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Solo on the Upper Suwannee River
February 25 March 2, 2018
I started out Sunday afternoon from Griffis Fish Camp, just below the Sill. Gray clouds, gray bare trees and black water greeted me. I had forgotten it was still winter in south Georgia. A bit of a drizzle to enhance the mood. But when the sun broke through to gild the red maples and budding sugarberry, the swamp glowed in Biblical splendor. The Suwannee River arises in Okefenokee Swamp and the sill keeps the water from draining out of the swamp to the Gulf of Mexico. In the upper stretches, it is a wetland forested with tupelo, cypress, red maples and sugarberry. Acidic water leaches tannin from the leaves turning the river black. A clear glass of water is the color of iced tea.
At middle water levels (53 feet at White Springs, FL) one can paddle through stands of cypress trees, and occasional uplands provide dry camping. On the first day, the smaller gators were numerous, passing one every 15 or 20 minutes or so. Baby gators stick together in pods and a group of three juveniles, probably about a year old, scurried down the bank and into the water with just their little heads peeking out. The sight of three bobbing tiny gator heads caused me some merriment. I spent only about two hours on the water and camped on a bend with Dagoba-like cypress knees all around. Deer droppings were abundant, one pile of coyote scat, and turkeys gobbling in the morning. Soil was a bit damp and it was good to have a hammock. I had seen only a few birds; kingfishers, a wood stork and one fishing boat. I would not see another person on the water for five days.
Monday morning started with breakfast on the river bank. Tufted titmice, chipping sparrows and the buzz of insects I could not see. Barred owls hooting. The weather continued to be mostly gray, breezy and warmer. Occasional bursts of sunlight reminded me why people worship the sun. A much larger gator glared at me and stalked into the water with a resentful eye. Watching the entire length of a large gator walk into the water directly toward the canoe does give one pause, even though I know that is just his way of retreating. The river continues to be bounded by tupelo, cypress, red maple and sugarberry. Mistle toe is the only green, sprouting in tufts from the bare branches of the other hardwoods. A murder of crows and a raft of ducks were seen. And frequent black vultures. When a volt of vultures hangs out in cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss, it can really bring down one's mood.
And then it started to rain. Although I was convinced the prevailing wind was pushing the rain clouds away from me, the rain intensified. I covered up as best I could and paddled on. I was wind-driven, cold and wet and reminded myself that canoe trips are not all sunny warm weather and I needed to take this seriously. Pretty soon the canoe was floundering and I had to stop to empty it. I bailed 40 - 16 ounce cups out of that canoe after one hour of hard rain - which is a little over 13 gallons. Seems like way too much water to fall from the sky, but there you have it. Camped on a large, relatively high island and spread out things to dry. Still cloudy, I considered this little tarp over the hammock and wondered if it would keep my dry in a downpour like today. Staked it out as well as I could, and kept the tarp low. No rain, just a few micro drops from time to time. Wild hogs, deer and barred owls could be heard in the night. In the morning, I examined a line of circular red lichens on a tree which could have been mistaken for a blaze, the blossoms of the sugarberries with two distinctive stamens, and watched a red-bellied woodpecker (which has a bright red stripe on its head, the red on the belly is indistinct at a distance) searching for bugs.
Tuesday morning was cool and humid and my gear was still damp from yesterday's shower. Around lunch time, I pulled out on a small sandbar where a small channel of the river runs to the left, while the main channel runs right and spread remaining damp items to dry. The bottom of the river here is sculpted sand and I watched a shoal of minnows negotiate their own little "rapids" headed upstream looking for a meal. It was fun to watch them taken advantage of eddies behind little ridges of sand, and ferry over from one to the next, and watch them "recover" from venturing too far out and being swept downstream. They would ferry back into slower current, rest in the eddies and then charge back up again. On the opposite side, a gator thrashes his tail wildly to gain traction on sand, striving for an infrequent pool of sunlight.
