After the motorboat drove off, leaving Kevin and I, our boats, and about one hundred pounds of gear off on Big Major Cay (near Staniel Cay), we were on our own for a honeymoon paddling and snorkeling adventure in the Exuma Islands in the Bahamas. This was day 1 of a six-day self-supported kayak trip from Big Major Cay back to Barreterre, where we had started. Although we had done several self-supported kayak trips before, the remoteness of this trip called for new levels of teamwork and flexibility; we were each other’s back up and safety.
In the late 1800s, Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811-1896) followed a seasonal migration pattern now familiar to all Floridians—snowbirds landing in Florida to bask in our balmy winters. Today people cruise down I-95 and I-75 in RVs. In Stowe’s time, they cruised down the St. Johns in steamships.
Stowe wintered in Mandarin, Florida in a house overlooking the St. Johns River, a river she came to love. Her book Palmetto Leaves describes her life and community in Florida and offers advice for other northerners heading south. In particular, she reminisces about sailing and boating on the St. Johns River. In the St. Johns lower basin, near Mandarin, the river is slow and wide, almost a mile wide at some points. Preparing for a day of boating, she describes her view as
…five good miles of molten silver in the shape of the St. Johns River, outspread this morning in all its quivering sheen, glancing, dimpling and sparkling, dotted with sailboats, and occasionally ploughed by steamboats gliding like white swans back and forth across the distance.
View from Black Knight Boat ramp
The St. Johns River was Florida’s “grand river highway,” and travel by steamship was more comfortable and safer than travel overland. Florida’s dense scrub landscape made land-based travel extremely difficult, so boats and rivers were a lifeline to Florida settlers, traders, and tourists.
Steamships helped open the market for Florida tourism. In Palmetto Leaves, Stowe wrote that the
St. John’s is the grand water-highway through some of the most beautiful portions of Florida; and tourists, safely seated at ease on the decks of steamers, can penetrate into the mysteries and wonders of unbroken tropical forests.
Passengers from the north could enjoy Florida’s warm winters and reach locations such as Sanford, Silver Springs, and Palatka by ship.
By the mid-1800s, steamships plied the route between Jacksonville and Sanford, carrying goods, people, and agricultural products. Boats that took passengers on the Ocklawaha and the Silver River required the smaller, more maneuverable sternwheeler, as in the Okahumkee below. Passengers heading northward transferred to larger ocean-going side-wheel paddleboats in Jacksonville.
Stowe describes her overnight cruise upriver—south—to Enterprise. This grand round, or tour, up the St. Johns River to Enterprise, across to St. Augustine, and back, she wrote, marks the “accomplished Floridian sight-seer.
Turning our boat homeward, we sailed in clear morning light back through the charming scenery which we had slept through the night before. It is the most wild, dream-like, enchanting sail conceivable. The river sometimes narrows so that the boat brushes under overhanging branches, and then widens into beautiful lakes dotted with wooded islands. [Palmetto Leaves]
Only the “constant and pertinacious firing kept up by that class of men who think that the chief end of man is to shoot something” detracted from her trip.
The city of Enterprise on Lake Monroe was the southern terminus of the navigable section of the St. Johns River. Even today, most navigational charts stop at Sanford. In Stowe’s day, visitors to Sanford could stay in the elegant Hotel Sanford, built in 1886.
Henry Shelton Sanford (1823-1891) established the city of Sanford in the 1870s. He imported thousands of citrus trees to develop the citrus industry and established Sanford as a commercial and tourism hub of central Florida.
Today, most visitors arrive in Florida by car, plane, and occasionally, train, and the big rat dominates the tourism scene. Beecher’s slow trip up and down the St. Johns might not offer the excitement of Disney’s Splash Mountain, but traveling Florida’s waterways gives us a glimpse into the past, when rivers were our highways. Today, the Barbara-Lee, a stern wheel paddleboat, takes visitors for a slow cruise along the river, revealing birds and other wildlife. Others enjoy the St. Johns on pontoon boats, kayaks, and sailboats, seeing aspects of Florida only visible from water. These trips remind us that we have—and still do—rely on our rivers for commerce, transportation, and recreation. The St. Johns River is still the River of Life.
Visit the River of Dreams at the Matheson History Museum, 513 E University Avenue, Gainesville, FL 32601 Phone: (352) 378-2280
Hours: 11:00 a.m. – 4:00 p.m., Tuesday – Saturday
The Matheson will offer related programming from now through June, ranging from talks at the museum to paddling tours guided by Lars Anderson at Adventure Outpost. Visit the Matheson’s events page for details.
This exhibition emerged from the research of Dr. Whitney Sanford, Florence Turcotte, and students in the UF Religion Department, and was made possible by the generous support of Visit Gainesville; the State of Florida, Division of Cultural Affairs; and the Center for the Humanities and the Public Sphere at the University of Florida.
Thank you to our partners the Special & Area Studies Collections of the George A. Smathers Libraries at UF, UF Religion Department, and the UF Museum Studies Program, as well as the UF Florida Puerto Rico Digital Newspaper Project, the Laboratory of Southeastern Archeology, Department of Anthropology at UF and the National Park Service, Timucuan Ecological and Historic Preserve.
