by Reinhard Zollitsch
My Suwannee River Sojourn
Posted 2/24/02
Practically everybody in America knows Stephen Foster's song:
"Old Folks
at Home" and can give you a pretty close rendition of Floridašs State
song "Way down upon the Suwannee River,"
but few know
where to find that river on the map. An outfitter in
Old Town, Maine admitted that she did not know that
there really was such a river. I had heard about the
Suwannee River and the Okefenokee Swamp since my early
English classes back in Germany and vividly remember our class of all
boys having fun with the swoopy melody.
Well, fifty very busy years have gone by since then, most of them in
this country. I felt it was about time to check out this river, and
since my motto has always been "wenn schon, denn
schon" (go for it), I had to do the river from top to
bottom, from the outflow of the Okefenokee swamp near
Fargo, Georgia to the Gulf of Mexico near the little town of Suwannee,
Florida, what else.
A lot has been written about Stephen Foster, the river and the song.
Fascinating trivia for me was to learn that Stephen Foster never visited
Florida or the Suwannee River, and that the river immortalized in his
"Old Folks at Home" song was originally the PEEDEE
river (named after the Peedee Indians of South
Carolina -- Try that one on for size: "Way down upon the
Peedee river...") The origin of the name Suwannee is also not clear. It
could have been derived from the Creek Indian word "sawani",
"echo river"
or "San Juanee", a colloquial pronunciation of Little
Saint Johns river. It has also been called
"The river
of Reeds" and "The River of the Deer".
Whichever it is, the
fact remains, it is there and drains the Okefenokee swamp to the
west in one mighty S-curve of 245 miles, which makes it the second
largest river in Florida. 80 individual springs and
aquifers and several sizable tributaries add to the
tannin-laden dark waters of the river. It also has the
only white-water stretch in Florida, has lots of caves and is navigable
most of the year, even for power boats. The Suwannee is one of Floridašs
most loved and frequented canoe trails and has several outfitters who
could help you set up a trip. Needless to say, people
know about this river and are using it, some say
overusing it. I had to find out for myself. Spring
break in March is the only time I can get away, and living in
snow-bound Maine, believe me, I am ready for some warmer climes come
March.
Without fail, the day of my departure is a snowstorm with major
delays in the Northeast. But I make it to a
Jacksonville airport motel by 9:00 pm planning a 6:00
am pick-up by Suwannee Canoe Outpost the next morning.
Dave and his daughter were right on time with my rental 15' aluminum
Grumman on top of their car and a small bottle of propane for my
cook-stove. (You cannot bring that on a plane!) I
learned that the Okefenokee and the Sill (the outflow
of the river) were closed due to low water. Spring is
normally the high water season, but El Niņo had done a job on this area
also. Put-in would be at the Fargo route #441 bridge, the usual put-in
for the river trip.
My approach from the Okefenokee proper, the
first 17 miles from the Stephen Foster State Park,
would have to wait for now.
Even at Fargo the water level was low and the river was slow for the
first 21 miles to the route #6 bridge. At times I had to wend my way
around huge cypress trees and their stout upright
sprouts, often standing in the middle of the river.
The triangular lower trunks all looked like junior
teepees to me, and the tupelo trees were equally unique and looked as if
they had each swallowed a huge pumpkin. But most impressive were the
curtains of Spanish moss hanging from almost all taller trees. This was
so
completely different from my evergreen pine, spruce,
birch and maple north woods
world.
7 1/2 hours in the boat were long enough for the first day, so I set up
my little Eureka tent on a sand bank about a mile above the route #6
bridge because I did not want to hear the traffic
rumbling across it all night. The nice thing about the
low water was that it exposed a lot of sand banks all
the way down the river so that I never had any problem finding a suitable
overnight spot just for me. Since I was fully self-contained as usual,
having packed all my food and camping gear, including my favorite paddles
and life jacket, at home in Orono, Maine, I did not have to stop at any
town or store or campground, except for the occasional
phone call home to let folks know my whereabouts.
All I had to do was add water. The first night
the temperature dipped down into the thirties. I felt
right at home, and slept in polypropylene, polar fleece, wool cap, and
wrapped an aluminum survival blanket around my sleeping bag.