Camped that night on a large wooded sand bank behind a couple of majestic cypress trees. The sun was out now and the young red maple seeds glowed like red butterflies. Across the river was a large tupelo with a fallen sugarberry resting on it in a tangled mess of downed trunks and branches. From behind this pile came an occasional loud splash followed by a string of bubbles moving downstream. This occurred every 10 minutes or so and was a definite pattern. Something was hunting back there in the water. This brings me to bubbles in the swamp. In my experience bubbles can give clues to the animals beneath the bubbles. Large, elongated oval groups that appear briefly are frequently signs that a gator has just submerged. Long lines of smaller bubbles traveling independently of current could be otters. Air gulping fish also splash and leave a ring and bubbles at the surface. I tossed in some lures as I walked river left, but there were no takers. There has been very little cover as Hurricane Irma had scoured the sandy river bed clear and it was too early in the season for plants to have re-established.
As I traveled downstream, the banks became higher. Live oaks replaced the red maples. Pine trees stood tall on the (low) ridges of ground indicating that level rarely flooded. Sand banks are more frequent, broader and drier. The woods are a bit greener, with the sugarberry further leafed out, pines and live oaks. There are occasional flowering bushes which I did not recognize, although on the last day I definitely saw a fully flowering wild azalea. The understory is now choked with palmettos. The sand banks of the river frequently erode away and spill major trees into the water, but this year, there were also huge mature trees downed by Irma's winds. One tree blocked the entire span. A month earlier the water was high enough to paddle over the left bank, but I had to drag. On Wednesday I added a new bird to my (mental) life list: Lesser Yellow Legs. Aptly named, it is typical looking shore bird (reminiscent of a Willet), with bright yellow legs. He was working the right shore,bobbing his head forward and back, grabbing at insects. My presence did not seem to faze him so I watched him for some time.
Live oaks and pines have largely replaced the red maple. I camped near a live oak with the lower branches as large around as a man's chest. The crown spreads out majestically. The major limbs have a natural curve and I have been told these trees were valued for their thick curved branches that were used in ship building. The breadth and structure of a large old growth oak tree is, in my opinion, one of the world's wonders. The mosquitoes have largely disappeared. The river is a wider and a bit more sedate, spreading out in places, but still contained within actual banks (unlike the beginning.)
It has been windy the entire trip, but Thursday was by far the worst. Paddling downstream, directly into the wind, was a battle and not much fun. The surface of the river was chopped up in waves, much as on a lake. I couldn't stop paddling without being blown back upstream. Rain continued to threaten. I paddled as long as I could and then decided to pull over and camp. I was glad I did, as the weather continued to turn. A cold front was clearly moving in, with dropping temperatures and gray skies. I felt more at ease once camp was set up. I spent about an hour watching the meanderings and color color changes of a native green anole. This was about all I had energy for.
One delightful features of the hammock is that it can be set up without the tarp. I enjoyed evenings ensconced in the sleeping bag viewing all around me. That evening's display was incredibly beautiful. The wind died down. The clouds broke up and the sun came through a bit. I listened to the last twittering of the evening as the light leached from the sky. I was just about to turn on a light to read when suddenly, over my right shoulder, I perceived a bright orange light. I turned around to look as my brain tried desperately to unscramble the impulses coming from my eyes and it finally resolved into a large full moon visible now through the woods. I had to squirm and wriggle to get to a position where I could actually see the moon and it was a sight to see. I watched it as it rose and over time, it appears smaller, dimmer, and white not orange.
Morning dawned at 42 degrees. I was not eager to jump out of my cocoon so I listened and watched. I discovered I could remain in the hammock and in the sleeping bag sitting up with my head poked out of the bug screen zipper. There was a magnificent male hooded merganzer on the river, paddling in lazy circles. I finally got up and started breaking camp. A motor boat went by with a single fisherman. He would charge up the river, stop, make a few casts, and then repeat and on up river. I have been told since this the way one fishes for croppie because they are either there, or they aren't. A few minutes later a tandem canoe passed by headed upstream. Too many people; time to get off the water.
It was actually a pleasant morning paddle, the cold sun was shining so it was warm in the sun. The wind had lessened. Around noon I pulled out at the Roline boat ramp and called for my ride. Following that, the long portage home. The good feelings lasted for weeks and I can bring them back anytime I stop what I am doing and look at the woods around me.