Curator: Briley Rasmussen
Associate Curators: Alexis Schuman and Lauren O’Neill
Guest curators: A. Whitney Sanford, Florence Turcotte
Assisted by: Peggy Macdonald, Sarah ‘Moxy’ Mocyzgemba, Amanda M. Nichols, Brian K. Szymborski
On January 21, 2017, the Matheson History Museum welcomed visitors to River of Dreams: The St. Johns River and its Springs. This exhibit took months of planning, fieldwork, and meetings (and several heroic late nights by UF Museum Studies personnel), but seeing the images and the silhouette of the river installed on the museum’s walls made it all worthwhile.
Oak Hammock residents tour the exhibit
As I have fallen in love with Florida’s rivers, lakes, and springs, I have become curious about the people whose lives are entwined with our waters—then and now. A research project on the St. Johns River gave me an opportunity to learn more about this riverine ecosystem and its inhabitants. And, of course, this research afforded me more time on the water and in the water.
St Johns History Paddle-In William Bartram’s Wake (Photo credit: Doug Alderson)Satsuma Springs (Photo credit: Doug Alderson)
From the pre-Columbian era, indigenous peoples, explorers, artists, and fishers have drawn sustenance and inspiration from the St. Johns River, named an America’s Heritage River in 1998. Similarly, the crystal clear springs that erupt from the Floridan Aquifer and flow into the St. Johns have been a source of pride for residents of north central Florida, past and present. Continuous waves of settlements along the St. Johns River and its springs—from Native American mounds to contemporary fish camps—remind us that rivers like the St. Johns once served as America’s highways and illustrate how humans have lived with the river’s ebbs and flows and defined what it means to call north central Florida home.
Courtesy of Matheson History Museum
In particular, I wanted to explore the complicated relationships between people and places and the diverse ways that people express their care for their ecosystems. For example, how do different groups understand, articulate, and, sometimes, deny environmental concerns? Today, the St. Johns and its springs face challenges that range from agricultural and industrial run-off to sea-level rise and threaten the lives and livelihoods of everyone in the river’s 310-square-mile watershed, from its headwaters near Vero Beach to Jacksonville. In 1947, Marjory Stoneman Douglas explained how Florida’s unique limestone geology is like a limestone spoon that maintains the fragile balance of holding our fresh water apart from saltwater. This balance is threatened by projected sea-level rise and increased freshwater consumption, which alters the river, its flora and fauna, and riverine cultures.
Mainstream environmental groups like the Sierra Club and Nature Conservancy are working to address these challenges, and their efforts tend to receive media coverage because water concerns are some of the most hotly contested issues in contemporary Florida. Other groups—few of whom would identify as environmentalists—are also working to sustain their river-based lives and livelihoods. For example, rallies to save rivers and springs draw fishers, a burgeoning kayaking industry, other river- and springs-based small businesses, and people with long memories of life on the river who represent what I call Old Florida environmentalism. While many of these Old Florida environmentalists might not identify with the broader environmental movement, they care deeply about their home, the St. Johns River and their springs. As I have attended river rallies and spoken to many people, I have learned that many of us share concerns about the St. Johns River, its springs, and our water supply and wonder how we will adapt to emerging issues, even if we do not use the same language to express our concerns.
Save our Springs (saveoursuwannee.org)
River of Dreams: A Journey through Time and Space
My journey began in the St. Johns River’s headwaters near Vero Beach. With friend and photographer Anne Ledbetter, we visited Fort Drum Marsh and Blue Cypress Lake, what most people designate as the river’s headwaters (St. Johns Headwaters: Finding Wildness in an Engineered Waterscape). We followed the river’s northerly course, visiting sites to better understand the contemporary and historical riverine cultures and the problems they face. In fish camps and other sites, we saw the complicated and often conflicting attitudes regarding the river and environmental change. Many people living and working along the St. Johns River have long family histories and deep emotional connections with the river. While they care for the river and derive income through river-based business, many of these Old Florida environmentalists deny climate change and express their care for the river using terms such as “creation care” rather than “environmentalism.” Fish camps, for example, are small fishing-camp resorts or restaurants along rivers and lakes and are considered part of the pre-Disney Old Florida.
Our journey through time and space along the ‘River of Dreams’ prompts us to consider how emerging challenges will shape these ways of life. Subsequent stops will show how early snowbirds such as writer Harriet Beecher Stowe cruised the St. Johns, the Highway A1A of its day, and how contemporary fish camps offer a glimpse of Old Florida. Further north, the Kinsgley Plantation became home to scores of enslaved Africans. Finally, the St. Johns River flows to the sea, carrying waste away from those upstream. River of Dreams illustrates the richness of human life along the St. Johns and that we can choose how we interact with this river. Shared concerns about the river cutting across cultural, racial, and class lines suggests opportunities for resilience and adapting to climate change, pollution, and over-pumping. More important, perhaps we will see that diverse groups can find common ground about their riverine home.