Low water and a slow boat made going more laborious than I had
anticipated, but the closer I got to Big Shoals the more defined and
deeper
the river became. The cypress trees were no longer in the river but on its
bank. They were still bare so early in the season and everything looked
quite different from the evergreen mangrove forests of the Everglades,
where I had spent a couple of Spring breaks before.
But I made it to Big Shoals in less than 6 hrs. the next morning,
scouted the rapids from the portage and decided I could run it fine, even
with all gear, except for one drop. I walked the course, marked the eddy
where I would take out along the right shore, and it was no problem. I
unloaded, lined the boat over the drop, repacked my gear and was off
again. Portages are hard on my 61-year-old bod, and I
have done a lot of white-water and even ocean
canoeing, but I am not saying you should run it. There
is a great wide and level portage trail on the left. Look for the
take-out sign and listen for the falls. Walk the path all the way down to
the put-in, a steep slippery drop over a bank, and decide what you can
do, not what you wish you could. Big Shoals looks like
a gear eater, and at flood stage could be downright
dangerous. And remember, this is the only stretch of
white-water of any significance. If you plan to camp here you
could just as well take out and pitch your tent at any of the nice level
spots along the trail.
I like the sound of falls and like hearing the
rushing water all through the night, and since I had
paddled another 22 miles, my daily target for the trip, I
decided to stop here and pitch my tent on the high banks on the right
just below the shoals, all
alone, as always. Some other boaters must have stopped
along the portage trail, but I did not see or hear them, which was just
right by me. The night was cold again, and
mist was hanging over the river early in the morning.
An immature bald eagle was flying by, lighting on a tall
cypress for a moment, only to go on its way down river. The spell of
tranquility was broken when I approached White Springs. The river almost
disappeared and became a river in a river, in places only 5' wide, with
sharp limestone edges, which aluminum canoes do not like at all. They
stop dead in the river when they touch that stuff,
unlike Royalex boats which I am used to, coming from
Old Town Canoe country. After two bridges and White
Springs proper, I saw the huge old stone walls around White Sulfur Spring,
an early Romanesque swimming pool, now defunct. The overflow water was still
running out into the main river through a beautiful masonry archway, and
some water was bubbling out of the ground, crystal clear into the richly
organic, tannic acid laden dark waters of the main river.
Minutes later I heard chimes wafting over from the Stephen Foster State
Folk Culture Center. I had to stop briefly and pay homage to this
prolific writer and composer. Pompous marble steps led
into an otherwise friendly park, but the non-stop loud
chimes did me in and I was back in my boat after a
very swift run-through and phone call home. Slowly
the river became a river again and the banks became steeper and
turned into all limestone. Millions of years ago the entire Florida plate
was an ocean floor, I had read, which was then lifted and tilted towards
the Gulf side. For the next 100 miles or so the
Suwannee cuts its bed through
this shell, coral and sand ocean floor. In places the banks were 30-40'
high
and very steep. With its chalky white color and pockmarked, gnarly
surface, even small grottos and caves, it felt like
paddling through a coral reef where someone had let
out the water, a dry-dive, if you know what I mean. I
saw fossilized shells in the walls, and was absolutely spellbound by its
brilliant white beauty and decided to stop for the night on a sand bank
inside of such a limestone canyon, at about mile #155, according to the
free official Suwannee River Water Management District
map which counts the miles upriver from the Gulf of
Mexico.
The stretch to my canoe outfitteršs home base at the Spirit of the
Suwannee campground was spectacular. Since the rock hopping was over,
Dave even offered me a swifter boat, a 17'4"
fiberglass Mohawk Blazer which I gladly accepted since
I had 150 more miles to go. According to him, I had
done all right in the old stubby 15š Grumman: a bit over three days to
here. And what a difference a boat makes. The Blazer ran absolutely
quietly and had a glide which came close to my 18'
Jensen at home. I was impressed and pushed off eagerly
after I topped off my water tanks and took care of
phone and trash.
