy fog blanketed our little inlet.

View from Oyster Bay chickee
Photo by Carlton Ward Jr./Carlton Ward Photography/CarltonWard.com

I rolled out of my tent and pulled my neck gaiter over my face to ward off the mosquitoes still lingering. From the stern of Travis’ boat I cast a topwater plug down the bank of mangroves. The sun was not up yet. In 15 minutes I caught 4 speckled trout. The biggest among them was about 15 inches.

Spotted trout
Photo by Carlton Ward Jr./Carlton Ward Photography/CarltonWard.com

We had a long paddle. From Oyster Bay we continued on our northwest tack for the first 2.5 miles, until we reached an intersection with the Shark River. The tide was ebbing that morning, and as we entered the channel that lead us to the Shark there was a considerable current with which to contend. It pulled at the mangrove roots, and in the turns our long, bulky kayaks would be swept to the opposite side of the stream before they could be muscled back straight. Upon reaching the Shark we turned east, upstream.
The first half of the day was overcast and gray, and a blustery wind occasionally whipped down the river. I hugged the mangrove-lined banks in long stretches, trying to stay out of the headwind. Our caravan, four paddlers and Travis in his Action Craft, stretched out over a mile or so. Mallory cruised serenely along in her touring kayak. Whenever she wanted to she could easily distance from us with a combination of superior carbon fiber engineering and paddling experience.

Mallory shows us all how it’s supposed to be done.
Photo by Carlton Ward Jr./Carlton Ward Photography/CarltonWard.com

I paused often to fish or to take pictures. I saw a manatee in the first quarter mile once I turned up the river, a shapeless gray body drifting just below the surface, then sinking from sight. Carlton cruised ahead. Elam chugged along, a mounting platform for his camera attached to the deck of his boat. His stroke was an unorthodox churning, a perpetual movement of his arms only, elbows fixed at a 90 degree angle and not extending past the trunk of his body on the downstroke. Mallory called it the Go-Go-Gadget stroke. Upon trying Elamstroke later we noticed that it made the kayak move with somewhat less vibration, something a good videographer would quickly discern and put into practice.
We paused at the Little Shark River chickee. Travis opened cans of tuna with a broken-tipped, battered fillet knife. I’d noticed him using this blade for everything from chumming to engine repair to meal prep. It looked distinctly like an implement you’d see presented as evidence in a murder trial, the inside of the clear ziplock smeared brown with dried blood.

The fillet knife, occasional can-opener, possible murder weapon belonging to one Travis Ward, Clearwater. Photo by Joe Guthrie

His first round of sandwich rounds he prepared were acceptably utilitarian. Shredded string cheese and tuna on mayo, a little hot sauce. The next morsel he handed me was arguably utilitarian, totally unacceptable in most cases. Tuna, full tablespoon of hot sauce, honey.
“What the hell, it’s an expedition.” I ate.
After lunch and a slight detour up the Little Shark River, we re-entered the Shark River and continued northeast. I watched a common loon working the roots of the mangrove trees at the water’s edge, catching tiny crabs. The bird was dressed in a drab gray winter plumage, but it’s large size and approachability caused me to abandon thoughts of keeping up with everyone. The bird paid me no mind, letting me drift to within ten yards.
The day warmed. I navigated by following the red route line I had loaded onto my iPhone’s Trimble GPS application, making sure that I, represented by a tiny blue dot, stayed close to the line. There are thousands of possible wrong turns in the Everglades, especially in the sawgrass. I was thankful that I’d spent the desperate last hours at the Homestead Starbucks the night before we left, loading the satellite imagery onto the device. With unreliable cell signal, the image tiles wouldn’t load, unless they were already cached on the device. It was one of the critically important tasks that had inexplicably been left until the last minute.
Carlton and Elam paused to ponder a swamp lilly bursting out of a clump of mangroves.