Visit the River of Dreams at the Matheson History Museum, 513 E University Avenue, Gainesville, FL 32601 Phone: (352) 378-2280
Hours: 11:00 a.m. – 4:00 p.m., Tuesday – Saturday
The Matheson will offer related programming from now through June, ranging from talks at the museum to paddling tours guided by Lars Anderson at Adventure Outpost. Visit the Matheson’s events page for details.
This exhibition emerged from the research of Dr. Whitney Sanford, Florence Turcotte, and students in the UF Religion Department, and was made possible by the generous support of Visit Gainesville; the State of Florida, Division of Cultural Affairs; and the Center for the Humanities and the Public Sphere at the University of Florida.
Thank you to our partners the Special & Area Studies Collections of the George A. Smathers Libraries at UF, UF Religion Department, and the UF Museum Studies Program, as well as the UF Florida Puerto Rico Digital Newspaper Project, the Laboratory of Southeastern Archeology, Department of Anthropology at UF and the National Park Service, Timucuan Ecological and Historic Preserve.
Curator: Briley Rasmussen
Associate Curators: Alexis Schuman and Lauren O’Neill
Guest curators: A. Whitney Sanford, Florence Turcotte
Assisted by: Peggy Macdonald, Sarah ‘Moxy’ Mocyzgemba, Amanda M. Nichols, Brian K. Szymborski
“Should it stay or should it go”— my paddleboard presents logistical challenges for Kevin and me before any sailing trip. I can’t conceive of a sailing trip without the SUP—especially a trip to the Florida Keys. The sailboat allows me to paddle in otherwise inaccessible places. Kevin, on the other hand, focuses on the practicalities of towing a 10 1/2′ board behind an 18′ sailboat. On our recent trip to the Keys, I prevailed and the paddleboard made the trip. The clear, calm, and shallow waters of the Keys are perfect for paddleboarding (To Sup or Not To SUP). I’ve seen rays, sharks, and barracuda from the vantage point of my board, especially near the the biologically rich mangroves.
Clear waters near the mangroves
We were aiming for the Keys backcountry, a remote shallow area on the Gulf side which is characterized by mangroves and small islands. Several years ago, we camped and paddled to the Mud and Snipe Keys. This time we hoped to reach Content Key, one of the outermost islands, after anchoring overnight at Little Pine Key.On December 28, we left our slip at Sombrero Resort and Marina in Marathon and headed north towards Little Pine Key. We motor-sailed under the high point of the Seven Mile Bridge, then sailed with favorable winds to Little Pine Key.
Kevin checking sail trim
Chart for Little Pine Key
The winds and currents made our 15-mile journey pass surprisingly fast, and we reached the southwest side of Little Pine Key mid-afternoon. After a short scouting sail around our anchorage, we dropped anchor less than 100 feet from the mangrove shore, a mistake we discovered when the bugs came out for dinner. In our small boat, our very sophisticated anchoring technique involves me jumping into the water, towing the boat to a good location, then jumping on the anchor to set it. (Perhaps not ASA procedure, but effective.)
Once we were settled, I inflated the board and paddled around the bay. My inflatable Uli Steamroller works well for sailing trips. The board can be stowed away easily, and the soft rubber won’t hurt the sailboat when it is being towed. The still weather let me do both a sunset and sunrise paddle.
Calm waters
Sunrise over Little Pine Key
KneeDeep at anchor
Don’t try this at home
After a calm night in our floating tent, we knew our luck was about to change. A front with predicted winds of over 25 mph and gusts of 30 was moving into the area. Forecasters used terms like “surging winds” that put us on full alert. We re-evaluated our goal of Content Key and pointed south towards the protected harbor of Bahia Honda State Park. Bahia Honda Park is a jewel of the Florida State Park system, and it is always a treat to visit the park.
Pelican at Bahia Honda
Manatee in Bahia Honda marina
Our detour to Bahia Honda State Park gave us an unexpected bonus: News Years Eve on the Molasses Keys with our friends Monica and Frank Woll of Florida Bay Outfitters. So, on yet another unnervingly gusty day, we sailed east from Bahia Honda to the Molasses Keys, only a 7 mile sail. Nonetheless, sailing into strong easterly gusts challenged us and pushed the limits of our—and KneeDeep’s—capabilities. Eventually we motor-sailed, only leaving our 150 Genoa up. This arrangement worked well until it didn’t—when the motor inexpicably stopped. A large sheet of plastic has gotten wrapped around the propeller.
While Kevin controlled the boat, I hung from the ladder and disentangled the plastic. Not quite as easy as it sounds, especially because the boat was still sailing and we were headed to shore. This incident reinforced some lessons from what I think of as ‘my year of plastics.’ My experiences on Exxpedition in the Caribbean (There is No Magical Place Called Away) and on Shuyak Island in Alaska (Hiding in Plain Sight: Ropes, Nets, and Plastics in Alaska) taught me a great deal about the dangers of marine plastics.
Tropical paradise awaited us at the Molasses Keys—rum, hammocks, and clear skies! And almost no garbage—Frank and Monica routinely clean up these islands. The Molasses Keys are privately-owned by Frank and Monica, but camping is permitted. To do so, please contact Frank and Monica through the Friends of Molasses Keys page on facebook. We spent a glorious New Year’s Eve camping on the larger of the two Molasses Keys and heard fireworks usher in 2017.
