Six years ago, I decided to forego the stereotypical Florida spring break – beach novels, umbrella drinks, motels – and explore instead one of America’s least beloved long distance hikes, The Florida Trail.
Swamps and road walks are two of the main reasons why the Florida Trail gets a bad rap amongst some of its showier neighbors, like the Appalachian Trail or the Pacific Crest Trail, but over the years I have come to appreciate its quirky nature, despite its propensity to repeatedly beat me up.
This year, my cousin agrees to keep watch over my car after dropping me off at mile marker 325.8, 120 miles away, on the outskirts of Tosohatchee State Preserve.
I know from researching on the FarOut app that Tosohatchee is going to be one of the swampier sections I’ll encounter this trip, and I want to be ready.
I pray in advance against the fear that has paralyzed me in the past when encountering the black water, muddy sinkholes, and potential alligators of these sections. I want to enjoy every part of my hike this year, even the scarier bits, and it’s not long before those challenges begin.
Within the first mile, I’m ankle- and shin- deep in water, but I find that by looking ahead to the next orange blaze – reasoning how not-far-away it is – I can slosh through the cool water and appreciate the beauty, even when my shoes fill with silt and I’m slashed by spikey overgrowth.
I even decide against the high-water route, which, according to FarOut, was impassable a month earlier, testing those prayers as I’m in and out of cypress swamps all afternoon.
Luckily, my first night brings me to the Fort Christmas Baptist Church/ Hiker Haven, where Pastor Ken opens a spacious log cabin just for me. He even stocks the fridge with mini-Reeses, my absolute favorite.
I don’t feel quite worthy of the warm outdoor shower and roof over my head, given I’ve only done 15 miles and it’s my first day, but I enjoy the luxury in the spirit of “the trail provides.”
That night, I am welcomed into a sobriety group that meets in the cabin on Tuesday nights. The moderator, Glen, includes me in the conversation by asking how hiking relates to the topics they discuss. This is a safe group of fellow believers, and I marvel at how such an eclectic span of people – from an elderly cowboy to a middle age couple to a young 20-something, sweet-faced girl working on her first few months – can be so honest and open about their struggles and triumphs.
We discuss Psalm 23, talk about how God prepared one of the attendees for the death of her father.
I am blown away by these two ideas juxtaposed, as I recall how God prepared me for the death of my son eight years ago. Has it really been that long?
For a few weeks leading up to his crash, I kept seeing Psalm 23 everywhere I turned – in my daily devotions, in random emails, on the wall of a laundromat. Everywhere.
Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.
I will not fear.
The very prayer I had been praying all day.
As we hug good-bye and wish one another Godspeed through our unique valleys, I remember hearing, years ago, how a shadow cannot harm. Lacking substance, a shadow is nothing to be afraid of; I can walk through shadows – even unpleasant, squishy ones – with bold confidence, trusting the One who is always with me.
I go to sleep thankful for the gift of this meeting, unexpected yet profound.
It rains overnight, so packing up dry is a joy. So are the miles ahead, as armadillos, tortoises, snakes, and even a skunk pepper the trail, reminding me that even though this section skirts the urban sprawl of Orlando, the rightful residents still find a way to endure.
An added bonus are the many opportunities to refuel along the way: smoothie shops, Starbucks, Publix. As I wend my way north, the sprawl thickens and I find myself, after miles of concrete, longing for a swamp or two.
In Paisley, I stop at a Dollar General to resupply and find a puddle of shade. Sitting on a dirty curb, it takes me four tries to hit the right pocket to drain the fluid from a blister on the sole of my foot. I listen as a man f-bombs his children into silence as they wait, strapped in car seats, for him to unpack his cart of groceries. I’m broken by the sadness of it all.
I wish there were something I could do, but his hostility is unsafe, and I get up and keep walking.
A night spent in a sketchy tent sight right off a busy bike path gives me the willies, as does a warning on FarOut.
I will not fear, I will not fear, I will not fear.
I wake up early and hoof it through that section, happy to leave Orlando behind.
Thankfully, the trail leads upward into Seminole State and Ocala National Forests, where I discover lakes, a wild orange tree, vast prairies, and nature resiliently recovering from prescribed burns.
Full disclosure: the orange tasted more like a lemon, but the liquid novelty made up for it.
On the last day, I pop out of the woods at the same road crossing where my cousin dropped me off a year earlier, linking last year’s miles with this year’s.
The shadows recede as she gives me a ride back to my car.
What began, years ago, as a way to escape the cold has become one of the highlights of my spring break.
I’m grateful that I still have a few hundred miles left, grateful that they will be there for me next spring, grateful that I can hike them and not be afraid.
walkwithme413 