Swamp lilly and mangroves
Photo by Carlton Ward Jr./Carlton Ward Photography/CarltonWard.com

We were within two miles of the Avocado Creek campsite, hidden away up in the labyrinth of ever-smaller finger creeks that fall out of Shark River Slough. I moved ahead. Mallory was well ahead, out of sight. My iPhone seemed to be struggling to understand that I had already loaded the sat imagery into it. I could see nothing on the screen other than my route line, in red.
In no time, my blue dot of digital self had drifted away from the route line on the screen.
Dammit.
I was facing an island, and three possible ways to turn.
Which way around?
Still no Mallory.
No Carlton or Elam.
Good. Can’t be seen looking lost. Expedition co-leader? I think not, they’ll say.
Mentally I remembered the map. All those weeks we’d spent pecking away in Carlton’s studio, drawing our line over 1100 miles. I imagined the scene before me from above.
“I think I should go to the other side of you and look north,” I said to the island.
I circled the island, looking for a shortcut though the mangroves to the north. I tried the first I came to. The trees were dense and tall, and I ducked beneath them. My fishing rod, stowed upright in its holder, had to be rescued as it was about to be snapped by overhanging limbs.
“Does this go?”
It did. I swung into the channel of Avocado Creek, and an earthen campsite where my friends would gather in the twilight waited a mile upstream.

The expedition spent yesterday, April 9th, at Camp Blanding Joint Training Center near Middleburg, Florida. Yesterday our team met with Land Component Commander Brigadier General Richard Gallant to discuss Camp Blanding and its approach to conservation. FFWCC Director Nick Wiley came from Tallahassee to meet with us, as did FFWCC research biologists Walt McCown and Brian Scheick.
Our conversations with Brig. General Gallant and Director Wiley focused on the cooperative relationship between the military and natural resource conservation agencies. We discussed the habitat on the facility, and how the base fits into a regional conservation corridor known as the Ocala to Osceola Corridor, or the “0-2-0.” This project is designed to connect Ocala National Forest with the Osceola National Forest. The 73,000 acres of Camp Blanding is the largest block of conservation land in the 0-2-0. Paul Catlett, the land manager at Blanding, discussed the military’s vested interest in managing habitat for wildlife. The same habitat ensures the quality of military and first responder training, and so serves both an environmental interest and a domestic interest.
Species of note on Camp Blanding include the red-cockaded woodpecker and the Florida black bear. Paul Catlett and Jim Garrison, FFWCC’s biologist on Blanding, have overseen a dramatic improvement in the number of red cockaded woodpecker clusters. The project has been such a success that Camp Blanding is now a donor site in the Southern Range Translocation Cooperative (SRTC) that began in 1998.

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The Expedition is in its final days. We are camping now on the Suwannee River, ten miles north of the town of Fargo, Georgia. This is the fourth of six days on this water. It is an unplanned for treat at the end of a long journey.
Back in the first week of April we got a call from our friend, David Dorman, wildlife biologist for Osceola National Forest, called us to inform us that a wildfire had sprung up in the Pinhook Swamp. The Pinhook is a vast wetland that butts up against the Georgia/Florida state line. Our original route took us northeast through the Pinhook to Bethea State Forest, then across the state line into the Okefenokee Swamp. Hot, dry weather and steady winds fed the fire over the intervening days. The County Line fire (straddling the Baker/Columbia County line) spread and quickly east, growing to over 35,000 by the middle of last week. The Pinhook and Bethea became non-starters for getting us to Georgia.
Dorman visited us at our campsite on Ocean Pond, just within the national forest boundary. We studied maps and talked options late into the night. Dorman sported a three day old stubble, and his soot-covered clothes and weather broken fire boots were testaments to the long hours he’d been working since the fire popped up. We’d reached Ocean Pond by rejoining the Florida National Scenic Trail near Palestine Lake. We decided to adjust our route by continuing west on the Florida Trail until we reached the Suwannee, which we would paddle 47 miles to Stephen Foster State Park in Georgia.
So here we are, 35 miles in. We began paddling at Turner Bridge boat ramp, six miles or so south of the state line. The stretch of river we are paddling is famous for massive Ogeechee tupelo (Nyssa ogeche) trees. The trees here are bizarre and beautiful at once. The tupelos and pond cypress seem to compete for which can place the most attention grabbing form along these sandy bluffs. The tupelo trunks twist and bulge and fold over themselves in bizarre, buddha-like shapes. Their roots spill out from the trunk and fall toward the inky blackwater in disorganized cascades. The cypress are anchored to the bank by massive, furrowed and bulbous bases, suddenly tapering to a small bole, usually less than 50′ tall. The cypress needles appear almost fluorescent green at this time of year. Pileated woodpeckers work along the stubby tops, and brown water snakes gather among the knees. The knees sometimes take odd shapes, arching horizontally 20 feet from the tree before twisting down to form a clutch, as if to claim the territory. Today Joe Davenport said, “This river is endlessly beautiful. I could devote a whole day to photographing each one of these trees.” It seems to get ever more alluring the further upstream we paddle.

