panhandled

Here's a report with photos from seven days and 336 miles on the Florida National Scenic Trail. Back in mid-November, I identified a three-week window over winter break from school and work to attempt this hike. Not sure when/if another chance may come my way, I scrambled to put together a pack list, guidelines and track map for this impromptu adventure. Ready or not, the time was now.

On Tuesday, December 8th at 9:30 pm, Lily dropped me off at the Gainesville Greyhound station. I took a bus up to Pensacola, arriving on Wednesday 3:30 am Central Time. After biscuits and coffee at a 24/7 McDonald's, I took a series of local buses to get out to the gate of Fort Pickens National Seashore to begin a 7-mile approach on the road to the northern terminus of the trail by 8:30 am. 

I was hoping to hitch a ride to save my legs, but early morning traffic was minimal. Eventually, I caught a lift for the last two miles to the historic fort before heading south on the FNST at 10:10 am. I followed a hard-packed path through inland forest out to the softer white sand beach. For miles, I ran beside the Gulf of Mexico watching pelicans glide effortlessly over the glimmering green waters.

I was thankful to have packed sunscreen as I wouldn't see the shade of trees again until I got off the island in another 33 miles. I stopped for a swim and then made my way to a cafe at Pensacola Beach for lunch. In my haste, I neglected to hydrate adequately for the remainder of the island traverse. When I reached the next functional spigot, I had long since drained my two water bottles.

The sun began to set as I crossed the bridge over Santa Rosa Sound. Here in the town of Navarre, I stopped at a CVS store to buy food for dinner and breakfast to get me to the next convenience store 19 miles away. I sat outside the store, guzzled water and ate a couple cold cans of lentil soup with milk and crackers. Afterwards, I hiked on a few more miles in the dark to a riverside camp.

Early adventure jitters had me awake in my tent before my 4:00 am alarm. It was cold and damp in the predawn darkness. I couldn't quite bring myself to eat a cold breakfast, so I built a small fire and stuck my cans of soup and coffee over the coals to warm up. By the time I was packed up, breakfast was hot and ready. I ate quickly, extinguished the coals, crushed and packed out the cans. Time to go.

I faced a long detour to bypass Eglin Air Force Base, which was closed to public recreation at the time of my visit. Blackness of night gave way to a soft lavender light as the sleepy winter sun finally made its appearance. I followed a sandy utility road, which paralleled the forested Air Force property all the way to the Yellow River. By mid-morning, I arrived at a gas station for snacks and water.

According to my data book, the next section of single track was out of the Air Force property, so I eagerly made my way back into the woods and relished the peace and quiet along this windy and relatively hilly stretch of trail. At Burnt Grocery Creek, I refilled my water bottles and submerged my body in the cool crystal-clear waters meandering around the knees and trunks of cypress trees.

Before long, the trail turned back into road at Harold. For the rest of the day, I would follow US-90 into Crestview. I quickly learned to keep to the shade of the trees below the right shoulder. Still feeling fresh, the miles passed quickly. Stores and restaurants appeared every 10 miles or so. I took advantage of these aid stations as did a cross-country cyclist named Cliff, whom I met on the road.

To keep out of Eglin, I would remain on US-90 for many more miles until heading south on US-331 to rejoin the trail. After breaking my stealth camp in Crestview at 4:30 am, I made my way over to a convenience store for coffee and microwave biscuits before the long grind to a more substantial resupply at distant Defuniak Springs. The sun set by the time I finally left the road some 133 miles in.

My third night's camp was perhaps the most memorable perched above Steephead Ravine. I set up my tent, washed out my clothes and body in the creek and built a fire. As I feasted on sardine sandwiches, I gazed up at Orion and listened to the song of coyotes. A harsh reality would set in before dawn the next morning. In this darkness, I barely found my way through the mucky floodplain of Lafayette Creek. Even with my high-powered headlamp, progress slowed to a discouraging creep.

I knew this could be a serious game changer. In order to maintain 50 miles per day self-supported this time of year, I'd need to move efficiently at night. Although the sun now brought navigational relief, my spirits were hardly lifted as I jogged through a hypnotizing pine plantation. I felt the pressure to make up time on the road ahead, but my feet were starting to rebel to this ruthless routine. In Bruce, I aired out my feet, lunched on quickie mart pizza and ice cream while ruminating on my predicament. 

Rubs were starting to form above and below my toes. I took to washing, airing and lubing my feet as well as knocking out the sand and switching out socks at every stop. While eating an uninspiring dinner of chips and beef jerky at the third and last quickie mart for the day, I tried removing my insoles and doubling up my socks. This at least got me back on my feet and walking to the trail head of Econfina. By 9:00 pm, I had arrived to the Little Porter campsite and set up camp after 50 miles.

I awoke to 16 miles of single track through the acclaimed Econfina Creek section of FNST. Having backpacked this section with Lily, Uwharrie and friend Paul last March, I knew I was now entering a special place. Birds sang and squirrels scurried about in the fallen leaves among the laurels. If not for the swampy stands of cypress, I would have sworn I was back in the Southern Appalachians.