New Years Day revealed some highlights of paddleboarding and snorkelling in the Keys— calm and clear waters. Circumnavigating Molasses Keys can be a challenge paddling through the waves on the south side.
Photo credit: Monica Woll
Photo credit: Monica Woll
Too soon, it was time to sail back to the marina then head back north. As always, the Florida Keys are a magical place, whether sailing, SUP’ing, or just sipping on a beer. The paddleboard gave us a number of challenges; for example, it flipped several times in following seas while being towed. Nonetheless, the board has earned its keep—it almost doubles our space while at anchor! The board stays.
Our final challenge: Orange Springs to the Rodman Dam campsite. Although we only had six miles to paddle, dark skies loomed overhead and paddlers hunched over cell phones assessing the possibility of rain. The Paddle Florida truck was loaded with gear, wet from the night’s rain, and we waited, some more patiently than others, for permission to launch.
Today’s paddle would take us across Lake Ocklawaha, or the Rodman Reservoir, over the barely submerged stumps of drowned trees. Karen Chadwick warned us to follow the channel markers and avoid taking the shortcuts that looked so tempting. Hitting a submerged log could lead to a dangerous capsize. I paddled through this tree graveyard last spring after the drawdown and was struck by its eerie beauty (Requiem for a River).
Floodscape“Hold my beer”Danger lurks belowPhoto credit: Henry Dorfman
At 8:45, Bill cleared us to launch and we retraced our path from Orange Springs to the main channel of the Ocklawaha River. During our paddle from Eureka to Orange Springs, the character of the river changed: it widened and became choked by vegetation. Without a little push from the river current, this final paddle across Lake Ocklawaha was destined to be a slog under any circumstances. We embarked, all hoping to cross the lake before the impending storm.
The route was obvious in the beginning—a clear line of channel markers led the way. After we passed the Kenwood boat ramp on the left, our goal—Rodman Dam campground—lay exactly due east across the lake. Easier said than done, however. As most of the group entered the widest part of the lake, the skies darkened and a squall passed overhead. The winds picked up and it was difficult to see more than several boats lengths ahead. I followed my compass heading to the east, trusting my heading was correct.
Clouds gather Photo credit: Henry DorfmanThe deluge begins Photo credit: Henry DorfmanRescue at sea Photo credit: Henry Dorfman
The wind, waves, and rain challenged everyone. As I waited by a channel marker trying to guide paddlers in, I struggled to hold position against gusts that threatened to capsize my boat. The storm passed, everyone arrived safely to the campground, and skies brightened for a final group meal, catered by Backwoods Smokehouse and Grill. The sunshine and abundant food left everyone in good cheer as we returned to our cars and said our final goodbyes to new and old friends.
After the storm Photo credit: Fred Haaser
The storm challenged everyone, including rescue boaters, and several people asked how they might improve their skills. How can strokes and edging help you control your boat in the wind? Where can you learn rough water skills to prepare for the open waters of large lakes or coastal waters? There are many pathways to improve paddling and safety skills. Learning self-rescue techniques, including the roll, provides the capability and confidence to tackle bigger challenges.
Classes and certifications:
ACA (American Canoe Association) and Paddlesports North America (the American version of BCU, British Canoe Union) offer certifications and sequential instruction in kayaking and other paddle sports. Their webpages show the skills required for the different certifications and list instructors and programs that teach these skills. The sites mentioned below offer ACA and PNA/BCU programs in the southeast.
Symposia and instruction in the southeast:
The East Coast Paddlesports Symposium, held annually each April in Charleston, SC, offers a range of on and off-water classes and the opportunity to demo equipment. Many retailers bring boats, paddles, and other gear, and this is one of the best places to see a wide range of equipment. Classes are held on the lake and on the more challenging waters near Folly Beach.
Sea Kayak Georgia located on Tybee Island, and Savannah Canoe and Kayak offer private kayak and paddle board instruction and expeditions. The waters around Tybee Island provide a good instruction to rough water. Dale Williams of Sea Kayaking USA , also on Tybee, offers more advanced instruction.
Each October, Ronnie Kemp and Marsha Henson of Sea Kayak Georgia bring in world-class instructors such as Dale Williams, Nigel Dennis (Sea Kayaking UK) and Eila Wilkinson (Tidal Waters) for their symposium. Sea Kayak Georgia’s symposium offers instruction and assessment for PNA/BCU three and four star levels.
Russell Farrow of Sweetwater Kayaks in St. Petersburg, FL provides instruction in and around Weedon Island. Their annual symposium in March brings in world-class instructors, offering classes from rolling to Greenland-style paddling.
For those who have caught the kayak surf bug, Cross Currents Sea Kayaking offers the Kiptopeke Symposium in the rougher waters in coastal Virginia.
This list is not exhaustive. Opportunities for instruction abound in the southeast and beyond. Playing and surfing in rough coastal waters is safe and fun once you have mastered some basic skills. So get out there and have fun!