The end is too near.

Tonight we are camped on Deep Creek, south of Maytown Road. To get here we backtracked from our friend Courtney Ward’s fish camp and turned out kayaks up Deep Creek where it meets the St. Johns at the north end of Lake Harney.
Weariness from our week of paddling hung on me today, so I moved at a leisurely pace. Elam moved ahead, intent on filming the beautiful cypress swamp that surrounds Deep Creek in its downstream reaches. I fished along the St. Johns, not being able to resist a likely-looking lilly pad or submerged tree. The sentinel palms on the east bank were perfect subjects for photographs, if only there had been a few more showy clouds around. Must be all the photographers I’ve been slumming around with. At one point recently Carlton furrowed his brow at the sky and declared that the clouds weren’t organized enough for his taste.

At the mouth of the creek two manatees glided past us on their way upstream. Carlton spent an hour photographing a particularly bold limpkin he found. The limpkin is an expert at preying on freshwater clams, deftly plucking them from the shallows, opening the shell and pulling out the meat. Carlton described the bird eating 10 clams, going to the bank to preen, and then returning to feed again. Ten more down the hatch. Preen. This appeared to go on for hours. It was the kind of systematic efficiency that thrills Mr. Ward, the expedition engineer. His pictures will tell the story.

I fussed with photographing the manatees I found at the lower half mile of Deep Creek. Tannin-stained water and sharp reflections of cypress trees made it a mostly fruitless effort. It was more enjoyable to sit quietly in the afternoon light. I hummed a Robert Earl Keen song about living fast or dying slow. A committee of black vultures stood watch in the greening cypress. I assured them I was very alive, only a bit road-worn.

We spent our second night at Cul Pepper Bend on the Econlockhatchee River. Twice in the night it rained. Morning clouds on the eastern horizon foiled plans to photograph the sentinel palms along the banks of the river. The fish were not biting, so I opted for a bath instead. Lawrence Dimmitt warned me not to use all the hot water as I tiptoed gingerly in the sandy shallows.

At SR 46 Lawrence and the team parted ways. We continued north to Lake Harney. At the mouth of the river we found a flock of 100 white pelicans, huge white beasts all sitting in silence on a shallow patch of ground near the middle of the channel. This was the third flock of pelicans we’d encountered on the St. Johns. On the second day I was transfixed at the sight of a flock of 150 pelicans soaring on a thermal seemingly thousands of feet in the air. These birds are among the many species that follow the shad that migrate into the upper St. Johns in the winter during the spawn. We paused to photograph the pelicans today, finally having them at close range. After a few minutes they filed into the water and swam away from the harassment.
The wind picked up and a rain shower moved across the west side of the lake. I put on a rain coat to keep the spray from soaking my right side. Eventually we turned and the wind, steadily out of the southeast, blew us across Lake Harney. Carlton and I trolled the middle of the lake with light spinning tackle. He landed his first fish of the expedition, a small gar that took his plastic shrimp imitation.

Elam powered along ahead of us as we left Lake Harney and re-entered the St. Johns. I grew lazy with the wind and current helping me along. I fished half-heartedly among a few dock pilings, catching a small bass every mile or so. We passed the mouth of Deep Creek, lined on either side by cypress trees, new needles shining, almost neon green in the afternoon sun. Massive live oak limbs hung out into the river, and palm hammocks lined either bank, slender gray trunks twisting toward the sky. Carlton marveled at the relative wildness of the St. Johns.