Erica
February 25 March 2, 2018
I started out Sunday afternoon from Griffis Fish Camp, just below the Sill. Gray clouds, gray bare trees and black water greeted me. I had forgotten it was still winter in south Georgia. A bit of a drizzle to enhance the mood. But when the sun broke through to gild the red maples and budding sugarberry, the swamp glowed in Biblical splendor. The Suwannee River arises in Okefenokee Swamp and the sill keeps the water from draining out of the swamp to the Gulf of Mexico. In the upper stretches, it is a wetland forested with tupelo, cypress, red maples and sugarberry. Acidic water leaches tannin from the leaves turning the river black. A clear glass of water is the color of iced tea.
At middle water levels (53 feet at White Springs, FL) one can paddle through stands of cypress trees, and occasional uplands provide dry camping. On the first day, the smaller gators were numerous, passing one every 15 or 20 minutes or so. Baby gators stick together in pods and a group of three juveniles, probably about a year old, scurried down the bank and into the water with just their little heads peeking out. The sight of three bobbing tiny gator heads caused me some merriment. I spent only about two hours on the water and camped on a bend with Dagoba-like cypress knees all around. Deer droppings were abundant, one pile of coyote scat, and turkeys gobbling in the morning. Soil was a bit damp and it was good to have a hammock. I had seen only a few birds; kingfishers, a wood stork and one fishing boat. I would not see another person on the water for five days.
Monday morning started with breakfast on the river bank. Tufted titmice, chipping sparrows and the buzz of insects I could not see. Barred owls hooting. The weather continued to be mostly gray, breezy and warmer. Occasional bursts of sunlight reminded me why people worship the sun. A much larger gator glared at me and stalked into the water with a resentful eye. Watching the entire length of a large gator walk into the water directly toward the canoe does give one pause, even though I know that is just his way of retreating. The river continues to be bounded by tupelo, cypress, red maple and sugarberry. Mistle toe is the only green, sprouting in tufts from the bare branches of the other hardwoods. A murder of crows and a raft of ducks were seen. And frequent black vultures. When a volt of vultures hangs out in cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss, it can really bring down one's mood.
And then it started to rain. Although I was convinced the prevailing wind was pushing the rain clouds away from me, the rain intensified. I covered up as best I could and paddled on. I was wind-driven, cold and wet and reminded myself that canoe trips are not all sunny warm weather and I needed to take this seriously. Pretty soon the canoe was floundering and I had to stop to empty it. I bailed 40 - 16 ounce cups out of that canoe after one hour of hard rain - which is a little over 13 gallons. Seems like way too much water to fall from the sky, but there you have it. Camped on a large, relatively high island and spread out things to dry. Still cloudy, I considered this little tarp over the hammock and wondered if it would keep my dry in a downpour like today. Staked it out as well as I could, and kept the tarp low. No rain, just a few micro drops from time to time. Wild hogs, deer and barred owls could be heard in the night. In the morning, I examined a line of circular red lichens on a tree which could have been mistaken for a blaze, the blossoms of the sugarberries with two distinctive stamens, and watched a red-bellied woodpecker (which has a bright red stripe on its head, the red on the belly is indistinct at a distance) searching for bugs.
Tuesday morning was cool and humid and my gear was still damp from yesterday's shower. Around lunch time, I pulled out on a small sandbar where a small channel of the river runs to the left, while the main channel runs right and spread remaining damp items to dry. The bottom of the river here is sculpted sand and I watched a shoal of minnows negotiate their own little "rapids" headed upstream looking for a meal. It was fun to watch them taken advantage of eddies behind little ridges of sand, and ferry over from one to the next, and watch them "recover" from venturing too far out and being swept downstream. They would ferry back into slower current, rest in the eddies and then charge back up again. On the opposite side, a gator thrashes his tail wildly to gain traction on sand, striving for an infrequent pool of sunlight.
