Sports

Outdoors

Peaceful escape

A paddle down the Peace River calls attention to the rich history and resilience of a key Florida waterway.

By TERRY TOMALIN
Published July 21, 2005

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[Times photos -- Douglas R. Clifford]

Paddlers, from left, Casey LaLomia, Terry Tomalin, George Stovall and Darry Jackson near the end of the last leg of their 26-mile tour of the Peace River, finishing at Lake Suzy's Nav-A-Gator Grill. More photos

ARCADIA - A low pressure system had settled over the state, dumping several inches of rain on the lower half of the Florida peninsula.

"Change of plans," I told my wife over the cell phone. "I think we are trying to find another river."

My colleagues and I had planned to paddle from the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf of Mexico via the Okeechobee Waterway in sleek, two-person adventure racing kayaks. But when we got up at 4 a.m. the day of our departure, the parking lot of our motel was under water.

"Rain is one thing," my friend George Stovall said at breakfast. "But lightning is another story. I would hate to be caught out on that big open lake in an electrical storm."

So Darry Jackson, the leader of our group, pulled out an AAA road map. "It looks like it is clearing to the north," he said. "Maybe we could drive a little and get above the storm."

Four hours later we were standing on the banks of the rain-swollen Peace River, watching logs and other debris fly by at 5 mph. Flowing from its headwaters in the Green Swamp to its terminus in Charlotte Harbor, the 105-mile long Peace is one of the longest rivers in Florida.

The millions of gallons of fresh water pouring out of the Peace is one reason Charlotte Harbor has one of the best sport fisheries in Florida. Anglers from all over the United States come to Charlotte and Lee counties to fish for snook, red drum, trout and tarpon in the fabled Boca Grande Pass.

Last year, however, the conservation group American Rivers named the Peace as one of the nation's "Most Endangered Rivers." Phosphate mining, which began in 1881 after Capt. J. Francis LeBaron discovered "gray gold" in the river south of Fort Meade, has taken its toll on both water quality and quantity.

Today, Florida fulfills about one-quarter of the world's phosphate needs. Most of the rock mined in Florida ends up in agricultural fertilizer. The rest is used in the manufacture of a variety of things, such as soft drinks and shaving cream.

The river's history is rich and storied. Calusa Indians lived near the river's mouth before the arrival of the first conquistadores. The Spanish took note of the waterway in 1544, calling it Rio de la Paz - river of peace - on one of the earliest maps of the state. The Seminoles, who came later, called it Tallackchopo - cow peas - because the river's banks were covered with wild peas.

Today, the river is an officially designated canoe trail, part of Florida's Statewide System of Greenways and Trails. Sixty-seven miles, from Fort Meade to Arcadia, is considered ideal for canoes and kayaks. The current is usually slow, ideal for a beginner, and the difficulty level "easy," unless of course there has been a lot of rain, when the water screams and floods the low banks into the farmland.

"There are times when it flows at 5 or 6 miles per hour," said Dennis (a.k.a. Captain) Kirk, who runs guided tours out of Lake Suzy's Nav-A-Gator Grill. "It will get going even faster when there has been a lot of rain."

Upriver, at the Canoe Outpost in Arcadia, the owners keep a close eye on the water levels. If they rise too high, the owners stop letting people on the river. A swift-moving current can spell disaster for an inexperienced paddler.

But fast water was exactly what we were looking for.

"See you in three or four hours," Stovall told his father-in-law, Dan Harvey Sr., who had agreed to pick us up downstream. "This shouldn't take long."

Our 21-foot Seda Tangoes were made of Kevlar and weighed just 75 pounds. The tandem sea kayaks are a popular choice with adventure racers in Florida's Coast-to-Coast endurance race as well as with outfitters from Baja Mexico to Alaska.

"We'll be there before we know it," my paddlemate Casey LaLomia said as we shoved off from shore. "This current is ripping."

Without much effort, our GPS unit registered a forward speed of more than 7 mph, which is nothing short of phenomenal in a human-powered watercraft.

Flying down the river, we could see no signs of the phosphate mining that had once scarred the land. The banks were covered with lush greenery, a testament (as any homeowner would agree) to the power of Florida's plant life to grow at prolific rates.

Each time the river narrowed, the current would pick up, and it took all our effort to keep the Tango pointed in the right direction. Then, when the river widened, the current slowed, but that presented a different challenge.

"I wonder if we are going in the right direction," I asked LaLomia as we passed a "No Trespassing" sign on a partially submerged barbed wire fence. "I would hate to end up in somebody's cow pasture."

Paddling through the prairie, we eventually stopped counting the species of wading birds; one benefit of flooding is easier access to food for our feathered friends. The adjacent lands were obviously rich, which is why people have fought over its ownership since the arrival of the Spanish in the early 1500s.

But high water isn't always good. One byproduct of the phosphate mining process is clay, which is stored in settling ponds. Occasionally, the clay ponds overflow and collapse and dump millions of gallons of toxic water back in the river, triggering large-scale fish kills downstream.

In times of drought, low water can be just as serious a threat to wildlife. Phosphate mining impacts water flow, and in 1973 the state stepped in to establish "minimum flow" levels, a subject of debate between the conservation groups dedicated to preserving the river and the industries seeking to utilize its hidden resources.

The fury of Mother Nature has taken its toll on the Peace in recent years. Hurricane Charley barreled through here in the summer of 2004. A shrimp boat, sunk in a small side creek, is one example of the tropical system's power.

"The owner, Barefoot Steve, brought it up here because he thought it would be safer," the Nav-A-Gator's Kirk said. "He came in, bought a grouper sandwich and a six-pack of beer, then he went back out to his boat and rode out the storm."

Kirk said the shrimper survived, even though his boat did not. But time has a way of healing the land, and pine trees that were stripped bare by Charley were already sporting new growth.

We finished our 26-mile paddle with plenty of sun left in the summer sky. A happy crowd had already begun to gather at the Nav-A-Gator, the social center for the locals who love and protect the river.

Few things in life are certain, but one thing is for sure: The Peace River will always be here. And as long as the river flows, there will be people pleased to paddle it.

[Last modified July 21, 2005, 00:57:10]

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