On December 3, over sixty intrepid kayakers gathered in Silver Springs State Park for a four-day adventure down the Silver and Ocklawaha Rivers. Our journey began in the crystal clear headwaters of the Silver River and ended in the murky waters of manmade Lake Ocklawaha near the Rodman Dam. Our float down these rivers helped us better understand the lives of those who once made the Ocklawaha home and contemporary controversies over the fate of the Ocklawaha River.
On our first morning, we paddled six miles down the Silver River. Some paddlers saw monkeys and a couple rare manatees that make it past the dam. Herons, ibis, and anhingas sunned themselves on this warm December day. After lunch at Ray Wayside Park, we continued down, or up geographically, the north-flowing Ocklawaha. The river was surprisingly clear—perhaps an effect of the drought.
Herding cats for a photo Photo credit: Henry DorfmanManatee on the Silver River Photo credit: Henry DorfmanMonkey on the Silver River Photo credit: Henry DorfmanSunning bird Photo credit: Henry Dorfman
Sixteen and one-half miles down river from our start, we set up camp at Gore’s Landing. That night, Peggy MacDonald, Executive Director of the Matheson History Museum in Gainesville, Florida, and I spoke about the Ocklawaha River and its springs, in anticipation of our forthcoming exhibit at the Matheson: “The St. Johns River and Its Springs.” In her book Marjorie Harris Carr: Defender of Florida’s Environment, Peggy describes Carr’s efforts to stop the Cross Florida Barge canal. The canal was never completed, but the Rodman Dam on the once free-flowing Ocklawaha River remains, creating an artificial reservoir called Lake Ocklawaha. The high waters have dramatically altered the river’s ecosystem, drowning trees and disturbing habitat of fish and fowl. Captain Karen Chadwick and filmmaker Matt Keene (River Be Dammed) were also present to discuss contemporary efforts to free the Ocklawaha.
Sunday’s paddle from Gore’s Landing to Eureka was a quick 9 miles, and we reached camp by lunchtime. The Ocklawaha was still remarkably clear, but we all knew that would change as we reached Lake Ocklawaha.
Photo credit: Henry Dorfman
Photo credit: Henry Dorfman
Photo credit: Henry Dorfman
Photo credit: Henry Dorfman
That night, University of Florida archivist Flo Turcotte spoke about acclaimed author Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, moonshine, and life on the Ocklawaha River. Rawling’s novel South Moon Under depicts the lives of the Jacklin family who lived in the scrub along the Ocklawaha and relied on their moonshine income as farming and trapping became less economically viable. Paddling through the dense scrub made me realize how tough their lives must have been. After the talk, Flo passed out samples of moonshine, which would help power us up for Monday’s 13-mile paddle to Orange Springs.
On Monday, most people made the short detour to see the Cannon Spring, one of the lost springs drowned by the flooded Ocklawaha. Karen said that this spring captured the imagination of the public and was one of the most valuable tools in the initial efforts to restore the Ocklawaha. Later, during the 2015-6 drawdown, images of Cannon spring on social media introduced many to this once-hidden gem, and scores of people visited Cannon during its short window of visibility (Searching for—and Finally Finding—Cannon Springs. After the drawdown when the waters rose, many would mourn the re-drowning of this treasure (Losing Cannon Springs).
Entrance to Cannon springs Photo Credit: Henry DorfmanCannon springs freed
Flooded Cannon Spring–2016
After our side trip to Cannon Springs, we searched for our lunch stop, just past the sign for Payne’s Landing. The Treaty of Payne’s Landing in 1832 commemorates some of the worst episodes of our nation’s history. The treaty forced Seminoles to relocate to Oklahoma along the Trail of Tears. Further, escaped slaves would lose the protection they had gained by joining with the Seminoles.
After this point, the river became slower, wider, and clogged with vegetation. The Ocklawaha River is lowered every three to four years to eliminate the vegetation that makes the river impassable. Although the drawdown ended less than a year prior, the main channel was already blocked. Fortunately, Paddle Florida Executive Director Bill Richards had arranged for help from Mickey Thomason with the Office of Greenways and Trails. Possibly for the first time in history, kayakers cheered the sound of an airboat.Florida’s version of a snowplow, an airboat with a rake attached to the front, cleared a route through the thick vegetation, and we paddled single file through the narrow path that remained open only briefly.
Photo credit: Henry DorfmanAirboat to the rescue Photo credit: Henry DorfmanPhoto credit: Henry DorfmanPhoto credit: Henry Dorfman
Paddling through the weeds was difficult, but a tailwind pushed us towards our camp at Orange Springs. The day was sunny, but winds signaled that the weather would be changing. Fortunately, the rain held off long enough for us to enjoy a concert under the stars by Whitey Markle and the Swamprooters. Hearing him sing “The Poor Old Ocklawaha” reminded us that this still beautiful river—and all the wildlife that lives in and around it—will suffer as long as the dam remains.
Before going to bed that night, everyone checked their tents and tightened stakes and lines. We had all heard reports of rain and storms, and we wondered about the next day’s paddling conditions. To be continued in Ocklawaha Odyssey, Part 2.