I made it early to my next overnight spot past the route #751
/ 249 bridge
and the confluence with the Alapaha River - 20 miles in 6 hours paddling
time. And I was glad I stopped, because I had barely set up my tent on a
small sand bank, when a powerful thunderstorm hit. The storm front tried
to buckle the tent poles and blow me off the sand
bank. All I could do was sit inside and absorb some of
the impact shock by holding on to the poles from the
inside in the very center of the tent. EUREKA did it again, but then the
rains came, and kept coming, and I was thinking of flash floods. I packed
most of my gear and made plans for a hasty escape up the bank behind me -
but the river never rose more than a couple of inches, which was fine
with me.
A leaden sky greeted me in the morning. The tent was still wet, but the
gear had stayed dry, which was most important. It was a long straight 21
mile haul today to the southwest past Suwannee River State Park and the
confluence with the Withlacoochee River. A mostly quiet 6 hour paddle,
including 1 hour for breaks, except for a very brief sporty white-water
stretch below the route #90 bridge. The steep white limestone canyon-like
shore gradually flattened and turned a dirty yellow brown, often covered
with lichen, mosses or algae. I finally pulled out on a small
insignificant sand bar at mile #115 above Dowling
Park, a large Christian retirement
community.
I noted in my log that I had not seen much wildlife on my trip so far,
some hawks, an occasional eagle and of course lots of vultures drying
their wings in the tree-tops like cormorants early
every morning. Once or twice I thought I saw an
anhinga with its long tail and white wing streaks. At night
I heard several big 8-hooter owls, often seemingly calling each other or
even chatting with one another, a most unusual experience for me. And
during the day I would hear big splashes on the water
and occasionally see huge fish jumping clear of the
water and then slamming back on the water, mostly on
their right side, never on their softer belly. I asked a ranger at the
park about these fish and was told they were sturgeons coming up the
river to spawn, weighing up to 100 pounds,
which I
could believe.
And then today I heard turkey calls, real close to the shore. Since I
had never seen a wild turkey, I had to try and get a glimpse of him. I
slowly, quietly approached the shore, and was delighted that the calling
continued. I strained my neck to see him, I waited 5 minutes, then 10,
when suddenly a shot rang out. It was so close, so
loud and so unexpected that I froze for a moment. Then
suddenly images of "Deliverance" raced through my head
and I was in the middle of the river and headed downstream with full
steam before I knew what I was doing. Come to think of it, I never heard an
impact, never heard a bird fall out of the sky. So had the shot missed,
or was I the turkey? I'll never know, but I heard
"Dueling Banjos" playing in my mind for a long time
that day.
Day 6 took me another 22 miles down the river to a small sand bank
island at mile #92 below Luraville. A strong headwind made going harder
today, keeping me in my boat for 6:40 hours. (including 40 minutes for
breaks). But I saw my first real big spring today, Blue Spring, gushing
from two pools on the right into the river. Even
though I had a hard time seeing the blue color, it was
clearer than the river and was flowing quite strongly
over a stone dike into the main river. At the beautiful route #51 suspension
bridge I had lunch but was appalled by the trash and beer bottles along its
banks there. I had never seen anything like that. In Maine and most other
New England states all bottles have a deposit
and one hardly ever sees a bottle lying around anymore. Furthermore, most of
our popular rivers or hiking paths like the Appalachian Trail or Maine
Island Trail have groups or individuals who have adopted a stretch of
trail and take care of it, including keeping it clean.
That is what this river needs, an active stewardship
program in which hiking, boating, fishing, outfitters
or nature clubs adopt a stretch of river near their home base and
keep it clean, monitor its use and feel responsible for it. If people
don't want a state agency to come in to protect the
river with all kinds of restrictions, they should
become responsible users themselves, advocate the new
policy and discourage the old abusive attitude towards rivers.
Compared to the Northeast and other parts of the
country I have seen, this area has a long way to go.
It is sad and seems shameful how such a unique and beautiful
river is disfigured by human negligence and misuse. The Suwannee River
Water Management District seems to be working in that
direction, but needs more active help and support from
the actual users of the river. But the river does
not let you linger long, not even with thoughts like
this. It pushes on like the river of life. Then suddenly there was a
guardian from the past, a wide open railroad swing bridge, long abandoned
and rusting out, an eerie reminder of the past.
