Why I Love Florida in The eye of every storm

I walked out of Florida.

It took me almost 1300 miles, a friend named Robin, and a greyhound bus to somewhere close to the Appalachian Trail, and several other friends to pin point that exact location at Amicalola Falls, but god dammit I walked out of Florida.

It began simply enough; my boss OD’d my cocktail at a Super Bowl Party to get rid of me. It sounds way more complicated than it really was; we lived, worked, and remodeled a very exclusive part of Florida: Spruce Creek Fly In. Several factors were involved, including his mos worrisome of being outed as “gay,” but he had not the foresight to realize such an ouster would be so inclusive in the nouve riche. Regardless, I wasn’t gay after years of attempts, and was no longer useful to A Notch Above Florida’s business model. At our Landlord (yes, he was my roommate/boss; mistake 1) someone, somewhere slipped something into my drink. It was reported i was carried home before Pittsburgh has finished the half. It was reported I drove back, and a lear jet owning dentist persuaded me back to his car and back to my house....

I was “Fired” the next day.

Immediately I began evacuation plans from Spruce Creek Fly In. I had nothing. Through the shrill donations of people that believed I could become something more, I met Jimmy Popular just outside the main gate. He took me to his home, fed me a gracious meal, and gave my pack a solid once over. The next morning, we had a feast of a breakfast, and he took me to Wal*Mart, paying for items he felt I needed, and then we silently drove an hour north into the middle of the Florida terrain.

The first day I hiked 13 miles. I fell short of my planned camp by 16 miles. I rigged a tarp with some fly cord above me and slept on the forest floor, completely scared out of my mind. Rumor of Water Moccasins slithering into sleeping bags abounded. In the books to prepare me for the journey, I’d anticipated scorpions with lethal pangs awaiting in every crevice. The next morning, I awoke, unharmed, untouched, and actually rested. Unbelievably rested.

I carried on and made many friends along the Florida Trail:

1.) Bob- The bird watcher and his nephew from Ireland. His nephew chose to hike 13 miles with me one day while he doubled around. They bought beer that night and I used my dwindling card to buy hot dogs. They slept in a tent, and I slept under the stars, and the next day, they took me to a beautiful outlook upon the St. Johns river before depositing me back into the jungle few pioneers had slew before.

2.) Between desperation and despair, a fellow Florida Trail Hiker named Bob caught up to me. He’d seen my “trail journal” entries, as few as they were on such a rarely hiked trail, as “Swamp Tromp.” It was the name I’d given myself. It was guide out of the desperation of the life I was in. It felt like slavery, so much that I would rather risk alligators, snakes, and ticks to literally walk out of it. I know this doesn’t make much sense, but its what I did, and it made sense to me.

Bob was a seasoned hiker. I waited for him around 08:15 one fog ridden morning, a husk of a shadow slowly trudging up the abandoned railroad track around Lake Butler. My fears were great; I did not know this person, and had no inclination that I was being followed. I wasn’t being followed though. I was out ran.

“I saw your notes in the Iron Canyon Shelter,” he said to me, after I decided to park and wait for him to catch up. In my mind, it was safer for him to pass and have me on his tail, rather than keep advancing forward. He was tall, 6;”4”, and understandably slim from what he had hiked so far. He asked if I’d walk with him to Lake Butler (it was 26 miles away, and I’d never hiked so far in my life) and I said, “Of Course.”

I fell into Bob’s rhythm. He taught me to Hike 25 miles a day and live on pop tarts, snickers, and the glorified post gift of new socks that awaited at each new town. I learned the dark color of the Suwanee River wasn’t sickness, but discoloration from the settlement upstream. I drank from its waters without filter or abandon. I never once became sickened.

Later, as we made our turn into the pan handle, we met a long white-haired dog who followed us for 14 miles. We had no way of sheltering him. We gave him some water. He wagged his tail, and vanished back down the trail, as if he were some guardian or custodian of the corridor we had trespassed. A gentleman at a campground gave us a ride to a Burger King. My foodstamp card didn’t cover that. Bob discreetly paid for my dinner, as he would six other times during this odyssey.

Eventually the trail turned right into the logging country and back pine woods of Florida’s industry. I hiked 33 miles with him in one day without finding a water source. The next day, we hiked 26 miles, only gaining a gatored’s bottle worth of fuel from a logging crew. That afternoon, I drank deeply from the Equafina River. The water was dark, mostly from detritus, but could have been filled with any pathogens. 13 miles later, we found an abandoned house, and set up shelter. I pissed a river of blood.

The next morning, we entered the St. Marks Wildlife Preserve. The Guidebook Bob had said water would be available at a certain bridge crossing/campsite. We made our best effort to reach said point within twelve hours and did, only to find the campsite infested with mosquito’s, and the water brackish, inhabitable for consumption given our distance to the coast.

Bob’s guide book let us down. At this point, we were both peeing nothing but blood. Tired and thirsty, we settled in to a mosquito ridden night awaiting tomorrow’s challenge.

The challenge wasn’t easy. We walked eight hours and seventeen miles before we came to the St. Marks Wilderness Preserve Visitors Center. It saved my life. I drank two gallons of water on their porch. We slept close to the quarters of the center that night only to find the next morning the trail ended with a sign: “Hail a boat.”

We had to get across the St. Marks River.
That’s another story for another time.

I know Hurricane Irma is going to destroy these lands. I just wanted to make an account here, publicly, that Florida saved my life. Yes, I was literally walking out of the state, but I learned more about life than my time in the army, or any other experience prior.

I love you Florida. Stay Safe.