Paddling upstream in the dark on Rock Springs Run with loaded paddleboards—an auspicious start to our SUP camping trip? Jill, Janice, and I had set out for three nights of camping in the Wekiwa River Basin, just north of Orlando. Our destination, Otter Primitive Campsite, was several miles upstream. The calm, clear waters of the Wekiwa River and Rock Springs Run seemed like an ideal site to try out a multi-day SUP trip, and fortunately Jill and Janice quickly agree to almost any adventure.
Wekiwa Springs State Park Map
We arrived at Wekiwa Spring State Park around 4:30, later than we’d intended. Within an hour, we had ferried our boards, firewood, and gear down the hill to the boat launch. Although the three of us are experienced kayak campers, loading paddleboards with gear presents a different challenge than loading kayaks. We packed efficiently like backpackers and were pleasantly surprised at how well the gear fit on the boards. I bought my 12′ Fanatic Ray because its thick rails and quasi-displacement hull make it suitable for touring with gear. I loaded a mesh bag full of camping gear and smaller dry bags under the bungee cords on the bow and placed the food on the stern, behind my feet. Janice and Jill both packed their gear into larger drybags. We each carried a 10 liter MRS dromedary water bag on our boards—much more than we actually needed.
12′ loaded Fanatic RayPacking up at the Wekiwa River launch
To reach Otter Camp, the first of the three campsites on Rock Springs Run (heading upstream) meant paddling a short distance down the Wekiwa River until we reached Rock Springs Run, then 2-3 miles upstream. None of us had paddled loaded boards before, and we were all surprised at their stability. Finally we launched, trying to make the most of our final hour of sunlight.
The downstream section of the Wekiwa River went fast as the current moved us along. The sun’s light illuminated submerged logs that could snag a fin—a paddleboard hazard that kayakers do not face. We reached the confluence of the rivers quickly, but once we turned upstream we realized that our journey would take much longer than we anticipated. Low water conditions made the current swift, and we eddy-hopped back and forth across the river to avoid the swiftest parts. Rock Springs Run was shallower and twistier than the Wekiwa, and the clear water made it difficult to determine depth. At a slower pace, we continued upstream, appreciating the river’s beauty in the fading light.
Reflections on the Rock springs Run
Eventually the last of the sunlight disappeared, and we could see the moon’s rays through the trees. We put on our headlamps. [Note to self: either leave earlier or pack the headlamps on top.] Paddling upstream in the dark added an entirely new dimension to our trip, but it was strangely calming, especially after weeks of election-related noise. The only thing breaking the calm were occasional peals of hysterical laughter when one of us got snagged. We all knew that alligators lurked in the area, but none of us dared to actually mention this fact. We aimed our lights at the shore, hoping for signs of our campsite. After two hours of paddling, we arrived at Otter Camp.
Entrance to Otter CampRiverside view
Our home for the next three nights, Otter Camp has room for up to 10 tents, two benches, a large locking bear box to store food in, and a campfire ring. The site overlooks the river, and it is hard to believe that we were in the outskirts of Orlando. Over the next two days, we paddled up and down the Rock Springs Run, and friends came to join us. Exploring it during daylight, the stream seemed like three different rivers. Slow and wide towards the top, twisty and fast in the middle, and wide and open towards the bottom. We saw egrets, limpkins, herons, kingfishers, and ibis—and one hawk. Lots of turtles and no gator sightings until we paddled Juniper Spring Run on Sunday.
A narrow stretch of the Rock Springs RunDucking under trees and branchesGreat Blue HeronIbis on a branch
On Sunday morning, we packed up and reversed our route. With lighter loads and downstream current, the trip took one hour. Overall, I was happy with my gear selections and my paddleboard. I cover less distance on my paddleboard than I do in my kayak (NDK Pilgrim Expedition), so I’ll need to account for that on future trips. Using a basecamp worked for our shake-down trip, but the Wekiva/Rock Springs Run/St Johns area several options for moving camps daily. Sections of the Florida Circumnavigation Trail are also appropriate for a paddleboard. Even though our trip did not have the most auspicious start, our ability to adapt to—and laugh at— our circumstances set the tone for the trip. I think we got as much of a workout from laughter as from paddling. The only question is where to next?
Anne and I rose early to catch the early morning light on Blue Cypress Lake. A late afternoon storm had skunked us on paddling the night before, and we were determined to get on the water. After a quick cup of coffee, we lowered boat and board into the water and paddled through the glassy waters, silently, heading towards the trees that give Blue Cypress Lake its name. (The cypress trees did indeed look blue in the early morning light.) The day was so calm and quiet, I felt like I had melted into the scenery. Other than the one large splash that made both of us jump, the lake was dead calm.