Since Dowling Park I also noticed more and more camps and houses along
the riveršs edge, most of them with multiple decks or platforms halfway
down the bank, with elaborate stairways of
pressure-treated or cypress wood. But I never saw
anybody sitting on those platforms sipping mint juleps, southern
comfort, tea, coffee or what have you, not once all the way down to the
Gulf; but decks definitely were the thing to have.
At mile #92 I had gone another 22 miles, and found a lovely sand bar
attached to a small mid-stream island. A perfect stop for the night.
Next morning was very windy, and with the river widening, I had to
slug my way through white-caps. But when the going is
rough, one digs deeper. So I still covered the 16
miles to Branford, "the diving capital of the world"
as local people proudly refer to their little town, in about 4 hours. Since
it was Sunday, I noticed some people swimming at some springs on the
right
and left of the river, but the power boat traffic was still minimal, which
surprised me nicely. But 4 sea-doos (Jet-skis) can make quite a racket, and I was
glad I was on my way again after the necessary service
stop.
Sand banks became rarer below Branford and homes and summer camps more
frequent. The mouth of the Santa Fe River would have been a nice stop for
the night, but was simply too far, so I opted to pull out at a minimal
sand bar at mile #69, which served me just fine. I had
barely set up my tent when the rains came down again.
Fortunately my tent spot was a bit elevated, so most
of the water flowed around, not under, the tent and ground cloth.
The rain kept coming down almost all night and into the morning. The
trees and vegetation along the banks were soaked and were steaming in the
first sparse rays of the sun. There was time for a second cup of coffee,
before heading out in Goretex.
The Santa Fe area looked as enticing as anticipated and would be well
worth exploring. But the river and my time constraints pushed me along
towards the route #340 bridge instead, where I had a brief conversation
with some cave divers who had come all the way from
Exeter, England. A few miles further down the river I
surprised 2 good-sized alligators basking on the
warm mud flats, the first on this trip so far. I
had thought of stopping for the night at or near the Wannee boat ramp,
but was unmistakably reminded that there was no overnight camping in
Gilchrist County, "for sure". So I made myself inconspicuous again and
disappeared somewhere towards Sun Spring on a level spot on the river
bank. I wonšt say where
exactly.
The night was cold again. I wore wool socks and sweater in my sleeping
bag, but was feeling great, fascinated by the delightful conversations of
the 8-hooter owls in the tall trees around me. With the mist slowly
rising over the river I pushed off refreshed and
hopeful, because I felt I was finally getting
somewhere. Manatee Springs State Park for the night, what an
exciting thought. And then only one more day to the mouth of the river
and the Gulf of Mexico.
Six hours, a couple of gators and lots of turtles later I paddled up the
outlet stream of Manatee Springs. There I beached my boat, and inquired
about camping facilities. I was told to come to the front gate, a good
mile and a half up the road, to check in. I thought
someone was surely jesting, but no, they insisted.
Not wanting to rock the boat, being an out-of-stater,
I hitched a ride with a ranger vehicle, but when I found out where I
would
have to camp, I asked the driver to return me to the river. The camping spot
was almost a mile from the water. Fat chance that I would carry all my
gear there and back again to the river the next
morning. And no, I could not camp in the little grassy
area near my boat, I was unmistakably told. I was
very disappointed that the park only catered to campers arriving
by car or who were picked up by car finishing their river trip here.
There was no policy in place to accommodate small
boaters who were going on like me. So I decided to
jump back into my boat which by the way had floated off
the beach and could have gone to Suwannee without me had I not tied it to
a tree.
I was unaware that the outflow volume from the
spring fluctuated - the water level had risen several
inches. Back on the main river, I looked around
for a break in the trees, a level spot for my tent, a
take-out, and found it more or less across the river,
but it looked that I would have to share it with about 50 buzzards,
not a pretty thought. One by one, very reluctantly and with a lot of
groaning, they left for another tree roost, I suppose, and did not come
back till early in the morning, to dry out or warm
their wings in the early rays of the sun. I pitched my
tent to one side of their roosting tree, pulled my
boat up on shore and out of sight and was ready for some serious reading,
writing and supper, the high point of each day. I even went swimming here
as I do every late afternoon wherever I travel - very
carefully, just floating in shallow water and facing
the river.
