I got some good advice in this thread and it behooves me to “pay my dues” by contributing a bit of a trip report. So here it is, for what it’s worth:
Fargo Ga. to White Springs Fa on the Suwannee River, early March – I can highly recommend this little 3 day trip.
So, we arrived at ACA in White Springs about 11:00am. 10 minutes to stow our gear and tie the canoe onto their van, a 50 minute drive and we were at the put-in at Fargo. There, the Suwannee is little more than a largish creek. Down to the water’s edge to give an offering of tobacco on this our first meeting, I was surprised at the amount of tannin in the water. Its brown stain rivaled anything I’ve seen in the Canadian Shield, which is saying a lot.
Water levels at White Springs were about the 53 ft mark – pretty much perfect. Lots of water to paddle in and lots of exposed sand bars and banks. Temperatures in the low 20C range and a good forecast.
The 3 day paddle back to White Springs was basically 3 different scenes.
On day 1 the scenery had a magical look, exotic to my Boreal-bred eye. Cyprus trees lining the shore flanked by their honor guard of “knees” aligned neatly along the shore. (Knees are stump like growths up from the trees root to give them access to oxygen.)
Huge tupelo trees, some better than a meter through, were growing right in the middle of the river, their trunks disappearing down into the tannin-stained water. We puzzled over how they got there; if they started on a sand-bar that has now washed away then why are their roots not visible?
I admit the first alligator I saw momentarily scared the crap out of me. A deep, instinctive rush that I imagine came from the remnants of my own reptilian heritage, buried way at the back of my brain.
We were drifting along, quiet, just drinking in the scenery (and a deserved adult beverage). It was on a sandbar on river-left, broadside to us. At first glance to my untrained eye it appeared to be at least as long as my 17ft boat and was clearly on an intercept course with us lined up to be its lunch! Well, my excuse is that my sense of proportion was thrown off by the unfamiliar surroundings; it was maybe 9 ft long and was headed toward a deep-water escape route where it slowly sank and was gone.
Still, it was a large animal you wouldn’t want to mess with. An hour later a similar sized gator did come directly at us then turned and swirled the water with a great splash 10 ft in front of us. I presume it was a male letting us know that this was his place. OK, we’re leaving! And the next day we did see a really big one, clearly big enough to kill and eat me if it wanted to. But it didn’t.
The river is well used, and all its denizens are intimately familiar with canoe and kayak bearing humans. But it had a sense of wilderness to it and we had it to ourselves. We spent most of our time in silence, the occasional easy Canadian stroke to augment the mostly meager current. We saw some wildlife. A beaver that’s fur seemed tinged so red that we had a hard time telling what it was. Don’t know if that was an aberration or if beavers tend to that colour on the Suwannee. An otter, but we didn’t get close to it. An egret hop-scotched down the river in front of us, staying just out of picture range. And the occasional gator, usually from a distance, usually quite small, and usually just slowly sinking beneath the water.
I was surprised by the lack of birds and assume that, still being early in March, the local migrants were yet to arrive. Anyways, I loved it.
So, following Erica's good advice to linger in the upper section we made an early camp on a random bank, now about 3 feet above the water. The surroundings were open, dry pine forest with lots of firewood laying about. We were mindful of snakes, but it didn’t feel like a snaky place and we didn’t see any.
We hadn’t seen any bugs all day but as the sun set the inevitable cadre of mosquitoes did show up. Some of the tiniest I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve met quite a variety of varieties. We swatted, and swiped them off, and smudged up the fire and sauntered through the smoke and basically lived with them, contributing some protein to the local ecology, without resorting to DEET.
It was only mildly disappointing that we could occasionally hear a truck on the distant highway. But we were “in the bush” and slept sound.
The next day took us into the second of the three sections of river. It was characterized by deeper banks lined with tall plantation pine trees. If you squinted your eyes a bit and replaced the low palmetto plants with Labrador tea and the tall pine with more spindly spruce it could stand in for a river back up in the boreal.
It was another easy day of basically enjoying just looking around, but we missed the fairy-land landscape of the day before. As we continued south we did notice more palm trees which were a nice reminded that we were in a semi-tropical environment, much different that what we were used to. It was great!
We started to see people. Early in the day we met a good-old-boy, a local who’s lived on the river all his life. He scooped a cup of water from the river and drank it, as a sort of exclamation point authenticating his bona fides. He called us to him with a friendly “Hey, y’all get over here!” as we drifted toward him.