Deck at Middleton’s Fish CampMoss hanging form the treesAnother storm rolling inGlassy calm on a windless morning
We had spent the night at Middleton’s Fish Camp, right on Blue Cypress Lake, in a cabin that backed onto a canal. Although Blue Cypress Lake is not far from Vero Beach and the more developed coastal area, the lake felt isolated and remote. We had come to take pictures for our River of Dreams exhibit at the Matheson History Museum (Winter 2017). Most people, however, come to Middleton’s Fish Camp to catch large-mouth bass, catfish, and speckled perch (crappie), among other things. Jeanne Middleton, who writes the fishing report, the armored catfish, relatively unknown in Florida, draws fishers from Suriname where the fish is considered a delicacy.
“Nature held in trust”
Anne and I had come to Blue Cypress Lake and Middleton’s Fish Camp to explore the headwaters region of the St. Johns River. Officially the headwaters is somewhere in the Fort Drum Marsh Conservation Area, a swampy area that lies just south of Blue Cypress Lake. I had hoped to paddle from the actual start of the St. Johns River, but I learned that noone can really pinpoint the exact start of the river. Vince Lamb, a nature photographer and environmental activist, noted that “somewhere two drops of rain fall, and one heads to Lake Okeechobee and the other heads north into the St Johns.” Many people consider Blue Cypress Lake itself to be the headwaters which, in terms of paddling and navigation, it is.
The road north from Blue Cypress Lake towards Fellesmere parallels the river as it moved through a series of canals. On Sunday afternoon, boat trailers lined the canal, but the stormy weather and a Monday morning had driven off the fisherman. In Fellesmere, we stopped for some ‘Old Florida Cuisine’ at the Marsh Landing Restaurant.
Fueled by swamp cabbage soup and Cajun-spiced catfish (noone had heard of the armored catfish), we aimed for Stick Marsh/Farm 13, a reclaimed area known for its bass fishing. Created in 1987, Stick Marsh/Farm 13 is one of many Florida messes, like the Everglades, where our tax dollars fund both destruction and restoration at the same time. Writing about the St. Johns River Restoration Project and Stick Marsh, bass fishing guide Jim Porter describes the project as “Saving a Friend.”At one point, Stick Marsh was heavily stocked with bass and crappie, and now the area “is synonymous with trophy bass and other fishing.”
Photo credit: stickmarsh.com
Water management
En route to Stick Marsh
This entire area near the headwaters struck me as a confusing mix of wilderness and engineered landscape. Blue Cypress Lake itself has few access points and felt remote—even Middleton’s Fish Camp felt removed from the nearby more developed coastal areas. But the roads and the canals—obviously engineered—also felt remote and wild as well. The day before, sitting at Camp Holly near Melbourne, Vince had told us that the upper—or southern—part of the St. Johns River is much wilder than the lower, that there is more development along the river as you go further north. It is much easier to do a wilderness paddling trip along the upper St. Johns.
Canal near Stick Marsh
Engineered or not, the headwaters region of the St. Johns River is a beautiful and wild marshy waterscape, and Blue Cypress Lake took my breath away. Each section of the St. Johns River has its own beauty, and the river and the people who live, play, and fish on the river tell me their stories. I look forward to learning more of these stories as I explore the St. Johns and its tributaries and springs for our “River of Dreams” exhibit.
After a summer on the water, I was ready to brave Florida’s August heat for a hike through the Rice Creek Conservation Area. Just west of Palatka, this conservation area’s trails wander through cypress swamps and the headwaters of Rice Creek. Rice Creek flows into the St. Johns River and is listed on Putnam County’s Bartram Trail map. William Bartram, an 18th century Quaker explorer and botanist, traveled through Florida and wrote of his visit in his Travels.
The Bartram map includes biking, hiking, and paddling trails that incorporate these historic sites, perfect for a mix of history and outdoor adventure and most sites are marked with a QR code, linking viewers to relevant information. Last fall, I joined Paddle Florida‘s St. Johns History Paddle where we explored Bartram sites by water, and I wrote about this trip in In William Bartram’s Wake. Over the past year, I have been scouting sites around the St. Johns River for a Spring 2017 exhibit at the Matheson History Museum, “River of Dreams: The St. Johns River and Its Springs.”
Credit: St. Johns Water Management District
The QR code at the parking lot marked this site as the terminus of Bartram’s trip up Rice Creek. The kiosk explained that this area was established as a rice and indigo plantation in the 1780s, hence the name Rice Creek. After a short walk along an exposed gravel road, we entered the shaded woods. The trail is narrow and crowded with palmettos, cypress trees, and other greenery, typical of the Florida scrub. Spiders had woven massive webs across the trail, and I ducked under these webs.
Walking through this landscape reminds how difficult land travel once was, especially Florida’s swampy landscape. Rivers like the St. Johns and smaller creeks were America’s roads and highways, and people and goods moved by river and sea.
Scrub landscapeSpider webs across the trailBridge to view the large cypress tree{Enormous cypress tree
We followed the white blazes which soon merged with the Florida Trail.This section of the Florida Trail is raised on a dike and reveals the remnants of the file and drainage system of the rice and indigo plantation. Here, we walked alongside small creeks and swampy areas that comprised the headwaters of Rice Creek. The water was low, but the muddy terrain and cypress knees hint at much higher water levels.