Then a pileated woodpecker decided to attack my
tree and showered my tent with wood chips, but that was better
than what the vultures dropped when they came back early next morning. I
tried to shoo them away, but too late, they had already bombarded my
tent. I hurried to get out of there, rinsed off my
rain fly and ducked to my boat. No free overnight this
time. I should have known who was in charge here.
The character of the river changed yet again. It widened into a
formidable river, the banks got lower and eventually receded behind a
curtain of humungous lily pads and grasses. The tall, often still bare
trees were gradually replaced by lush green mangroves, and the grasses
got even taller. My map and chart confirmed my
observation. The river was now winding its way through
an extensive marshland and swamp.
Yellow Jacket and a
bit further down Fowleršs Bluff were the only human habitations. It felt
very Evergladian all of a sudden, as this river was about to dissolve
itself into grassland and the endless shallows of the
Gulf of Mexico. I was suddenly thinking of all the
great river stories I had read in my life, from Mark
Twain to Hermann Hesse, and especially the concept of the "river of life". The Suwannee, I thought to myself, was a perfect example
of that, with its beginnings in the Okefenokee swamp,
its brief white-water
rebellion, its decisive cut through a limestone canyon, an old ocean floor,
past towns with people and commerce to an even bigger swamp and the ocean
eventually, from where it will evaporate and start the circle of life
anew as rain in some other watershed.
But my drifting off into thought was suddenly stopped at mile #7 when I
noticed the tide was coming in, and quite vigorously at that. But by
1:15, 5:45 hours after leaving Manatee State Park, I
arrived at Miller's Marina in Suwannee, the last
take-out point on this river. Another 22 mile day for a
total of 213 miles in 10 days, and I still had one day to play with. I
liked that.
So the last day was spent exploring the mouth of the river, as I had
hoped to do when I first planned the trip. I drifted down West Pass with
the end of the ebb tide to the very mouth of the
river. I saw lots of big gators sunning themselves on
the mud banks or cruising right by me like beavers or
muskrats in my neck of the woods. I then went around a myriad of flat
grassy islands, swinging north, occasionally walking my boat over sand
bars and mud flats back up all the way to the top of
Salt Creek. At the stand-pipe I hoped to find a
cross-over into the marinas on the river side, but
couldn't, though I tried several arms. There was nothing else to do but
to portage across the obstacle, the only street into town, to the river
side which would get me back to Miller's eventually.
In the end I had added the 17 miles I had to forfeit
in the Okefenokee to the Gulf side of the Suwannee,
which brought the trip total back to 230 miles in 11 days. Not bad
for an old geezer like me, I thought.
And as I was sipping my coffee, leisurely sprawled in my Crazy Creek
chair in front of my tent, thinking thoughts of accomplishment, and
wondering what I was going to do next Spring, my old Everglades friend
Thornton drove up with a hearty hello. I had told him before I left on
this trip, that I would try to make it to Milleršs
Marina by high noon on March 23, but did not really
expect him to come all the way over here from Sebring
to visit for a couple of hours. I was flattered and honored by his trust and
friendship, and impressed that he found me. Thanks, my man.
And it was oh so nice to see Dave
of the Suwannee Canoe Outpost at 6:00 AM the next morning,
reliable and cheerful and right on time for the ride
back to Jacksonville, from where I would fly home to
Maine. What a trip this has been. Now back to the cold
Northland of Maine and another month of winter. Brrrrrrrrr.
For more info, check out:
ww.canoeoutpost.com
(Suwannee River Canoe Outfitter)
www.srwmd.state.fl.us (Suwannee River
Water Management District - river map)
NOA chart # 11408
Allen de Hart: Adventuring in Florida. The Sierra Club Travel Guide to the
Sunshine State. Sierra Club Books. 1991.
Reinhard Zollitsch
61 North Main Ave.
Orono, Maine 04473
Tel: 207-866-4872
Fax: 207-581-1832
reinhard@maine.edu