This winter was rough.
The weather conspired at every turn to keep me from the northern mountains, from finally finishing a hiking list I’ve been working on since June of 2018 (more on that in a future post). When that magic moment came at last, my March break had shrunk, leaving me with only a little over a week to escape to Florida and walk another section of its iconic trail.
The clock was ticking.
Further complicating matters was, not surprisingly, more bad weather, this time rain storms north of the Suwannee River. The trail alongside was flooded again, and I had to scramble to find another section, somewhere to park my car safely, and a trail angel to give me a ride.
I had long anticipated walking the southern levees of the Florida Trail; pictures I had seen showed long, flat, dry stretches of trail running next to canals and lakes bathed in the glorious glow of a benevolent sun. Sick of winter, this seemed like the perfect option: maps were gathered, details confirmed, items hastily thrown in pack and car.
It was time to head south.
I spent the night before hitting trail in my car at Hobe Sound Beach; waiting for Darby, the trail angel giving me a ride, I joined other early risers catching the colorful sunrise.
Hobe Sound Beach is the eastern terminus of another, shorter Florida trail called the Ocean to Lake Hiking Trail. My plan was for Darby to drop me off 110 miles north/west of this terminus and walk back on 50 miles of Florida Trail, then join the 61 miles of Ocean to Lake where its western terminus intersected with the FT at Lake Okeechobee. I was already planning on a celebratory hop in the waves in five days time.
Because I had patched my itinerary together so quickly, I hadn’t really had time to study my maps or the FarOut app to glean what was to come. Blissfully ignorant, I waved good-bye to Darby at the intersection of US Route 98 and NW 144 and started walking.
Yikes.
There was no shade anywhere. Road, field, and eventually the canal levees were all fully exposed with few places to duck out of the heat along the way. It was a barrage, a state of constant sunshine I could not outwalk.
Water was scarce. I rationed as best I could and carried multiple liters. Although I hiked for miles along a bike path with canal on one side and Lake Okeechobee on the other, both were full of both potential agricultural run-off and alligators. So no, not great sources for hydration.
Luckily, people along the way were incredibly generous. The first day, I passed an older gentleman in a golf cart who filled all my bottles with cold water from a jug. Trail angels left stations along the dryer sections, though many of these were not kept up due to the lateness of the hiking season.
The barkeep at a fish camp a half mile off the canal told me no one along Lake Okeechobee drinks water from the faucet; she, too, filled me up from a fridge of bottled water behind the bar.
Tenting along the dike was tricky, as well. The bike path sloped down in both directions and the designated campsites were too close to civilization for me, as a lone female hiker, to trust. One night I slept next to a water control station, the next under a covered bench.
I woke up early to get in a few hours of sunless hiking.
The moon was bright and full, and I walked without a headlamp while the dawn crept slowly up from behind the distant trees.
Late on the morning of the third day, I finally reached the terminus of the Ocean to Lake Trail, wondering how I ever could have thought that walking on sun beaten levees would be fun.
I was never happier to be back in the woods. This was the Florida I had come to know and love: saw palmettos, grassy prairies, soft, sandy paths.
Shade.
The FarOut app kept mentioning swamp buggy trails along the initial stretch of the OTL, and I started to pass evidence of their assault.
These massive vehicles crash through the forest, tearing up ground and leaving scarred swaths behind. I passed a fleet of the offending machines during a late afternoon sprinkle and thought what a shame it was that the drivers couldn’t appreciate the surrounding beauty in a less offensive way.
Other creatures tore up the trail. Feral pigs roamed the woods, rooting up lengths of the path with their powerful tusks.
What they left behind was a minefield of furrows and holes that could roll any inattentive ankle. The morning of the fourth day, all fury rained down from the sky. Marching along, hunched over against the storm, I surprised a herd of these bellicose brutes grunting on either side of me. Perhaps they were as startled as I, for we both scattered, squealing, in opposite directions.
Despite the storm, my feet were the driest they had ever been in any previous year. I even opted to skip a high water bypass, taking instead the direct route through an actual pond. I was so happy I did. Flocks of white birds circled overhead as I slushed along in the cool, clear water.
Later, I turn a corner and a small fawn wobbles toward me, ears alert and curious. It’s the sweetest moment, a reward for the agony of the dikes.
The last day comes all too soon. I weave in and out between forest road and trail in Jonathan Dickinson State Park.
There are boardwalks and bridges, cacti and creative blazing, as I approach the end of the wilderness and cross the threshold back into the world on one last sandy push.
Time to swim.
I dump the pack in my car and race toward the beach. Huge waves smash against the sand, and no one is swimming. Cautiously, I wade out, hoping I’m not breaking some rule.
The water is wild and I time a crest, ducking under at the last minute. The force pulls me under froth and foam. I almost lose my shorts and hope the nice families of Hobe Sound are looking elsewhere. For a brief second, I wonder if I’ll be pulled out to sea, but I stagger to my feet, laughing, baptized, fully alive.
Driving home is uneventful. I’m tired, of course, and footsore.
But infinitely grateful that there is a trail I can retreat to when winter overwhelms, grateful for the wild, grateful there is Someone watching over me through the good and the hard.
walkwithme413 