Camped that night on a large wooded sand bank behind a couple of majestic cypress trees. The sun was out now and the young red maple seeds glowed like red butterflies. Across the river was a large tupelo with a fallen sugarberry resting on it in a tangled mess of downed trunks and branches. From behind this pile came an occasional loud splash followed by a string of bubbles moving downstream. This occurred every 10 minutes or so and was a definite pattern. Something was hunting back there in the water. This brings me to bubbles in the swamp. In my experience bubbles can give clues to the animals beneath the bubbles. Large, elongated oval groups that appear briefly are frequently signs that a gator has just submerged. Long lines of smaller bubbles traveling independently of current could be otters. Air gulping fish also splash and leave a ring and bubbles at the surface. I tossed in some lures as I walked river left, but there were no takers. There has been very little cover as Hurricane Irma had scoured the sandy river bed clear and it was too early in the season for plants to have re-established.
As I traveled downstream, the banks became higher. Live oaks replaced the red maples. Pine trees stood tall on the (low) ridges of ground indicating that level rarely flooded. Sand banks are more frequent, broader and drier. The woods are a bit greener, with the sugarberry further leafed out, pines and live oaks. There are occasional flowering bushes which I did not recognize, although on the last day I definitely saw a fully flowering wild azalea. The understory is now choked with palmettos. The sand banks of the river frequently erode away and spill major trees into the water, but this year, there were also huge mature trees downed by Irma's winds. One tree blocked the entire span. A month earlier the water was high enough to paddle over the left bank, but I had to drag. On Wednesday I added a new bird to my (mental) life list: Lesser Yellow Legs. Aptly named, it is typical looking shore bird (reminiscent of a Willet), with bright yellow legs. He was working the right shore,bobbing his head forward and back, grabbing at insects. My presence did not seem to faze him so I watched him for some time.
Live oaks and pines have largely replaced the red maple. I camped near a live oak with the lower branches as large around as a man's chest. The crown spreads out majestically. The major limbs have a natural curve and I have been told these trees were valued for their thick curved branches that were used in ship building. The breadth and structure of a large old growth oak tree is, in my opinion, one of the world's wonders. The mosquitoes have largely disappeared. The river is a wider and a bit more sedate, spreading out in places, but still contained within actual banks (unlike the beginning.)
It has been windy the entire trip, but Thursday was by far the worst. Paddling downstream, directly into the wind, was a battle and not much fun. The surface of the river was chopped up in waves, much as on a lake. I couldn't stop paddling without being blown back upstream. Rain continued to threaten. I paddled as long as I could and then decided to pull over and camp. I was glad I did, as the weather continued to turn. A cold front was clearly moving in, with dropping temperatures and gray skies. I felt more at ease once camp was set up. I spent about an hour watching the meanderings and color color changes of a native green anole. This was about all I had energy for.
One delightful features of the hammock is that it can be set up without the tarp. I enjoyed evenings ensconced in the sleeping bag viewing all around me. That evening's display was incredibly beautiful. The wind died down. The clouds broke up and the sun came through a bit. I listened to the last twittering of the evening as the light leached from the sky. I was just about to turn on a light to read when suddenly, over my right shoulder, I perceived a bright orange light. I turned around to look as my brain tried desperately to unscramble the impulses coming from my eyes and it finally resolved into a large full moon visible now through the woods. I had to squirm and wriggle to get to a position where I could actually see the moon and it was a sight to see. I watched it as it rose and over time, it appears smaller, dimmer, and white not orange.
Morning dawned at 42 degrees. I was not eager to jump out of my cocoon so I listened and watched. I discovered I could remain in the hammock and in the sleeping bag sitting up with my head poked out of the bug screen zipper. There was a magnificent male hooded merganzer on the river, paddling in lazy circles. I finally got up and started breaking camp. A motor boat went by with a single fisherman. He would charge up the river, stop, make a few casts, and then repeat and on up river. I have been told since this the way one fishes for croppie because they are either there, or they aren't. A few minutes later a tandem canoe passed by headed upstream. Too many people; time to get off the water.
It was actually a pleasant morning paddle, the cold sun was shining so it was warm in the sun. The wind had lessened. Around noon I pulled out at the Roline boat ramp and called for my ride. Following that, the long portage home. The good feelings lasted for weeks and I can bring them back anytime I stop what I am doing and look at the woods around me.
Erica