We let the wind take us on past the mouth of Deep Creek to a fish camp owned by Carlton’s cousin, Courtney Ward. By the end of the day we’d covered nearly 15 miles. Even downwind, when we arrived we were exhausted.
Tomorrow we will paddle Deep Creek. We are in Volusia County now, a jurisdiction that is among the most progressive counties in the country in terms of corridor issues. The Volusia Conservation Corridor is an example of locally-focused policies that can build large networks, such as the Florida Ecological Greenway Network. And protection of a sufficiently wide and connected Volusia Conservation Corridor that is effectively buffered from encroaching development and enhanced by building road crossing structures for wildlife including the Florida black bear, is essential for protection of the Florida Wildlife Corridor. The next few days will include properties that have been the focus of efforts by Volusia County policy makers and conservationists for three decades. Volusia County includes several critical bottlenecks in habitat for wide-ranging species. A male panther was documented near the upstream end of Lake Harney within the past year and the local Florida black bear population may be increasing in size and providing additional opportunities to connect to other bear populations further south. Gathering the knowledge of the planners and policy makers who worked to secure these corridor opportunity areas will make for interesting discussion over the next week. There is much to learn for all of us here.

We spent day 63 camping at Cul Pepper Bend near the mouth of the Econlockhatchee River, which flows into the St Johns River just south of S.R. 46. Our St. Johns River journey is in its second week. We arrived at Lake Winder last Tuesday.
Thus far the St Johns has been smooth. The weather has cooperated. For weeks, it seems, we have had to contend with the wind whenever we took to the water. The wind has lain down for us this past week. We are heading downstream now as well (the St. Johns flows north to Jacksonville).
We appear to have planned our route through the serpentine, many-channeled upper basin pretty well. We have camped almost exactly where we intended to camp when we drew the route back in October 2011. (This never ceases to amaze me about the expedition. I will always remember Carlton and I at 3 am night after night, sitting trance-like in front of Google Earth and cursing nonsensically at the difficulty of routing oneself through 1000 miles, 100 yards at a time). We looked for places with water and trees. We imagined the scene at daybreak and dusk. It appears to be working.
We also appear to have planned our food fairly well, which is notable only in that we organized that aspect of the St. Johns trek without Mallory, who is our most reliable food planner. Mallory’s father, Laurence Dimmitt III, is kayaking with us, however, and his food appears to be perfectly rationed and delicious. Expeditioning just runs in the family, we think. The three of us speculate that Laurence is reporting to Mallory on our various ineptitudes.
We spent yesterday kayaking a portion of our route with Florida Commissioner of Agriculture Adam Putnam and Attorney General Pam Bondi. We met Mr. Putnam and Ms. Bondi at Hatbill Park in mid-morning yesterday. A gathering of friends and family was also there to join in. After scarfing a couple creme-filled from Dunkin Donuts, we headed off downstream with our guests. It was a day long in the making. Carlton first met with the Commissioner about the Florida Wildlife Corridor in 2010, not long after the first map was commissioned. Ms. Bondi has been aware of the expedition since early 2011, before her election to AG.
Fittingly, the day was brilliant. The river was alive with birds. Roseate spoonbill, white pelican, bald eagle, meadowlark, white ibis, black-necked stilt and red-wing blackbird were in the mix. We wound our way north, with the oak palm hammocks just visible far to the east and west. The banks of the St. Johns are surprisingly shallow. I imagined the river in wetter times, spreading out over a vast shallow plain, filling the space between the distant treelines and gathering wading birds and waterfowl by the millions.
Our expedition cabinet members seemed to fit in, kicking off shoes and putting some muscle into paddling. The scenery was spectacular, and the fact that none of us have much experience with the St. Johns added to the general feeling of adventure. It is a comfort to know that these two prominent public servants have an understanding and appreciation for the interconnectedness of Florida’s natural systems. Mr. Putnam and Ms. Bondi demonstrated their committment through their presence yesterday.
We continued north until we reached the mouth of the Econlockhatchee River, which runs east out of Little Big Econ State Forest. We made our camp a little under two miles from the confluence, in a beautiful spot with a broad white sand beach rising out of one of the Econ’s characteristic oxbow turns. Here the river is lined with sentinel-like cabbage palms. In the turns we find holes 12 feet deep. This morning I caught a fat 3 lb. largemouth bass, her belly full of roe. This is easily one of our better camping spots. It will be hard to leave.