Just then the young lady with him let out a squeal, hauled back on her fishing rod, and reefed in a fish that must have weighed a good 5 lbs. It was a mudfish, or bowfin, which are considered by most an inedible bottom-feeder but our new friend assured us of a traditional preparation that included an over-night soak in lemon juice that he’s enjoyed since he was a boy.
Turns out he was a bit of a local celebrity, starring in a program on the History channel about re-claiming underwater logs. I’d never heard of it but pretended that I had. We pushed on, appreciating the down-home good nature and friendliness we had shared.
We met the occasional fishing boat that had moved up or down stream from the rare road-access points we were passing. Like everywhere, some ignored us, rather rudely, and some almost insisted we stop and chat. And like everywhere, people you meet in the bush tend to be good people.
Stopped for lunch we saw a lone kayak approaching. It was a young lady, a college student, who was doing the same route as us but on a little faster schedule. We called her to share lunch with us and she pulled ashore, happy for the company of two grizzly old graybeards.
She had no gear to speak of: a tiny tent, a skimpy rain coat and some ready-to-eat no-cook food. That’s it. She did this route often and if it rained she got wet, if it was cold she got cold and she was alright with that. Nice to be young!
We had been on the look-out for snakes. I really wanted a picture of my brother harassing a poisonous snake with a stick, just because. The kayaker said she saw 3 cottonmouths that morning. We saw one water snake and that’s it for the trip, despite keeping a constant eye open for them.
We were starting to get into sections of the river where the land was privately owned as announced by signs tacked to trees along the banks. Obvious campsites not obviously on private property became less frequent. We followed a spring through an opening in the bush on river-right about 30 ft inland to a small clearing and set up camp between the clumps of palmetto.
About the palmetto – it’s a low shrub-like plant with leaves that not surprisingly resembling those of a palm tree. The large leaves were mostly dry and rustled loudly in the slightest breeze. Rustled like the sound of an approaching animal. Like a wild boar, whose sign we had seen near camp. But it was never a boar, as far as I know. Well, once it was my brother, who can be a bit of a bore (sorry for that <blush>)..
(Later we spent a day paddling the Hillsborough river in central Florida. Lingering in our canoe until just about dark, when sensible people had already left the water and the silence of the evening was settling in, we heard rustling in the bush along shore and a group of wild boar appeared. Startled by our presence they quickly disappeared back into the bush with a squeal. They had a bit of a reddish tinge to them and were smaller than I imagined they would be, stubbier and no bigger than the Yorkshires I used to raise. But there you go.)
The next day we got to the third section of river whose distinguishing feature was exposed jagged white limestone rock banks as the river continued to erode its way deeper into the land. About mid-day we arrived at “the Shoals”, Florida’s infamous sole RII/III rapid: two shelves perhaps a meter high guarded at this water level by sharp limestone rocks top and bottom.
I wanted to run them, just because, but there was no clear line through that didn’t end up against cruelly sharp rock. I thought about trying it empty, solo with a big tilt on, maybe dance my way through, but it was beyond my skill level and into the realm of pure luck and I didn’t want to risk my ride out. But we were able to line right to the edge of the ledge so that the portage was little more than a lift-over.
The next night I’m pretty sure we camped on private property. There were no signs but we found a lane that had recent tracks of a vehicle. We walked up the lane for a kilometer or so and there was nothing but bush so with dark approaching we decided to set up camp.
Tents up, supper cooked over a small fire and darkness settled in. My brother, on the way from the fire to his tent cast the light of his headlamp into the low grasses surrounding us. “Come check this out” he said. Reflected from his light were the sparkling eyes of a small creature. Casting the light back and forth we saw that there were a tiny set of eyes about every square meter, sparkling back at us like tiny diamonds. We were surrounded, and it was a little bit creepy.
Close inspections revealed that they were spiders. Most tiny but some not so tiny. Thus identified they lost some of their creepiness, but they were still spiders so they were still a little creepy. Later I checked out a book and think they were a kind of wolf spider but I’m not sure.
Despite wondering how many spiders had made it into the tent with me, and the rustling of palmetto leaves convincing me time and again that there was a large animal walking about our site I was soon asleep and slept well once again.
We were on the water early after carefully cleaning up our site. We left no sign save the evidence of our small cook fire. I felt no guilt at our trespass, but that’s just me.
Another easy paddle, just enjoying our surroundings. We arrived at the take-out, a bridge just upstream of White Springs mid-afternoon. By chance the ACA van was there picking up another party so we hitched a ride back to our vehicle and were shortly back loading up our canoe and gear and saying goodbye to the river.
I liked it. I want to go back.
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