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Big rocks, aggressive gators and boats that go bump in the Florida night turn a 200-mile excursion down the Suwannee River into a five-day obstacle course filled with anxiety, exhaustion and, yes, diaper rash.
By TERRY TOMALIN, Times Outdoors Editor
© St. Petersburg Times, published December 16, 2001
THE GULF OF MEXICO -- Shivering on a sandbar, watching clouds move across the black sky, I struggled to remember in which state, country and planet I was about to die.
"Just lie there and keep quiet," Jon Willis ordered. "I'm trying to figure out where we are."
Four days earlier, when we met our friend George Stovall in the sleepy little town of Fargo, Ga., at the south end of the Okefenokee Swamp, we thought the 200-mile run down the Suwannee River to Cedar Key would be a leisurely paddle.
Stovall and eight other die-hard watermen began their journey at Ft. Clinch on Florida's east coast. From there they traveled up the St. Mary's River, then walked, in-line skated or drove to the edge of the Okefenokee.
The original plan called for the paddlers to cross the swamp and run down the Suwannee to complete the Atlantic-to-gulf transit, but record low water levels forced race organizer and WaterTribe founder Steve Isaac to change the route.
"Meet me in Fargo," Stovall said. "We'll make an adventure of it."
The racers employed watercraft as varied and unique as the participants. James "Devo" DeVoglaer, a computer executive from Tampa, used a custom Olympic-style canoe, while Mark Przedwojewski, a boat builder from Michigan, paddled a hybrid craft designed by the legendary Verlen Kruger, who set the record for the fastest run down the Mississippi River.
Stovall, a chiropractor from St. Petersburg, and the rest of our party paddled traditional sea kayaks, ideal for making time in the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico but ill suited for the hazards of the Suwannee.
"Where is all the water?" my friend Casey LaLomia asked about two hours into the trip. For eight hours we slugged and slogged through log jams and rock piles, walking and dragging the boats more often than paddling.
"I hate to tell you guys but we have only come 11 miles," Willis said as dusk descended on the riverine forest. "At this rate it will take us two weeks to reach the gulf."
So we found a nice patch of sand at a bend in the river, pitched our tents and broke out the stove to heat water for a gourmet dehydrated dinner. Tired after a long day of fighting through the shallows, we fell right asleep.
Ten hours later, rested and refreshed, we broke camp and took off downriver in fog, unaware we had just enjoyed the best night of the trip.
"When you are racing, sleep is a luxury," DeVoglaer would say later. "When you stop, you lose."
On the second day, our clothes were still dry and our spirits were high. But another 12 hours of climbing in and out of the boats, clawing over obstruction after obstruction, began to take a toll.
"This is where we were supposed to be yesterday," Stovall said as we stopped for the night south of the town of White Springs. "We may have to consider an alternate plan, because at this rate it doesn't look like we will make it to Cedar Key when we want to."
When we had planned our journey more than a month earlier, we hoped to cover 45 miles a day. But now, after two days of hard paddling, we were short of our first day's goal.
"I've got to be at work Monday morning," said LaLomia, a systems analyst with Progress Energy Corp. "We have got to finish Sunday night."
We briefly toyed with the idea of continuing down the Suwannee and pulling out where it intersects U.S. 19. But Stovall would have none of it.
"We need to make some time," he said. "And that means paddling through the night."
I had paddled at night before but never on a river with rapids, log jams and overhanging tree limbs. There also was another danger: alligators.
The unseasonably warm weather and low water had made the reptiles uncharacteristically aggressive. Rumors of attacks had made their way onto the official WaterTribe Web site. The thought of an angry 10-foot gator lurking inches from our flimsy kayaks did not sit well with our party.
"It looks like somebody dragged a canoe down that bank," I said pointing to a 30-foot trail through the sand.
"I don't think that's from a canoe," Stovall said. "An alligator made that trail."
Judging by the width and depth of the impression in the sand, the beast must have weighed as much as both of our kayaks, with us inside. As we paddled on, we passed a dozen more gator trails, and I prayed that their creators were well fed and would let us pass unharmed.
About midnight, after 18 hours of paddling, we pulled over to make coffee and plot our position.
"Branford for breakfast," I told my companions.
They agreed a steaming plate of grits, eggs and country ham would taste good after three days of Power Bars and freeze-dried food.
An hour later, as lack of sleep and hunger took their toll, I began to fantasize about fried chicken, pizza and a big, fat, greasy cheeseburger. It helped pass the time as we navigated, single file, a narrow stretch of river between two high banks.
I was sleep paddling, just going through the motions, until the bellow of a bull gator roused me. We heard the beast running along the bank above us, so I turned my headlight on just in time to see the 12-foot monster fly down the bank toward my kayak. It hit the water and surfed toward my kayak.
I couldn't run. I couldn't hide. So I froze, which is nature's way of taking your mind off things as you are eaten alive by a large predator.
But the gator stopped 2 feet short of my paddle and disappeared beneath the surface of tea-colored water.
"That gator didn't like you," Stovall said.
"Must have been something I said," I replied.
I don't like paddling at night, especially in gator country, but as long as we didn't have to run any rapids in the dark I would keep going, I told my friends.
"What's that noise," I asked my friends as we rounded a bend. "Sounds like a power plant or something."
Before anybody could answer, the river grabbed our boats and sent us barreling over a 5-foot drop and down a set of rapids 100 yards long. Twice more that night we ran through the rocks before we finally pulled over at a boat ramp and slept for three hours under the stars. We climbed back in and pressed on at dawn.
I don't remember much about the next day, except that is when I discovered that 80 hours or so in wet shorts had left me with case of diaper rash that would turn even a veteran daycare worker's stomach.
Luckily, the nagging pain in my arms and shoulders overshadowed any discomfort in the derriere. Four hours of sleep in a picnic shelter did little to help, and we found ourselves paddling again in the morning mist, praying for the sun to rise and light our way.
Eighteen hours and 60 or so miles later, I found myself on the sandbar, wishing for a quick and painless death. But my paddling companions would not have it.
"We'll sing Christmas carols," Willis said. "That will keep us going."
So as a north wind howled and the waves battered our little boats, we pressed on through the darkness singing Jingle Bells and Silent Night.
Later at the dock, delirious after paddling nearly 200 miles in 72 hours with seven hours sleep, I swore to Willis that I would never attempt such a foolhardy adventure again.
"Yeah, yeah," he said with a laugh. "That is what you said last time."
The final standings in the WaterTribe Okeefenokee Challenge:
1. James "Devo" DeVoglaer.
2. Mark "Manitou Cruiser" Przedwojewski.
3. George "Sandspur" Stovall.
-- For more information on adventure in small boats, go to www.watertribe.com.