By the time I crossed over the last footbridge and climbed away from Econfina Creek, my frown was effectively turned upside-down. The dogs were barking, but I had just covered 200 miles in less than four days. For the first time in over 24 hours, I felt optimistic about the days to come. My pace now accelerated on the road ahead with my goal to cross the Apalachicola River before bedding down.

Of course, the long, hot and relentless road made quick work of bursting my bubble. I retreated to being grateful for the little things. I was thankful to have found a pair of women's sunglasses to shield my eyes after losing my pair on the trail days earlier. I was thankful for dollar bills in my wallet and outdoor soda machines after finding my mid-afternoon resupply closed. I was thankful for reflective pack straps on a harrowing road run at night into Blountstown for a Mexican dinner and resupply.

As I crossed into Eastern Standard Time, I watched shooting stars streak across the night sky above the mile-long bridge. I decided that I would keep going on the trail into Apalachicola National Forest rather than request a pick-up from Lily and Paul as they drove north from Gainesville to WNC the next day. The gravity of this decision weighed heavily on my tattered mind. I took extra time in the early morning dark to purchase antibiotic ointment to doctor up my feet at a quickie mart in Bristol.

Apalachicola National Forest is known as a very wet place. Fearful of what ill-effect the miles of mucky terrain might have on my damaged feet, I embraced the gospel according to an accomplished hiker I met named PJ Wetzel, who had hiked Bradwell Bay just days earlier. He reported water no higher than his knees and a swamp section shorter than advertised. We wished each other happy trails and got back to outrunning our own maddening cloud of mosquitoes in the humid overcast forest.

For a short while, PJ's promising report resonated in my head. I hiked through a smoldering section of burnt pine forest and passed by many wonderful specimens of pitcher plants. But then the sun set and a darkness enveloped the overgrown, boggy and poorly-marked trail. I resorted to a free GPS track I had downloaded on my phone, which got me through several tricky intersections. Finally, after 41 miles, I reached a campsite along Indian Creek with barely enough room for my bivy-sized tent.

Though not yet in Bradwell Bay, the swamp tromp was well underway with numerous sections of trail inundated with shin-deep muck. What's more, I was beginning to develop tendinitis likely due to an altered foot strike from a painful blister on the ball of my right foot. I endured mosquitoes for the time it took to switch socks in a futile effort to keep my feet happy after each muddy stretch.

By the time I had reached Bradwell Bay Wilderness, it was mid-morning and the sun was beaming down through the pines. Having anticipated the next few miles for days, I was eager to get started with the swamp and promptly entered into an enchanting world of thick kaleidoscopic growth. In places, water reached up to my thighs. In others, it was only calf-deep.

Somewhere in the middle, the swamp opened up. I stood silently among the cypress. I was grateful to be here. The sun warmed my body and reassured me that I had plenty of light to find my way back out into the pines. For the time being, I savored this wilderness experience. When I crossed Monkey Creek, I was out of the swamp and on familiar ground. I had just passed a significant milestone.

As expected, Bradwell Bay had taken a few hours to get through. I hurried along to the next watering hole and ate most of the leftover food I carried for this 80-mile stretch for lunch. I would hike the remaining miles out of the forest to a quickie mart for dinner. Not wanting to waste time, I filtered water on the go. I wasn't sure when the store would close, I figured I could get there by 8 pm.

The Monkey Creek segment was a joy to hike. Most all of the eastern Apalachicola was in great shape. I only wished my feet were in proper shape to allow me to move at top speed. With seven miles to go, I took up a painful jog. I made it to the store by 8 pm. I had an hour to charge my phone, dine on microwave sandwiches, chips and hot chocolate before they closed. I set up camp nearby.

The proprietor of the quickie mart was kind enough to let me fill a bag of ice for my foot. The swelling had spread above my ankle. I used both compression sleeves to hold the ice in place. My shortest day of 38 miles was just about to get a lot shorter. As I entered into the St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge, the trail took a turn for the worse along the tidal creeks.

At points, the path completely disappeared and I had to find my way through a tedious obstacle course. Slippery logs and stumps were my only alternative to thigh-deep shoe-sucking muck. I was thankful at least get to hike this section in the daylight. When I emerged on the other side, I found a sign advising northbound hikers to take a road detour around the section I had just hiked.

I needed fresh water to drink, so I made my way as quickly as I could to Shepherd Spring. The miles were passing slowly and painfully. No longer could I think in terms of 50, 40 or even 30 mile days. Today was going to be in the 20's. I would need to get off my feet ASAP and let my body heal. Fortunately, the FNST trailer in St. Marks where I worked last spring was just around the bend.

I arrived to the trailer by mid-afternoon just as it started to rain. I took a shower, washed out my clothes by hand, iced my foot, ate some food and then collapsed onto a bed. The next morning, I turned my back on the trail and hitchhiked to Tallahassee where I rented a car and drove up to WNC to join friends and family at ALTAR #15. After a challenging week, the panhandle had left its mark.