Rice Creek HeadwatersRice Creek HiltonRice CreekCypress knees
We walked just over a two-mile section of the area north of SR100, mostly around the headwaters. Rice Creek crosses under SR 100 and flows for approximately 7 miles to the St. Johns River. On January 30, 1766, William and John Bartram landed at the mouth of Rice Creek, then called Gray’s Creek, and rowed upstream.
Credit: Putnam county Bartram Trail
“According to John Bartram’s journal, they found the creek to be about 60 feet across and 15 feet deep and meandering in a west by south direction. After progressing about seven miles, though the water was still 7 feet deep and more than sufficient for their shallow draft vessel, and more than 30 feet wide, they found the creek blocked with trees and snags and turned about to retrace their route back to the St. Johns. ” (http://bartram.putnam-fl.com/index.php/trail-history/sites-1-thru-10/site-3-nbsp-grays-creek-final)
The Bartram Trail Map depicts a route for paddlers, and I have yet to visit this section of river. Apparently, the paddle is wild and beautiful, but this chilling description in the Florida Times-Union gives me pause:
“As we entered the creek, the 50 people on board immediately became silent. There was no sound anywhere, no wildlife except for vultures in the trees along the banks. A deathly pall hung over the area. Even the trees looked sickly and stressed.
Rice Creek lies downstream of the Georgia-Pacific paper mill in Palatka, and the mill has been discharging waste into Rice Creek since 1947.Fortunately groups such as the St. Johns Riverkeeper have been working to mitigate damage to Rice Creek and the St Johns.
William Bartram encountered relatively clean, although inhabited, landscapes and waterscapes and wrote of their beauty. Following in his wake and imagining what he saw helps me see these places with fresh eyes and reminds me these land and waterscapes are my home and worth protecting.
On July 4, fueled by a hearty stack of blueberry pancakes, Jill, Scott, Kevin, and I launched three kayaks and one paddleboard from Rocky Creek Road, just south of Steinhatchee. I had always thought that a paddleboard would work well for scalloping because it is so easy to jump on and off the board. I brought my 10 1/2 foot inflatable board which could keep up with the longer kayaks for this short distance. So boards and boats loaded with snorkeling gear, mesh bags, and water, we headed out down the creek and out into the Gulf. Most of the area is too shallow for large motorized boats, so ideal for kayaks and paddleboards.
Loaded paddleboard
We saw a line of motorboats anchored a mile or two offshore, and we paddled to an area about halfway between the boats and the shore. After twenty minutes, we reached the longer sea grasses that scallops like and donned masks, fins, and snorkels. Jill and Scott had made floating scallop nets with pool noodles and mesh bags, and we each tied one to our boats and board.
Pulling our boats and board with bow lines, we swam around the grasses looking for the tell-tale lines of glowing blue “eyes.” It was close to high tide, and the water was about 3-4 feet deep, ideal for scalloping. Shallower than that, and seeing the scallops becomes difficult because you stir up silt as you step on or swim close to the bottom. At first, I didn’t see any, and I worried I would be THAT person who came up empty-handed. As my eyes attuned, I began to catch more and more scallops. I expected them to hide in the grasses, but instead they lay out in the open, in beds of brownish muck. Catching scallops is mostly a matter of reaching and grabbing. But, when motivated, they will zip away.
We swam and swam, loading our mesh bags. I wasn’t wearing a watch and was surprised when Jill said it was almost 5 pm. We all had plenty of scallops, although nowhere near our limit. Paddleboarding out was a breeze, but paddling back with a mesh bag full of scallops was like dragging a sea anchor, so we loaded the bags into the kayaks.
A cooler of scallops
Scallops in cooler and boats/boards loaded, we drove back to Steinhatchee in search of beer and scallop shuckers. Signs advertising shucking services lined the road, but the shuckers had been shucking all day and they were done—how did we not foresee this on the Fourth of July? We drove home, resigned ourselves to watching educational YouTube videos on shucking scallops, and took solace in pizzas at Blue Highway Pizza. The next day, we honed our shucking skills and feasted on garlic scallop pasta.
Wading out at Hagens CoveSearching for scallopsReady for scallopsHagens Cove Park
Two weeks later, emboldened by our success, Kevin and I returned to Steinhatchee with my mother, a novice scalloper. We chose Hagens Cove, north of Steinhatchee, because it offered beach access scalloping, just a quarter mile from shore. I brought my paddleboard as a platform for gear, food, and water and a floating pool chair for my mother. This area was shallow, and we waded and snorkeled out until it was deep enough to find scallops. As we got further out, the scallops grew larger and more plentiful. A darkening sky and lightning eventually drove us back to shore, and we returned to Steinhatchee. We enjoyed a terrific meal at Kathi’s Krabs while our scallops were being shucked.
Kathi’s Krab Shack in SteinhatcheeHorseshoe crab
The scallop season (from June 25-September 24) is almost half over, and the Gulf waters have warmed to bathtub temperatures. Whether I go scalloping again this season or not, I’m sure I will get out again on my board. The calmer Gulf waters are perfect for paddleboarding, and when clear, I have seen a variety of marine life standing on the board.
river’s headwaters (
On December 28, we left our slip at 
Florida Waterscapes 